two flypasts

Storm Barney had blown through by this morning, to be followed by sun drenched calm.  I was relieved as I peered out of the bathroom window to see that all the trees were still standing where they should be.  After breakfast I went to check that none of the beehives had blown over, but they too were fine.  In fact, apart from the downwind side of the Eleagnus hedge bulging at the top, the only damage I could find were the two panes of plastic that had popped out of the greenhouse roof, and they were unbroken and easy enough to slide back in again.  There were several moments last night when the whole house shook to its core, and I'd been worried about what I'd find in the morning.

I returned to chopping out brambles by the wildlife pond in the meadow.  A strange, wild, harsh cry made me look up, and there were two buzzards, flapping slowly as they hung on the wind.  They cried again, and disappeared out of my line of sight behind the trees.  It would be quite something if they were to decide to set up home in the wood.  Some of my older bird books don't show buzzards as being found in East Anglia, as they have only returned in the past ten or fifteen years.  I love to see them, and as for their call, it's enough to put the hairs up on the back of your neck, but they don't seem to score highly in the birdwatching snob stakes, perhaps because they are largely carrion eaters rather than skilled hunters.  I used to visit my parents in Wales when they lived over there, and the general status of buzzards seemed to be Not a red kite.  I'd like to see red kites over the garden, too, and I may yet.  They're on their way, well established as far east as Rutland Water, and a friend has seen the odd one around Stowmarket.

Later in the morning a heavy throbbing sound made me look up again, as an army Chinook lumbered into view above the trees.  Chinooks are the big transport helicopters with two sets of rotor blades, and this one was dangling a load beneath it, which the Systems Administrator later told me looked like a heavy artillery gun.  Colchester being a garrison town with army ranges at Fingringhoe, and the mysterious explosives testing grounds of Shoeburyness not far down the coast, we're quite used to the sight of military helicopters flying overhead and the sound of weaponry, from the rattle of automated gunfire to the kind of deep booms that make the front door vibrate.  I don't mind them, and they don't carry the visceral chill of the buzzard's call, but they form an odd background to peaceful rural life when you think about it.