5th
January Tragedy The
Bee Gees
Now I was really looking forward to visiting Otmoor RSPB Reserve. I had only ever been there once before and that was from a north entrance into the area. This time I was to enter from the south. Otmoor, I had heard said, was famous because the main drains, ditches and meadows had inspired Lewis Caroll's chessboard scene in Alice in Wonderland. Nowadays the scene may be different, as the RSPB have blocked the drains and created a wet grassland paradise for many birds. I wanted to see those birds.
An early morning start with temperatures
still well below zero. At least it was very sunny and almost windless. On
leaving the house I saw a couple of Red Kites [61] quartering
over some nearby trees. Thick ice covered the approach lanes and I sensibly
decided to walk along Otmoor Lane, the entrance road to Otmoor RSPB reserve,
pushing an unladen bike. I had left my stuff back at Lynn and Richard’s. I
later found out that it had been minus sixteen degrees Celsius the night
before. Hmmm chilly! I saw a covey of nineteen Red-legged Partridges [62] and a male Kestrel near to the RSPB
car park.
I cycled along the reserve pathways and
banks, past a feeding station, five more Red Kites could be seen distantly and
a dozen or so Great and Blue Tits that regularly came to partake of the free
seed offerings. A super bright yellow male Yellowhammer
[63], Reed Buntings and Meadow Pipits [64] were all heard and seen.
At the first screen, which overlooked a large
area of reed with frozen pools, I met a Scouse nature lover, Phil Roberts who
was trying to get a photo of a Bittern. Phil asked what birds were around and
he admitted that these were new hobbies for him: photography and birdwatching. Phil
may not have been the best at either, but he was a lovely conversational sixty-year-old
whose company I enjoyed as I explored the rest of the walkways. A Raven [65] was heard and then seen being mobbed by a couple of testy Carrion
Crows. Then I met Richard, who had left Lynn back home to take part in some
scrub removal with other brave volunteers. Over the year it would never cease
to amaze me at how wonderfully resolute and enthusiastic the army of RSPB
volunteers were. Here they were in such freezing weather, working away
together, sharing that special camaraderie that makes arduous work a pleasure. On
a small pool of ice-free water around three hundred duck milled around or slept:
mostly Teal but also Mallard, Shovelor
[66], Wigeon and Pochard. Then twelve Snipe flew over, two Moorhens skated
over the ice and a group of four Ravens cronked as they flew overhead heading
west.
At the second screen, four Cormorants rested
on a tree’s branches close by, including one young bird from the previous year.
By now I had started to have very cold fingers and I realised that the cycling
gloves so kindly bought for me by the two deputy headteachers of Rigby Hall
Special School [assistant heads!], Helen and Linda, were not going to keep my
hands warm enough. Memories of reading Catherine Hartley’s amazing
autobiography of her becoming the first British woman to walk to the South
Pole. Catherine took the wrong sort of gloves and was badly frostbitten. Great
read that book, with Catherine not what one would expect an Antarctic explorer
to be like, as testified by the cigarettes that were found stowed away on the
sledge she was pulling!
At the last reedy area that could be viewed
from a screen, a Bittern [67] spent fifteen minutes walking
along the reedbed edge before flying over the same reedbed. A superb,
cryptically marked bird; its camouflage lost, it stood out against the white
ice.
The day was going to be incredibly special.
As I said before, the BBC was going to make a short film to present on the
local news programme that evening. Right on cue, a small green car arrived and
out stepped an extremely attractive young lady. She introduced herself and
explained that before interviewing me over my future endeavours, she wanted me
to cycle along the same icy lane, over a small rise, down to the five bar gate,
dismount, negotiate the kissing gate, lift my binoculars and pretend to
birdwatch. Now to do that once on the ice was tricky enough but to repeat the
process three times would be, I thought, suicidal. Nevertheless, I managed to
get through it unscathed, just. Obviously, my cycling balance skills were
improving, or so I thought. The interview went fine. Well, I say fine; at least
this time I was not in a radio studio with my son, Joshua, heckling behind me.
“Don’t be so nervous, Dad,” was the advice given whilst on the Joanne Malin
early morning radio show on BBC WM before Christmas 2009. Good advice as I was extremely
nervous and not knowing the name of my favourite Cadbury’s Quality Street
chocolate did not help.
You may remember that Cadbury’s, a proud
Birmingham company, was being sold off in 2009 to new American owners, Kraft
and the view at the time was “no thank you.” The BBC radio and TV programmes at
that time carried news and discussion platforms on the topic of the sale and hence,
on arriving within the studio, I was given a choice of chocolate.
This time though, I was in my element; outside
with an extremely pretty interviewer, who had stunning green eyes, just like my
wife, sugar to miss, Karen. I was at a superb RSPB nature reserve in cold, calm
weather and quite a few birds were around, including Red kites, Ravens and two Bitterns.
Eventually happy with my efforts over the
introductory cycling and posing, the interview took place at the entrance to
the reserve once the interviewer had put me at my ease by chatting about her
passion for cooking before recording.
“Why
are you cycling to every RSPB and WWT reserve?”
A question I was to hear a number of times more over the year! Good question. Before leaving, during the planning stage I wrote myself a letter to remind me exactly why I was doing this. It is a bit pompous for which I apologise but here is the original: -
So, the day which began with a walk in the
rain, ended with a bus ride and an idea buzzing around in my head.
A
bike ride? Warwick to Coventry and back had seemed far enough but what was I
contemplating? A maths teacher at the school, Ernesford Comprehensive in
Coventry, where I had just done a day’s supply after cycling there from my then
home in Warwick, had talked over coffee of his cycling trip across both North
and South America. “The Argentinians are wonderful people.” He had said. “Chile
is so beautiful” I can still see him in the small teacher’s sanctuary, talking
with such enthusiasm and humility about travels that seemed beyond my
capabilities but not beyond my fantasies.
The bus moved on towards Kenilworth.
By the time I got off at the bus, for another
evening at my brother Paul’s house, I had decided that I would cycle to each
RSPB and WWT nature reserve in Britain, Cornwall to Shetland, Kent to Uists;
see as many birds as I could and cycle the whole way, 4,500 miles so I thought
at the time.
Right,
the decision was made, now for the planning.
A notebook and road atlas of the UK accompanied
me on the many train rides to supply teaching assignments and soon became the
focus for jottings and thoughts. Equipment, costs, contacts, ideas. The large
road atlas became a ‘must have with me’ companion. It took a few weeks before
the first route was indelibly red inked onto the pages. (West coast of Scotland
– get me there; those boat trips look relaxing!). Then, in the middle of March
I thought, Why? Why am I going to do
this?
I had written equipment lists and costed the
trip up. I had contacted the RSPB with the idea in order to start to think of
sponsorship in order to raise funds for the charity, as I had the Wildfowl
& Wetland Trust and Asthma Association. I had emailed Birdguides to ask
about whether anyone had done anything similar. Surprisingly to me, no one had.
I had discussed it with my children, Rebecca and Joshua, Mum and Dad, brother
Paul and sister, Donna.
Birding
friends had listened but were credulous. Why do it?
Why spend 365 days cycling with bins around
the British Isles? Why not do the same in Greece or Spain. At least it would be
warmer there and the bird species there would include my favourite - vultures!
No, it had to be done for charity. It had to
be done to show that one did not need to travel by car to see 250 bird species.
It had to be done to say thank you to the late Sir Peter Scott, my boyhood hero
and it had to be done to show that an ‘old man’ could still dream.
Well the poor girl, a beautiful jade-eyed
interviewer, must have drawn the short straw to be out at this time in such
extremely cold weather but she was genuinely interested.
Now it must have been that I was still lost
in the, have I already said it, interviewer’s beautiful green eyes, for not ten
minutes later after the conclusion to the interview, I had come off my bike,
somersaulting over the right side, landing on the ice-covered verge. Along a
section of the lane the ice was in hard ridges where previous car tyres had
moulded the ice and it was one of these ridges that unbalanced me and over my
shoulder I went.
Ouch! The bike was severely damaged and the
gear changing mechanism on the handlebar was hanging down disconnected. Five
days into the year and now the bike was broken.
Tragedy! When the feelings gone (in my leg)
and you cannot go on, its tragedy. I got up and tried to fix it, the bike's
gear system but could only get it to give me a couple of gears. Still
it was better than just one. My leg was painful but as I had a few layers on at
the time I did not check it out too much.
I got on the bike, got back to Richard and
Lynn‘s house to collect my things, seeing a Bank Vole under one of their bird
seed feeders from their kitchen window. Whilst there, I was interviewed over
the phone by the Hounslow, Brentford and Twickenham newspaper before setting
off for Hemel Hempstead. I gave my most sincere thanks to this wonderful couple
for their accommodation and company and set off.
Down the hill from Stanton St John I came
around the corner to see a large group of forty-one deer in the field next to
the road, which included a strangely coloured, coffee coated doe. A Green Woodpecker [68] flew over, another bird for the year list.
Onward I went along, thankfully, flat roads and soon I reached Prince’s Risborough and decided that a treat was in order. On finding a small cafĂ© I ordered a meal of lasagne and salad washed down by a sugar laden, frothy hot chocolate. It was dark when I came outside again and there was a new problem to add to the bicycle woes. Snow! Light at first, it soon got heavier; the snow just made the next part of the journey a tad more difficult. I went south for a mile or so, cycling through the falling snow, and then took a left turn. This was the beginning of the Chiltern Hills. With a large, very steep hill to negotiate, I had no choice but to push the bike up the hill to Loosley Row and ride down the other side to Great Missenden, with the snow beginning to cling to me and the bike. An hour plus of snowy downhill thrills [terrors!] combined with hard uphill slogs before almost reaching Chesham, was not helped by the fact that the front light was not as bright as I would have liked. In fact, it was positively dull! Trying to be as ‘Green’ as possible I had seen a wind up, no battery required, cycling front light with cable attachment for a back light.
Well the light it gave was poor at best and
even then, it would only last for a few minutes. An ambulance pulled over in
front of me and the driver flagged me down. “You’ve got no rear lights!” The
fall on the ice earlier in the day must have broken more than the front gear
lever; the cable to the back lights had snapped. I tried to twist the wires
together but it was no good.
I
cycled downhill with a passing motorist offering friendly advice over what I
could do in my predicament. “Get some ****in' lights!” Thanks! Just the
motivation I needed to peddle through the snow like the clappers.
I reached Chesham safely, after having to
back track half a mile or so to search for and retrieve a lost skiing glove and
found a Sainsbury’s store still open. No cycling gear for sale, I purchased a
RAC torch, batteries and a box of ladies’ tights. With the torch strapped to
the back of the bike, secured by the tights, I had more hills to negotiate and
more snow to plough through before getting to the A41 near Berkhamsted. Whilst
pushing the bicycle up a steep hill through the deepening snow, I received a phone
call from my wife, Karen. It was great to hear from her. I love her voice over
the phone and through my mind's eye I could see her beautiful jade green eyes.
I miss her so much but a major reason for my doing a Biking Birder adventure is
because of our distant love. That may sound crazy but it is complicated and too
painful to discuss here. I adore my wife and always will.
After an hour or so the new back torch light
had faded to almost nothing. So much for the efficiency of the torch and its
batteries! The snow was falling heavily but I was booked into a small bed and
breakfast in Hemel Hempstead and I was determined to get there. The fact that
there was absolutely no traffic on the motorway-like three carriageway motorway-like
road, the A41, did not stop me. Everyone else was sensibly tucked up somewhere
warm as I either cycled or pushed through six inches of snow.
I cycled past a Premier Inn and although I
was sorely tempted to stay there, I resisted and eventually got to my
destination town. Still, I did not know where the B & B was. I had got the
address written down on a small piece of paper but I had no detailed map and neither
did I have a smartphone nor SATNAV. I did find the local police station and
went in to ask for directions. The kind, friendly and gorgeous police ladies
behind the desk joined in my laughter at the abominable snowman dripping before
them and luckily my Bed and Breakfast was nearby.
Ten thirty, late evening, on the clock when I
got into the warmth of a large, terraced house, greeted by a lovely German
accented old lady. She immediately saw the condition I was in and
got me a large, hot bowl of mushroom soup with toast, together with two warm
mince pies and a chunk of fruit cake!
Nine hours to get from Otmoor to Hemel
Hempstead, I felt exhilarated to have made it, despite finding that my left
shin had a quite nastily cut and my thighs were both badly bruised from the
fall. I bathed, made sure my bloody cut was thoroughly cleaned and a bandage
applied. I was soon sleeping soundly in my small, cosy, warm room, despite the
sound of a German-speaking TV channel coming from Mrs Peter’s bedroom next to
mine.
42 miles 1566 feet elevation up 1608 feet down
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