I’ve had very little time this week for my usual outdoor pursuits, largely owing to a growing workload and a multitude of mounting side projects. That said, yesterday I managed an all too brief outing in search of a bird I have wanted to see for many years: a Rose-coloured Starling. A rare vagrant to British shores from Eastern Europe and middle-Asia, where the species breed before migrating South, to India and Pakistan, during the Winter.
This confiding individual – a superb adult – has been gracing the chimney pots, gardens and bird-feeders of Ashington, in Northumberland, for two days now. And while I would much rather have caught up with my quarry amid a more natural and less intimidating setting (Ashington, for those unaware, has a reputation for being somewhat rough), I am thrilled to have enjoyed a good half-hour in the company of this particular bird. It’s delightful mix of faded pink, iridescent blue and intricately marked brown complimented marvellously by the current bout of fine, Spring weather.
Usually in a post such as this, I would go to great lengths to waffle on about the encounter, its significance and story; however, on this occasion, I think I will let pictures do the talking. For once, owing largely to the birds less than timid demeanour, I managed some rather good ones…
Growing up in semi-rural Northumberland, I have long been accustomed to residing in scenic and ecologically diverse areas. I am used to the presence of bustling nature reserves a mere stones throw from my front door and green-fringed streets ringing with the chirrup of Tree Sparrows; I am accustomed to having a garden, complete with frogs, visiting squirrels and jampacked bird feeders; and, above all else, am accustomed to my daily life being wholly intertwined with nature. Never, not once in my lifetime, have I taken this for granted, but such things have long been the norm.
Six months ago now, I moved to the city: Newcastle Upon Tyne, to be precise. A city which, despite its merits, is just like any other: complete with traffic, concrete, artificial lighting, pubs, clubs, shops, bustling high-streets and transport links – all the factors that have come to define human dominion over the land. The soundtrack to my days here made up of anthropogenic sounds, as opposed to natural ones: the hum of engines, the screeching of brakes and rumble of passing metros where once, birdsong and swaying leaves reigned supreme. No longer can I nip out and lose myself in fields, wetlands or woodlands – a culture shock, to say the least, which has uprooted all that I have grown pleasantly familiar with.
Like most cities, Newcastle poses a real challenge for those living within its reaches who aim to create a life built around nature. Here, the rhythm of life is more hectic, commutes are more tedious and less scenic, quiet moments are few and far between and nature, as a whole, appears muted – diminished somewhat by myriad distractions thrown up by daily life. So much so that those who seek wilderness and harmony in nature are forced adopt new habits, routes and tendencies so to sate there lust for a wild-life. Or else risk going entirely mad.
While I have lost touch with the wild spaces I encountered daily prior to my move, I have come to realise that wilderness does exist in the city. Albeit scattered and defined by a new set of rules – far from the undulating hills, sprawling woodlands and shimmering wetlands present elsewhere but here and alive, nonetheless. Of these, our parks are the obvious candidate for adventure, though they are not alone. And wilderness, in its modern form, exists all around, ready to be snatched and savoured in the forlorn space separating railway lines from civilisation; in flowerbeds tended less than half as often as they should be; and in the overgrown, tangled grounds of offices, stores and public amenities. Wildland present among the gravestones of cemeteries, between pavement stones, in window boxes, gardens and lone, roadside trees. Places I would have ignored previously which now keep me sane during my time spent living and working in the midst of this churning sea of man and his creations.
Perhaps we celebrate wildlife more when it is obscured or in short supply? Perhaps we notice nature more when expectations are diminished by circumstance and ecological horror stories about the urban realm? Either way, I now find myself able to delight in the simplest of wild sights: in the pioneering Dunnock nesting in the base of an overgrown roadside Fuschia, in the bumblebees which visit the ornamental blooms adjacent to my house; and in the vibrant flowerheads of Oxford Ragwort poking up through cracked pavement slabs and home to countless, vibrant Cinnabar caterpillars. Small snippets of natural beauty in the heart of the cold, grey city, snatched on my daily ventures which now, after the initial upheaval, balm worry and yearning.
Now, while wilderness in its traditional sense is denied to me by daily life, I have been forced to rethink my definition of the wilds and alter the ways in which I seek them. Here, I must look harder and appreciate all life, regardless of scarcity or grandeur, and in doing so, visit places I would have bypassed, ignorant, a few short months ago. The forgotten places, the “wild” places, home to species who deserve respect and admiration for their resilience, if nothing else – etching out a living in spite of the wholesale changes thrust upon the landscape here.
Staying sane in the city is a matter of optimism and observation. And life here is not all that bad when you alter the way in which you view nature. I could, if I wished, venture forth to the empty, beautiful places I yearned for previously during moments of free time but now, after all this, I am not sure I want to. The intrepid Mistle Thrush nesting in the grounds of Newcastle’s Civic Centre and the fox that prowls the streets of Heaton by night are far too entertaining.
Oh, and erecting a few bird feeders certainly helps too…
I don’t know about you, but whenever I talk to a birder with decades of experience I leave the conversation with two feelings. First: admiration, for their ability to confidently identify any species by call or the slightest glimpse. This feeling is surpassed, however, by the disappointment at realising I may never reach their level of expertise. So if you’re just starting out birding here’s some advice from an intermediate birder, someone who’s at a level easily achievable by yourselves. Once you get here that gap to the virtuosos (hopefully) won’t seem such a leap.
1) Focus on families first. If you’re unsure of a bird’s species, be satisfied with narrowing it down as far as you can. I encountered this with waders, ‘Is it a Knot or a Dunlin? Oh, maybe it’s a Sanderling’ I said leafing through the field guide. My frustration eased when I realised that I could at least narrow things down the next time, by starting with these three and eliminating from there. It may sound stupid, but I learned to be satisfied (though not happy) with being able to take one look and say, ‘It’s one of three species’ etc. and so my ID skills had improved however slightly and gave me a challenge to build on the next time. The message here is not to expect too much too soon, just knowing the family of birds your unknown species belongs to eliminates hundreds of other species. Familiarise yourself with bird families and work down from there.
2) Set challenges. Following on from family focussed birding, I set myself challenges. Last year it was to see all British Thrushes, this involved a short new year’s day walk to tick off Blackbird and Song thrush, before a slightly harder (though still fairly easy) search for a Mistle thrush. This was followed up by a short drive to some hedged farmland to see flocks of Redwing and Fieldfare and concluded with a weekend’s remote hiking to tick off Ring Ouzel in the summer. By aiming for just 6 species I learned so much, I had to know when and where to look. Given that some thrush species are resident whilst others are winter visitors and another a summer visitor, I had to gain an intimate knowledge of this bird family.
One of this year’s challenges is all Corvid species in a day. I’m currently planning a route which should see me to tick off all 8. Some being trickier than others. Try picking a family and working out when and where you’d need to be in order to see them all in the shortest possible time period, even if you don’t actually complete or even attempt the challenge, the other species seen, or books read would still be valuable learning.
3) Localised Guides. Don’t be tempted by a book which lists all species in Europe. I found myself looking at 6 identical images and had to eliminate species by reading four pages of information. By the time I’d gotten it down to two species, the bird had vanished. A localised guide is much more concise and less daunting, and hopefully less frustrating. By focussing on being able to ID species you’re likely to encounter, something a little rarer will be much more obvious when it’s around.
4) Get a patch. This is linked with the localised field guide advice. it’s great to be able to trek around the country ticking off as many species as you can but gaining an intimate knowledge of a small patch is just as rewarding. I walk around an area less than 1km2 whenever I’m home in Durham and as far as I’m aware there’s never been a rarity or ‘lifer’, just your usual cast of common birds. This may seem dull but viewing the same patch across the year can tune you into the life cycle of the birds there. You learn when certain migrants arrive and leave, which order they begin to sing in, where you’re most likely to see each species at any point in the year. This intimacy with common species ties in with the points above, when something rare comes along you’ll be able to discount all of your usual species with relative ease.
5) Don’t give up! This is by far the most important tip I can give you. I stopped birding at 13 due to frustration and bullying (from classmates AND teachers) over my hobby. The result, I went to University to start my BSc in Animal Conservation with only limited knowledge of a few common species. I curse the day I packed away my field guide and binoculars and turned to ‘cooler’ hobbies and beg for a chance to see that teacher again!
The overall message here is to enjoy, don’t be too harsh on yourself, one day you’ll be an ‘intermediate’ birder, then becoming a virtuoso won’t seem too daunting!
Now that the show has aired, I thought I would draw attention to the most recent episode of BBC Countryfile where, around halfway through, I pop up in a short segment regarding Northumberland Wildlife Trust’s fantastic Hauxley Nature Reserve. A brief feature slotted nicely in the middle of some truly brilliant works focused on Roseate Terns, farming and the use of drones in mountain rescue operations.
During the hours spent filming on the reserve (yes, hours – all to make five minutes of telly) I chatted presenter Steve Brown about blogging (a surprising topic for a show such as this but one I am always happy to discuss), my own childhood and Red Squirrels. Filming with the CF crew was nothing short of a pleasure and I am really grateful to Steve, in particular, for encouraging me during bouts of slurred words, mispronunciation and nerves – not all of us are cut out for TV!
Anyways, to say I was surprised to be asked to feature in this short piece regarding the accessibility of nature would be an understatement. The whole thing came quite out of the blue; though I most certainly enjoyed the experience. Both as an opportunity to try something new, and as a chance to talk about many of the things I care about. I started this blog a number of years back as an outlet for my thoughts and views on the natural world – it still fulfils that purpose – but never did I anticipate that blogging would lead me to appear in one of my favourite TV shows. It’s a funny old world!
Great views of the reserves renowned Red Squirrels were just the cherry on top, really…
Spring has sprung, at long last. And all about my local area, the sapphire blooms of English bluebell mingle with the garish, Simpson-yellow of lesser celandine and the pristine white of flowering wood anemone. The air encompassing them ripe with the stench of ramsons carried on the breeze and nearby waterways – the ponds, streams and ditches that crisscross the landscape here – choked with riving masses of Amphibian spawn, just about ready to hatch. In the hedgerows, myriad insects buzz, spurred on by rising temperatures, and in the woodlands, trees stir as the canopy is painted green once more. A canopy which now, during the heyday of Spring, plays host to countless migrant birds, fresh from their travels and engrossed in the process of attracting a mate.
On the subject of migrant birds, I have enjoyed nearly the full array this week. Hoards of hirundines – swallows and martins – hawking for insects over bustling waterbodies; Blackcaps and Whitethroats uttering erratic bursts of song from within lime-green hawthorns; and even Swifts, that most iconic of May arrivals, screeching as they hunt in whirling arcs above street, field and copse. The occurrence of these resurgent wonders interspersed by other heralds of this most joyous of seasons: by reeling grasshopper warblers, hidden from sight yet conspicuous to the ear; and by common sandpipers, sedge warblers, whimbrel and dazzling yellow wagtails. Familiar species, longed for since they departed, who liven up my rural walks – replacing the redwing, fieldfare and waxwing that reigned supreme previously.
Of course, given the tumultuous nature of the season, the unfamiliar has also featured in my escapades of late. Manifested in the occurrence of birds I am not accustomed to seeing with any degree of frequency. Garganey and Black-necked Grebe, scarce wanderers, dropping in locally on route to their breeding grounds. The latter, a species currently teetering on a knife edge in this country, savoured as it fished, content, adjacent to a local bird hide. This individual just starting moult into its renowned, and rather beautiful, Summer plumage. As for the Garganey, the drakes (of which three were seen) appeared sublime in their alternating shades of brown, white and angelic, sky-blue – far more demure than the vibrant tones some of our more abundant ducks yet, in their own way, perfect.
Despite their allure, both grebe and duck have, this week, found themselves eclipsed. Cast into obscurity by the arrival of a far more unusual visitor: a glossy ibis. A bird I have observed to no end in Spain, yet one I had not, until now, encountered here, in my slightly cooler homeland. The bird in question – shown below – showing marvellously on a flooded field – catching earthworms in it’s near preposterously long and downcurved bill before tossing them back with gusto, in a jerky motion unique to long-legged wading bird such as this. Engrossing as it went about its business unperturbed by the crowd of admiring apes amassing mere feet away.
It is easy to see where this species gets its name, beautifully iridescent or dull, unassuming brown depending on the light. Ascetics reminiscent of the Ibis’s patron: the Egyptian god Thoth. A deity in the ancient pantheon often depicted with the head of an Ibis and credited as the inventor of writing, and alphabets. Indeed, watching the bird closely, a distinct sense of regality was observed of which I am sure its mythological counterpart would be proud.
Glossy Ibis – Druridge Pools, Northumberland
As the calendar advances and the last vestiges of our lastest, stubborn Winter finally dissipate, I find myself drawn increasingly into the avian world. Not because birds, in spite of their beauty and appeal, are somehow grander than other life, but because unlike plants, amphibians and even mammals – whose occurrence and actions one can quite easily, with some research, predict – they are erratic. Unpredictable in their movements to such an extent that one can never really know what will occur next, or what to expect.
Last night, it was revealed that New Nature Magazine has won in the ‘Green and Eco Company Category’ of the UK Blog Awards 2018, beating some seriously tough competition to take home the prestigious prize for virtual work. Hooray!
Born of a conversation between myself and managing editor, Alex Pearce, in late 2016, New Nature aims to provide an outlet for the voices and creative talents of young naturalists, embolden and support early-career conservationists and, ultimately, to hammer home the fact that, despite prevailing stereotypes, young people do in fact care for the natural world. This is something I feel we have achieved over the course of our first year (and a bit) as an e-magazine: publishing work from myriad young writers, featuring advice and guidance from some of the biggest names in conservation and even having a few of our writers selected for bigger, brighter opportunities elsewhere.
From the outset, New Nature has been about encouraging, promoting and supporting Britain’s flourishing community of young conservationists: something that, based upon the kind feedback of readers, we feel we are achieving, step by step. This award, issued in absentia at a rather glam ceremony in London is just the cherry on top. And I know I speak for each and every member of our incredible (voluntary) team when I say that we are thrilled to have been recognised among the ranks of such talented individuals and organisations. I, for one, certainly feel a certain sense of vindication that my baby is receiving such praise on a national scale – as the e-zines Founder and Managing Director, it sort of feels like a child has graduated from college. Or moved into their first house.
I am incredibly grateful to everyone that reads, downloads, shares and enjoys New Nature each month and could not thank more our supporters for their backing over our initial stint. This award has served as a serious wake-up call and an incentive to strive for greater heights in the future – something we hope to achieve by securing full-time promotional sponsors and a small degree of finances to help the magazine grow, prosper and reach more young people than ever before over the coming months and years. Though, for now, such things can wait…
If so inclined, the latest issue of New Nature can be downloaded here: goo.gl/jFZZJZ
It won’t have escaped your attention – at least if you follow me on Twitter – that, just over a month ago now, myself and my partner erected a new feeding station in the front ‘garden’ of his home in the centre of Heaton, Newcastle. Big woop, you might say; though please bare in mind that this is not exactly your typical garden. Rather a 2x2m stretch of cold, grey concrete boasting one measly shrub, positioned right next to a busy road and, worse still, outside and adjacent the front doors of multiple student abodes. Indeed, before this, we were yet to see a bird in the garden. Not a single one. Little wonder really given the constant noise and clamour.
It’s not much, really…
Well, after kitting out the towering stand of cast iron with myriad tasty morsels ranging from sunflower hearts and peanuts, to suet balls and mealworms, I have been watching the proceedings daily – spurred on by claims on social media that, no matter the location, if you provide, they will come. Something that now, after countless vigils, I know to be true.
Sure, given our location we were never going to attract the sweeping accumulations of your typical, rural garden; though what I have observed thus far has been promising. A pair of Dunnocks were first to arrive, now present daily and looking as if they are nesting in the lonely Privet pictured above. House Sparrows came next, and though their visits to date have been fleeting, they are growing in regularity – with the same being said for the Blackbirds and Blue Tits sporadically gracing us with there presence. Singles of Goldfinch and Magpie and a pair of gluttonous Woodpiegons complete the set.
Now, these scant avian visitors may do little to excite readers of this blog: those accustomed to busy feeders and great gatherings of scarce or appealing species in their gardens. To me, however, they represent a victory. A little slice of the natural world right in the heart of the city that can be enjoyed daily – though most often with a coffee in the early morning.
I wonder what will arrive next? My money is on a Robin, or perhaps a Starling; though I did observe a Collared Dove inspecting matters from a neighbours roof yesterday…
In every way, the Magnificent Frigatebird lives up to its name. This bird does not produce any of the waterproofing oils that other sea-faring birds possess; a submerged frigatebird will drown, and never can it land at sea. Yet the frigatebird enjoys a diet of fish. How?
If you’re a gull, it’s bad news to be pursued by the Magnificent Frigatebird. These aerial acrobats are masters of hairpin turns, dwarf a gull in size, and will gladly grab one on the wing, pulling out feathers or dangling their captive midair, until their prize – the gull’s catch of fish – is dropped. The frigatebird then swoops after the falling fish and snatches it midair, before dinner is lost to the ocean below.
Sabrina Salome is an amateur wildlife photographer with a passion for things with big teeth. She is dedicated to the field of conservation and in her spare time incorporates her love of wildlife into her creative expression, using writing, illustration, and photography to share with the world how she sees them. She holds a B.S. in Zoology from Michigan State University. You can find more of her work on Instagram @sabrina_salomee and contact her at salomesab28@gmail.com for photo or order inquiries.
Communal Roosts. A unique characteristic of the Long-eared Owl is its tendency to roost communally during Winter. Usually solitary, this species has been known to gather in groups of between 2 to 20 individuals, usually in thick cover, but in some locations have been observed gathering in incredibly large numbers. A prime example of one such prominent roost site is the town of Kikinda in Serbia where some observers claim to have counted upwards of 1000 owls in and around the town during colder months.
Lazy nesting. Unusual among owls, the Long-eared Owl nests on a platform as opposed to within cavities. Usually positioned high in the upper branches of conifers. While perfectly capable of constructing their own nests, this species readily utilises those abandoned by other bird species and, in the UK, often opts for disused crow or Magpie nests. Less commonly, birds have also been observed occupying the former nests of a suite of species ranging from Woodpigeons and Sparrowhawks to Grey Herons, and on more than one occasion have been found to occupy disused squirrel dreys.
Global reach. The Long-eared Owl has one of the largest breeding ranges of any owlspecies, occurring across the Northern Hemisphere from Japan in the East, through China, parts of Pakistan and Mongolia, into Russia, throughout Europe and across large parts of the USA. The species also breeds in smaller numbers in Northern Africa; whereas its Winter range extends to encompass parts of India, Mexico and the Middle-East.
Subspecies. There are presently four separate subspecies of Long-eared Owl recognised around the globe. These are the nominate A. otus, found throughout Europe, North Africa and into parts of East Asia; A. o. canariensis, found on the Canary Islands; A. o. tuftsi, found throughout Western parts of the USA, Canada and Mexico and A. o. wilsonianus found throughout Eastern parts of North America.
Folklore. In Ancient Greece, the Long-Eared Owl was considered rather unintelligent with the term “otus” used frequently to describe simpletons.
The Irish Owl. Long-eared Owls are thought to be the commonest owl in Ireland, with a scattered range throughout the whole country. Contrary to population trends in the UK which show the species to have declined substantially over recent years, the Irish owl population has increased its range by 12% in the Southwest of the country. Possibly as a result of an increase in coniferous woodland (or improved surveying methods).
Long-distance migrant. Like their cousin, the Short-eared Owl, the Long-eared Owls resident in Britain are bolstered by arrivals from the continent during Winter. Typically from Scandinavia, Eastern Europe and Russia. The BTO report that one bird, ringed in Cumbria, was found 8 months later in the Mariy region in western Russia, 3,279km from its ringing site. Whereas most of the ringed birds recorded in the UK appear to arrive from Germany. It is not uncommon to see Long-eared Owls arriving over the sea during Autumn, and they regularly seek respite on Oil-rigs and ships during the perilous North Sea crossing.
Sour relations. Perhaps more so than any other European owl species, the Long-eared Owl often falls prey to other avian predators, including other owl species. Eagle Owls and Goshawks have been shown to regularly predate this species, while Tawny Owls are known to kill the former in an effort to claim dominance over a territory and thus, a food supply. Studies have shown a suite of diurnal raptors, ranging from Sparrowhawks and Peregrines to Red Kites to actively hunt Long-eared Owls and it is safe to say that the species does not have it easy when it comes to competition with rivals. On the reverse, some studies have recorded instances of Long-eared Owls predating Little Owls.
In trouble. Following a boom in the 19th Century, the British Long-eared Owl population declined substantially during the 20th Century. Anecdotal evidence has linked this to the resurgence of the Tawny Owl population following its suppression via persecution in earlier years and it is thought that the recovery of the larger owl may be an attributing factor. The fact that Long-eared Owls are flourishing in Ireland, from which Tawny Owls are absent, lends credence to this theory. It is accepted that Long-eared Owls can coexist with Tawnies when enough natural food is present; thus the decline of this species across Britain likely relates to a change in habitat and a corresponding decline in prey species. It is thought that only 1000 pairs of Long-eared Owl now remain in the UK.
Doting dads and diet description. During the owls breeding cycle, it is the male that does most of the hunting – depositing prey at the nest before egg-laying begins, providing the female with sustenance during incubation and providing the bulk of the prey for the fledgeling birds. Of the various prey items regularly taken by this species, voles, mice, rats and shrews are the most common, making up over 90% of the diet; though the species readily predate small birds when an opportunity presents itself. Bird species taken by Long-eared Owls include Wheatear, Meadow Pipit, Chaffinch, Reed Bunting and House Sparrow; although instances of predation on Pheasant poults have been recorded.
The concept of island biogeography was first laid out by MacArther & Wilson (1967) in a book entitled ‘The Theory of Island Biogeography’. The concept was relatively simple in its key principles; that ‘islands’ that are small are capable of supporting fewer species than larger ‘islands’, and that the further away these ‘islands’ are from each other, then the less likely it is that a species is able to re-colonise once it becomes extinct.
Since the industrial revolution and Second World War, semi-natural habitats including our flower-rich meadows, heathlands, mosslands and woodlands have been lost, predominantly due to agriculture and forestry. This has left many of our plants in a rather awful predicament; huge expanses of our once flower-rich habitats have been lost, and remaining flower-rich places are in generally very isolated and small pockets of our countryside. In this case, the concept of island biogeography could be said to apply; isolated and small floristically-rich islands are both prone to extinction events, and things that are extinct, are unlikely to re-colonise. The sheer level of habitat loss that has occurred over the past century, and rate at which our flower-rich habitats are still being lost, has meant that one in three wildflowers in Britain are under threat of extinction. Additionally, per county, on average one-two species goes extinct every year in England!
Growing up as a child, one of the most infuriating memories I had each year, was to look at my county’s rare plant register which gives information on the very rarest plants in the county. Almost every year there were new extinctions; it has always been a devastating prospect that the rare, and even some of the more common plant species, could be utterly gone from the region when I am an old man…given the often immense distances other sites are where the species is present, it often will not re-colonise and will be extinct for good.
I now have over 15 years botanical cultivation and recording experience, and this same devastating prospect was the rationale for the beginnings of an initiative for my region (north-west England), the North-West Rare Plant Initiative; to put back & reinforce species on suitable sites that are on the very cusp of extinction in the region.
The North-West Rare Plant Initiative (NWRPI): aims & objectives
The NWRPI is an initiative that I formalised in August 2017 operating across Cheshire, Greater Manchester, Merseyside, Lancashire and South Cumbria. There are just under
50 target species for my initiative for which I want to reintroduce and reinforce throughout the region; this isn’t a quick process and involves lots of steps including suitability assessment, consideration of biosecurity concerns, feasibility, etc. (to view an overview of the reintroduction protocol I follow, see www.nwrpi.weebly.com). Additional to my aims involving reintroducing and reinforcing species, the NWRPI aims also to work with landowners of sites with these rare species, to incorporate more favourable management practices. It also aims to establish a national network of propagators for target species to assist in cultivation effort and to act as back-up in the very worst scenarios.
Priority Species
Although extinctions of plants at a regional level doesn’t necessarily equate to extinction at a national level, it is often a precursor to such; thus, conservation at a regional level is of paramount importance, in addition to looking at species in a national context. As well as conserving rare plants because we need to maintain a level of biodiversity, plants offer us a lot…They are the fundamental basis of all life on earth; they give us food, building materials, medicine and are shown to improve aspects of our mental health. Aside from these qualities and products plants offer, they’re just downright AMAZING…
An example of one of the species I am cultivating is Oblong-Leaved Sundew (Drosera intermedia). It is one of the more spectacular things I grow and is a carnivorous plant in the family Droseraceae. It grows on very wet, acid, nutrient-deficient peat bogs and wet heaths throughout Britain and Ireland & has fantastic tentacle-like structures with terminal mucus-producing glands. Once small invertebrates land on these mucus-covered tentacles, the plant is able to digest the organism and absorb the nitrogen content which is otherwise unavailable in the nutrient deficient peat bogs. Oblong-Leaved Sundew has unfortunately declined substantially in the region due to these peat bogs being formerly drained for forestry and excavated for peat; it now exists in often very isolated pockets of wet heath and peat bog that remain across the North-West region.
Olong-Leaved Sundew courtesy of Steven Barlow.
Into the not-so-distant future!
Within the next year of my initiative, a lot of prospective reintroductions are planned many thanks to the assistance provided by funding from individual donors and Chester Zoo. An example of one up-and-coming introduction would be the introduction of Sheep’s-Bit (Jasione montana) onto Freshfield Dune Heath, Sefton Coast. This fantastic place is a Site of Special Scientific Interest and is currently under the management of Lancashire Wildlife Trust, dominated by expanses of acid heathland and grassland. Sheep’s Bit is a species doing rather poorly in the region given its poor ability to disperse and loss of heathland and acid grassland; so bad in fact, that in 2017, the entire S. Lancashire population was down to two individual plants. Following 2017 sampling of seed from Cheshire and North Wales and permission granted by the trust, I now have a substantial number of plants ready for introduction onto Freshfield Dune Heath, close to where it had recently disappeared from.
On a final note, it should be noted that all species introductions are well justified by a stringent protocol and with the permission of relevant landowners and statutory bodies. It is important not to take any rare plant or plant things onto nature reserves. All sampling and introductions are done in strict accordance with IUCN guidelines and the BSBI code of conduct.
Uncharacteristically, I haven’t managed many far-flung ventures of late – the combined result of some drastic life changes, a busy schedule and the build-up of myriad more menial tasks. This, of course, has frustrated me to no end, boiling over with a snap decision this past Saturday to drop everything and travel outwards: inland to the wild uplands of my home county. Northumberland, for those not in the know…
Truthfully, we could not have wished for better weather on our outing: bright yet chilly sunshine, half-hearted, almost enjoyable showers and, better still, only the faintest whisper of wind making for a pleasant day as we traversed the surrounds of Harwood Forest in search of, well, anything really. The morning beginning with a flurry of excitement as, from a well known local watchpoint, we caught sight of two Goshawk’ drifting in slow circles above a bottle-green stand of Sitka and Norway Spruce. A hell of a bird, to say the least, usually elusive (often infuriatingly so) drawn out into the open due to the pressing need to court and breed. Marvellous, and a first for Matt.
Here too, no less than seven Buzzards rode the thermals – staying clear of the aforementioned hawks as they drifted upwards, casting vulturine shadows on the woodland and heath below. Joined, on this occasion, by a pair of Kestrel – engrossed in similar, amorous behaviour – and, better still, two Raven. The fabled jet-black corvids kronking loudly as they passed overhead en route elsewhere. A fabulous start to the day – the experience and refreshing feel of “proper” wilderness only amplified by the vocal antics of multiple singing Skylark; the repeated alarm calls of a particularly perturbed Red Grouse and the rich, evocative melody of a Song Thrush positioned high in a roadside conifer.
Moving briefly away from the impenetrable margins of Harwood, a female Merlin lifted from the roadside – passing a few meters in front of the car with uncanny grace before proceeding to quarter a heather-clad bank to the East. A bird I enjoyed, to no end, during my time in the Highlands of Scotland but one I see far too little of here: a moorland sprite and a sight to be savoured.
It did not take us long to reverse our earlier decision to head out over the moor: the ground was soaking, rendering our boots useless, and we quickly grew tired of the slow, squelching march. Instead, we decided on a walk through the forest itself, spending two hours or so wandering a variety of well-worn forestry tracks. Hemmed in, at times, by the hulking frames of the assorted confiders – destined for eventual felling – and, at others, liberated by open vistas and extensive woodland clearings. It was the subtle signs of the changing season that held our attention here: frogspawn in temporary forest floods and the song of countless tits, finches and thrushes; the radiant blooms of pioneering Coltsfoot and the sound of chattering squirrels concealed amid the gloom. Each and all an indicator of exciting times still to come as the year progresses.
This being a coniferous plantation – albeit one of impressive magnitude – the wildlife here was typical of such habitat. Species abundant inland yet few and far between in the coastal reaches I call home: Siskin and Lesser Redpoll in impressive numbers, rust-coloured Crossbills perched high in the canopy and a lone Green Woodpecker doing its damndest to frustrate as it called incessantly, yet remained invisible within the thick wall of encroaching trees. It’s pronounced yaffling taking on almost a taunting nature as the bird eluded us for a good quarter-hour – finally giving itself up and permitting a brief glimpse as it dropped down to the roadside a stone’s throw from our parked car.
Heading home, it was the distinct feeling of rejuvenation that defined our journey. Perhaps a result of the gradual shifts observed this day in nature, as Winter finally yields to Spring, or perhaps due to our own relief. Nature has a habit of refreshing the mind and, while they are far from perfect, our uplands boast the uncanny ability to centre the mind: casting out stresses and troubled thoughts and, ultimately, uplifting those who choose to visit.
Winters Gibbet – the site at which William Winter lost his lift for the crime of murder during the year of 1791.
As I have mentioned previously, I love blogs that address environmental issues honestly and absent the tendency to tip-toe around touchy subjects. This is exactly what I feel Simon achieves on his website; while simultaneously producing eloquently written content that inspires deeper thought on complex subjects. Rare among conservation bloggers is Simon’ refusal to pull any punches in his approach to important issues in the field (see this post regarding George Monbiot); though for those less interested in current affairs, Wildlife Phelps also showcases a great deal of the author’s awesome photography, interspersing topical pieces with evocative nature writing and trip reports from as far afield as Myanmar.
I adore a patch journal, especially one which details the often overlooked spectacles that unfold alongside the seasons. This is what Michael Griffiths achieves with the Wilden Marsh Blog: a diary-like publication tracking the ins and outs of his chosen patch in precise detail, using photography to transport the reader to his small swath of Worchestershire. I particularly like the author’s personal challenge of using three daily photographs to illustrate the daily happenings at Wilden absent the need for lengthy writing; though when lengthier posts are published, they are always a pleasure to read. This is one of the blogs that has encouraged me to looker hard at my own local patch and doubtless, should you choose to follow it, it will do the same for you.
A nature journal in its purest form, Nichola’ blog embodies everything that good nature writing should: evocative, eloquent, inspiring and able to paint an incredibly vivid picture of her forays in the wider countryside. This is not really surprising for a decorated nature writer but regardless, this blog reads like the finest of books, encouraging readers to get up, go out and explore for themselves the wonders that lie beyond our own front doors. As it has done for me, it may also inspire you to take up a pen (or keyboard, in this case) and document your travels – through replication of this marvellously lyrical blog would be impossible. It is fantastic. See this post and others in the authors’ nature notes series.
If you ever needed reassurance that the younger generation is capable, willing and motivated enough to stand up for nature, look no further than Dara McAnulty. A rising star in the environmental field who, while inspiring all of us through his fantastic deeds, maintains a pretty great blog at the same time. Young Fermanagh Naturalist shows the world through Dara’ eyes, showcasing his explorations in nature and his often on-point observations of conservation issues. Boasting uncanny written skills for one so young, Dara treads an intriguing line between traditional (and enjoyable) nature writing and honest opinion, and in doing so, creates content sure to interest everyone, young or old, no matter their interests. I could not recommend this blog enough. See this post regarding a Glossy Ibis encounter at Portmore.
Another uplifting nature blog, this time focused on the wildlife of Cardiff. What I love about Pip’ blog is the sense of enthusiasm emitted each time she writes, and the fact that her blog posts are authored less formally than those of others. Another traditionally styled nature journal, Wildly Pip details the authors’ adventures in her local area, showcasing trip reports, ecological observations and wild musings derived from time spent outdoors. Often accompanied by lovely photography, Pip’ blog posts paint an exquisite picture of the daily comings and goings of the various species to be found around Cardiff and, more importantly, are fun to read. Often lighthearted but no less enthralling than the more serious writing of others. It’s not often that an individuals personality shines through in a blog; though this is one case where I seriously believe it does. See this post regarding winter thrushes.
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Traditionally, March is the first month of Spring: a time of pleasant birdsong, early blooms and fresh, new life. This year, things appear somewhat different. Storm Emma and the Beast from the East have collided and merged and Britain, for the large part, finds itself enduring what seems to many like a second Winter. Snow blankets the floor, ice our rivers and lakes and, generally, conditions outside seem rather horrid. Both from a human perspective and from that of the wildlife set to suffer should such conditions continue. The only positive aspect of the latest bout of bad weather is that many of us, concealed in the relative warmth of our homes, now have ample time to catch up on reading…
In our March 2018 edition of New Nature you will find articles on aquatic insects (p.28), courtesy of Ele Johnson and foxes, brought to you by Abby Condliffe (p.12). Here too Liam Whitmore brings readers some top-tips for returning nature to their gardens (p.30) and Giuliana Sinclair discusses the future of the Breeding Bird Survey in her intriguing interview with Ken White, the regional BBS representative for Berkshire (p.20). Add to this talk of student activism, cetaceans and wild daffodils and it is clear that this is not an issue you can afford to miss.
Our regular features also make a welcome return in the present issue, as Alice Johnson interviews Dr Nikki Gammans, and Elliot Dowding details some of the evocative sights to be enjoyed outdoors this March. All of which goes without mention of A Focus on Nature’s own section, this time featuring an introduction to the organisation’s Scottish branch, and information regarding the renowned University Mammal Challenge.
As the ‘Beast from the East’ rages outside and many of us, against our nature, find ourselves confined indoors, why not download the latest issue of New Nature today. You can pick up a copy using (free) using the following link: https://goo.gl/wjeBjQ
If you, yourself, are interested in writing for the magazine, we welcome all submissions/pitches and would be thrilled to hear from you at editorial.newnature@gmail.com or on social media at @NewNature_Mag.
I dislike our tendency to name storms and weather fronts almost as much as I dislike our habit of blowing such things entirely out of proportion in this country. Often panicking without justification when snowflakes fall and temperatures decline ever so slightly. That said, the Beast from the East, as it has been labelled by the story-hungry media, has been pretty unique and I cannot remember a time (in my lifetime, at least) when conditions have appeared so overwhelmingly bleak. Indeed, much of this week has been spent huddled in the house, book in hand, hiding from the worst of the weather. Ignorant, some may say, to the happenings in the wider ecosystem outside.
Breaking from the norm, however, yesterday saw me wandering the wilds of my local park – Heaton, in Newcastle – with the aim of discovering the impact of the beast on my local wildlife. It was not a pretty picture. All around yesterday the signs of hardship were apparent: snow blanketed the floor almost a foot deep in places and covering vital food sources, the temperatures sat at an energy-sapping minus two degrees and areas of open water, from puddles to streams, stood frozen and still. The result being that it took some time – half an hour no less – before the first signs of life became apparent amid the icy desolation.
Weather such as this, of the kind raging outside at present, poses a significant threat to many forms of wildlife; though none more so than small birds – the passerines who must feed near constantly in order to sustain themselves and generate enough body heat to see out our frigid Winter nights. When snow falls, food sources are concealed and untold numbers of birds perish. Indeed, it is frightening to think of just how many creatures must surely have died over the past few days. From tiny Goldcrests to thrushes and riparian wagtails, many must surely have met their demise during the beast. In the wider countryside, in our cities and even in our very own gardens.
On the subject of Goldcrests, I had not expected to see any yesterday; though the sight of two birds feeding at ground level atop the snow proved sobering. The tiny passerines, sporting their sunshine yellow crests, hopping deftly over the crystalline surface, appearing to snatch unseen morsels from the ground before scampering up into the lower branches of a Holly. Doubtless in search of the meagre few spiders and other insects not banished by the cold. It was heartening, truth be told, to see the crests persevering in spite of the weather, and amazing to think that such a small bird can survive such inclement weather at all.
Elsewhere in the park, life appeared equally hard for other species of birds. Usually, timid Blackbirds threw caution to the wind as they fed and dug in close proximity to dog walkers – hunger overriding better sense, in this case. Here too, Woodpigeons had gained confidence, joining their feral kin in enjoy scraps from a small child’s sandwich; while an unruly mass of thrushes – Redwing, Blackbird and Song Thrush – squabbled and fought over the scant Cotoneaster berries still adorning a bush towards the Western periphery of the park. One particular Redwing, set apart from the scrum, providing perhaps the most poignant testament to the hardship of the season: unmoving as I approached and appearing sleepy, lethargic. The bird – shown below – seeming spent, sluggish and beaten – waiting on its branch for the inevitable to a happen. A sorry fate for a bird which arrived in this country back in September hoping to escape the rampant weather of Northern Europe.
Departing and leaving the Redwing to its fate – whatever that may be – I wondered what had become of the parks other avian residents. The tits, finches, robins and wrens usually abundant yet strangely absent during the mornings’ foray: I soon found them. A chance wander into a quieter corner of the park revealing a scene of hope. Here, amid a particularly dense tangle of trees, some person, some saint, had placed out bird feeders. Filled to the brim with sunflower seeds, peanuts and other treasures, they had not gone unnoticed by the birds and myriad species fed en masse, vying for position at times yet oddly at ease with each other. Doubtless the result of the harsh conditions.
Here, the most noticeable deviation from the norm came from the Robins: with no less than ten birds feeding in close proximity. Usually territorial, these birds appeared to accept one another, lashing out half-heartedly at times, yet, by large, much more tolerant. Hunger can work wonders for neighbourhood spirit it seems.
Gazing through the throng surrounding the various seed dispensers, it was the diversity of the accumulation that struck me most of all. It appeared that half of the woodland had descended, keen to make the most of this vital food source. Blue and great tits too numerous to count cackled in the upper branches, occasionally dropping down to feed, Dunnock’s snagged spilt seed from the snowy ground in the company of Blackbirds and a male Great Spotted Woodpecker lorded over its preferred feeder, it’s presence deterring the other species who waited patiently on the outskirts. Add to these countless chaffinches, a pair of Stock Dove and singles of Redwing, Nuthatch and Jay, and there was more than enough to keep me enthralled throughout the morning. Though, as ever, my favourites (if I am allowed favourites) were the Bullfinches – three of which dropped in repeatedly during my stay and even posed for a few acceptable photos.
