Mother number 12

This afternoon we went down to the lake, a recent discovery of ours. Today, there were no dog walkers or fishermen: we had the place to ourselves. On arrival, we saw a bird flying across the lake, and a few moments later we heard it calling from the trees on the island: a cuckoo!
Another called from nearby. Hearing the cuckoo used to be easy enough in the UK, but they are becoming rarer.

CleanSteve snapped away at birds all afternoon, but I wasn't feeling well, hot and headachey, so I laid a rug on the old jetty and read my latest book, by Lloyd Jones. At one point I heard someone coming towards us, and thought it was one of the estate workers, but when I glanced up, I saw it was a ewe with her two lambs! They grazed the rich grass for a while, then moved on, unperturbed by such close contact. The lambs were also marked with the number 12, and I was sorry to see that one appeared to be lame. The sun was in shot, unfortunately, but there's not much room for movement on the end of a jetty, with a fallen down tree beside the sheep!

Reluctantly, after several hours, we packed up and set off for the Anchor pub at Epney, where we sat on the embankment of the wide Severn river, and watched the bird life, which was almost non existent. Not many sand martins were to be seen.


The ginger beer and crisps revived me, though the headache persists, and we drove home in golden sunshine, thinking about our holiday in northern Spain, which is none too at away now. We are also hoping for a visit from TML and Immy, before or after their trip to Daphne du Maurier country.