After a period of near-constant sunshine, this morning is cooler, quieter and more grey, with just a Chiffchaff and softly crooning Wood Pigeon calling out from the pond area as I head out.
A female Blackbird bounces across the lawn as I approach the weather station, Daisies and Buttercups forming floral constellations in the grass.
Where the Blackthorn scrub has been cut back in previous winters, the vacant space has been quickly colonised by red-stemmed Dogwood and a vibrant clump of Birds-foot Trefoil.
Entering the Holm Oak woodland, our volunteers are continuing to reinforce the path edging with rough-cut timber, future fodder for the Turkey-tail Fungus visible on older edging sections.
The melodious refrains of Robin and Wren ring out from the Bramble undergrowth, a bassy counterpoint provided by the pulsing engine of a trawler offshore.
Joining the Clifftop Trail, a Grey Squirrel crashes about in the Sycamore canopy above, as Buff-tailed Bumblebees trundle around the trackside. At my feet, the white fragments of a bird’s egg lay scattered, likely that of a Wood Pigeon raided by a corvid or even the self-same Squirrel still clambering above my head.
Emerging into the open Clifftop, Dunnock and Whitethroat sit proud atop the Hawthorn and Gorse, as offshore a flock of four Gannet glide west.
Drawing level with Pat and Les’ bench, I retrieve a Bloody-nosed Beetle from an exposed spot on the gravel, moving it gently onto the grass so as to avoid its sanguine defence mechanism.
Though former Durlston Ranger Hamish reports a similarly quiet morning as we compare notes above Tilly Whim, the surrounding sward is now pleasingly heavy with flowering Sea Thrift on the slopes above the famous caves.
Their croaking drifting on the wind long before I lie eyes on them, Durlston’s Guillemots are everywhere - rafting, nesting, flying and resting on the low lying rocks, accompanied by four of their Razorbill cousins. As two Fulmar wheel about the cliff, eight more Gannet power their way past, following in the shadow of the earlier birds.
As I begin to gain ground past the Dolphin Hut, the moderate sou-westerly carries to my nostrils the unmistakable scent of seabird - once smelt, never forgotten!
Drawing level with the observation point, I find the remains of an ill-fated Feral Pigeon beneath the tree line.
The cleanly plucked quills and surgically-removed breastmeat suggest to me the work of a Sparrowhawk – possibly the large female I regularly spy near the Castle – and serve as a timely reminder that nature, as ever, is red in tooth and claw.