Darbyshire bird-spotting

Cold but sunny, the day turned increasingly gloomy the further into Peak District we drove. We were too far to turn back now, so we decided to walk along the river away. The air was full of disapproving squeals as the birds were being blown out of the trees by the violent gusts of wind. With every blow the air would fill with their black shapes, and they would circle for a while like leaves caught in an air current, before settling back down grudgingly, only to be forced airborne again after a few minutes.

We were hoping to see first signs of spring, but the fields and trees were just as barren as they were in the middle of winter, only the slightly fuller buds betraying that it wasn't just out waiting for a warmer weather front. We were turning back when we heard a strange sound, a bird call so bizarre it sounded electronic to me ears. A big white and black shape was circling above a field, looping this way and that, in quick, violent jerks, showing off its amazing flying abilities.

I could not resist, and started walking closer, all the while fitting the zoom lens onto the camera. The bird suddenly sat down, giving me chance to spot it properly – I've never seen one like that before, with the oddly shaped wings and a distinctive tuft on the head. Soon it was off again and I climbed and than jumped a dry stone wall to get a better look. I thought it was trying to impress the female with its aerial acrobatics; she was standing in the field all the while, watching, until I got too close and both of them took off and moved to the adjacent field.

Later Skinnytoes' dad told me they were lapwings, and I'm looking forward at bumping into them again when my new camera arrives. Perhaps than I will be able to do justice its green, iridescent plumage, which in the poor light of the evening looks dull and monochrome on the shots I got.

Against planning ahead

Spur of the moment decisions are sometimes the right ones. On Thursday afternoon I found that a schedule misunderstanding with a friend of mine left me to look forward to a weekend on my own in Edinburgh. I swirled around in my chair to examine the map of Scotland which hangs behind my desk – so many places to go to, all of them so difficult to reach... For reasons known best to the rail companies, the distance which can be covered in three hours when going South of Edinburgh takes two and a half times as long when going North. And, the weather forecast was unpromising. I could spend a gloomy weekend in Edinburgh, watching comedies and eating ice cream. Or, I could bite the financial bullet and head home, to Sheffield, for the weekend. Which I did.

Walking in the Peak District was fantastic. We took the car and drove to Monsal Head, where a river winds and snakes through a long, steep-sided valley. The river was as full as I have ever seen it, and the weirs were real raging waterfalls.

The snow was melting on the southern slopes, while the northern ones were white; from the hills themselves to little mounds of earth the pattern repeated itself, so that a field of molehills looked like a miniature copy of the landscape which surrounded it. The melting snow created networks of tiny streams, clear as crystal and glittering in the sun. Our walk was full of tiny vignettes of spring.

From Monsal Head we followed the river until we came to the A6 road, at which point we turned away from the river and started to climb. In a few minutes we were at the top of the slope, and negotiating our way through a very muddy path which lead through a farm. Hairy cattle observed our attempts at staying vertical and relatively mud-free with interest.

Easily amused cattle.

We soon rejoined the river further upstream on the other side of the hill, and walked up towards the Crossbrook Mill. There were people climbing the white walls of the canyon there, and the usual medley of water fowl. The Mill has a new hole-in-the-wall cafe which warranted investigation. We sat for a good long while sipping strong tea from real (not plastic) cups and basking in the early spring sun, giving it the chance to bring out our freckles. This was the first time this year I've felt the sun give off any heat, and it was a welcome change.

Winter has not given up yet though, it would seem – today we woke up to a world covered in ten centimetres of fresh snowfall. Hushed and white in the morning, by the time I had to walk to the station the city was receding back into grey, streets and pavements full of cold, wet slush. The time for snow is past!