The smell of burning rhododendron

Every other Sunday, I get up thinking "I really don't want to do this". Somehow, (sometimes with a shove from waveney) I get up and get into my old clothes and get ready to head out for Brownsea Island.

By the time we reach the island, I'm already remembering why I do this. At any time of the year, it is a beautiful place. The shaggy lichens on the alder trees, the orange of the dead bracken, the shelduck on the lake, the occasional sight of a red squirrel.

After several hours of cutting, dragging and burning rhododendron, I reek of smoke, my hair is singed (again), my chothes are slightly muddy - but not *nearly* as bad as my friend Jonathon who was working in the boggy bit under loads of overhanging branches...

I'm also enjoying myself (in spite of a lingering nausea caused by the aftereffects of the root canal filling a few days ago). Now, I'm home, I feel relaxed and happy. Tired, but definitely relaxed.

And just for temeres, today's bird for me was brent goose. I now know what they look like, because there was a small group near the quay. There was also a cormorant, or maybe it was a shag... Or possibly a grebe... Anyway, it was one of those birds that manages to swim with most of the body below water and just the head sticking up to be visible.