Beauty in the heart of Hertfordshire

Damien Enright on a rural paradise outside London

AS 30 of us stood singing Happy Birthday to one of my sons in a Hertfordshire garden, a flock of Canada geese flew house-top-high in V-formation above us, black cut-outs against a sky already midnight blue at 10 o’clock.

They honked loudly, all together, whether in protest at the cacophony rising from beneath or in an effort to join it. They were dramatic, beautiful birds, perfectly synchronised in flight, one trailing edge of the V slightly longer than the other. There must have been 30 of them. We all looked up, marvelling at the sight.

Canada geese are not unusual in that part of Hertfordshire, where there are gravel pits, lakes and canals. We heard them again as we went to our berth in the early hours, walking along the canal bank to the barge, Euphrates, once a tour ‘package’ that carried 67 sightseers, lent to us by a family friend.

In the night-time silence, one could hear their wings slice the air, wild and romantic as they passed above the trees against the moon. We could have imagined ourselves in the Canadian woods, by the shores of Great Bear Lake.

Every time I visit this part of Hertfordshire, I am again struck by the naturalness of the countryside just beyond the city. It is only 20 miles from central London. Thirty years ago, as a boy, my son would cross a motorway and a 10-acre field to reach a farm where he could help with bringing in the cows after he got home from school. The farm is still there, the M25 at one edge but the same old back roads, rural hamlets and waterways at the other. Not at all a bad place to live: you could be as close to nature as in west Cork.

On the pond are Canada geese, swans, great crested grebes, little grebe, coots, waterhens, mallards and, depending on the time of year, other ducks. I’ve found sedge warbler and reed bunting nests in the rushes and willows along the banks.

On the British bank holiday Sunday, we spoke to a man who’d been camping on the shore for three days, fishing. He told us he was badly in need of a wash. Why he didn’t jump in, in the privacy of the evening, we asked. He said he might disturb the fish. Later, as we returned, we saw him land a bream weighing 11-and-a-half pounds. He put it on the scale, and then returned it to the brown water. It wasn’t edible, he said.

Damsel flies and dragon flies abound near the canal, but, as in Ireland this year, there are few butterflies about — indeed, almost none. Also, few hoverflies, bees, or bumblebees. Midges, yes, but not in clouds. Daubenton’s bats skim the water, expert midge-catchers. Blackthorn bushes bear fat sloes; ripe blackberries, elder berries and haws shine in the sun. It seems autumnal, or maybe it’s simply the light which is, I think, harder than the light in west Cork, perhaps less filtered by water vapour.

But there was rain here too. In the barge, we listened to it dance on the roof, and heard the mallards tapping their beaks against the hull as they grazed the algae. Now and then, another longboat passed and we rocked very gently for a minute before being becalmed again. It is most pleasant to live on a barge on the Grand Union Canal in summer.

My daughter’s husband tells me that his sister rescued a hedgehog from starvation. She found it in a lean-to garden shed, where it had hibernated. During its long sleep, a Russian vine had grown over it, the fast-growing creepers pinning it to the earth.

It had struggled to get free but with no success, and was exhausted. She cut the vines, and saved its life. It immediately drank water thirstily and ate the earthworms she offered it.

The hazards of sleeping rough are legion. Thank goodness we have the barge.