Wild June

A few months ago, I found myself reading Simon Barnes’ “On the Marsh”. This lovely book tells how Simon and his family connected to a piece of marshland they purchased and took on to manage together. One of the activities he takes part in with his son, Eddie – who has Downs Syndrome – is “Wild June”. Wild June is organised by the Wildlife Trusts, and challenges participants to do something wild each day throughout the month. The book, just as Wild June aims to be, is about getting closer to the natural wonders on our doorstep, and discovering the power of nature to transform us all.

The impact of the covid-19 pandemic has been felt by us all. It has left tragedy, despair, grief, anger, and an uncertain future in its wake. And it’s not over yet. Like many, the restriction of an hour’s daily exercise in my local area became a lifeline. I was furloughed from my day job, and as someone who has suffered from depression in the past, I was very aware of the potential threat to my mental health. Luckily, just as it has been for so many of us, nature was there for me. From discovering a beautiful patch of woodland close to my home, to the dawn chorus and a multitude of new life in the hedgerows and skies, I had a daily escape into a world filled with life, wonder, and beauty. With an entire month of potential blues-beating benefits beckoning, I couldn’t wait to take part in my first Wild June.

As it approached, I downloaded the free pack from the Wildlife Trusts’ website. It included a print-out calendar and a workbook of suggestions; most of which were quickly dismissed and replaced with more ambitious plans of my own. And, some were a little tamer, just for balance!

Today is day 26 of Wild June, and it’s also National Writing Day, so a blog summing up the experience and what has meant the most to me seemed very fitting. You can find everything I’ve got up to on my Instagram account. But, here’s some highlights and reflections for now.

I was a few days in when I dusted off my expensive box of charcoals and colouring pencils and attempted to draw one of my favourite birds – a black redstart. I’m not sure how long I spent – first softly creating the outline, then adding some detail, and finally smudging eagerly – but by the end, something incredible had happened. The time I had spent concentrating on the shape of the slender, sharp-tipped beak of an insectivore had helped me understand this bird better. Its svelte, curved wings gave the fast flight it needed to snatch midges from the air. And those volcanic-coloured tail feathers and gradated black chest reminded me of the striking male I had seen in a coastal Spanish woodland many years ago – and to this date remains my one sighting of this stunner in the wild.

In short, this free-of-charge activity had freed me of all pandemic-related pessimism and panic. I had become reacquainted with a hobby I used to love, and from the confines of my desk, had re-visited Spain. My mind was cleared and calm. And this was to become a recurring theme. A greater and better narrative on how connecting with nature can positively impact mental health is Bird Therapy, by Joe Harkness – a wild read that has also been part of my Wild June journey.

A simple experience that delivered actual and immediate connection, was grounding. This is the easy-to-do activity of walking barefoot. For this, I chose Marden Meadow, a local Kent Wildlife Trust reserve that represents one of the finest, unimproved hay meadows in the country – sporting rare orchids and a medley of other wild flowers as a result. I walked the perimeter of all three meadows sans shoes, and I’m not kidding when I say it was euphoric. I felt invigorated. I could feel the warmth of the earth, the caress of the grass, and gentle vibrations that a few millimetres of rubber of leather would have cancelled out. Some of the instant physiological benefits grounding can deliver include sleeping better, pain relief, and decreased muscle tension. But my visit also reminded that you never know what you’ll encounter when spending time in nature. As I headed back through the meadow, I was treated to a splendid male yellowhammer singing its signature song of “a little bit of bread and no cheese”. This in turn reminded me of early, self-taught lessons in birdsong, and the habit of adding lyrics and using mnemonics to remember them. Favourites include “please, please, please to meet’cha” – of the chestnut-sided warbler (which I’m unlikely to encounter in the UK); the aforementioned yellowhammer; and the brilliant “who me? I’m Cetti, and if you don’t like it, f**k off”, invented by Simon Barnes for the Cetti’s warbler.

It was another case of not merely connection – but reconnection. Something I used to do and enjoy, but had perhaps lost the knack as adulting took over. But I think it’s more than that. Nature is something that we all used to be familiar with, and know well. And, as I read news stories and social media posts about how nature has brought comfort to many in lockdown, I think this is being experienced on a wider (or wilder) scale. We are being reminded that we used to be closer to our wild neighbours – and that the harmony we enjoyed was good for us.

But sadly, the song of the yellowhammer is, for the main part, missing from our fields these days. But, more positively, although you never know what you’re going to get with nature – you will always get something.

Yesterday was one of the hottest days recorded in June, and it made for a great day to rekindle another lost love – wild swimming! For this activity, I picked England’s smallest town – Fordwich, and the beautiful, crystal clear waters of the River Stour. Right now, just 24 hours later, it might be the best thing I’ve done so far. Plunging into the water after a short, running jump from the footpath, brought instant relief to the sweltering heat. And I immediately entered a different world. One of swaying river grass, and alarmed yet curious bands of roach – silver-sided fish whose scales glistened in the sun in sharp contrast to their jet-black fins and tails. I also glimpsed the tiger stripes of a solitary, predatory perch deeper down. But also, it pushed me to be adventurous. The current of the Stour is strong, and demands confidence. Following it, underneath the bridge and into unknown territory, demanded courage. But, I found it – and floated effortlessly downstream to eventually haul myself out at the local canoe club, leaving a dripping, yet satisfying walk back along the river, and eventually to the car. A change of t-shirt, and a towel on the driving seat spared me a full change somewhere along the way. It was only a 500-metre swim, but I felt like I’d conquered Mount Everest.

There are still a few days of Wild June to go, and I have rock-pooling, pond-dipping, and finding a reptile to look forward to. But also, with the arrival of “365 Days Wild” by Lucy McRobert, I will also end my month with a pledge to fill my year with even more wild connection, activism, conservation, and adventure. For the last three months, nature really has been there for so many of us. It has brought us unrelenting comfort, joy, and escape in unprecedented and difficult times. As a sense of normality begins to creep back into our lives, let’s try to remember to return the favour. Nature needs us. In the last few days, over 41 tonnes of rubbish has been removed from Bournemouth beach. Imagine how much plastic – including faeces-filled fast food containers, made it into the ocean. Before we rush back to normal, let’s use this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to consider what is worth rushing back to…what’s important to us when things really get bad…and what’s important for our future, and the future of the planet.

The Taking of Takaya.

 

In a world and time where connection with the wild and freedom is being coveted more than ever, the loss of something that symbolised that, hurts our hearts and souls in a way we may not have understood just mere weeks ago. This is the story of Takaya, a wolf that was taken from us this week by fear and indifference.

It makes sense. After all, the wolf is an animal we have been taught to fear. It stalks our fairy stories, gobbling up grandmother. It is the epitome of horror, representing the basal, animalistic predator in man as the lycanthrope – or werewolf. And, it is the scapegoat. The often named but rarely proven killer of livestock, pets, and the game that hunters would rather have to themselves.

The truth is somewhat different. The wolf is a highly sociable animal, forming complex relationships in family packs. They are curious and intelligent. They are protective of their families, and they play a vital role in enabling ecosystems to flourish. And, they are the animal that eons ago chose to come close to our fires and form an alliance. They protected us from the real threats that were out there in the dark. But unfortunately, as Takaya’s tale proves, they could never protect us from our own nature.

In 2012, the city of Victoria in British Columbia gained a new, albeit temporary resident. A large, shaggy, bluish grey wolf with burning yellow eyes padded through the back yards and lots. He was seen by a few, startling them as he in turn observed them casually. Animals and livestock often drew attention to his presence, their agitation stirred by instinct. But, he passed through peacefully, as this this was not his home. Somewhere along the coast, the lone wolf slipped into the cold waters and he began to swim. He next appeared on a tiny strip of islands over two miles out – a land that he would claim as his own over the next eight years.

The islands were an important place to the local First Nation communities. It was where they had gathered medicines and food for centuries. The Songhees named the newcomer “Takaya”, – a Lekwungen word for wolf. But, the residents of Victoria were reminded of their wild neighbour from time to time, when his howls reached them in calm weather.

Takaya was different. He was a coastal or “sea wolf” – a very rare animal and one that we are only beginning to understand. It is thought by some specialists that we are witnessing the potential evolution of this particular canine into a true marine mammal. Some of Takaya’s behaviour would support that. He hunted seals, otters, and mink, and fished for salmon rather than typical wolf prey he may have found in the island forests – such as rodents or deer. Despite being a lone animal, he often howled – which elsewhere would have drawn his attention to rival packs. And, he showed incredible ingenuity. During the dry summers, he would dig wells for fresh water for instance. He pushed our understanding of wolves beyond what was traditionally accepted.

Whether it was his calm curiosity around people, or how he took on these huge challenges alone – many began to identify with Takaya and felt drawn to him. Small flotillas would venture out to the islands hoping to gain a glimpse of him. One conservationist in particular became especially close to him, eventually making a documentary that aired in Canada and on the BBC. At one point, she found herself sitting within three feet of him, after gaining Songhee permission, and Takaya’s trust as she roamed his island home.

Others weren’t quite so respectful or appreciative of culture or nature. In 2016, a group ignored the explicit exemption on bringing pets to the islands. They panicked when their two dogs were joined by a third canine. They holed up and called the coastguard, who were dispatched and were equipped with rifles to take a fatal shot if required.

Takaya, who showed no aggression during the incident, was under the threat of death because a small group of BC residents didn’t think the rules applied to them. No fines were issued, and nobody would have thought of shooting their dogs for being somewhere they shouldn’t (try that with a farmer, I urge you). But the wolf was immediately designated a danger. In fact, authorities feared his popularity and reputation made an aggressive encounter almost inevitable. Baited traps were set, and he avoided them, sticking to his seafood diet instead. And, in response, the Songhee Nation strongly opposed the wolf’s threatened relocation. The sea wolf was inherently important to their culture, and its return was welcome and significant. The archipelago remained his home.

In late January of this year though, something went wrong. We don’t know why, but Takaya left the islands. Some cite he was looking for a mate. Others food. But neither of these claims make sense. Takaya was nearly eleven years old, and if the search for a female hadn’t led him off the islands in the last eight years, it was unlikely to have done so now. As for food, the last trail cam photos of him revealed a healthy, alert animal that seemed happy in his environment. In the end, it was likely a freak current, or the presence of reported poachers shooting winter wildfowl that may have set things in motion.

Whatever drove Takaya away led him back to Victoria. And just as eight years before, his presence didn’t go unnoticed. Panicked calls for action quickly erupted. And this time, he was caught. Those that knew him, like the Songhee who had granted him sanctuary, or Cheryl Alexander who had made the documentary, were not allowed near him, nor a say in his relocation. Instead, the British Columbia Conservation Service decided to move him over a hundred miles inland, to a forest.

Nothing here would have been familiar to Takaya. He would have been truly vulnerable to any wolf pack in the area. He would have had little or no experience in hunting the prey species in the forest. So, it is probably no surprise that he began to be seen by those who he had always shown a curiosity and trust for – people. A dog walker encountered Takaya and reported it, making it clear that he showed no interest and certainly no aggression towards her dog.

Then, on Tuesday of this week, Takaya approached a hunter and his dogs. Alarmed by his presence, the hunter shot him. And just like that, this symbol of the wild, of freedom, of overcoming the odds…was gone.

As I write this, I cannot visit the wild places that I long for due to the covid-19 pandemic. Government recommendations here in the UK recommend I only leave the house for one form of exercise a day, or for essential food and medicines. My passion for wildlife and being outside has been put on hold for the sake of others. So, whereas I realise this hunter would have had no idea of the importance of the animal he was shooting, I am pained by the fact that he was out at all, pursuing a hobby, when maybe he could or even should have, stayed at home that day. I know naturalists in British Columbia taking the same precautions, so this isn’t out of context.

The irony is, that hunter longed for the outdoors. They felt the need to be outside, in the open air, in the wild, in nature. It was so important to them that they ignored what many others are doing and practicing battling the pandemic. But, ultimately, they also decided that longing and right did not extend to the wild animal they encountered that symbolised all of those things.

The small archipelago that Takaya called home has lost their king. His absence is felt there as well as by those who connected to the wild again through him. Why the British Columbia Conservation Service decided not to return Takaya to his domain, and instead transported a sea wolf to an inland forest is not clear. Rather than see if his venture into Victoria was a one-off, I suspect human fear of the big bad wolf dictated events, from his relocation to his death.

What I see is a wolf that, for whatever reason, connected with humans more than his own kind. Some of us recognised that in him. Others saw the villain of the fairy tale. He encountered humans who were no threat to him, and he had no reason to suspect others would be different. Takaya placed a distant trust in us. His behaviour around those with dogs, both on his own island and in his relocation, show tolerance and acceptance, if not indifference. Takaya represented a turn in the road for a species, one we hardly know and have so much to discover about. The opportunity to observe the emergence of something new, to experience evolution, is rare – as rare as a sea wolf. And I am beginning to question if we have earned the privilege to do so.

Yet again, it seems our absence, rather than our presence, is what nature requires. Ultimately, we, the so-called noble savage, the heralded pinnacle of evolution, has not yet learned to trust the wolf or let go of our most primal fears, even when the wolf at our door has.

New Neighbours For An Old Printworks

I have a habit of quite regularly stopping and staring out of the window. Sometimes it’s a simple longing to be out on the hills or a need for distraction and inspiration. More often though, something will have gotten my attention. A flutter of movement, a piercing call or a rustle in the undergrowth all might be the giveaway that something wild this way comes. Now, before you accuse me of slacking I’d say in my defence that not only are these little moments good for my wellbeing and we could all do with these personal time-outs from time to time, but they are also real catalysts for creativity. Being lost in wonder whilst watching two male red admirals in aerial combat over a prized nettle patch on the tracks, whilst waiting at Otford station for the yet-again delayed SouthEastern service to your-guess-is-as-good-as-ours, seems far more rewarding than trying to decide if my lunch really was good enough to feature on Facebook for instance.

Otford has recently become a regular haunt for me as I am working with a client there who has moved into The Old Printworks on the High Street. Ecce Media are an award winning web development agency run by Brant and Liz McNaughton who amongst other things, have been supporters of Foal Farm in the past, so are definitely my kind of clients! As a native New Zealander, Brant is used to slightly more exotic wildlife than perhaps this humble little village can offer at first glance, but already I’ve noticed a few neighbours that can make any day interesting, and I don’t just mean the two muscovy ducks at Duckingham Palace on the village pond!

On my usual early arrival, I am often greeted by a song thrush who sits in one of the mature trees at the back of the parking area. He repeats his greetings in triplicate, choosing from a catalogue of material that clearly includes mobile phones, something he excels at. Thrushes are everyday yet handsome birds with milk chocolate uppers and creamy speckled chests. There are both song and mistle thrushes in the area and I have been alerted by the rattling, key-chain call of the mistle thrush too, but the song thrush that greets me most mornings is the one I regard as a neighbour. They say that familiarity breeds contempt, but for me it always allows a closer look at who I’m sharing a space with.

Take the wood pigeon pair just opposite, a devoted couple working on what I like to imagine is their first brood although they may well have been here for years. Throughout the day, the male bird flies in to check on his mate, gently cooing his ‘take-twoooo-drinks-taffy’ call of reassurance. Sometimes he brings something for the nest to offer, like a young husband proudly bringing back the rug or lamp he spotted in the second-hand store. Again, people often regard them as an everyday bird, but having this pair close by has reminded me of their life-long commitment to each other and how tender, gentle and downright affectionate they can be in seeming contrast to their enlarged and puffy appearance.

Of course, every neighbourhood has its rowdy gang of youths. For the Old Printworks, its goldfinches. Chirping and chatting in constant calls out to each other as they flick from tree to tree, eating on the move and flashing their gold and red plumage for all to see like a pair of trendy trainers. They’re soon out of sight, moving on as a rabble of false confidence, but you know they’ll be back home for tea once the light starts to fail.

Then there’s the eccentric professor, dressed in his quilted green jacket and red cap who can always be heard before his seen, his unmistakable laugh giving him away. The yaffle of the green woodpecker gave it its old English name, and he can often be spotted on the playing fields looking for ants and insects before heading back to the trees, or possibly his bookend as watchers of Bagpuss will remember!

Last but not least, there is the residence you always give a wide birth. The haunted house, the dark stranger or family that keep themselves to themselves. With woods to the south to cover up all manner of grisly murders, the gardens than hold untended young ones and prime escape routes to the north, Otford is the perfect home for a killer. A master of his art, a true ambush predator that strikes without warning, you’ll never hear him coming, but maybe, just maybe you’ll get the feeling you’re being watched. As you check nervously over your shoulder, perhaps you might find a pair of piercing yellow eyes staring back at you. The terracotta chest and steel grey back are all you need to know that you are in the presence of a male sparrowhawk. You can’t help wonder if the wood pigeons know the story about what happened to the collared doves who lived here before them.

The neighbourhood is one of those things that always changes yet always stays the same. The personalities come and go, tragedy and strife strike without warning and there’s always a new family moving in or someone who’s had enough and on their way out. Frankly, it would make a good soap opera.

Spotting the hidden beauty in details, the importance of being good neighbours and an appreciation of wildlife and animals has made working with Ecce Media a natural choice and I would encourage anyone looking for a bespoke and brilliant website to get in contact with them at theteam@eccemedia.co.uk or by calling 01959 525 717. If you happen to also like wildlife, then definitely pop in to the Old Printworks and you might catch a glimpse of one of their wild neighbours too. At the very least, good coffee and the occasional BBQ may be on offer, so get in touch.

http://www.eccemedia.com

http://www.foalfarm.org.uk/

For more photos and Otford based wildlife check out David Armitage’s photo gallery and find out what happened to those collared doves!

http://davidarmitage.smugmug.com/Nature/Wildlife/i-XMDQCZJ/L

Mon dieu, a Montagu’s

I have recently returned from a week’s worth of sublime sunshine and soul soaking in the Charente region in France. Based a little more than eight miles north-east of the town of Ruffec, our home for seven days was a lovely converted dairy barn and farmhouse with fig trees in the garden and a natural salt water swimming pool that we appreciated almost as much as the inbuilt mosquito blinds.

 Surrounding the gardens were wild meadows, arable farmland and sunflower fields with patches of woodland and hedgerows that wove them all together in a tapestry of bright corn gold and forest green across the landscape.

 After nearly ten hours in the car the previous day, in the spirit of Laurie Lee, I walked out on the very next midsummer morning armed with a bottle of water, my camera and my binoculars.

 The sun was welcomingly warm and constant. Dry, hot winds stirred the meadows and even the sunflowers were too lazy in the late August heat to raise their heads to their namesake.

 A short while into my stroll, a small, salmon pinkish bird rose up from the field to my left with a single call of alarm. It’s black and white tail and wing bars along with its flattened crest gave it away before it dropped back down amongst the sunflowers further in, for it was a hoopoe. I was thrilled as it wasn’t a bird I was expecting to see and I hadn’t seen one for a couple of years since a trip to Spain some time ago. I was off to a cracking start to my French adventure.

 There were a couple of birds I was really keen on seeing. The Charente is famous for its birds of prey, especially localised populations of black kites and the rare Montagu’s harrier. I was also on the lookout for the butcher bird, the red-backed shrike. During my first walk out I bumbled past a couple of buzzards and bountiful butterflies and even tiptoed through trees searching for unseen but teasingly trilling turtle doves, but didn’t find any of my big three.

 Afternoons by the pool led to lovely encounters with more butterflies with swallowtails, gatekeepers, clouded yellows, peacocks and red admirals idly fluttering a little way off the water. One day we even found the immense green and blue bushed caterpillar of the giant peacock moth navigating its way down from one of the fig trees. Next year will definitely see me putting up a moth trap, much to the delight of my family who no doubt already feel they are travelling with the mobile division of the BBC Natural History Unit.

 After dark the bat detector revealed the not so silent world of the common pipistrelle and noctule bats which we could see hunting as they passed across the heat lamp in the barn that was luring their insect prey and therefore them into view. I was a little baffled by a pipistrelle-like blip that came in at 39kHz but have to my delight discovered that it is quite likely to be a Nathusius’s pipistrelle, a rarely recorded bat in the UK, but a little more widespread in Europe.

 As almost always the case, it was a chance encounter that led to a two out of three for me. As we drove a quiet road, I looked up and saw a buzzard. Then it occurred to me that it didn’t have a fan shaped tail and was a little small. My heart leapt, as I followed the thin, tapered tail shape, realising that it was probably a black kite instead. Then I jumped out of my seat as I lifted my binoculars to glimpse the pale grey body, tapered wings and prominent black tips of a male Montagu’s harrier. It was only a momentary glimpse, but all I needed. It was a bit much to ask the convoy to stop just for me, but a bit further on up the road I couldn’t resist as we passed a little russet coloured bird. I just had a good feeling about it and as we reversed and slid the windows down, the aptly named butcher bird hopped to and fro over a dried out bramble patch that served as his pit stop larder. A small common lizard and a number of winged insects sat perfectly impaled on the thorns. The butcher cried with glee, or more likely alarm at a Renault Espace full of humans looking at it, then disappeared into the dense brambles beyond.

 So in the end, no black kite but there was plenty to make up for it and as the saying goes, two out of three ain’t bad.

Mull Moments: David Woodhouse

On my first ever visit to the inner Hebrides and indeed to the Isle of Mull, I also went on my first ever guided tour, with David Woodhouse. Although he has lived on Mull for more than twenty-five years, he is originally from Sheffield and this normally becomes apparent the first time you encounter his no-nonsense, deadpan wit. His passion for Mull and its wildlife are obvious to any who spend time with him and as the longest running wildlife guide not only in Mull, but also in Britain, his experience and knowledge in the field are second to none.

David has appeared on television guiding stars like Chris Packham around Mull, but he’s just at home taking you round too. For me, one of the things that makes David stand out from others isn’t just his familiarity with the wildlife he shows you, but the genuinely care and respect he shows it too. David will never let you encroach too close or disturb an animal and he takes great pains to avoid showing where vulnerable nests might be. This may seem obvious, but others on Mull are not so cautious or respectful. He has known many of the individual animals for years and shows great concern for their ongoing well-being. On my latest visit to Mull for instance, he voiced great affection and worry for a female ‘goldie’ that he hadn’t seen for a few weeks.

His respect and knowledge of the wildlife has resulted in some of the best views of wildlife I have ever had. I have seen otters a matter of feet away, a white-tailed and golden eagle locked in each others talons as they fought on a beach, hen harriers tumbling in amazing aerobatic displays, short eared owls standing defiant on dramatic outcrops and even dolphins playing and hunting along the Mull shore. I can genuinely say that every time I have been out with David, I have seen something different, learnt something new and been somewhere I hadn’t been before – which is quite an achievement considering the tours are on the same little island in the inner Hebrides.

Oh, and I have to mention Joy’s cooking. David always includes lunch with his tours and this will normally involve one of Joy’s (David’s wife) soups or stews and at least one of her great selection of cakes or bakes. These are worth the price of the tour alone and you can consider the wildlife watching a bonus!

http://www.torrbuan.com/frames.htm

Dungeness Dramas

Dungeness has reached almost mythical status in the world of birding, with both an RSPB and a national nature reserve to tempt the travelling twitcher. Given its unique look and location, the feeling that you are visiting a different world has probably helped further the mystique of the place. Dungeness was the location for my first ever twitch, or at least my first ever successful twitch. I went down to see the white-tailed lapwing last year.

As it was the last official birding bank holiday of the year last Monday, I decided that I would visit Dungeness as a bit of a treat. The week before had attracted all number of migrants, including the now infamous purple herons and a red footed falcon, so I was anxious to see what delights were in store, or in shore if you’ll excuse the pun. Dungeness’s coastal location makes it a useful and quite often first stop off point for birds blown off course, or  those tired and hungry.

It was a little blustery and a little grey, but that wasn’t going to put me off and it didn’t put the birds off either. The first few hides were a little quiet, only offering views of resting gulls, geese and swans. However, I was rewarded at the next hide with lovely views of a sedge warbler nest and a displaying male whitethroat. The sedge warbler parents were visiting the nest regularly and there were two chicks in the nest, probably quite close to fledging. The nest was very close to the hide, probably no more than two metres away and in relatively easy view, once it was pointed out to me!

Sedge warblers and whitethroats aren’t exactly exotic, but they are summer visitors at least. Watching them at such close quarters was a very special moment, and it has been a long while since I have had the joy of seeing birds in the nest, although since then I have also found great tit, blue tit and even a great spotted woodpecker nest in my local patch.

I can’t say for sure, but I got the impression that it was only a single parent bird, a female, visiting the nest with food. I only say this based on behaviour and size, as if anyone knows how to tell the difference between sedge warbler sexes then they’ve kept it to themselves as far as I’m aware. She was returning roughly every four minutes or so, with a selection of insects each time. As Springwatch will no doubt keep proving over the next few weeks, this is an incredible undertaking and is a considerable feat for a little bird. The same could be said for the male whitethroat, who was displaying, flying and singing at similarly regular intervals. Both birds must have expended huge amounts of energy. No wonder they always look so dishevelled by the end of the breeding season!

I eventually moved on to the Christmas Dell hide with some reluctance. However, almost as soon as I was there I was glad I had. A lovely young male marsh harrier was passing over the reedbeds, riding the thermals seemingly rather lazily. Suddenly though, he folded his wings slightly, swooped low and fast through the reed beds and emerged with what I think was a tern chick in its clutches. It landed out of sight in the reeds but was soon up again, making me think that it had possibly left food at an unseen nest. Birds of prey are amazing to watch and marsh harriers are extra special with their beautiful golden heads, red tinged wings and striking black masks.

So, I didn’t see any exotic migrants or rarities, but I did have a couple of very special moments and as always, that is really what wildlife watching should be about.

http://www.rspb.org.uk/reserves/guide/d/dungeness/index.aspx 

http://www.dungeness-nnr.co.uk/wildlife.php

http://www.dungenessbirdobs.org.uk/

The New Patch

It has been a long time coming, but the invisible tether to the natural world that keeps yanking me back whenever I get too far away has finally had a more permanent effect on me. When the time came recently for me to start afresh and move, the proximity of wilderness and wildlife became a leading priority.

So, after taking in all the economic calculations like rent, travel and so forth, I have settled down just outside the town of Sevenoaks in Kent. I have glorious views of the North Downs from my windows and am within walking distance of the nature reserve, formerly known as the wildfowl reserve. I have often visited the site and it is the obvious choice as my new local patch.

I am having no trouble meeting my local patch requirement of at least one weekly visit either. At the moment I seem to be having trouble staying away, but that’s because everything seems so extra green and vibrant and the good weather we have been having calls to me pied piper like at every spare moment.

Managed by the Kent Wildlife Trust, the Sevenoaks Wildlife Reserve is well known and an established piece of our wildlife heritage. It boasts five lakes and a river, a scrape and woodland copses and avenues surrounding them all that in turn are bordered by livestock fields. This amalgamation of habitats lends itself to a wide and diverse spread of species and wild spectacles.

Spring is clearly sprung and nowhere else is it more obvious than in the green and leafy bows spanning the pathways of the reserve. Blackcaps, garden warblers and chiffchaffs are all singing at the top of their tiny lungs in the woods. The scrape on the other hand is patrolled by nervous lapwings and graceful little ringed plovers roam the shore. Greylag and Canada geese families, complete with cute and fluffy goslings can be found marching through the undergrowth on their way to the water’s edge and above it sand martins and the first swifts to arrive skim the surface, performing fast and frenzied acrobatics as they do.

 

The reserve is a useful stop off point for migrants too. My first visit to the site allowed me to enjoy views of my first honey buzzard as it headed down the ridgeline of the North Downs.

At this time of year it is impossible to ignore rabbit kittens that are literally spilling from the burrows. Their slightly more naive outlook on life, which is no doubt literally seized upon by the stoats, weasels and buzzards that take advantage of mother rabbit’s productivity is also helpful to those of us who like getting quite close to something cute and fluffy. After all, 2011 is the Chinese year of the rabbit and they seem to know it. Rabbits and especially young rabbits have been popping up everywhere I’ve been recently, even on the roadside last night as I patrolled the lanes unsuccessfully for barn owls.

The frog chorus is another unavoidable part of spring and it can be heard on the shores of most of the lakes at Sevenoaks. There is also opportunity to find a silent appreciator of the frog population – Sevenoaks is a marvellous place for grass snakes and I have been fortunate to find five in the last two days, one of which was easily the largest I have ever seen. Both the dark and normally coloured form can be found on site, below is an example of the dark form.

So, I am very excited to see what my new patch will bring and I look forward to getting to know it better and exploring all of its secrets.

http://www.kentwildlifetrust.org.uk/reserves/sevenoaks-darent-valley-area/sevenoaks-wildlife-reserve/

A Wild Winter Road Trip

There comes a moment in most people’s lives, quite possibly more than one moment in fact if you’re someone like me, when you need to paraphrase the immortal words of The Animals and say to yourself “I’ve got to get out of this place”. The whistle in the pressure kettle of your mind blows and if you’re not careful, begins to boil over. The culmination of disappointment, life’s sideways blows and its general poopiness aren’t just resting on your shoulders, they’re jumping up and down on them with boots on. Well, this happened to me a few weeks back and I didn’t know what I was going to do. It seemed that in one day, all my hopes had been destroyed in a macabre pile up on life’s highway. I felt sick, there was a lot of crying, the odd tantrum of despair and as a side effect, there was also the eating of large quantities of chocolate.

This is not how anyone should spend their day. As I suggest in this little blog, days should be spent as much as possible embracing the wild wonders of the world, and slowly and surely, this was the conclusion I came to. I needed a change of scenery as much as a change of heart and mindset and I needed to set off as soon as possible, so I did. I packed the bare essentials, loaded my gear and set off.

DAY ONE – WEST SEDGEMORE & HAM WALL

I set off west, heading towards Cornwall where I was going to start things off before back-tracking and heading east to Norfolk. I had some places in mind, but I had no agenda to stick to and I decided early on I would just stop where and when I was inspired to do so. This really helped it become a road trip rather than just a few days away and was all the better for it. By the time I was driving past Stonehenge, I was already feeling a little better.

Somewhere along the A303, I stopped for a bite and checked the sat-nav for RSPB reserves in the area. I was initially considering heading towards Weymouth, but then a true bolt of inspiration struck me. I had been to the reserves at West Sedgemore and Greylake before, both of which were close by, but I had never been to Ham Wall, also close by and famous for one of our winter wildlife spectacles. Suddenly, all I could think about was starlings. So I turned right and headed into Somerset.

As it was still a little early to catch the roosting birds at Ham Wall, I decided to stop at West Sedgemore first. It isn’t a huge reserve, but the woodland is filled with bird feeders and it is always fun to drop into the car park and see what is around. You don’t even have to get out of the car! Watching a nuthatch run up and down a tree to aggressively see off the smaller tits and finches only to be chased off itself by a great spotted woodpecker was great, and to see coal and marsh tits at the feeders made me feel that I had already stepped out of my own little area of the world and was somewhere new.

 

I was soon headed towards Ham Wall, where I was anticipating something a little bit special. It was clear that I was not the only one either, as on my arrival the car park was overflowing and the road was lined with cars. There was a small and well maintained path that led off to the viewing area and I joined several people heading that way. The level of anticipation was lovely to experience. People had brought their kids and everyone was wrapped up warm, it felt like fireworks night! Little did we know that it was. The RSPB gave a little talk about what to expect and then just as they wrapped up, hush fell on the gathered crowd and heads turned skyward.

From the west, a small group of 10-20 starlings arrived over the reedbeds. Little flocks began to appear on the horizon and drew closer. I watched what I thought was wisps of smoke gather in the distance, only for the stacks to be revealed as hundreds of birds as the starlings drew together. Hundreds became thousands very quickly, with two big flocks gathered above our heads. The sound and visual impact was extraordinary. Half a million birds drew into an elastic band across the sky and still more came.

Then the murmarations began. The birds turned and twisted as one. As we watched below, it was as if someone was dragging a magnet through iron filings across some immense canvas. They rose and fell, making dense balls of bodies as they turned and slowed. It was then that I began to hear murmurs from the people around me as they pointed at the trees surrounding the reedbeds. The branches were filling with raptors. Sparrowhawks, kestrels and even a marsh harrier drifted ever closer as the starlings continued their acrobatics. A few of the sparrowhawks took off and flew in under the flock, but its sheer size and density seemed only to confuse them and they returned to their vantage points still hungry.

A shout, a pointed finger, and I looked up to see the starlings cleave in two and fold back on themselves effortlessly. With my eyes trained on the sky again, a small dot appeared high up above the flock. A master aerial hunter had arrived. It moved so fast as it stooped that I had difficulty following it through my binoculars even from a distance, but the peregrine falcon hit like a thunderbolt and struck straight into the flock. It raced away low and straight over the reedbeds, a starling clutched in its talons.

As if they had been waiting for this inevitable intrusion, the starlings then began to plummet into the reedbeds, tumbling from the sky in great waves, backlit by the sunset as they went. It had been one of the most amazing things I had ever seen and as I walked away, the noise of a million birds echoed in my ears and across the reserve.

However, a day’s driving and emotional tiredness were taking its toll. As I watched a red kite settle into a tree by the road I caught myself thinking for a split second “that kestrel is huge”. It was time to head to a very lovely house in Cornwall, where I was greeted by a warm welcome, an even warmer dinner and I went to bed listening to a female tawny owl calling from the woods.

DAY TWO – EXE ESTUARY

I was in search of wildfowl and waders, but I caught a report of an American robin that had been spotted at the Exe estuary. So, it was there that I headed and I was so glad that I did. As soon as I stepped onto the path from the car park, I spotted something bobbing and weaving further up. The little black end of the tail confirmed that I was watching one of my favourite animals, a stoat. As there was nobody around to hear or see me make a fool of myself, I decided to try something that I had always wanted to do, recently encouraged by Autumnwatch. I got low and started to do what I thought was a perfect rendition of rabbit in distress by whistling madman, and for all intents and purposes, it was. The stoat stuck up its head and came straight towards me, its little bouncing run making it hard for me to dismiss the mission impossible soundtrack playing in my head. As it drew near, it gave me a quizzical look and then headed back down the path. A further three times I managed to get it to come back, but it then decided that I was as nuts as I sounded and disappeared into the field beside the path.

Of course, many of you will be wondering how to tell the difference between a stoat and a weasel. It’s easy. One is weasely identified and the other is stoatally different. Boom boom.

 

As I carried on, I came across a little patch of reedbed where a Cetti’s warbler was calling. In a previous post I mentioned how difficult they are to see, but it sounded irresistibly close and I sat down on a conveniently placed bench and decided to wait it out. I was rewarded with the best views I have ever had of this quaint little bird and I carried on, a definite smile emerging at the corners of my mouth.

In the trees ahead of me, birds were flying in and out from one side to another, noisily abusing all around them. As I got closer it became clear that I was entreating upon a full-out thrush war. A small army of blackbirds, robins and one mistle thrush were defending their row of hawthorn and rowan berries from a hoard of redwings and fieldfares that had descended upon them. The trees on either side were alive with birds and I passed through without them even batting an eyelid, so caught up in their quarrel were they. Smaller birds such as goldcrest and blue tit snuck in here and there and eyed me over suspiciously before melting back into the dark of the undergrowth. Food was clearly something to be defended this winter.

The redwings continued to appear in little flocks here and there. Brent geese drifted in overhead towards the estuary as well as shoveler and wigeon. I left the boundary of the reserve behind me and crossed a field of curlew and lapwing towards the mouth of the estuary. As the curlews gave cry and their haunting voices echoed over the field, it was as if they had called on winter itself and the snug feelings of being toasty warm on a cold day enveloped me as I walked on. It was lovely and magical and it seemed as if I had the place to myself.

As I reached the mouth of the estuary, I stopped and scanned across the mudflats and the waters. It was then that I heard a thin sharp ‘peep’ close by and I turned my head. not expecting to see the strikingly beautiful kingfisher sitting on the railing a few feet from me. They are a drop dead gorgeous bird at a distance, but up close they are truly mesmerising. It peeped again and then launched into the air, dipping over the water in front of the loch gate I was standing on and landed neatly on a loop of chain that hung out at the end of a concrete jetty. Here it stayed and took up its vigil of the stirring waters below.

 

As I scanned the rest of the estuary, I was exposed to a wetland covered in wintering wildfowl. Black tailed godwits, curlews and oystercatchers swarmed the shoreline. Further out brent and greylag geese gathered. Large groups of shoveler and wigeon dotted the waters and I think I even saw a common scoter. As I walked back along the canal in a loop that would return me to the car park I came across grey heron and little egret, mute swans and even a Siberian or eastern stonechat.

 

Alas, I never found the American robin but if you had asked me if I would rather see a stoat, a kingfisher, really good views of a Cetti’s warbler and a goldcrest and a Siberian stonechat, or see an American robin, there would have been no contest.

But I did have one robin encounter. As I weaved my way down the road that would lead to the car park I came across the timeless winter battle, a robin and a dunnock staring each other down over a few pieces of grain on the tarmac. They took it in turns to fly head long at each other and chase each other away with no clear winner being declared before I had to intrude and cross their path and interrupt their not so merry dance.

I headed back to Cornwall practically ecstatic at having had such a good day and celebrated with a trip to Padstow and Rick Stein fish and chips and fresh dairy ice cream with a fudge stick for dessert. As I walked round the harbour it seemed just as the reserve had done earlier, that I was the only one out and about enjoying the winter. That’s not to say the warm fire glow waiting me on my return wasn’t welcome, just I like having the best of both worlds. And getting toasty after a walk in the cold is a guaranteed way of making yourself smug and happy as far as I’m concerned. I even had a cat to keep me company as I read my book by the fireside. The trip was definitely working.

DAY THREE – DAWLISH WARREN, RADIPOLE LAKE & THE NEW FOREST

When you need a time out and some serious alone with your thoughts time, there is very little that can compete with a walk down a deserted Devon beach. Now in the summer, these are hard to come by, but as luck would have it they are almost common come early morning in winter. The low sun creeping across a clear winter sky revealing pale golden sand is something very special that is bound to help anyone feel slightly better about the world. Throw in some swaying dune grass and a nature reserve next door and I’m sold for sure, which is how I found myself at Dawlish Warren.

I enjoyed beautiful views of the beach and bay from the dune path and as far as the eye could see, birds were taking advantage of the high tide and the sanctuary afforded them at this time of day. Amongst the dunes and meadows rabbits scarpered to safety and I thought I saw the long ear tips of a hare in the distance. I spanned the distant sandbanks with my spotting scope and found lazing grey and common seals. It was very peaceful and I could feel great sighs of contentment escaping from my lips every now and then.

So, somewhat more contented I headed east along the coast to Bridport, where I found clotted cream shortbread and some other nice things for lunch. From there it was only a short hop to Radipole Lake, in Weymouth.

Radipole Lake is a slightly strange reserve in that it is in the middle of Weymouth. Surrounded by a main road, office complexes and industrial estates, it seems a little out-of-place. But it provides a refuge for passing wildlife and vagrant species so it is always worth a look. As I pulled up into the car park, I dismissed the flock of gulls stalking the concrete until I noticed a few of the herring gulls weren’t quite right. They turned out to be yellow legged gulls. This was how it seemed to be at Radipole that day. I dismissed the large tufted duck at first glance only to find it was a scaup. The brown rat skimming across the water clambered out onto a platform to reveal it was actually a water vole, nibbling at the carrot somebody had left to tempt it out. At the far hide I scanned over the group of teal only to look back when I heard someone say they had seen a green winged teal in amongst them.

 

 

Water voles are a firm favourite of mine, better known to most as Ratty from Wind In The Willows. Whilst I was away I came across the beautiful 100th anniversary edition of the book and if you love books, do yourself a favour and get it for yourself, for your children, for anyone. It is a lovingly executed celebration of the work and should be appreciated by literature and wildlife fans alike.

When I walked back to the visitor centre I stopped to check one of the channels for any signs of water rail. As there was a layer of ice covering the smaller pools, I thought it might have tempted this shy bird out to forage for food. However, I was pleasantly surprised to find another shy bird instead, a snipe.

 

The bird was good enough to freeze as soon as it realised I was watching it, allowing me to get my camera out of the bag and actually get a decent shot. Speaking of shots, snipers are so-called because you were considered something of a good shot to hit a snipe because of its odd flight pattern. When the first world war came along, many of the best shots in the country were gamekeepers and they took the name ‘sniper’ with them to the trenches.

I also didn’t need to worry about seeing a water rail as Radipole Lake must be the only reserve in the world with a tame one quite happy to sit beneath the windows by the visitor centre. Watch out though, as it is known to be an opportunistic carnivore as an unfortunate house sparrow recently found out according to the blog.

So with Cornwall, Devon and Dorset all behind me it was time to head to Hampshire and the New Forest and a spot of deer stalking. There is one species of deer I have never seen and that is the sika. The New Forest does have quite a healthy population of them, but they are hard to find. As with most deer, dusk and dawn are the best time to find them and it was close to dusk when I entered the south-east corner of the forest near the East Boldre area. I walked slowly and carefully looking for fire breaks and smaller paths, where deer might be crossing or feeding. The forest was full of sounds and I heard both red and fallow deer alarm calls way off in the distance. The light was really beginning to fade and I decided to turn round and head back to the car before I got lost, only to see a medium-sized male sika watching me from the shadows of the trees. The sun was now behind me and I couldn’t help wonder if I had walked past him without noticing. As my eyes got used to the shadows, I spotted more silhouettes and realised the male was with a small group of females. With a few grunts from the male they moved off and disappeared just as silently as they had arrived. It was a moving end to the western leg of the road trip.

DAY FOUR – HYLANDS PARK & WICKEN FEN

Having visited Rainham Marshes quite recently I decided to head towards Chelmsford and Hylands Park, more commonly associated with events like V-Festival rather than wildlife, but it holds areas of ancient woodland, grass meadows and riverside as well as ponds that the rare great crested newt calls home. In summer rare purple orchids and butterflies fill the grassland too.

Jays called noisily from the open meadows and were joined by magpies and jackdaws. In the South Wood I found a badger sett and being the middle of the day, I felt happy enough to lie down close to one of the entrances. Badgers snore and the sound will always make me smile, but you have to be lucky. They don’t really hibernate, but they do spend more time in the sett and take a more lethargic view on life during the winter months. Rotting bedding outside a sett entrance is a good indication that it is in use, but it is important to be as quiet as possible to avoid disturbing them.

Hylands park is especially good for mammals and I’ve seen foxes, badgers, fallow deer and stoats there as well as recorded a number of species of  bat. But it is best visited in quieter months and certainly several weeks either side of V!

However, the main focus of the day was a trip to Wicken Fen in Cambridgeshire, where I was after one species only and that was hen harrier. Wicken Fen is a winter roost site for harriers and a beautiful place to go at any time of year. When I arrived, it was 3.30pm and the sun was already going down and the day was in twilight. The cold snap seemed to arrive at the very moment that I stepped out of the car and my winter fleece was quickly fetched from the boot of the car. Snug as the proverbial bug, I entered the visitor centre and decided that I might need some help in finding one of England’s rarest birds. This had almost nothing to do with the sultriness of the raven haired woman I found to help me, I assure you. Suddenly I was thinking mulled wine and log fires, but she thought the tower hide at the far end of the reserve was the best place for me.

Slightly disappointed, I decided to have a quick look in at the pond hide. On my last visit, I had found this a bit of a let down with a view of nothing more than an overgrown pond. I was therefore very pleased to find it cleared and full of feeders. And on these feeders were bramblings, lovely little winter finches that visit us from Scandinavia and northern Europe.

 

The cold was setting in and a thick frost covered the fields and the wooden boardwalk I soon left behind as I headed towards the tower hide. Once again, it felt like I had the reserve to myself and I quite possibly did. The deathly quiet of winter twilight is a wonderful thing to be in the middle of and as I crossed the fields, I could hear everything. The crunch of snow to my left made me turn and I watched a muntjac deer disappearing into the bushes. It was magical. In the last remnants of the sunset I reached the tower hide and made myself comfortable, enjoying the spectacle of the frozen reserve as lights began to appear in the distance and glowed warmly, making me smile.

I watched a silhouette drift closer across the fields until it passed lazily yet purposefully by the hide and in plain view. A female hen harrier or ringtail dropped down across the field and passed wondrously close. From the left another two females joined her and they dropped to the lower branches of the trees on the far side of the field. They were soon roosting with eyes shut, huddled down on their haunches and the cold willed me back to the warm lights of the visitor centre.

 

DAY FIVE – LACKENHEATH FEN

By Saturday, the snow was well and truly settling upon the Suffolk countryside, but luckily for me the roads were still clear and I headed ever easterly to Lackenheath Fen. As I turned into the car park, a female kestrel happily let me take pictures of her from the car as she sheltered in a tree by the side of the track. Little did I know that it was a sign of things to come.

Lackenheath had so much to offer. There were viewpoints over the wash where large flocks of wildfowl and wintering geese had gathered. There were groups of poplar woodland, expansive reedbeds and meadows, embankments, pools and a river. I took a long looping walk round the whole reserve and it was by far the most rewarding and the longest I made.

As I rounded a corner I came face to face with a barn owl, sheltering in a tree very close by. Totally silently, the owl took off and I watched it head into the wood where it was immediately mobbed by crows. I cursed myself when I stumbled upon the owl again a little further on, still unprepared and without my camera in hand. There aren’t many birds I would love to photograph as much as I would love to see them, but barn owls are arguably my favourite bird. A great spotted woodpecker flew between the poplar woods and I found myself at the first hide overlooking a large maze of reed beds. As I stopped here for a breather, a bittern flew low over the reeds, followed by a second bird a few minutes afterwards. It was going to be a very good day.

Round the corner from the reedbeds I found our smallest bird of prey, the merlin. It allowed me to get quite close and it periodically took off from its perch, did a patrol of the reedbed and then landed again at the same tree, which allowed me to get closer each time.

 

At the far end of the reserve I was treated to a real rarity, as I spotted two common cranes disappearing into the reeds. Although cranes are being reintroduced in Norfolk, these birds have appeared on their own accord and appear to be resident at Lackenheath.

When I returned to the visitor centre, Lackenheath had one more little show to reveal before I left. Like most RSPB reserves, feeders were put out close to the visitor centre and both I and the warden were treated to the spectacle of seeing a female sparrowhawk raid the feeders and show off her flying prowess. She darted in low and fast, then changed direction in front of the windows and dashed after a lingering blue tit. She folded her wings and boosted up, her talons outreached and in a millisecond she clutched her prey and whizzed to a tree to eat in peace. In the space of a few seconds she had appeared, changed direction four times at speed and been successful. It was amazing, but I accept the blue tit didn’t feel all that impressed.

After that, I headed into Norfolk and towards my patient friends who were providing my bed and board for the night. As I passed a field close to their house I saw the white spread wings of a barn owl and pulled up to watch as it quartered the field. In a breathtaking moment, it swept down and over to me and landed on a post not more than ten feet away. I rolled down the window and sat eye to eye with it for what seemed forever. The white and cream feathers almost shone in the afternoon light. Its black eyes checked me over with some interest and then it flew off again, a silent wraith on patrol. Its for these moments that I’m thankful. Those few wonder filled seconds when you suddenly feel so connected to a landscape, a creature or a place tha the horrid and hard parts of life are forced out of existence.

 

 

DAY SIX – END OF THE ROAD

The following morning saw Norfolk caught in the grip of snow and ice and I decided that the trip to Titchwell was best put off and instead, enjoyed a hearty fry up and fuelled up for the trip home.

But I still had one more stop to make, back in Suffolk in a quiet sleepy village. This trip had started with a need to get my head right and now I wanted to start work on the heart and I went to see someone who knew mine very well and more importantly, let me pour it out on her now and again.

The ground was covered in snow and the village was even quieter and sleepier than ever. I spent a little time there and as always, she listened to me. No solutions were offered, no riddles solved but I felt better. The only thanks I could offer was to clear a little of the snow from the small gravestone and make it look a little neater, which I’m sure would have made her laugh. When I looked up again, a white face and a black nose were looking back at me from a few feet away. A stoat in full ermine, brought on by the drop in temperature was patrolling the memorial stones around the small crematorium. I wondered if the stoat was people watching, observing this bizarre ritual of visitation to these upright stones. It seemed fitting that something rare, beautiful and special should mark my visit to the graveyard, simply because that’s everything she was too.

 

http://www.rspb.org.uk/reserves/guide/h/hamwall/index.aspx

http://www.rspb.org.uk/reserves/guide/r/radipolelake/index.aspx

http://www.rspb.org.uk/reserves/guide/l/lakenheathfen/

http://www.dawlishwarren.co.uk/

A Rainham Rainbow

Well the skies were grey and my thoughts were dark as I crossed the Queen Elizabeth II bridge into Essex. Not because I was in Essex, more that it meant that I was heading towards Lakeside and not for a shopping trip, but to get some major work done on my car. But instead of spending money in the shopping centre as well as on my pride and joy, I thought I would head to Rainham Marshes, which is just along the A13 from the garage. The work was going to take all day, so I could always take in the delights of retail therapy later anyway.

As I entered the reserve, I was greeted by the familiar flocks of finches and sparrows on the feeders. It is always worth staying still and checking these out for a while as it is all too easy to dismiss the chaffinch that is actually a lesser redpoll or the greenfinch that is actually a siskin. Both have been seen at Rainham in the last few days and they can brighten up any birding day.

I followed the trail round to the right, past the old bunkers and some large chestnut trees. A cetti’s warbler shouted at me from the scrub as I passed. I have recently just finished re-reading Simon Barnes’ How To Be A Bad Birdwatcher, and he mentions a great way to remember the cetti’s call that is a little blue, so I won’t repeat it, but it does do the job very well!

I stopped at the first hide, and made myself comfortable. The scrape was bulging with birds and I took my time in scanning the banks and lagoons to see what was about. The nearest ridge was covered in a long line of lapwings, but also tucked in with them were some lovely golden plover, a bird I had seen at Rainham before but only in the singular and this was a good-sized flock and much closer. Even in their winter plumage they looked stunning.

 

A scan to the left brought into view a group of four pintails. Pintails are beautiful ducks, with very striking looks and majestic long tail feathers, hence the name. The birds in the SE are likely to be resident all year, but we do get influxes of birds in winter from Northern Europe as well.

 

Mallard, shoveler, wigeon and teal were all present too. There were a pair of mute swans on the far lagoon and little egrets and grey herons were dotted around the edges here and there. The marsh meadows surrounding us were filled with a large gaggle of greylag geese, in with which there also hid a small number of pink footed geese.

 

These geese are normally residents of Greenland, Iceland and the upper parts of Scandinavia, but they winter here in the UK. However, they normally stick to the North, so seeeing them so far South is a bit of an Autumn treat.

As I left the hide and started off again, I was treated to even better views of the golden plover and the lapwings from a closer observation deck. As I passed the reed banks I kept my eyes and ears open for the penduline tits that had been seen recently and had been showing well. There was no sign though for the moment, but another cetti made his defiant call as I passed.

At the north-west corner of the reserve I looked out over another lagoon to see a fox making its way across the far side. It had a serious limp and was dragging one of its hind legs. I presumed this was why it was out during the day and so conspicuous in its foraging. I remembered that foxes are often affected by a condition that causes temporary lameness so I wasn’t overtly concerned. In fact, other than the leg, it looked in very good condition with a fine winter coat. It passed by the new hide quite close and then slipped out of view.

At the next corner was a small pool and a number of birders had set up camp here and as I approached, the reason why became clear. From the reeds there was the ‘chup chup’ call of some bearded tits. I know it is no longer fashionable to call them tits, as recent research has shown they are actually they’re very own family, bearing no real resemblance to tits or any other known group. Reedling doesn’t sound right to me yet though, but I’m sure it will grow on me eventually. Then again, I am the kind of birder who takes great delight in crying out “oh look, a seagull” or “I think that’s a duck” in crowded hides of serious twitchers. I do normally also throw in a “Did you see the golden plover behind that lapwing” or similar, just to confirm my real credentials though, just as I’m leaving and normally to a rush of eyes to scopes.

Anyway, although I have seen fleeting glimpses of said reedlings, I have never really had a good view. I know the call well enough though. The guys confirmed they were indeed waiting for the elusive birds to appear and as I had nothing but time on my hands, I decided to do the same. Every now and then, one would flit like lightning between the reed beds on either side of the stream, but never giving good views. Despite this though, it was great fun and nearly an hour went past without me really noticing as we swapped sightings and stories. My sense of humour couldn’t resist further outings when non-birding walkers happened upon us now and then and asked what we were doing and how long we had been there, to which I responded “A couple of days now”, letting out a deep sigh.

The wind was whipping up and the skies were growing ever darker, to the point where I was thinking about moving on, when a series of shrill squeaks from the pond behind us and on the other side of the path made me whip round. I thought I knew what it was straight away, but I raised my binoculars, hoping to confirm by sight that an equally elusive bird was making itself known. The fantastic flash of blue, mottled brown wings and a long orange beak were all I needed. A water rail was bathing, quite noisily, about a foot in to the reeds. It wasn’t completely visible, but I saw enough of it to be genuinely thrilled.

 

Of course, as I cried “water rail”, everyone swung round to see it, just as the reedlings launched themselves out of hiding to a new position. There then followed five minutes of twitchy tennis as heads looked left from right and back again as each bird vied for our attentions.

I eventually gave up without seeing the reedlings, but I was more than happy with the water rail, which was yet another Rainham first for me. I noticed a sign up ahead about the trail improvements, pointing me up and out of the reserve prematurely and a long the sea wall. I had never taken this route, so was interested to see what I could see. The view was fantastic, taking in a long stretch of the Thames, but relatively birdless unfortunately. I could see a pair of black backed gulls patrolling one of the beaches though.

As I turned and headed back to the visitor centre, Rainham had one more treat in store for me. A pair of bearded reedlings lifted up out of the scrub in front of me and flitted to a small tree nearby. I was able to watch them for about a minute before they drifted back down to the reserve. As I looked up at the foreboding skies, I recounted the colours I had been treated to during my short walk. The deep red of the male wigeons, all sleeping together on a lagoon. The kaleidoscope plumage of the teal, not forgetting its namesake jade wing bar. The heavy brown heads of the pintails. The orange of the fox, the pinks of goose feet, the gold of the plovers and the blue of the water rail. I had seen a Rainham rainbow and by no means a full one, and it hadn’t even had to rain first.

 

http://www.rspb.org.uk/reserves/guide/r/rainhammarshes/index.aspx

http://www.amazon.co.uk/How-Bad-Birdwatcher-Greater-Glory/dp/1904977057/ref=ntt_at_ep_dpi_2

The Richmond Rut

It always surprises me how many people are on the roads in the capital, even as early as 6AM. This morning was no exception, but I drifted effortlessly through the streets of London nonetheless and despite the early hour, I was very excited about reaching my destination. For some time now and honestly long before Autumnwatch mentioned it last week, I have wanted to go and see the red deer rut in Richmond Park. The royal green space is home to 300 red and 350 fallow deer, in wild free roaming herds. What happens on Rum and in other remote parts of the country plays out here in the heart of the city.

I parked amongst the grand and lovely homes by the Roehampton Gate, which was still closed to traffic at this early hour. The sun was yet to make its self known and the air was crisp and cold. The bite of the soft wind made it feel like autumn for the first time this year for me. I gathered my things and set off through the park. A few steps in and the quintessential sound of autumn filled my ears. A red stag was bellowing from the trees to my right, so I followed the path to find him. It wasn’t hard! A very large and impressive stag stood guard over a large group of hinds in the shelter of the wooded patch.

He was what the huntsmen would call a 14 pointer. A serious contender for sure. His bellow was loud and guttural, full of intent. He stalked among the hinds, tasting the air with his tongue and quickly pursuing any of his harem that were ready to mate. He walked a line between the two edges of the tress that were separated by roads that cut their way through the park. On the other sides of both these roads were other stags, each with a smaller group of females and slightly less daunting antlers for that matter.

I found a very convenient fallen tree and settled down to watch. The one thing that I wasn’t prepared for though, was the sheer drama of a rut. The big stag that I was closest too had a serious job on his hands to protect his hinds. As he was posturing and bellowing at the stag to his North, the other would penetrate from the East and steal a few straggling hinds, driving them over to his side of the road. The insulted prince would turn and thunder back to bellow his outrage, only for the same thing to happen from the North. This happened two or three times as I watched. Eventually, enough was enough for the bruiser and he thundered across the road to his Northern rival and threw down a challenge. I’m really sorry to say that I have not got pictures, but this was my first rut and I was mesmerised by the speed and stunning violence of the battle. The clash of the antlers echoed across the meadows to me and I was riveted to the spot.

The big stag threw the less endowed pretender off and captured his hinds. He expertly drove them back to the trees and hounded them into a tighter group. During the battle he had lost two to the Eastern stag, but he had gained around another 15 hinds altogether. Throughout the rest of the morning, I did not come across another stag with so many hinds or with such an impressive set of off-putting weaponry. He was clearly the royalty of Richmond.

On the edges of the groups, younger stags held practice fights, some of which were just as aggressive as the real show downs. Every time the big stag bellowed though, the young males would instantly stop what they were doing and lower their heads. They seemed to tremble with every roar and I soon enough felt very similarly. There is nothing quite as unnerving that I have yet experienced than to hear the brutal bellow of a stag from close behind you. Every muscle in me tensed as I heard the impact of heavy cloven feet in the bracken approaching. A big stag passed by me, the fallen tree the only thing between me and his testosterone flamed glare. The defending champion was already on his way down to greet the contender and I was again awestruck as I watched him thunder closer. As he closed the gap, the contender had second thoughts and bounded away. Ever victourious, the big stag roared and scent marked the ground in defiance. No one else messed with him whilst I was there.

As the sun climbed, the fallow deer came out from the woods to the East and with all the red deer seeming to bed down upon their arrival, I made my way over to them. The sky seemed full of jays as I walked and everywhere I looked there was a dusky pink bird with an acorn in its beak. Ring necked parakeets called as they streamed overhead and clouds of jackdaws descended onto the meadows, taking up their positions as ox peckers on the deer.

The indignant burping rasps coming from a large fallow buck made it clear that the reds were not the only ones in rut. A dark coloured buck with a large group of does was posturing and scent marking the ground, sweeping the bracken with his huge oak leave shaped antlers. A paler buck rapidly moved off as I watched. Fallow deer aren’t famed for their rutting behaviour, as they are much more the exhibitionist than the protagonist, but if only for the delightful burp that they make, try to find one!

The morning was getting well and truly under way and as more and more people arrived, the deer seemed to settle down and return to things like feeding and resting. I had been watching them for three hours in the cold and not once had I looked at my watch or even noticed the shivers and goosepimples that hinted at the temperature. I started walking back in a low long arc towards the Roehampton gate, which I distinctly remembered had a cafe. But I also remembered that a willow encrusted river ran along the road too. This river is one of London’s best places for kingfishers and I decided that this of all things needed to be investigated. I have only ever had one fleeting glimpse of a kingfisher, and I have longed to see one properly. I walked the bank and sat down for a rest, happily distracted by a grey wagtail.

I scanned the branches of the willows that overhung the water. Some greenfinches chased each other playfully from bank to bank and the wagtail whizzed up and down a few times. Then something caught my eye, further up on the bank. The vivid blue and orange is the first thing that strikes you and it is truly unmistakable. A male kingfisher (all black beak), sat motionless on an exposed root system above the bank. He was too far away for a decent photo, but I edged as close as I dared.

I lay down in the grass and began to edge my way even closer. I was doing quite well when unfortunately a party of horse riders cantered past and the kingfisher decided to head up-stream. But when the riders had passed, I swapped my camera for my spotting scope and found him again, this time sitting more typically on a willow branch over the water. He sat motionless as before, sometimes making tiny adjustments to his foothold or inclining his head ever so slightly. I can not tell you how long I watched him, but I know over an hour passed. Then, he was down, diving at incredible speed and into the river. He emerged victorious, a silver fish in his beak and he retreated to a lower branch that was just above the water. His beautiful and stunningly vivid plumage reflected in the water, and an opportunity for wildlife photographer of the year beckoned. I set up my camera adapter on my scope, looked through the lense and…realised this was the first time I had ever used it. The blurry rainbow that I managed to take is clear evidence why things should be practised and perfected before field use!

It doesn’t matter though. I saw a hunting kingfisher and although I can’t share the image, had an amazing moment that I am still buzzing about. Besides, I now know where he lives.

The rut is a true wildlife spectacle that I would encourage you to experience and the setting of Richmond Park makes it a uniquely London event. I was enthralled to watch wild red stags blunder across roads and hold up traffic as they challenged each other, indeed as they have in this setting for hundreds of years. It’s hard for me not to want to be back tomorrow, let alone next year!