Just bimbling along...

The Kingfisher - a true story.

Hello again, I won’t keep you long I promise…

I thought this was worth a letter all of its own, an extra post, just for the smiles, the not so serendipitous collision of nature and naturist.

I have had some strange encounters on this hill before but this one beats all.

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all glimmering ripples through silver - 23 February 2025

The day is still two hours from its dusky end. The sun, an unseasonably gorgeous glowing disc in a clear azure sky, enticingly warm. My arms, stretched to a good inch longer than those I woke up with after the effort of carrying about as many buckets of weeds and dust as this old girl could manage in one cycle the sun, are in need of R&R. I take the first chance I can to escape over the hill—my long arms in tow—on a short bimble to ease achy numbness niggling both head and limbs, nothing too strenuous, or adventuresome you understand.

I paddle across swampy meadows just beginning their first tentative flushes of spring, idle through woodland leading to the top end of the lake—really just a pond with ideas of grandeur but let us lean kindly towards pretence, for the sake of appearances—my camera over my shoulder, face to the sun, warmth, fugacious freedom, all luxuries I am endlessly thankful for. They are working their magic. The woodland path is a kaleidoscope of dappled light on all that became through winter, all that is becoming with spring, the scent of decay fading into brave new awakenings. Through the trees the lake, mercifully filled once again¹, glimmers quietly, sunlight glittering on water, winter rippling southwards between the boughs of still skeletal trees, paused only in their colour, the woodland otherwise buzzing with underworld song.

The scene is set, it feels idillic doesn’t it?

As I approach glistening water—I am further delighted to see how quickly the lake has filled again—half way along the shaded left bank I catch sight of a bright aquamarine and orange flash, skimming low at the far end. I pause, I must be hallucinating, I am so caught up in the utter pleasure of the moment it has addled my vision, surely it wasn't, that couldn’t possibly have been a Kingfisher?

The colours, dart back again, streaking across the ripples, there is no doubt to his stately name. He of black beak, turquoise jacket and copper shirt, he that is skittering over tree reflections, there is no doubt, is a Kingfisher.

Oblivious of my frantic changing of lens—as I whisper chants to the god of all birds to please, just this once let him be still, let him understand it is only his beauty I wish to shoot—he swoops back and forth from bank to bank many times, so many I am almost convinced he’s putting on a show. For me? Surely not, though I see no-one else. I dare to wish he will alight on a branch for me, parade his beauty in front of my lens, just for a few moments…

I creep to a hidden spot behind a thicket of brambles just in case a serendipitous moment of bird-on-branch/perfect-light/good-lens presents itself and I watch. I am quiet. I am still. Brambles are tugging at my clothes and stabbing my arms but I daren’t risk moving myself or them. The colours streak back and forth, back and forth. I wait…

After a seeming eternity, he alights on a branch, a close enough branch but I have to turn myself to face the other end of the lake, the part that narrows into the stream that feeds it, hidden by the woodland I had arrived from. I choreograph an almost impossible movement without a sound, raise my camera slowly to my eye to focus, he is still, beautifully posed in early evening light, immersed in his fish hunt, scanning ripples for movement, for the moment to dive. As if in reprimand of my loitering, as if to say, ‘I know you’re there', just get on with it’ he yells a high pitched shrill across the water alerting something, a blurry flesh coloured something moving rhythmically in the not too distant background—understand my friends, I am focused, about to press the button, beyond excited at my luck in finding Kingfisher beauty on open water rather than his usual impossible-to-catch-unawares haunt on the twists and branch covered turns of the winding river below—I peer through my lens at the filmy shape; it appears to have two heads. It appears to be naked! I lower the camera, peek through the brambles to see more clearly hoping this human vision is a trick of the eye only to see quite clearly it does indeed have two heads, four legs, four arms too and one, undulating, very naked pink bottom!

Oh the shame, the humiliation of having my camera directed straight at them, I blush into the undergrowth, far too quickly to remain undetected by either Kingfisher or an overly friendly dog—theirs(?)—bounding across shallow water filled edges, heading straight for me, tail wagging, stick in mouth.

‘Play with me!’ His hazel eyes beg as he drops the stick in front of me, rids his fur of unwanted water.

‘Non! Vas-t’en, vas-t’en, s’il te plaît !’² I plead in whispery desperation, disentangling my now mud spattered clothes from brambles while planning a feasible, clandestine escape.

He tries again, barking as I begin to creep to the far end of the lake—hands and knees soaking, in the vague hope of remaining virtuous and hidden from nonchalant nature lovers—but soon bounces off behind me, not daring to turn to check, not daring to show my scarlet embarrassment, nearing the end of natural camouflage, I gather my courage and my shame together and begin walking—as if nothing in the world is amiss—towards the lane home.

Mortified beyond words, furious to have missed a once in a lifetime photo for a lady of little time and even less equipment, I spot again those colours swooping across the lake, they land in a tree far ahead of me. If I didn’t know better, I would swear he was taking pity on my sorry luck, choosing the spot with great deliberation, staying just long enough to allow me my one and only Kingfisher click!

“Pursue what catches your heart, not what catches your eyes.” ― Roy T. Bennett

With love and still flush cheeks

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1. In December the owner pulled the plug! Literally! Apparently to dredge the silt although there has been no sign of any dredging having taken place.

2. No, go away, go away, please!’‘