Force of nature has me falling head over heels in wonder of it all

I’M watching small birds from my mother’s front garden to see what they are up to. It is nesting season and if they haven’t built one yet then they surely are constructing some right now.

I’m sat on an old “rescued” park bench with the early morning sun behind, warming my back. It’s a wooden and heavy iron construction from probably the Twenties.

The first bird that I notice is a wren making repeated visits to an ivy-clad wall next door. The bird is in and out like a little yo-yo, obviously feeding chicks.

A common bird, second only in diminutive size to the goldcrest (Regulus regulus) it builds a nest with a side entrance giving rise to its Latin name (troglodytes troglodytes), a cave dweller.

Two pairs of blue tits are in and out of nestboxes to either side of the house. They work non-stop. I hope that the tiny birds take the time to feed themselves with all the energy that they expend in raising their broods.

Otherwise, amongst the dense vegetation from floor to head-height that includes my mum’s hornbeam hedge, robins, dunnocks, blackbirds and song thrushes are clearly busy too, all probably having made their own distinctive nests.

I’m a bit of an expert on birds’ nests and eggs. I can still find them with ease today, as when I was a 12-year-old, I was an avid collector. I would only take one egg but then it dawned on me that what I was doing was wrong. I stopped abruptly and joined the Army Cadet Force which was much more fun. No nest robbing, simply observation and wonder.

With a stroke of luck Matthew calls me once again in the evening and we agree to take a stroll around a small but delightful area on the outskirts of Checkendon the next morning, Scot’s Common to be precise.

It’s a very rural part of the south Chilterns and has a charm all of its own that includes a fantastic, tucked-away pub, the Black Horse, and a church, St Peter and St Paul, with a churchyard that we will explore another time.

As is normal, we take the less-driven roads, passing through the west of Sonning Common and Gallowstree Common and past extensive woodlands and sizeable fields to Stoke Row.

Wyfold Wood holds much interest. If you can fight your way through horribly invasive Rhododendron ponticum, lies the remains of an ancient fort.

The tree-lined road is very narrow and partially potholed all the way to its conclusion, one that I have used on bicycle countless times from way back in time on my way to see Nobby Harris who was then landlord of the Crooked Billet.

We pass Nippers Grove and the tail-end of Wyfold Wood, with its glorious large-leaved lime trees, to sail down past Rumerhedge Wood and farm, a friend’s house and into aptly named Splashall Bottom along Busgrove Lane. The beech woods out here are terrific, especially in a huge dip in Basset Wood.

We make a right turn past Basset Manor, into the narrowest of steep-sided roads, which leads to the Black Horse where Matthew parks up opposite a broad field with content-looking horses, tails swishing. An unnamed wood that contains a tumulus stands proud to the north, red kites and a lone buzzard soar above.

My main aim today is to introduce Matthew to one of the oldest oak trees that I know. Not tall but hollow, it represents one of nature’s minor miracles.

We head off to the left of the pub, past a house and into the woods. Once more I’m happy to say that the usually boggy woodland ground is nearly dry.

We are given a choice of two rights of way. I opt for the left fork as we can return down the other. I’m stunned at what lies before me. Vast carpets of native bluebell (Hyacinthoides non-scripta) sparkle in dappled light amongst pure white wood anemones or windflower (Anemonoides nemorosa). I realise that this is the first time that I have set foot out here at this time of year. An ugly, linear conifer plantation stretches to the left of our path, an aberration. Below the flowers persist as if challenged. Strangely, I hear no birdsong.

We meet a road that leads to Scot’s Farm and the old tree. A young man passes astride a beautiful chestnut-coloured horse. I say that his mount is handsome, he tells me that he does not speak English. I notice an accent and ask him in Spanish where he is from, “La Argentina” he says. We have a brief conversation and off he goes after noting my gaucho cap.

We find Scot’s Farm with the ancient old oak standing next to an old outhouse or small barn, tiles falling off, on its last legs. There is no doubt in my mind that the tree is destined to outlive the old, crumbling structure. What a tree it is. Not tall but very wide and hollow, home to bats and wee beasties, another monument to persistence. I estimate it to be some 800 years old. We both love it.

There are some fine views to the west across a broad field towards Hammond’s End and Wheeler’s Farm — we’re standing about 180 metres above sea level — but see only a few birds way off in the distance. We head back down the alternative right of way but not before noting a small but healthy-looking pond and a nearby raft of wood forget-me-not (Myosotis sylvatica) with its sky-blue little flowers.

A couple of dozen yards into the path I take a tumble. I have tripped over the deep imprint of a horse’s hoof whilst taking in all the bluebells.

A little shaken, I am helped to my feet by my friend and an approaching woman walking her two dogs. Matthew takes off to fetch his car and I walk back near the old oak to rest by a fence. My co-saviour is Judy and she stays with me until Matthew arrives. She lives close by and recognises me from the Henley Standard.

We then drive homewards and pass Lackmore and Valentine Woods on our left. We think of paying a visit to examine the Second World War structures that lie within. To our right College Wood is now owned by the Woodland Trust, as is New Copse at Gallowstree Common, something to celebrate.

I’m awoken the following morning at about 4.15am. A powerful thunderstorm is raging above. I sit up to see flashes of lighting through open curtains. The heavens open and it begins to pour down with ferocity. Eventually, I get back into bed to marvel at the force of nature.

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