Golden slumbers
Starlings, robins, wagtails and an eccentric Merlin app for November's 'Homecoming' entries.
Autumn slipped away, fading almost as swiftly as it made its early presence felt. Some travels have allowed me to see the season defiantly clinging to its colours in places, but mostly it is now bareness, the cold and dark which have won out. These are all things I savour, being a melancholy sort, but there is very much an air of things ending as trees shut up shop for the winter, a year tucking itself up in bed and pulling the blankets close. I look forward to a smaller range of nature as I move into December: skeletal trees as M.R. James comes down from the bookshelf, chirpy robins reminding me that, even in this season of hygge, or hibernation, we are not completely alone. It will be almost a week into December by the time I publish this, partly because the time of year when I think I’m going to slow down and plod through books, writing and projects becomes unexpectedly busy, as expected. But also, I think I’m trying to string out my enjoyment of Homecoming, as there is only one more journal month to complete. Whilst the typing up of my scrawled entries each month can feel a bit of a chore, I get real joy from reliving these encounters and suddenly my month has an organic rhythm which ignores deadlines, bills and all the other stimuli of real life; things are slowed down and simplified. Ever the eponymous procrastinator, I am not sure what shape my posts will take in 2026: certainly, there will be a natural, outdoors focus but I am no expert on nature or wildlife, there are lots of writers on here who cover that, and walking, and history, far better than I can. Perhaps, as I wander with fewer visual or aural distractions, with just the robins’ chatter for company, I will retreat into my thoughts and the several unformed and disjointed ideas (think Alan Partridge pitching, only colder and muddier!) swirling around will become tethered to my keyboard. In the meantime, here is my November, as the year, and Homecoming, begins its final fade.
Saturday, 1st:
Puddles. I’d not registered how much rain there had been, as it was bright and sunny until I chose to loop. A smaller circuit after the shower had passed, paths around the church sticky and puddles glinting by fading light.
Sunday, 2nd:
A dark night-time small loop, by the light of an almost full moon, one corner slightly clipped. November offers a clearer, sharper, more wintry chill than October’s cold bluster.
Monday, 3rd:
Gusty, very gusty. Wind swirled around me as it funnelled through the entrance to a narrow street, treating me as a fallen leaf. The moon must be full now, a single beacon of light in a cloudy sky.
Tuesday, 4th:
Despite being fractionally milder, clear winter signs have set in through the swathes of colour and leaves. Both horse chestnuts at the top of the village are completely bare now, stark, branchy outlines, skeletons.
Wednesday, 5th:
A stressed stride around the smallest loop, in record time, to fit a walk in. nature did not go unnoticed, though, as the melody and chatter of robins followed me round. That night, a tawny owl in the Bonfire Night air.
Thursday, 6th:
Should I trust the apps? Recording the banter of sparrows, listening to see if I could pick up any other calls or songs, my app told me little owl. Is this likely, on a housing estate, early afternoon?
Friday, 7th:
Standing next to the Menin Gate in Ypres, my reflections far from quiet as a hoard of starlings screeched and complained from a tree, with their characteristic lack of respect.
Saturday, 8th:
Initial fears of a parakeet invasion. Luckily, what I thought could be was, on closer inspection, a crow. There’s a new robin in the garden. I’ve not heard him, but will monitor.
Sunday, 9th:
Four red kites feeding at the roadside on a male pheasant’s carcass. One flew away at my approach, the others slow to react. A little startling as they appeared to resemble a pile of leaves or a hoard of female pheasants until the first showed its wingspan.
Monday, 10th:
A parakeet-like shriek over the village. Again, after initial nerves, I think a crow, soaring high and not wholly convincingly towards the gorgeous red sunset. More loud robin song, less melodic as it asserts its winter territory – shelter from the cold perhaps even more urgent than a place to raise its young in spring.
Tuesday, 11th:
Luckily the rain held off when I needed to get out. Grey and gloomy to suit Armistice Day, a perfect backdrop to highlight the autumn colours. One verge now a thick quilt of orange, golden and brown patchwork as fallen leaves mount up.
Wednesday, 12th:
Housing estate nature. An area of open grassland by one of the relatively new developments. If my Merlin app is to be believed, meadow pipit. What I thought was a wagtail was less white the closer I got – possibly a female grey one. Crows fighting, squaring up, dispersing. A lone mushroom.
Thursday, 13th:
A very relaxed female sparrow, pottering about in a hedgerow. As I got close, before I spotted her, she quickly checked me over then continued about her business, unbothered.
Friday, 14th:
Storm Claudia wreaked havoc on a day I needed to drive to and from Henley for work, the force of water almost trapping my car in a puddle, then over the Cotswolds and into Wales. Wild and very wet.
Saturday, 15th:
An evening stroll along the prom at Aberavon, lights twinkling along the bay. Being next to the sea at night gives real perspective on our place in the world, as unending darkness carried the waves out to the ocean.
Sunday, 16th:
An owl swooped – a flash of white caught in my headlights, as it narrowly missed my car, sharp, rapid passage crossing the road.
Monday, 17th:
More speeding bird action across my path, this time on foot. Medium and brown, I can only guess female blackbird as it shot by in front of me.
Tuesday, 18th:
A morning of glorious sunshine, although the blue sky’s clarity has brought temperatures soaring down. Despite all of Friday’s rain, on a decent amount of water over the autumn, the main church pond is still not full – a rim of mud and wall signals what’s missing, despite both other ponds brimming.
Wednesday, 19th:
A damp breath of snow this morning as the temperature plummeted. The wind, piercing and powerful, a chill adolescent beast from the east. Starlings clustered in formation over the village and swooped in front of my window as I lunched. Clinging together and fast-moving for warmth? Massive daisies.
Thursday, 20th:
Autumn’s colours are rapidly fading, replaced by the bareness of winter, trees revealing their naked forms. Yellow, gold and red vanishing and today was all white. Snowberries, an early Christmas tree decoration, wagtails, long-tailed tits and yesterday’s enormous daisies again.
Friday, 21st:
Another ice-cold day. Clear, sky, pale blue and lacking warmth, frost lasted all day in sheltered spots, a dusting of frozen icing sugar. The temperature clung as closely as it could to freezing despite the weak sun. playing field covered in gulls.
Saturday, 22nd:
Slightly milder and, as a result, wetter. A brief mile on an errand was sufficiently damp. Later, on the road at dusk, a young deer watched tentatively from the verge although, fortunately, was nowhere to be seen on my return.
Sunday, 23rd:
An evening loop under chill, clear skies after a sunny day indoors. Stars twinkled and, in parts of the village, they were so plentiful, glowing rash in the sky. Much as I tried, I could not spot Orion’s Belt though.
Monday, 24th:
The village has now pretty much shed all of its leaves, hunkering down for winter to begin in a few days. A mere ten miles or so to the west, however, autumn’s colours are still clinging defiantly, stubbornly on, determined to have one final flourish.
Tuesday, 25th:
A month to Christmas and it is the holly and the ivy here, both full grown! Until yesterday, I’d missed the holly until I saw someone picking and clipping for a festive wreath. A male bush, sturdy and bottle green, blending modestly with the hedgerow. Ivy, its berries plump, an inviting feast for those that can eat it, or alien antennae.
Wednesday, 26th:
‘Tis the season to pollard trees. Every day this week I’ve seen a different team out trimming back the trees in people’s gardens. Can’t be done in nesting season, so makes sense as leaves have fallen and trees shut down – just hope not too many berries, bird food, have gone too. Lots of noisy starlings and the new state’s wagtails.
Thursday, 27th:
A bit milder, although nowhere near as mild as the forecasters have bragged. Dull, grey with the threat of rain. Windier too, although not gusty like of late. I walked the same village loop as yesterday with near silence from the birds. Whether it was too dull for the same excited chatter as yesterday or if the wind drowned them out I’m not sure. That said, three wagtails on the new estate warned each other repeatedly of my approach. One, fluffier and greyer, I’m assuming young, with its adult parents making sure it behaves.
Friday, 28th:
A 7-mile circuit around Finchampstead and gravel pits. Long-tailed tits were frequent and really rowdy, like an infestation in trees. Coots, moorhens, Merlin app also suggested goldcrest and brambling. The last of autumn’s colours in full glory. Lots of holly, especially male. I thought I saw unseasonal raspberries, or were they very late blackberries? Turns out it was coralberry. Not sure if they’re edible – I didn’t try!
Saturday, 29th:
Sunsets have been gorgeous over the past couple of days. Walking as the light turns, colours like looking through a soothing filter, salmon, orange/rust, gold, dappling the landscape as the sun gets lower than it has been by day.
Sunday, 30th:
Another glorious afternoon. A standard plod around the village 3-miler to soak it up, with birdsong a-plenty – starlings noisily gathering in the tree by the pub, their new favourite haunt; robin, blackbird, collared dive, sparrow too. Watched by woodpigeon, red kite and gulls. Song thrush joined in. A minute’s recording in the app even suggested a brief, and therefore probably implausible, Bohemian waxwing! Maybe my sinister footsteps on the recording confused the app!
Thank you for reading Golden Slumbers. The Guild of Master Procrastinators remains a free publication but, if you would like to support the caffeine and notebook habits which help in its creation, please do consider buying me a brew: a hot beverage is very much appreciated in this weather!
Love the photos, Andy. Your poetic descriptions of nature are so evocative too. "An evening stroll along the prom at Aberavon, lights twinkling along the bay. Being next to the sea at night gives real perspective on our place in the world, as unending darkness carried the waves out to the ocean." Wonderful. ✨️
Thank you so much, James. My mind was definitely in a wistful and contemplative mood in the dark that evening, I think slightly disconcerted with the steelworks at Port Talbot not being lit up and flaring flames.