Soon, too soon, it was time to put the paper down, shoo Pusskin off my lap, get the walking shoes on again and head off for a place called Rutland Waters; another brilliant suggestion on Jazz’s part. Grabbing a fistful of still savory samosas left over from the party we piled into the car, adjusted our sunglasses (yay, sun!) with Siggy at the wheel. 

I marvel constantly in Leicester at how quickly one can be in the countryside. In the fenced-in verdant fields flanking the road, lambs were in abundance; springing for all they were worth on their new legs only recently folded in mama’s belly. We were off to look for Ospreys! 

The brochure tells you that the reservoir was built in the 1970s to supply water to the East Midlands and originally named Empingham reservoir. It lies near Oakham in the county of Rutland—the smallest county in England. Rutland Water, as it is known presently, is now Rutland's most popular tourist attraction, the largest man-made lake in Western Europe; an area of 3100 acres offering activities for all ages. That’s the upside.

What actually happened was that the area was purposely flooded. It was an area where there once stood a village with shops, a church and houses, and presumably people who had gardens to putter in, teapots to warm, and who were happy in their homes.

But, back to the birds. Before heading off in search of Osprey Jazz and I stood for a few moments in a blind near the main entrance to the bird sanctuary while Siggy and The Mister debated the merits of the bicycles at the post. Cheered at first by the diminutive finches at the feeders, Jazz and I were distracted by the big brown rat scuttling under the woodpile. This one was a long way from the gritty New York underground variety and probably unaware of how blessed it was.

I noticed, right off the bat, that the use of cell phones was not prohibited. They were employed freely much to my disenchantment, though I did not recall hearing them in use in the blinds, only out in the open. The myriad of ring tones and attendant conversations having to be voiced over the more soothing susurrus of nature made me think about the bird walking tours I have joined in Central Park. I pale in comparison to real bird watchers. Pale in their zeal, in their knowledge, in their equipment. But I do know that a ringing cell phone under a nesting Screech Owl would have been the equivalent of firing an AK-47. New York City bird watchers are a serious bunch. When I am in nature I love listening to bird song. I don’t necessarily have to know the bird’s identity, though I am thrilled when I do. It’s like a foreign language I am happy to listen to, and more melodic when the words are not actually understood.

Jazz got us to the blind where we were most likely going to spot an Osprey. Serious camera equipment protruded from the breasts of bird watchers. The guide installed there was getting radio updates on the Osprey’s whereabouts. They had been nesting here only since 1999. The first Osprey chick to fledge in central England for 150 years was hatched in 2001. It was pointed out to me where the artificial nesting poles stood and I craned for a look at the nest at the top but saw nothing. I concentrated more on the body of water and what lie beneath. It had a rather desolate feel to it, scraggly treetops poking from the surface, like desiccated hands waving for help.

Osprey-deprived, but not for long. We were off to visit friends of Siggy and Jazz who live in a stately renovated farmhouse in nearby Exton. 

One of the pleasures, I think, that is so specific to the English countryside is the rush to an outdoor tea when the weather is kind and we were served generously with freshly brewed tea and home-baked cake at a picnic table under the open-air garden shed at Phil and Janet’s home. Later we walked through the expansive fields surrounding their house to the place where Phil and Janet had discovered that an Osprey had built a nest on a pole very near their home. And indeed, there was an Osprey head poking from the nest. But even aided by binoculars, from my vantage it looked like the eraser on the end of a pencil. Still, it was exciting. The sudden rumble from the underbrush and the explosion of white-tailed deer that had been startled by our homeward bound conversation was very exciting indeed. As Phil told us some of the feudal history of the area I mused silently, “If I was one of those serfs I’d be thinking Lord Shithead could jolly well wait until I was good and ready to sow those rutted fields. Lordship my arse.”

Hallaton is a picturesque manicured village of thatched cottages and curvy roads. Doorways are bowered with flowering vines. Nameplates are affixed: Rose Cottage, Ivy Cottage or simply The Cottage, which was formerly Angel Inn. We walked around the eerily deserted village. It was a workday after all and unlike earlier residents there was probably a much higher ratio of computer techs and bankers to actual farmers. We were stopped by the sound of a guitar being hammered, coming from an upstairs window of a sweet rose-brick house on the bend, a little mushroom cap-shaped tree in the front garden. Turned out to be the home of Siggy’s friends and the guitar hammerer, their son, came down to chat for a moment.

I was mesmerized by dark splotches in the still bare trees that turns out are rookeries. The big black birds—rooks—create havoc when they are nesting and drop twigs into the villagers’ chimneys. Alfred Hitchcock came to mind (how could he not?) under the unnerving squawking of the things in the treetops across the road and I deflected my over-stimulated imagination from a frightening scenario.

Hungry now and disappointed that both pubs in this idyllic village were shut we headed off in search of a late lunch. We stopped to ask about our chances of finding a pub still serving. What fun to discover a poster in the window of the village post office announcing an upcoming gig of Siggy’s band Midlive Crises.