A cygnet hunt and an accident

25 May 2015

Once we’d been food shopping and had some lunch I thought I’d go for a little Bank Holiday walk along the river. Apparently the first cygnets have been spotted at Lakside and, although I didn’t have time to go that far, I wondered if there were any at my end of the river. Commando was busy in the garden cleaning things so I left him to it, although I’d half hoped he’d come along and maybe we could stop off for a coffee in the White Swan.

Even before I got to the top of the slope down to Riverside Park I could tell they’d been cutting the grass from that wonderful cut grass smell. If there is one thing that says spring to me it’s that. I was pleased to see the council mowers had left the wildflowers on the bank unmowed, it would have been a shame to lose them when they’re looking so good.

Right away I could see there were swans by the jetty so I powered along, hopefull of a cygnet or two. There were cygnets alright, but only last year’s ones, fully grown now but each with a few dark feathers to show they were not actually adults. In fact the adults were conspicuous by their absence. There are almost certainly newly hatched cygnets or eggs still to hatch somewhere but it wasn’t here. Still, there were bright clumps of catsear growing through the stones of the bank so it wasn’t all doom and gloom.

The next place I thought I might have seen cygnets was the reedbeds but there wasn’t a swan in sight so I marched on. The trail leading behind the reedbeds was a delight, dripping with weeping willow leaves brimming with wildflowers. It made my heart sing to walk through. There were people everywhere in the park, enjoying the Bank Holiday, even if the weather wasn’t the best, all grey clouds with a threat of rain. On the grass behind the reedbeds a group of teenagers were having a birthday picnic with cake and baloons. I smiled as I skirted them.

The river behind the reeds was picturesque but empty. Maybe there were swans nesting on the far bank near the sluice I trespassed on a while back or amongst the reeds on either bank. If there were, I didn’t see them. On my way back to the path I did spot some dried out tinder fungus on a fallen tree and some red campion, bright pink petals fluttering in the breeze. Such is life, you win some, you lose some.

There were no swans at Woodmill either and, for once, no fishermen or canoeists. On the grassy bank beside the path there were buttercups and clover though, attracting the bees. Across the road I stopped for a moment contemplating the calm and beauty of trees and mill reflected in the river. It seemed strange to think that, just the day before,  a body had been found in the river here, a man missing for ten days whose car was found abandoned in the Woodmill car park. It seemed too peaceful a place for such a gruesome discovery.

Perhaps it was selfish of me but I couldn’t help being glad I hadn’t chosen the river for my Sunday walk. It could have been me making that discovery, all alone on a sunny Sunday morning. Hopefully the poor man didn’t suffer and at least his last sight would have been a beautiful one. Still thinking about it I carried on along the path, gulls screaming above the water because someone was throwing bread. Willow seeds filled the air and floated on the river but still there were no swans.

As as I reached Mansbridge a plane flew low overhead, coming in to land. I snapped a photo as its tail was just disappearing into the trees and two canoeists had just gone under the bridge. There were people everywhere, I had to dodge between them, and adult swans at last too. One swan sat on the far bank preening. For a moment I thought it might have been a nest but on closer inspection I could see it wasn’t. The other swan was close to the bank snapping up the bread a little girl and her mother were dropping into the river. Taking full advantage I crounched on the bank and took a photo. Although both swans were adults I doubt there is a nest as they wouldn’t both leave it if there was.

As as if to make up for the lack of fluffy little cygnets there were aquilegias growing on the bank by the bridge, nodding heads of purple and pink. On the other side of the bridge I saw the canoeists disappearing into the distance and thought I might follow them for a while, at least as far as I could. Maybe there would be new cygnets on the Mansbridge Resevoir or even the stagnant water at Mansbridge Lock.

Lovely as it was, the resevoir was too full of lilies to have room for swans, although I did walk all the way round just to be sure. There wasn’t even so much as a duck. Although I didn’t expect to see swans on Mansbridge Lock, I was too close not to take a look. All I found though was a film of willow seeds from the head of the lock to the tail. If I hadn’t had a look I’d have always been wondering.

For a moment I was tempted to carry on along the Navigation but common sense prevailed. The waterway is mostly dry as far as Chickenhall Lane and I was only supposed to be going for a short walk. Commando would be sending out a search party, especially with the discovery of the body at Woodmill so fresh in his mind. Sadly, I turned back towards Mansbridge and the only adult swans I’d seen all day. It seemed my hunt for new cygnets would be in vain.

Walking back it felt as if Mother Nature was trying to make up for the lack of fluffy cygnets with an abundance of wildflowers. Near Woodmill, I spotted nightshade, purple petals curled back to reveal deadly yellow within. Beside them philadelphus perfumed the air above a mass of green alkanet. Left to her own devices Mother Nature is a clever gardener.

On the way back across the park I did venture down an overgrown slope to the boggy ground behind the mill but, apart from sedge, nettles and mud, there was nothing to see. That was the point when I gave up on the cygnets, at least for now. There was nothing left to do but climb back up and make my way back the way I’d come, along the green trail, through the bower of willow and wildflowers  to the path. If success is measured in cygnets seen this had been an unsuccessful walk but I wasn’t downhearted. There will be other chances to see them. Maybe I’ll wander along to Lakesdie next week and see if I have more luck there.

When I got home, the ladders were on the ground and the hose was unwound on the wet deck but Commando was nowhere in sight. CJ was missing too and I walked through the house feeling as if I’d just stepped onto the deck of the Marie Celeste. In the hallway I heard a plaintive voice.
“Don’t be cross with me,” it was Commando and, when I went into the living room, he was laying on the sofa looking rather sheepish and sorry for himself. “I fell off the ladder.”

While I’d been out he’d decided to clean the upstairs windows. CJ had gone out too so there was no one to hold the ladder but he thought he’d be ok. He thought wrong. The decking, wet with soapy water, was slippery and, as he went to climb down, the ladder slipped and he fell from the roof of the gym to the ground, his legs tangled in the ladder. He could have been killed or at least maimed. Luckily the only injuries he’d sustained were some nasty grazes on both calves, some egg sized lumps that were fast becoming bruises and a sprained wrist. Angry doesn’t even cover it. I’m always telling him not to go up ladders unless someone is at the bottom holding them.