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

Lunch with a Sparrowhawk

Rather than sit at my desk and eat my lunch where I had spent the last five hours, I decided that it was such a nice day that I really should be outside. This is far more tempting when there is a deer park on your doorstep and numerous dead trees and benches to make a comfortable seat to refuel and recoup after half a day’s strenuous office work. Late November was quick to remind me that there is a difference between a bright day and a warm one, but it was more than bearable to be outside.

I strolled the short walk to Knole Park and set up for a quiet read and a bite a little way into the woods, with lovely views down a glade and through to an opening where three fallow does had already started on their own lunch. They looked up at me briefly and indifferently as I made myself comfortable, but soon went back to their grazing.

The great thing about this time of year is that the trees have lost almost all of their leaves and the inhabitants of bush and bough are a great deal easier to spot. As food becomes more scarce, birds and other foraging animals become bolder and more brazen and venture out a little further than they would normally.

Although I have probably moaned and pleaded before now about having to sell my binoculars, something I was desperate not to do, it has made me much more reliant on fieldcraft like learning bird song and becoming more intimate with their numerous calls, or learning to track and follow a bird or animal at a distance until it becomes used to me and I can approach close enough to identify it properly. This became obvious to me as I sat down and started to read. Although my mind and imagination was tramping the Essex marshes with J. A. Baker in search of peregrines, my ears were taking in my real surroundings and ticking things on an imaginary list. From the lower part of the bushes behind me, I was being scolded by the ‘tik tik tik’ of a Robin. I didn’t have to see the Blackbird that also scolded me from below the bushes, his staccato and aggressive alarm call telling me that he had fanned his tail and was hopping to and fro to defend his patch.

Further up, I was more accepted. A gang of tits, blue calling ‘come, come, I’ve found food’ and long-tailed calling like tiny pistons that need oiling. Another Robin challenged my neighbour and I had their throaty warble in stereo as I turned the pages of my book. The blackbird, ever watchful with that beady eye hopped past my feet, feigning indifference but watching for the slightest movement from me, and took up the crumbs from my lunch. Blackbird and I had an unsaid truce. I would not look and he would not fly for the chance to eat.

A jackdaw called from within the wood. A call with an echo like wood hitting wood. A call the jackdaw makes when there is a hawk around. Silence followed. Only wind moved through bush and bough, whispering ‘be still, be silent, be safe’. The silence dragged me from my book, and I couldn’t help the involuntary movement of my neck as my gaze shifted upwards. The young male blackbird, all quiet and quivering bolted out and away from me, his alarm call of terror to be his last cry. The wild thing’s instinct to be away from man spurred it away and up. There was a blur and a thud. The blackbird’s head fell backwards, its beak open in a final, silent scream of release. Its wings fanned and fell open as it sprawled on its back. Slick, sharp talons of  black punctured the breast. A yellow leg daintily lifted the bird to a deeper yellow beak that snapped at the neck and then rested, its prey now lifeless.

The blur had been a male sparrowhawk, resplendent in grey and tangerine. The thud, his timely hit and grounding of the blackbird. He had been close and he had watched, waiting for an opportunity. His yellow eyes met mine. He gaped, opening his sharp beak and fanning his wings over his victim. I knew he would not fly whilst he was so close and I let my gaze drift down again, feigning to read. There was the briefest of noise as the sparrowhawk flurried and took his prize a further twenty feet and plucked it, then began to feed. Twenty minutes later, he left and took a post on a tree in front of me, watching me in silence and suspicion. My time was up, sounded by a mistle thrush who sat behind me and made his tell-tale rattling alarm call. From the safety of my shadow the thrush taunted the hawk, but as I walked away, silence fell again. The hawk watched me, unblinkingly as I examined his kill. The breast meat had been stripped and eaten and the chest cavity was empty, with heart and liver gone. The hawk had eaten his fill of the good and left the bad. No doubt others less choosy would finish his meal.

I turned my back on the silence that follows death and walked up the hill and drive towards the High Street. Silence does not last long. ‘cheer up, cheer up’ sang the roost of sparrows as I passed. Another mistle thrush rattled his warning from a rowan tree. The jackdaws resumed their cawing and a parakeet cried somewhere behind me. As I reached the road, the chanting call of a sparrowhawk joined them and was then lost, drowned with the others by the revving diesel engines in the bus station as I passed.