This is an unseasonal piece of New Forest flash non-fiction, just under 900 words. I decided I ought to write more about the Forest, which is an ancient hunting ground set aside by William the Conqueror, although I’d always thought it was Henry VIII. It was ‘new’ for one of them, and the name stuck.

I did this walk in April 23, just when my health started falling apart. I’m glad I did it though. I must go back and see how much it has recovered over the last two summers. Better than me, I hope.

New Forest flash
New Forest (with ponies) (c) J M Pett

A New Forest flash

She drew up at the car park by the Canadian memorial. The flags hung in the still morning air, waiting for a change to spread their colours. It wouldn’t be long till the wind picked up. This was close enough to the coast to reflect the sea breezes. She set off to do her bird survey. A few minutes after six was just right to catch those who had set out their territories in this part of the Forest. Only part of her route was in woodland, though.

She skirted the edge of the fenced-off plantation — to keep the deer out, not in — and jumped as a cuckoo shouted loudly above her. Not just her first cuckoo of spring, but the first for several springs, since Covid rules had kept her away from cuckoo areas. 

She watched it take wing to the southeast, further into the heart of the wooded terrain. Then she set off along tracks past the pond and through gorse bushes that reached above head height, but only just.

A robin shouted his protest at her disturbance, then leapt up onto a prominent branch to proclaim his territory.

“Okay, okay, I’m not intruding, keep your hair on.” There was another robin answering, but a good way off. Territories here were large, obviously, unlike her garden, where two male robins swore at each other from either side of the patch.

Emerging from the gorse bushes, she realised why. The heathland that stretched away from her down the hill to the stream-filled valley was black and bare. The skeletons of the heather lay twisted and tangled. Last year’s fires at the height of the heatwave had shown clouds of smoke many miles away, but she hadn’t realised ‘her’ patch had been devastated. She crouched down and fingered the dead stems and the solid, inert ground beneath them. Rain and winter storms had already stripped the stems to shiny charcoal. Any ash had been blown away, or driven into the ground. “Dust to dust,” she muttered, standing and wiping her hand on her jacket.

This was no habitat for Dartford Warblers, which it had been in the past. How long would the heather take to recover? And why had the gorse escaped the flames when the rest of the hillside was ravaged? Ah, of course, the pond she’d skirted at the top would have been enough to prevent a complete furnace. Well, hopefully other parts of the forest would provide enough territories for the birds that had been here before.

She paused, thinking of the timing. Yes, any birds here would have raised their young before last year’s fires. Hopefully.

She carried on around her survey route, noting habitat changes and the unusually quiet forest. A song thrush was singing off in the distance, and a chiffchaff started up from the younger trees just inside the gate.

The trouble with this patch was there wasn’t enough native woodland among the forestry blocks of pines. Several blocks, felled before the first lockdown, were now rough grass and small shrubs, plus a few errant fir trees that had sprouted from discarded cones. Nothing singing, nothing moving in them. The grass was dry and tall, unbowed by lack of winter snow. Too sheltered in this spot. No rabbits to graze it down. No deer either. It could use some better management.

She struggled up the hill as she made her way back through the plantation. She needed to walk more, get back her fitness. Ah, some small birds high up in the pine canopy. Yes, bluetits, and a coal tit still with them. They should be in breeding groups now, not their winter mixed mobs. Yes, some long-tailed tits over there. She examined the trees through her binoculars, but could see no goldcrests. Something four legged was coming down the path towards her. She paused, waiting for it to round the corner and come into view. Oh, just an early dog-walker. That could be one reason why the birds were quiet. Right on cue another thrush started up, its call echoing mournfully across the forest. A mistle thrush. That’s good. And now she was nearing the top, where the vegetation was more connected to the gorse outside; she identified more robins, a wren, and several more chiffchaffs. 

She emerged from the plantation by the forest gate, and carried on back to her car. The Canadian flags were moving now, and the horizon’s clear blue was turning grey, fingers of mist crawling out of the forests on the ridges further away.

That was it for the first survey of the year. She wondered what the later one would bring. How long would it take the heather to recover? How many acres were affected? The birds and animals had enough to cope with, what with caterpillars emerging early before their chicks had hatched, which was a recipe for starvation. Well, it was partly climate change, and partly the over-management of the forest. What this place really needed was a rewilding programme.

Now, there’s a thought. But it mostly needed holidaymakers to stop doing things like throwing cigarettes out of car windows, and bringing barbecues onto campsites. 

The message must get through. Somehow.

© J M Pett 2024

A New Forest flash | not a #writephoto
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4 thoughts on “A New Forest flash | not a #writephoto

  • 9 October, 2024 at 8:22 am
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    Your right Jemima if only people would wake up to the damage their careless actions can cause. 💜

    Reply
  • 9 October, 2024 at 2:24 pm
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    I have long lived in fire-adapted areas, but the kinds of fires climate change has brought us are something else altogether. Your pine plantations are putting in fire species, but I wouldn’t think a “natural” English forest would be. Hope it’s recovered well, and hope you are doing enough better to go find out!

    Reply

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