Aunty Beeb’s glorious parkland (except for the satellite dishes)

IN recent weeks I have spent a lot of time searching the sky for those elegant, attractive and entertaining summer visitors from Africa, namely house martins (Delichon urbicum), swallows (Hirundo rustica) and swifts (Apus apus).

Apart from one house martin that I saw at Rotherfield Greys and a trio of swifts scissoring their way through the sky a few weeks ago, there has been no sign.

What has befallen them so suddenly? Are they all being shot by Mediterranean “pistoleros” or, more worryingly, are there not enough flying insects in this country to sustain them?

This rapid decline in our summer visitors is, I believe, of great note and worry. There used to be a saying that “One swallow does not make a summer”, so what do no swallows make?

For as long as I can remember, house martins would maintain, repair and reinforce their mud-built nests under the eaves of a shopfront in Caversham.

I can find no trace of residence so far this year, although I only pass the three-storey building infrequently.

All three of these migratory birds make their way here for one simple reason — our northern, extended summer hours provide more time and daylight to catch flying insects to raise a brood or two.

Although these delightful birds expend much energy on their journey here, the trade-off makes sense in the long run.

This morning, I am going walking with Dave Kenny and Alan Pennington, two old friends and naturalists.

As I wait outside the house, a blackbird belts out his song on the apex of the roof, a beautiful song thrush hunts for snails on the paving and a hoverfly suns itself on a fresh wild privet leaf.

My friends pick me up and we head out to Crowsley Park between Sonning Common and Henley, somewhere else I’ve not been since my days with Rosemary.

Dave drives through Emmer Green where we note the wellbeing of the majority of trees that he single-handedly planted along the roadsides with few casualties.

We take a turn into Kiln Road, pass Clayfield Copse, Bryant’s Farm and onwards to Binfield Heath. At the second crossroads we head left down a narrow lane that passes Coppid Hall, the seat of Lord Phillimore. It is a lovely route, so close to the conurbation of Reading yet feeling so distant.

Alongside a dip in the road I spot a showy clump of dark mullein (Verbascum nigrum), its erect stems bearing bright yellow flowers with purple stamens. Somehow Dave squeezes his car into a space at the side of the road in a small rise near Crowsley Grange and Crowsley Park Farm.

We walk downhill a little bit and turn to face a public footpath on our left. Steep brick steps lead into the parkland. There is no handrail but with my friends’ help I make it up to a metal kissing-gate and through into a slope marked by tree roots so I have to watch my step.

The land is owned by the BBC and many satellite dishes have been relocated here from Caversham Park, formerly the home of BBC Monitoring.

As the land levels out and we find ourselves in the open on high ground, I hear the song of yellowhammers (Emberiza citrinella) and the repetitive utterances of chiffchaffs (Phylloscopus collybita).

Great but I’m still scanning the sky for martins, swallows and swifts.

A large panorama opens up and I drift back in time to when I was first presented with this view. I remember with clarity walking through here with a first cousin some 30 years ago on our way to Maidensgrove.

The vista of veteran trees in grassland remains unchanged but on that summer’s day it was full of butterflies, day-flying moths and an army of common green grasshoppers (Omocestus viridulus) providing a banquet for young kestrels. We neither see nor hear either of them today, another worrying sign.

It is breezy up here as we make our way north through an array of swaying long grasses, including Yorkshire fog (Holcus lanatus), meadow foxtail (Alopecurus pratensis) and Timothy (Phleum pratense).

Below the grasses there is a multitude of flowering plants of varying hues — thousands of yellow meadow and creeping buttercups (Ranunculus), masses of bird’s-foot trefoil (Lotus) and paler-coloured hawkweeds (Hieracium), black medick (Medicago lupulina), small white mouse-ear (Cerastium) and red and white clovers (Trifolium), the red, a deep, intense crimson. It is quite a sight. I spot two meadow brown butterflies (Maniola jurtina) and a small, pale day- flying moth.

The highlights of walking in this glorious parkland are fourfold: wonderful grassland with clearly marked, definitive rights of way; fresh air to die for (quite the opposite of course); views of a beautiful historic house; and a collection of stately, old trees forming classical diagnostic shapes.

Some of the oldest, biggest sweet chestnuts that I have ever seen stand in large, loose groups. An impressive avenue of oak trees that includes some NorthAmerican red oaks (Quercus rubra) is yet another feature.

I stop for a short rest on a fallen oak while Dave heads north to inspect the remnants of a huge oak casualty. On his return, he says he has found some common spotted orchids (Dactylorhiza fuchsii). I like that.

We move on westwards and after walking through a pair of heavy metal gates, we skirt the 18th century, Grade II listed mansion house.

A statuesque cedar of Lebanon completes a wonderfully maintained garden.

As we walk down the driveway for the house and the BBC facility, we stop to admire many specimen parkland trees that include some proud limes, oaks and some distant clumps of much younger trees with a marked “browsing” line.

Dave points out the damage sustained by several trees inflicted by storms.

I wait to be collected by Dave and Alan on the road outside the main drive to the house.

While there, I examine the eerie pillars that frame the main entrance to the park, both topped by the Baskerville crest, a speared hellhound. The car arrives after a few minutes and we’re off for a beer and lunch at the Loddon Brewery’s tap room in Dunsden Green. What a treat.

After wending our way along tight, verdant country roads, we arrive, park and walk round the back of an unassuming brick building that is situated at the end of a bridleway that leads to Littlestead Green. A horse chestnut has worringly brown leaves.

What a place. We sit outside on a bench next to the shop that sells everything from beer to cheese and chicken Kyiv.

Dave orders food from a kiosk before we have to dive under cover as the once-favourable sky has turned dark and rain pours down like stair-rods.

Then all of a sudden the sky is blue once more and I see a swift racing around the main brewery building. That cheers me up.

The rain comes down again and after another round we leave with the sun out temporarily.

Dave drives us back to Caversham and drops me off. I thank my friends as I’ve walked far further than normal and have gained confidence.

I’m very happy to say that two pairs of house martins have returned to their nests at one end of Prospect Street in Caversham.

On my way to the shops, I was alerted by their fast-moving shadows on the pavement as I was about to cross the road at the junction with Church Street.

I presume that they are hunting over the Thames as there are normally flying insects over water.

On my return home I heard and saw them too, so maybe all is not lost.

vincent.ruane@hotmail.com