Goldcrest is Here!

Goldcrest edit

A tiny Goldcrest flew into the back garden last week. Within about 10 quick seconds it was gone. Maybe, never to be seen again. But it made an impression. Haze had to draw the above sketch immediately.

Hello all you Cresty Ladies out there! I can’t stop long, so here is me

MATING PROFILE on BoF (Birds of Feather)

First, lets get me name right.

A crusty Victorian poet I knew as Charlie (or Charles Tennyson Turner to give his full snooty name) called me a bloomin ‘Gold Crested Wren’. Wrote a rubbish poem about me an all. So I has to change me name quick to ‘Goldcrest’.

Another silly name daft Victorians was callin me is ‘Woodcock Pilot’; believin I am hitchin lifts across the sea on backs of woodcocks. Eh?! How stupid can you get! Durr! Wrong! I can fly all by meself thank you very much!

So am I a ‘Gold Crested Wren’? No!. Am I a ‘Woodcock Pilot’? No!.
I a Goldcrest, pure an simple.

I light as a feather. Well, not much more than a 10p pea. A quarter ounce (to you and me)
I might be a tiny mite, but I packs a punch for such a titch.
I got no neck, but this gold crest on me bonce gets rather sexy an scintillatin in the sun.

I flew all way across North Sea from Northest Norway to meet you.
I be a bit of a Flash ‘Arry. You won’t see me if you not got sharp eye. I constant on the fidget.
I likes to hide in ivy for a nice spot of spider for lunch, and can hover up dopey insects that ain’t keepin a lookout.
I sometimes flocks wiv Tits, but don’t join them on birdtables and feeders. Too upside down for my likin them Tits.

Bein Britains smallest bird I can’t stand it too chill or cold.

I ain’t afraid of humans; I lands on them sometimes for a bit of a warm.
Old humans can’t hear me sing. So I lands on them too. To tune up their earoles.

I be best bird in Luxembourg. Official. They got me on stamps an everythin.

I be best bird in Britain too if I could. Only robins beat me, got there first, in No 1 spot. Boo!

Ok, thats bin me. Hope all you lovely ladies like me. Give me a wave wiv your camera!

Illustration: Hazel Brown; Words: Ian Nisbet


Storm House

Stormhouse edit

Storm House
It stands alone in wind and weather
Hard fast against the roaring storm
Hard edged through winter’s gales
It dreams of ancestors long gone
Who warmed those ancient walls
Kept dry with hearthstone fires
Through snowstorm, hailstone,
Winter bleak-light. Dimpsy half light,
‘Til sun turns round the year light
When sap snaps the icy fronds
Then buds do burst break through
The closed up dusty window panes
And summer paints those walls and doors
In yellows, greens, of flowerbed hues.

Painting and poem by Hazel Brown 

A Norfolk Now

Sunset landscape edit.JPG

Where BE we?
We not BE in Devon
Too flat.
Devon all green bumps of burps.

When BE we?
BE bout now
When this is OK
A Winter insert.

How BE we?
We BE quite inert.
Squintin thro lines that lurk.

Who BE we?
We BE up this tree
Quiet and unheard.

Too hidden for words.

Two tired little birds.

Drawing: Hazel Brown; Words: Ian Nisbet.

Storm Brian

Storm Brian edit

Blown and Blustered!
Gusted and Fustered
With temperamental Fluster!
It has whined and its howled
Like tormented Fowls!
Whipped up the trees, shaken their leaves
And Dizzeyed the Bees!
The birds have all flown to a much safer home!

Waves crash and smash on the
Old Harbour walls.
Ships strain their ropes, whilst the
Fishermen’s hopes of taking out boats
Are all dashed and postponed…..’til…..
Old Brian is spent and these storms are soon rent
And Autumn’s warm Sun is content.

– Poem & Words: Hazel Brown

Turnering a Saturday Afternoon

We’ve been saturating ourselves in the multi-colourful world of JMW Turner this last week.

So time to go colour in this drizzly grey Saturday afternoon out there.

Haze is looking across towards Teignmouth from Shaldon beach.

Shaldon 2 Sept 2017

She would have been seeing this

Shaldon Sept 2017

And she would have been seeing this

Shaldon 4 Sept 2017

But there was hardly any time to get this scene set, or these boats sketched, before the drizzle arrived.

We had to retire to the shelter to eat our cheese sandwiches and drink our flask of tea.

The drizzle persisted and prolonged, becoming proper rain.

So we drive up to Labrador Bay. Here Haze can attempt another watercolour from the dry confines of the car (while listening to Woolf Works by Max Richter on the car stereo)

Labrador Bay 3 Sept 2017

And this is the watercolour sketch she produced

Labrador Bay 4 Sept 2017

JMW Turner approved, gave her the thumbs up!

Words & Photos: Ian Nisbet; Watercolour Sketch: Haze Brown

Pines pointing to the stars

At dusk the pines around our camp became burnished in sunsetty shimmers.

Trees at sunset edit

From the crackly glow of the campfire we were looking up through the high heads of the pines

Into a voluminous darkness of sparkly glitters.

Being up on Dartmoor gives you that deep sensual awareness of night being properly distinct from day.

So many stars. You forget just how many stars there are up there.

Millions of millions.

Stars just about everywhere you can see.

Spreading out as far and as deep as your imagination can reach.

These pines seemed to be guiding our way in, giving us privileged access.

Starry starry night edit

Paintings: Hazel Brown; Words; Ian Nisbet