During the winter months, we droop our month-to-month river swim to keep away from disturbing the spawning Atlantic salmon and brown trout, which deposit their eggs in redds – shallow, bowl-like depressions excavated within the chalk streambed. Although the breeding season sometimes ends in February, we’re aware that there should still be newly hatched alevins hidden within the gravel. At some factors throughout the yr, the water degree drops so low that it’s knee-scrapingly shallow in locations however this morning the river is operating excessive and quick after a number of days of heavy rain, so there’s no probability of any unintentional contact.
The sky is overcast and the mature bushes flanking the river are nonetheless naked, their branches adorned with orbs of mistletoe, some a metre or extra in diameter. However the air carries the faint perfume of spring awakening – the candy marzipan scent of blackthorn bursting into flower. Goat willows dip gracefully in the direction of the water, smothered in yellow, pollen-laden catkins. They’ve attracted a number of red-tailed bumblebees, whereas a rotund buff-tailed queen is ping-ponging between a clump of spring snowflakes and a swathe of daffodils.
As we head upstream in the direction of our entry level – the furthest of two units of picket “canine dip” steps put in to stop riverbank erosion – the bottom softens underfoot, water lapping over the financial institution. I peer into the depths and glimpse a shoal of trout fry navigating the swirling eddies as they search shelter beneath a tangle of vegetative particles snagged by overhanging branches. Additional alongside, the river has burst its banks, swallowing the trail, and by the point we attain the submerged steps, we’re wading shin-deep.
We slip into the water, serenaded by duetting wrens and lone chiffchaff – my first of the yr. However there’s no alternative to pause and revel in this joyful harbinger of spring, as I’m instantly swept together with the present. One among my companions calls over her shoulder, asking if I can establish an orange-breasted fowl she’s seen lurking within the riverside scrub. “Too huge to be a robin,” she exclaims. As I glide previous, I spot it perched amid a froth of blackthorn blossom – a plump, coral-plumaged male bullfinch greedily nipping off unopened buds with its stubby black invoice.
