These past few days I’ve remembered what it is like to truly connect to nature. A hectic month of work deadlines and travel has left little time to appreciate what the natural world has had to offer during the autumn and despite daily walks with the dogs around the local footpaths, I’ve missed opportunities to stop and acknowledge the changing foliage colours or the passage migrant birds. But finally, restless with yearning for a wilder landscape, a quieter day this week tempted me to Fistral beach where the wind roared off the Atlantic ocean, and towering waves went hurtling towards the rocks. Turnstones were huddled in a small flock on the clifftops, the spray too rough to maintain their usual perches on the rocks below. A couple of red-billed choughs swept over the cliffs, their squeaky calls carried on the wind. In the bay, a seal paddled and cormorants dived, seemingly unaffected by the turbulent tide.
In contrast, this morning dawned cold, still and misty and I went in search of a different autumn landscape: at Cardinham Woods near Bodmin the trees still paint dabs of oranges, yellows and reds across the otherwise shady valley. Moss and lichen grow thick on their branches. After the intense rain of the last few weeks, the brook that runs through the woods had become a torrent of gushing water, raging through the trees. With my attention drawn to the water more than normal, I caught sight of a dipper, having never seen one here, or anywhere before. It was only the briefest glimpse – the bird taking off and following the water downstream, but enough to be certain about what it was. On the ever-stocked hanging feeders, coal tits and chaffinches feasted while robins picked about in the branches. Another feature of the woods are the recent instalments of characters from the Gruffalo book, marking a trail for youngsters to follow – at the sight of the sculpture of a skulking fox, one of my dogs suddenly startled with her tail between her legs, and remained wary as we walked past it, mistaking it for some real fearsome creature.
Back home, the afternoon gave way to hazy sunshine and it seemed a good opportunity to try an owl sighting. It’s been a while; the fields across the road seem to be busier than ever with dog walkers and my attempts are often futile, but late on a Sunday when most people have already been out and need to prepare for the week ahead, the place was a little quieter and I headed down to the lower moor, passing only one or two people on their way home with their dogs. I didn’t have to wait long; within moments a barn owl appeared from behind a hedgerow and spent a good while quartering around all sides of the field, carried on her broad, silent wings. Her dark ginger feathers suggested she was probably a female; I would expect a male to be paler, though it isn’t a foolproof rule. Several times she dropped from the air, disappearing into tufts of long grass but often rose up again empty-clawed. Then one time she stayed down for a few minutes, which hopefully meant she’d caught something to eat. As I waited for her to re-emerge, some more dog walkers began closing in on all sides despite the fading light, but luckily getting to the field required crossing through a herd of cattle that seemed to put people off, and so the owl continued to hunt undisturbed, until finally she disappeared behind the border of trees.
Moments of Nature 
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