Day 3/10: Elmley Nature Reserve

I get chatting to the signal person at Rochester station as I wait for the train. It's not the one I want to get because that one's cancelled. It's the one after. We're talking about some bloke at work who likes cycling – we're talking about cycling because I'm standing there with my bike – and he describes this bloke as “shit in a condom”. I haven't heard this expression before. He says it as if he hasn't just made it up. The condom bit is because the bloke at work wears lycra. When the train arrives the signal person helpfully signals to me which carriage I should get on and as the doors open it's full of bikes and people in lycra. 

I wish I wasn't wearing a mask because it would be lovely to emote at the passenger-cyclists who are all looking at me while I manoeuvre my bike around, in between, adjacent to their bikes. The looking calms down after I work out a good compromise. I'm watching the clock because the train from Sittingbourne to Sheerness is only once an hour. Once Sittingbourne appears on the screen as the next stop I start getting in position by the doors and as I do the other cyclists get up too. Ha! I think I'm at the doors. Then one of them starts talking to me. Turns out he's really nice and introduces me to his wife and then we all have a big chat about cycling on Sheppey. They're excited I'm going to Elmley – they went once but had to go the long way round and I say oh yes I saw something about that on the website but from June to September you can go the short way round. I can't see what's going on under their masks. We all get off and race across the platform, just getting on the train to Sheerness in time. I split up from them and join someone who's taking her a baby to its first ever nursery day. She says that none of the nurseries on the mainland are open yet so she's going to take her to the island instead. She's nearly one and she needs to meet some children. 

I offer her good luck and get off at Swale. Swale is the last stop on the mainland. From the station platform you can see the bridge that the train and cars go over – the one I went over last time I came when I totally missed the significance of the water. 

I cycle up to the bridge and by the time I get near there's a ringing, flashing lights and a growing queue of cars. The bridge, complete with the road and rails is going up. It's really weird. A bloke who's got out of his care to look says “it's insane!” and we watch as a yacht sails underneath. He waves to the person driving the boat. On the other side of the bridge a motorcyclist is revving their engine and doing loops in front of the gate while they wait. The bridge comes back down again and the gates open. The cars start their engines. As I walk past one of the sides, a friendly looking person in high vis appears so I say, that was cool! And he says oh good! It's 1000 tonnes. Oh! I say. On these ropes? And he says those ropes pull up the weights which are 400 tonnes each and that lifts up the bridge. Wow! I say.

Later on I listen to Rambling with Claire Balding who is talking to author Lisa Woollett about beach combing on the isle of Sheppey. Lisa, who grew up here says that as a child she'd be forever sat in the car waiting for that bridge to come back down: https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/m000n488

They've since built the massive one for cars which seems SO SO SO high, that yacht can definitely get underneath. I guess it's so that it doesn't sink. 

When I eventually cross the bridge it's exactly what I WANTED the first time I came. I see the Welcome to Sheppey sign, get a photo and have time to take it all in.

It's a short ride to Elmley, where the friendly gatekeeper tells me I can't come in on a bike and that I'll need to go the long way round. He shows me on a map that he then puts back on his clipboard. I set off, trying to remember where it looked like I should go and get quite a long way down a road before it disappears. The tarmac goes to sandy soil and there's two big iron gates at the edge of a construction site. I call Elmley and speak to someone called Georgina who says she'll ring the gatekeeper and ask him to let me through. It's not clear whether it's really allowed or if it's neither here nor there or if she's doing me a massive favour, which will traumatise all of the baby birds. I thank her a lot and hang up. By the time I cycle back I can hear the gatekeeper on the phone and behind me a woman is coming up to me from a car that's just driven though – she's wearing an RSPB cap and says I can't go through but then the gatekeeper gets off the phone and over rules her. She takes this really surprisingly well. I cycle over the cattle grid and I'm in the reserve! The gatekeeper told me that I'm not allowed to stop at any point so I keep cycling. It's quite a long way. I'm getting tired but then I have a moment with a lapwing. It looks right at me and I feel like I might explode with love. I also fluster lots of widgeons (I don't know what they are – they're light brown with white feather son the back and they make this high pitched whistle which is wonderful). They fly up from the reeds in a bouncy way like they're bobbing up and along. I hope they're excited rather than terrified. The gatekeeper said that the birds accept cars because they think they're cows. 

There are also cows here and I'm not convince the birds confuse the cars with the cows. Anyway, I arrive and work out the next slightly confusing bit... As someone who's never been to a nature reserve before as an adult it take me a while to work out that I don't need to announce my arrival or be greeted by anyone. I go to the farmhouse-converted-into-a-cafe-for the people staying I yurts and get a millionaire's shortbread so that I can talk to someone. 

I cycle down to the hides, saying hello to everybody walking past. It's a real thing and I love it. And hides actually work. In the first hide I find a family of oystercatchers. They are grroming their ploomage, gruming their plumage. Are these baby ones? I copy what the other people have done with the window and squint lots. It's fun watching them. The reeds make a really beautiful sound. This constant breezy whooooooosh. Looking out over the reeds, it's so wavy and soft. The boggy marshland is lurking all around and the swampiness of it is magic. I've heard that mainland people call island people swampies but this is the first time it's made sense. 

I really needed this. Hooray for the non-human environment. Who gives a toss about emails when you're stood in reeds. This environment is alien it's toying with being coastal but it's also completely different. Does human creativity matter here? Does art matter here? Are birds creative? I was in a workshop last week and my colleague Miranda was talking about Richard Long and how he hates making art inside in a studio. I;m struggling to get to grips with having a studio. How do you build a creative environment? A supportive habitat? Like these oyster catchers. They look like they're thriving here. What are the rules? This looks like an HMO. A house of multiple occupancy. There's a lot of squabbles. Or chatting? Bit they're jumping AT each other. It's not clear. 

It's becoming clear that I can't DO Elmley. Like tick it off. For one I'm only going to have time to visit 2 of the hides but I mean it's more than thought. It's a place that you build a relationship with. You come and be with the birds. You dip your head in, like the oyster catchers and dip out again. 

In and out. In the second hide, through the monstrously human designed gate I have some big moments with a lapwing. It's acting like ti can see me in the hide. It keeps looking over and standing REALLY still so I do too.

I take a dusk-time walk down Sheerness high street and get some chips to eat on the beach. It's very very beautiful.