We had walked this route many times before meeting the mysterious figure we’d dubbed the Phantom Feeder, scatterer of birdseed along the former railway line. He’s been out early this morning; there’s fresh seed on a boulder halfway down the hill, attracting an appreciative flock of blue tits, great tits, dunnocks, chaffinches and a robin.
There’s no shortage of wild seeds and berries yet, but the instinct to lay down body fat before winter has drawn them to these deluxe easy pickings. It’s risky, though: kestrels hunt here. Only the coal tits seem cautious, flitting in to pick up seed then retreating into a hawthorn, too quick for my camera to capture, before returning for more.
A bank vole, leaving the safety of long grass, joins the feast. They are usually fleeting shadows in the undergrowth, leaving us wondering whether we really saw them. Yet here is one, twitching whiskers and chestnut coat, sitting on its haunches, nibbling seeds, dicing with death if the kestrel returns.
We amble downhill, to the turning point in our walk, to a seat bearing a worn brass plaque commemorating the Button family, “who farmed this land for 58 years”. Across the path, fixed to a rowan, there’s a plaque celebrating the life of Olive (1920-2020), “A Lady of the Deerness Valley”.
Many local people have a strong attachment to this secluded landscape. It’s easy to see why; there’s a nuthatch feeding among the lemon-yellow hornbeam leaves in front of us and the crowns of trees in West Wood, across the valley, are turning every shade of autumn. It’s a seat with a view, where the troubles of the world are banished from thought. We exchange greetings with cyclists freewheeling downhill, and a runner labouring in the opposite direction. Members of a riding school give us a cheery wave as they clip-clop by.
The Phantom Feeder comes into view, his seed bag empty. We’ve been acquaintances – though not yet on first name terms – for a year now, exchanging wildlife news. I tell him about the vole; he’s seen a sparrowhawk this morning. He’ll be here, with his bag of birdseed, every morning until spring.
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