I was sitting beneath a horse chestnut tree (Aesculus hippocastanum ) with a friend earlier today, drinking a cup of sweet tea. The late summer sun still warmed us and above the tree, a red kite teased me. But despite my determination to capture him on camera, my fascination was drawn also to the tree.

       ‘I remember when I was a child,’ I said, ‘the great excitement I had in climbing trees for conkers.’ She smiled and sipped her tea, so I continued,  ‘I would scrape my knees and tear my clothes, but nothing would stop me once I had started.’ My dear friend just listened, or pretended to anyway.

      ‘And let me tell you, that these trees can grow up to 36metres (118 feet) tall. However, I don’t think I ever climbed to the top. Someone would always panic and run for my father.’

      ‘Did he ever catch you up the tree?’ my friend asked. I nodded, so she was listening.

      ‘Once or twice,’ I replied, remembering again the frantic look on his face. But no matter how hard I tried, I could never seem to remember what I could and couldn’t do. So I did it anyway. You see, I really loved those big old huggable trees with branches thick enough to lie on, swing from, sit on and sleep on. I would have lived in one, given half a chance!

       ‘Is it poisonous?’ my friend asked.

       ‘Not to touch,’ I replied, ‘but the young nuts are and they certainly shouldn’t be eaten by yourself or horses!’

        I gazed up at the tree and told my friend about Anne Frank.  I told her that on 23^rd February 1944, she wrote about the chestnut tree in her diary.

Nearly every morning I go to the attic to blow the stuffy air out of my lungs, from my favorite spot on the floor I look up at the blue sky and the bare chestnut tree, on whose branches little raindrops shine, appearing like silver, and at the seagulls and other birds as they glide on the wind. As long as this exists, I thought, and I may live to see it, this sunshine, the cloudless skies, while this lasts I cannot be unhappy.

        ‘I’ve read the book many times,’ I said sadly, ‘the tree survived until 2010 when it fell down in the wind. Some of the saplings were taken to America where they continue to grow in memory of Anne.’

         ‘And did you know that during the First World War, there was a campaign for people to collect and donate conkers for the government. They were using them for a source of starch for some method to produce acetone. This was to help produce cordite, which was then used in military armaments. They chose conkers, to save using food as it was scarce enough as it was.’

        My dear friend nodded and I could see that I had probably exhausted her so we sat quietly and sipped our sweet tea. The red kite still hovered above me so I took that long awaited photo. I shall write about it quite soon. But for now, it’s later than you think.

Please drive carefully through our village and every other village in this country. In just the past few days I have found three cats dead on the road.

     There is absolutely no need to risk killing the life of an innocent animal let alone the life of a human being. And think about it, if you are capable of running over and killing an animal, you are equally capable of running over and killing a child.

      I know that sometimes, the animal, be it a cow, a horse, a cat, dog or a sheep, can dart in front of you without warning but if you are doing the speed limit or slower, if dark, or bendy roads, then at least they stand a chance.

      I have witnessed the distress of three families this week, after the loss of their beloved pets on the road. Please help save lives. Is it worth the race?

 It’s foxing hour, the time of day when foxes go about their business. And although they are not my favourite of animals, I have great respect for them. However, my kind and unassuming husband would beg to differ!

     Walking along the cliff paths or on the moors, near our home for waifs and strays, I often come across foxholes and shiver. Not the foxholes that were dug by soldiers during wartime, but the four legged kind that worry me where our hens are concerned. And when, in the dark of night, I hear their shrill call, I always pray it is the barn owl and not the dreaded fox. You see, when one is half asleep, the sounds seem quite similar. Remember, it is the tawny owl that hoots.

     So they dig their holes to raise their young and as a part of their behaviour. Quite often they dig for about a metre and leave it! I guess it is a good form of exercise.

     When the fluffy grey-brown cubs are born, they are fed by their mums for about four weeks. By then, their fur begins to turn red. About this time, aunts and uncle foxes will bring solid food to the den plus a variety of old toys, shoes and gloves. Evidence of these have been found when the dens are abandoned.

     After about seven weeks the family will most likely change homes. This is probably due to it being too small, filthy, or perhaps someone or something has frightened them off.  But around three or four months, when autumn is upon them, some of the young will start to look for a home of their own. It is also the time when I hear their cries the most!  However, what is quite interesting is that the vixens (females) will often stay with their mother to help raise the next litter. Quite a loyalty, I would say!

So this is where the chicken food goes!

     My kind and unassuming husband and I often feel like we’re feeding all the birds in the village. This is possibly true! Even the birds flying past, will stop off en route for a meal in our garden for waifs and strays. This takes some doing, and amounts to a couple of sacks of feed every week.

     I have often talked about the birds that visit us and live with us, and I guess I have lost many a reader because of it, but I have to say, I never tire of watching them and noting their song and behaviour. All in all, they fascinate me.

     In return, these wonderful creatures sing their tiny hearts out. They wake me with their song and often, when the night is silent, I can still here the occasional insomniac bird singing softly as if knowing that the others are asleep but someone, somewhere, is listening to them.

    I would love to be able to sing as well as the birds, but that would take a miracle. However, my mother used to sing and had the voice of an Angel and my father could play any instrument that came his way. So perhaps, in listening to the birds, my parents are never far away.

Vote now, for Britain’s new national bird. The robin has held the position, since the 60’s and now it’s time to vote again.

     I was sitting in our garden for waifs and strays today, thinking about all the birds that come to visit us. The hedge, as usual, was alive with hundreds of our feathered friends. Even the sky above was circled by the seagulls, watching me feed the hens.

      Later, with a mug of sweet tea, I sat by the pond and thought about the bird I would choose to represent Britain. It is quite a difficult decision and thankfully, one I personally won’t have to make but can take part in. You also get to choose six out of sixty types of birds.

      My thoughts turned to the First World War and the story I recently wrote, about the pigeon message carriers. What an amazing bird to represent this country, I thought. Despite their war wounds, many of these creatures soldiered on regardless of their pain and with such dignity.

       But there are so many worthy contestants, all of whom bring delight and comfort to so many people. And although, the pigeon is a favorite of mine, despite not the prettiest of birds, I think he could be in with a chance.

       If you are interested, then place your vote on the ‘Vote for Britain’s National Bird’ site, and be in with a chance of winning a Shetland Wildlife Holiday, top of the range Leica binoculars, Bird Watching Magazine subscription and Urban Birder T-Shirts. Good luck!