I love this particular place. It's pretty quiet. There are woods. Fields. A river.
Saw my first damsel fly of the summer.
A red one.
Along this stretch there are strange, lumpy, pockets of landscape; mining spoiltip where nothing much except heathers grow, because of the waste minerals. The trees are small and covered in lichen. Further into the woods the trees get taller.
As we walked into the wood, a buzzard flew out amongst the trees. I thought I'd heard a buzzard calling. The calls were not quite the usual. I wondered if there was a nest close by. Walking back down the path amongst the trees, I heard the crashing of twigs. And when I looked up, I saw chunky twigs falling to the ground from a messy platform of twigginess up the top of a tree.
Maybe it was Mama Buzzard making the bed.