Upon my latest visit to Half-Penny, it was not that birds that, as usual, occupied my undivided attention. Despite both the local Kingfishers and Dippers performing admirably. Nor was it the sites mammalian inhabitants, despite a Red Squirrel putting on a mighty fine show as it collected hazelnuts from the riparian shrubbery. No, today it was the trees – those towering, leafy cornerstones of Half-Penny – that held the most allure, entrancing in all their seasonal glory.
Structurally, Half-Penny is a very odd woodland – falling into the bracket of semi-natural woodland yet boasting a number of distinct transitional areas, each characteristic of other woodland types. For example, there are two growths of mature Beech trees, open and spacious, as well as dense riparian areas of willow, Alder and Hazel. Midway into the wood, there is a spacious area dominated entirely by three species of oak – Sessile, Pendunculate and the non-native Turkey – while elsewhere, spread between these patches, the majority of the wood is comprised of a delightful blend of Wych Elm, Sycamore and Ash, dotted in places, with the odd Yew and Horsechestnut. It is this charming blend of species, native or otherwise, which makes Half-Penny the place to be come Autumn, when chlorophyll retreats and formerly vibrant leaves begin to turn.
Today, the variety of colours on show in the wood was nothing short of spectacular: from the pure, golden hue of fallen Beech leaves to the radiant yellow of Field Maple. Syacmore leaves, grey/brown and dotted with the characteristic black spots of Rhytisma acerinum, blanketed the footpath, blended artistically with lemon yellow foliage of Wych Elm and the elongated leaves of ash which, by now, have turned myriad colours ranging from sickly, diluted green to outlandish purple. Indeed, everywhere I looked my eyes found themselves besieged by colour: from the marvellous crimson of the sites scant Wayfaring Trees and the auburn of crisped oak leaves. Colours contrasting remarkably with the that of the curled, purifying leaves of a whole manner of woodland titans cast downwards weeks before. Most of which, by now, have blended with conker shells and wilted grasses to form a tricoloured mulch of ominous black, mouldy grey and fading brown on the woodland floor.
Looking closely at the trees, it was clear from my latest excursion that it has not been a great year for nuts. Few acorns adorn the sites oaks and both beech masts and cobnuts remain scant. A trend, I fear, which may have a knock on effect on the species reliant on the crop at this time of year and I suspect that, over the coming weeks, both Jays and squirrels will become scarce as they are forced to seek food elsewhere. Unless they turn their attention to berries that is. It has, after all, been a bumper year for fruiting Elder, Hawthorn and Dog Rose – something not lost on the weary Winter thrushes currently traversing the depths of Half-Penny in noisy, roving flocks. The sight of sixteen Redwing on this visit giving considerable hope for things to come, as the season creeps forward and numbers of these vocal travels swell ahead of the continental chill.
Some of my bird watching friends don’t understand why I write for Shooting Times. I explain that, although there is a difference of views on some issues, the bird watching and shooting communities have two key things in common – they value the countryside and the diversity of life it contains. Isn’t it the people who think that fields and woodland are only there to be built upon, fracked under and driven through that birdwatchers should be most concerned about?
The fact that I write for Shooting Times is an accident. When I was the Director of Communications of the British Trust for Ornithology I wrote two articles to promote Bird Atlas 2007-11. After I took early retirement at the end of 2013, I asked the editor if he would like anymore. He asked me to suggest some topics and I have written a monthly article ever since. I don’t often write about species that are on the quarry list but I always try to set my articles in the environments that are managed by wildfowlers, gamekeepers and estate owners. A piece on Tawny Owls was published this month and I am working on an article on the buntings that might be seen in-game cover crops for December.
I enjoy writing about ornithology and Shooting Times provides a knowledgeable and receptive audience. I am assured that gamekeepers, shooters and land-owners want to understand more about bird surveys (undertaken by strange birdwatchers who ask for access to land), bird trends (the winners and losers in the countryside), the effects of introduced species (from muntjac to Canada geese) and some of the quirky things that birds do. The articles can also act as a shop-window for science that makes a difference – whether that be Reading University research into the consequences of providing winter food for Red Kites or how RSPB, SNH and Edinburgh University got together to suggest ways to use agricultural subsidies that can help Corn Buntings.
The UK is small and heavily-populated. There’s no true wilderness. There is not space for single-usage. I want my garden to produce vegetables, lighten my mood and attract wildlife. The farmers around us have similarly mixed motivations, making most of their money from growing crops, receiving credit from the government for leaving space for birds and beetles, and supplementing their income (and the larder) with some Pheasant shooting. I don’t shoot but I enjoy seeing the Buzzards that nest in their woodland, the finches and buntings that explode from their game-cover strips and the Snipe in the rough field next to the river. When we undertake the Breeding Bird Survey on our Norfolk square, all the good birds, such as the Willow Warblers, Yellowhammers and Reed Buntings, are associated with pheasant release areas, game cover crops, thick hedges and the wet field that contains a pond that attracts winter duck and Snipe.
As time has gone on, I have had to ‘explain my actions’ to friends who wanted to try to understand why I am working with ‘the enemy’. So, why do I do it? This is a paid activity but it does not feel any different to be writing for Shooting Times than it does when I write for BBC Wildlife. If Shooting Times was ever to condone illegal activity – by supporting gamekeepers who persecute birds of prey, for instance, then I would stop. They do the opposite – criticising the people who not only break the law but also bring shooting into disrepute.
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In the same way that many birdwatchers are suspicious of shooters and gamekeepers, so gamekeepers are worried when they see birdwatchers on their patches. Some years ago, we were approached by a gamekeeper when we were cutting off the corner between a permissive path and a public footpath. Had we been walking a dog, I don’t think he would have said anything – he almost told us as much. He keyed in on the binoculars and was concerned that we might be about to tamper with his legally-set crow trap. I wonder how other birdwatchers, who don’t understand what is and is not legal, would have reacted to the decoy Magpie that he was transporting in the back of his truck?
It is so easy to see things in black-and-white, especially on social media but, when you actually look at what is going on in the countryside, you’ll see that practical considerations blur preconceived divisions between birdwatching and shooting. For instance, control measures are used to protect grouse on the moors and nesting waders on nature reserves, with 412 foxes being shot on RSPB reserves in 2014/15. See this link to a blog about this from Martin Harper of RSPB. Gamekeepers have played an important part in the recovery of the Stone Curlew, many of which nest on arable land that is also used for shooting, and there is an increasing acceptance that, if we are to save Curlews in the uplands, then gamekeepers are best placed to control predators. Foxes may not be the only – or even main – reason for decades of Curlew losses but numbers are not going to recover without intervention. I have written a WaderTales blog about Curlew losses.
Conservation is best served when birdwatchers and the shooting community work together – which is already happening at local levels throughout the country. The inflammatory statements on social media, from people who seem to ignore this, threaten this cooperation and species recovery plans. I hope that my articles in Shooting Times, which often focus on the work of RSPB, BTO, WWT and GWCT are helping to mend some fences and counterbalance some of the negativity on Twitter and elsewhere. There are discussions to be had – about the impact of shooting on our dwindling population of breeding Woodcock, for instance – but shouting at each other is unlikely to help. In this particular case, have a look at how GWCT are using science to ask questions about the length of the shooting season and even whether the species should continue to be shot. There’s a WaderTales blog about this issue.
Conservation starts with conversation and the birdwatching and shooting communities have a lot that they can usefully talk about. Anyone who makes derogatory comments that imply that a person who carries a gun just has to be evil is alienating a group of people who care about what is happening to the countryside. Many of these gamekeepers, land-owners and sportsmen are people that we, as birdwatchers, can work with and even influence. I’m just trying to keep the conversation going.
You can follow Graham on Twitter @grahamfappleton and read his WaderTales blogs at wadertales.wordpress.com
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Aside from being an unlikely location in respect of such an evocative title, Wormwood Scrubs is a name which is familiar for all the wrong reasons. The infamous prison to which the words are most often associated was built at the end of the 19th century, during a 16 year period up until 1891. Thanks to such 1970s and 80s TV gems as The Sweeney and Minder ‘The Scrubs’ earned a place in the consciousness of even the most law-abiding of citizens. Its full title is neither of the above and is officially referred to as ‘HMP Wormwood Scrubs’. The ‘Wormwood Scrubs’ proper are something quite different and, as I was to discover, rather a pleasant surprise.
I am not much of a city person. The town where I live, I am very happy to say, has always provided me with bolt-holes where nature still holds sway, be they the ancient woods that resisted the onslaught of suburban development, south-facing slopes of flowery grassland and even some wide-open expanses of coastal marshland beside the estuary of the Thames. There is something of an irony, therefore, that I should find myself on a beautifully sunny, cold January morning heading off for a day out in London, not to one of the many wonderful galleries, to one the vast museums, or to enjoy the amazing architecture of the city, but to none other than Wormwood Scrubs. At 67 hectares the Wormwood Scrubs Open Space is the largest such place in the London Borough of Hammersmith and Fulham, which the council website proudly describes as “a tranquil area loved by local residents and visitors.” Such notions of peace and quiet are, in my experience, often a relative thing. The tranquillity of a spot in the middle of a large city, although very pleasant, is likely to seem rather different and somewhat busier than which someone like myself might be used to within one of my leafy suburban bolt-holes. By the same token, someone visiting my neck of the woods from more rural circumstances would probably notice all of the sounds of neighbours and distant traffic that for me fade into the background. What I have to admit to however, is on finding the place how genuinely surprised I was. The main incentive for my visit there I shall keep you guessing about for a short while longer.
When travelling on the London Underground it is very easy to forget that there is a huge city going on above your head. It is a mode of transport that makes it difficult to have a very accurate sense of distance and, for very obvious reasons, changes in the city-scape above ground. The short walk from Fenchurch Street overground station to Tower Hill tube allows a brief taste of busy central London: the footfall of people between stations; tourists visiting the Tower, St Kathrine Docks and such like; the stream of traffic rumbling across Tower Bridge. Quite often after your journey underground and when you reach your destination and re-surface, you notice little, if anything at all, by way of the city’s change of character. There is, however, a substantial difference between the surrounds of Tower Hill in the middle of town and East Acton station half an hour westwards on the Central Line. I emerged into the unexpected peace and quite of suburban London, complete with the avenues of pollarded London Plane trees, their bare fists clenched to the sky as if to decry this act of butchery wrought upon them (melodrama aside, I’m sure these tough old trees will be good and green, if not rather stumpy, come the spring).
From the station, it is a straight road up to the Scrubs and the location of my unlikely expedition into the exotic. Directly outside it I could already make out the green fringe of the park from where I stood. As I approached I was pleased to see a fair amount scrub near the edge – something to afford some shelter and seclusion – but was still not expecting anything more than that pleasant parkland setting, with its scattering of bushes and large trees, typical of large city parks. I wandered across the mown grass and in between two mounds of thorn and within an instant felt removed further from the city. What I hadn’t fully appreciated was the extent to which the park has been given over to wildlife. Ahead of me lay an expense of rough grassland, looking winter-tired, but which I’m sure twitches with the movements of insect life in the summer. Further away stood the woody fringes of the park and a large, circular copse surrounded by the playing fields. This wood and grassland comprise more than half of the area of the park which also includes areas designated as a Local Nature Reserve.
It was a cold and clear day, but the sun had a warmth to it. The sounds of bird life could be heard everywhere – tits twittering in the thorn bushes, blackbirds rummaging in the leaf-litter, wrens ‘tutting’ among the brambles. I was sure I heard meadow pipits calling, not the most usual of sounds in the middle of London. They apparently still breed here, but in declining numbers, as explained by a sign asking visitors to avoid certain paths for fear of disturbance to these ground-nesting birds. And there were stonechat, a male and a female and another bird species not very readily connected with your typical city park. There is something special about finding wildlife in the city, something uniquely poignant for its resistance to the concrete sprawl and tolerance of the disruptive human animal.
It was indeed a genuinely tranquil place. Away from the busy road over on the other side of the park it was also very quiet, enough for me to hear the languid swishing of a crows wings as it passed overhead. I was here for a very specific reason, but had arrived in good time to allow the chance to explore and see the woodpeckers investigating the bone-bare branches of long dead tree, or the sparrowhawk sliding through the shadows of the tree canopy of the woody fringes and hear the song thrush belting out its call of melodiously repeated phrases. I also came across a pair of ring-necked parakeet, gloriously green in the sunshine amid the denuded winter branches. The sight of these last two birds had a special significance.
The visage of kestrel-sized green parrots living wild in the UK is a distinctly odd one to many, but an increasingly familiar one to some. In the space of nearly 50 years, and as a result of escapees and introductions, the feral British population has grown, according to the RSPB, to some 8,600 breeding pairs chiefly centred around London and the Home Counties. The total, including non-breeders, could be as high as 30,000. The debate as to the continued viability of their current success, in terms of potential nuisances to fruit growers, the general public and our native hole-nesting avifauna is ongoing. They are great dividers of opinion.
Outside the breeding season ring-necked parakeet are birds given to communal roosting. Such gatherings can often be in large numbers and I had heard that one such roost of thousands of birds occurs, or at least did occur at the Scrubs. I wasn’t certain that the spectacle I had come to see was one that still took place here. I hadn’t been able to find any mention of it after 2013, which seemed a little surprising given that a roost of 5000 (one figure that I had read of) bright green parakeets in the middle of London you would think is something much talked about. The birds didn’t feature at all on the council webpage for the park and neither was there any mention of them on the wildlife information boards on site. Perhaps the local naturalists prefer to draw attention to the native wildlife of the park, or maybe (with my not knowing a great deal about the roosting behaviour of parakeets) the mass-gathering has moved on to another green space in another part of town. With a distinct paucity of the birds present at the time, there were a few doubts wheedling their way into my mind.
I continued my wanderings in search of Little Wormwood Scrubs, a smaller area (a tenth of the size) just across the road at the eastern edge of The Scrubs proper. This is another enclave of greenery that must presumably also be much cherished by the city-based naturalists in the district, with a large chunk of it kept as scrubby grassland and on this occasion satisfyingly full of the movements and sounds of small birds. It was getting on for 3 o’clock and not really knowing how the hoped-for roosting spectacle would proceed and also having no idea exactly where it might occur, I decided to head back to the larger expanse to find myself an adequate vantage from which to view any likely locations. Better to be early and wait.
It was not long after re-entering The Scrubs before I heard the distinctively shrill call of a parakeet and found a pair of birds in the trees close to where I stood. One of them called again and this time was answered. I walked a short way further to where that other bird had called from and found what I presumed to be the two that I had seen in the first instance, still perched in the same tree. One of them called again and in a few moments the other pair flew up to join them. Together they took to the wing, four sleekly contoured shapes, slender wings tapering back either side of the long, narrow pointed tail. Several times they swept round in a tight circle around the tree, the low-angled sun drawing out all of the colour from their brightly pale green plumage, calling raucously to each other before settling again. Was I witnessing the beginning of the roost? They continued to call intermittently, perhaps as if to advertise their location to any others arriving in the vicinity. This seemed like the obvious place to position myself. I found a park bench close by but a discrete distance away, sat down and began to wait, with my hopes very much raised. When they flew off and out of sight a quarter of an hour later I did feel a little deflated and somewhat disappointed. Those embryonic feelings of doubt grew larger.
Continuing to wait I drank some tea, scanning the area for flashes of green and straining my ears for any distant squawking calls. It was almost 4 o’clock; if the roosting extravaganza was to happen surely the first arrivals should be trickling in by now, with the sun edging towards the horizon. I walked across some football pitches towards that sizeable island of trees and shrubs rising conspicuously from the flat expanse of the close-cropped sward and with distinct possibilities as the potential sight of a huge bird roost. I walked around it, optimistically inspecting the bird shapes among the treetops, but found only magpies and the odd woodpigeon. With sunset fast approaching did I sit tight and wait for something which I was convincing myself was not going to take place or look somewhere else?
I decided to follow the direction that I’d seen the four birds depart to. They were nowhere to be seen or heard, so I decided to revisit Little Scrubs where I had heard a parakeet calling earlier. I was rather relieved to see half a dozen birds alight in some trees near the play area close to the entrance and beside the high brick wall running the length of the park’s boundary and separating it from the adjacent road. I sat and watched them, hopeful of a subsequent gathering. Perhaps the roost had moved across the road to here? But dusk was starting to set in and these few birds hardly comprised a mass roost. With a tinge of disappointment I started off for the other park and my eventual departure for the station. A larger group of birds swept in to join the other six before I could take more than a few steps. Not quite the thousands I had hoped for, but to see these 40-odd birds together in their tree was a nice enough sight and not one I had witnessed before.
Back in The Scrubs I had resolved to take a slow walk across the park for the tube station. It was about 4:30 as I approached the bench where I had sat waiting an hour or so before and heard a few birds, close to the same tree that those four had briefly raised my hopes. There were more there now, a few dozen. A few more slightly larger parties sped in low over the ground to join the others. There were probably about 200 of them now, chattering shrilly to each other in what fancifully seemed like the conversation of re-acquaintance, each having returned from their own patch of London. Then things really started to happen.
I had wandered towards the shrubby trees that the parakeets had gathered in. Then, once more, low over the ground and along the thicket of trees that runs the length of the park boundary, another hundred or so dashed past me and into the growing flock. Then another, this time tearing in from behind me and over my head. In the glow of the setting sun and the failing light they seemed like so many shards of shining green glass shattering out of nowhere to become embedded in the branches. The noise grew with their number, raised now from a chatter to a cacophonous clamour of shrieks and squawks. And they kept on coming, wave after wave. I looked through some low scrub and across the playing fields and the direction of the day’s afterglow and caught sight of dozens of flickering wings. Then slipping briefly out of sight a hundred birds rose across the tops of the bushes. Coming towards me, more or less at head height, the group parts either side of me and into the melee. I looked for more following the same route, but the next flock materialises along the line of trees as they had before. I caught sight of a few birds arriving from the other side of the trees and realised that of course they must be coming in from all directions, although it did seem that the majority were flying in across the breadth of the park. And so it went on; for twenty/twenty five minutes the birds kept on coming. It seems perfectly probable that for 15 of those minutes they were arriving at a rate of 200-300 every minute, which even at the more conservative estimate suggests a total in excess of 3000 birds, all crammed into a stretch of modest, shrubby trees of only some 40 metres in length. It is easy to appreciate why the collective noun for a group of parrots or parakeets is a ‘pandemonium’. The noise was immense, quite piercing to my ears as I walked closer, into their midst, that solitary, shrill ‘kyik’ amplified and combined to tumultuous effect.
It was an extraordinary spectacle, especially that it was witnessed in the middle of London. It was 5 o’clock and the dusk was thickening into night and aware that I had to make my way across the park in the dark reluctantly pulled myself away and made for the station. Half a kilometre away I could still hear the racket. Rather that than the drone of the rush hour traffic.
The above post is an extract from an upcoming book by Ross Gardner. For more from the author, you can check out his personal website or read his blog.
I have written before about the virtues of blogging from a personal perspective and the ample benefits it brings in terms of personal development, networking and general enjoyment. As such, it will come as no surprise to learn that I thoroughly enjoy blogging and, in turn, derive great pleasure from reading the virtual musings of others. Recently, however, I have found myself pondering the value of it all.
I, personally, know many conservationists who also identify as bloggers, and on the reverse, know many bloggers who also call themselves conservationists. It is these people, those who do not necessarily spent numerous hours in the field committing grandiose acts in aid of nature, who are the subject of this post. Can these people, those who spend the majority of their time at a keyboard as opposed to their local nature reserve, call themselves conservationists with a clear conscience? Well, yes, I believe so.
One of the most common questions I receive from individuals curious about my blog is what difference does it make? Well, I do not profess to have the best blog on the internet nor claim to be the purveyor of the most interesting content; though I do believe that blogging can and does make a positive difference. I believe that the webs growing community of eco-bloggers have a huge role to play as we strive to safeguard the natural world, and whatever the particular theme of a blog, believe all forms of virtual commentary are important.
Do nature bloggers make a difference? Well, that depends on the content they produce. Some endeavour to inform the wider public of worrying trends in wildlife populations, highlight practical conservation efforts and generate discussion around pressing environmental issues. All of which help raise vital awareness and may, if done correctly, lead to a shift in reader attitudes, a shift which may itself inspire direct action on behalf of nature. Perhaps readers will feel compelled, upon hearing of the decline of a particular species, to take action on its behalf; or perhaps others, after heeding a particular message, will take the time to rewrite and reword it so to inform their own networks. Thus aiding in the dissemination of vital messages and increasing wider awareness.
The virtues of print in this regard are widely known when it comes to influencing public opinion, but with time progressing towards a distinctly more virtual age, blogging, in my opinion, has become just as important when it comes to getting the message out there. Whatever that message may be. Something which rings equally true for more traditionally dry, educational content. Indeed, the recent surge in #Scicomm bloggers is most welcome as scientific writers begin to make technical content accessible and, more importantly, palatable for the wider online community.
On the other side of the coin, we have those that dedicate their time to highlighting the beauty and allure of nature. These, those blogs that detail personal adventures in the natural world and muse on the appeal of species and wild spaces, are by far the most numerous blogs out there. Just look at the thriving BBC Wildlife Magazine Local Patch Reporters thread. While these people may stay clear of tackling the controversial, they are, in my opinion, of equal importance when it comes to conservation.
By highlighting the beauty to be seen in the countryside and sharing their own experiences in nature, eco-bloggers have the same effect as a well-written book or expertly presented documentary: they foster an appreciation of the natural world. Nature writing in general, online or otherwise, has the power to motivate people to seek out wild intrigue, to visit new places and experience new spectacles. Something which, in turn, gives rise to endless possibility. Perhaps those propelled into the field off the back of an expertly worded article will find their calling and decide to etch out a career in environmental protection? Perhaps they will decide to take with them their kids, their parents, partners or friends, thus sharing the joys of nature with others and instigating a shift to a more sympathetic, appreciative attitude. Is this sense, nature blogging is a vital piece of the puzzle when it comes to combatting nature deficit disorder.
Giving more thought to the matter, the virtues of nature blogging are hard to ignore. Blogs can motivate and inform, just look at the blogs of Mark Avery and RPS, while also generating discussion and bringing underreported issues to the public eye – a prime example of this coming from Thinking Country, managed by Ben Eagle. Blogs can educate, advise and inspire, all while encouraging others to think more, discuss and, more importantly, act on environmental issues. While nature blogging remains, for the time being at least, a niche activity; the possibilities of this particular pastime are limitless.
While my own blog is very a much a hotchpotch of various varieties of writing – nature writing, press releases, reviews, trip reports and much more – I would like to think that in some small way, I slot into the picture described above.
High-flyer. The humble Mallard has been recorded flying at speeds of up to 55 miles per hour – slightly faster than the average speed of most waterfowl. While the Mallard does not typically fly at altitudes greater than 10,000 feet, in 1962 one was struck and killed by an airliner flying at 21,000 feet – a record height for birdstrike at the time. Sadly, the Mallard did not make it and identification was only made possible through feather analysis.
Sexually dimorphic. While male and female Mallards look very different, they also sound different too, with drakes giving a raspier one or two-note call as opposed to the much more stereotypical quack of the female bird. Female birds often give off what is called a decresendo call – a series of 2-10 quacks that start loud and gradually get softer and shorter.
Domestic stock. The Mallard (alongside the Muscovy) are the only breeds of wild duck to be entirely domesticated by humans. The Mallard is the ancestor of most of the domestic duck breeds in existence today, including breeds as the Aylesbury, Khaki Campbell, Indian Runner, Silver Appleyard and Rouen. Domestication was achieved by selective breeding for desired traits like plumage, growth speed, and high egg production.
Longevity. Data taken from the ring of a Mallard shot in 2008 showed that it was tagged by biologists in 1981, making it at least 27 years old at the time of its death and the oldest known Mallard on record. This is seen as an incredible record given the fact that the average lifespan of your typical Mallard is just 3–5 years in the wild and about a decade in captivity.
World domination. The Mallard has one of the largest home-ranges of any bird species, breeding widely across both the Northern and Southern Hemispheres. In North America, its range extends from Alaska to Mexico; while in Eurasia, it can be found from Greenland and Iceland in the North, all the way to Morocco in the South. Mallard populations can also be found as far West as Japan and South Korea, with further populations found across parts of Australia and New Zealand.
Homosexual Necrophilia. Kees Moeliker, a curator at Rotterdam’s Natuurhistorisch Museum once observed a male Mallard attempting to copulate with the corpse of a deceased drake recently killed while flying into a museum window. Believe it or not, there is actually a scientific paper published about the incident.
A numbers game. Mallards are recognised as one of the most numerous duck species in the world, with the US population alone thought to fall somewhere in the region of 11.6 million birds. In Europe the overall population is estimated at between 5,700,000 and 9,220,000 mature individuals, with the UK breeding population thought to include between 61,000 and 146,000 pairs.
Amber listed. Despite their expansive range and overall abundance, the Mallard is amber listed as a result of a moderate decline in the UK wintering population. Some British wintering populations fell by 40% between the years of the last national census; though with populations on the continent continuing to increase, there is speculation that more birds may have decided to spend the winter closer to home. The breeding population of Mallards in the UK has remained relatively stable throughout.
First described. The Mallard, Anas platyrhynchos, was first described in 1758 by the renowned taxonomist Carl Linnaeus. It’s name stems from the Latin word for “duck” and a far older Greek term meaning “broad-billed”.
Far from picky. The humble Mallard is far from picky in its dining preferences, feeding freely on both animal and plant matter. Among the animal groups consumed, gastropods, crustaceans and invertebrates form the largest part of the bird’s diet, while of the plant material consumed, roots, tubers, seeds and foliage are taken in roughly equal measure. Studies have shown Mallard diet to be split roughly between 37.6% animal matter and 62.4% plant matter.
Bonus fact. In recent years there have been a number of observed cases of Mallards directly predating other birds species. This includes a Grey Wagtail in June 2017. This behaviour is poorly understood but is thought to be an entirely new phenomenon.
To those familiar with this blog, you will know that I owe my passion for nature almost entirely to my Grandmother. The lady who first introduced me to the joys of a life outdoors and who, through no end of weekend adventures, provided my first insight into the world of trees, birds, bugs and bees. An insight gained through regular forays into the dappled, imperfect depths of the Half-Penny Wood – located a mere stones throw from where my Gran once lived on the fringes of Bedlington.
It is been a long time since these early visits to the wood; a long time since I gathered conkers and marveled, absent care, at the beauty of fruiting Fly Agaric under the watchful gaze of my childhood walking companion. Despite the passing of time, however, my relationship with the wood remains the same: I still visit Half-Penny, I still enjoy its wildlife throughout the seasons and I still, despite visiting the site near constantly for two decades, find myself continuously surprised by new and unusual finds. My attitude to the wood itself has not changed either, it remains a place of wonder, a retreat of sorts to which I venture whenever time allows; though I cannot say that the wood itself has remained the same. Much has changed over the years.
Since my earliest visits, Half-Penny has changed beyond recognition: a shift reflected not in its general appearance, size nor shape, but in its very foundations – in the cast of creatures that now call the wood their home and together, form the green, beating heart of this special place. Indeed, some prominent fixtures of my early years have been lost entirely from the wood and her surrounds. The song of the Cuckoo, once an eminent fixture of springtime outings, has fallen silent in the wood – the result of the increasing scarcity of cuckoo across the local area. Red Squirrels too have disappeared, for the most part; while in recent years, once reliable Redstarts appear to have vanished. Poof.
Given the absence of the aforementioned species, you would be forgiven for thinking that my visits to the wood now must take on a somewhat mournful tone, though this could not be further from the truth. As for every species lost from the wood, for whatever reason, another one appears to have found a foothold. Little Egrets are now a daily sight on the river where a mere decade ago the sight of the pristine white herons would have been thoroughly out of place. Green Woodpeckers have colonised too, as have Spotted Flycatchers; while other once scare fixtures of life here have risen to such heights as to now be labeled as common and widespread. Tree bumblebees, Comma’s and Willow Tits: all give cause for celebration. As do the otters which can now be seen regularly, but never often, by dusk within the woods more secluded reaches.
Of course, not all new arrivals in the wood are to be cherished, and I have previously covered the growing presence of various invasive species in Half-Penny. These, the balsam, knotweed, snowberry and grey squirrels that now grow and scamper widely across the wood, do give cause for concern and, in some cases, warrant action. Although all can be seen as a clear and apparent sign of the times in which we live.
Taking pause to assess the changes currently rocking the very foundations of Half-Penny, it is easy to draw parallels with the wider changes currently taking place across Britain. Changes born of our own actions as a warming climate spurs range expansion in certain species, and hinders the good fortune of others; and as conservation actions strengthen some wildlife populations at the same time as human ignorance facilitates the spread of non-natives across the landscape. The decline of the Cuckoo and Red Squirrel, the good fortune of Little Egrets and Otters, and the creeping advance of Himalayan Balsam, all indicative of nationwide trends. Half-Penny, to me, stands as a microcosm of wider-Britain: rife with both the highs and lows that come cheek by jowl with a life in nature. As certain species flourish and others fade while we watch, worried and intrigued in equal measure. It’s all very educational.
October is an exciting time in the naturalist’s calendar: a period of conspicuous and adrenaline pumping change as leaves redden, red deer roar and myriad migrant birds grace our coastal watch points. It is a time of returning wonders – geese, swans and thrushes, of succulent fruits, curious fungi and tumultuous weather. All of which, combined, provide a true feast for the senses, ensnaring all as days shorten and the British Autumn steams ahead.
The wonder of autumn is captured perfectly in the latest issue of New Nature Magazine. Through in-depth accounts of seasonal specialities – Redwings (Page 40) and Grey Seals (Page 14) – and through fine nature writing from some of the most remote reaches of our small island. Indeed, Camila Quinteros’ look at the autumnal flora of Fair Isle (Page 32) is not one you can afford to miss.
In this issue, readers will also find talk of Lundy Island, aptly labelled as the British Galapagos by contributor Hannah Wolmuth-Gordon (Page 28); while on page 38, the Woodland Trust’s Chris Hickman delivers a thrilling account of Britain’s favourite trees. Also inside, Sophie Watts issues five tips for students looking to choose a university this Autumn (page 42), Kayleigh Crawford delves into community engagement in woodland conservation (page 41), and New Nature’s own Scott Thomson interviews freshwater ecologist Peter Walker (page 22).
As the director of New Nature, I would once again like to offer thanks to all those who read, download and share our publication each month. It has been almost a year since the magazine was established and things are advancing marvellously – all thanks to you. Please keep it up, and in doing so, help us continue to bring the thoughts and views of young conservationists to an increasingly wide and diverse audience. Their voices must
be heard.
In a groundbreaking study on sparrowhawks, scientists have found that city birds in Scotland are more successful than their country cousins. In this study, researchers from RSPB Scotland and the Scottish Raptor Study Group examined differences between populations of the birds in Edinburgh and in the Ayrshire countryside over four years from 2009 to 2012.
They found that territories in the urban environment (Edinburgh) were occupied far more frequently than those in the rural study area (Ayrshire) and that the city hawks also had significantly higher breeding success than the country hawks.
Of the twenty breeding attempts that failed throughout the study, only two were recorded in the urban study area, the rest in the rural. The number of nest desertions was also much higher in the latter. It was this complete failure of numerous nests that caused lower breeding success in the rural sparrowhawk population.
In total, 195 sparrowhawk pairs were located in the two study areas across 117 separate sites or ‘territories’. The paper has been published in the journal Écoscience.
Michael Thornton, lead author of the paper and member of the Lothian & Borders Raptor Study Group, said: “This study clearly shows that urban green spaces, such as parks, gardens and golf courses provide both suitable nest sites and an abundance of prey species to support high breeding success in this charismatic predator, and it is important that we protect these areas for urban wildlife and for our own health and wellbeing.”
Staffan Roos, Senior Conservation Scientist with RSPB Scotland and one of the authors of the paper, said: “Urban environments offer a huge variety in quantity and quality of natural habitats, particularly for bird species such as house sparrows, starlings, oystercatchers and, as this study shows, sparrowhawks”.
“The availability of food appears to have played an important role in the differences observed between sparrowhawks living in the city and those in the countryside. Gardens and parks hold large numbers of songbirds, which these raptors feed on, and the structure of urban landscapes in Edinburgh and other European cities, with parks and woodlands right next to private gardens, provides an ideal hunting environment for sparrowhawks.
“We would like to see further studies carried out, with nests being monitored by camera, to learn more about the impacts of food abundance on these birds in different parts of Scotland. The more we know about various wildlife species, the more we can do to protect and conserve them in future.”
Sparrowhawks were one of the first raptors to colonise urban areas across Europe, in the UK this happened in the 1980s. The European sparrowhawk population is estimated to be up to 582,000 pairs with the UK holding around 35,000 pairs, 12,000 of those in Scotland.
A copy of the paper ‘Breeding success and productivity of urban and rural Eurasian sparrowhawks Accipiter nisus in Scotland’ can be found online here:
Traversing the sunny (yet surprisingly cold) depths of Half-Penny this morning, one thing struck me above all else: the bounty of Autumnal fruit. This year, each and every fruit-bearing shrub appears laden with berries, much more so that usual. The stand of Blackthorn that grows, spindly and unkempt, by the entrance to the wood abounds with deep blue berries that grow purple when touched, as the queer powdery substance that adorns them is swept aside. Add to these no end of glorious red Hawthorn fruits, damsons, crab apples, rose hips and slowly fermenting blackberries, and the wood is starting to resemble a rather decadent fruit salad. Ready and waiting for the imminent arrival of migrant birds.
Some migrants have touched down in the past week, another sure sign of the shifting season. The most numerous of these being Redwings, with some twenty noted on the passage in recent days – the distinct seep of roaming flocks audible by dusk, as the thrushes pass overhead, shrouded in darkness. Their larger cousin, the Fieldfares, have yet to materialise; though both blackbirds and song thrush have shown a distinct upwards trend of late. Joined by an apparent arrival of robins (I counted 22 ticking from the shrubbery the other day) and diminutive goldcrests. Of course, given the nature of the season, Summer migrants have not departed entirely, just yet at least. A few Chiffchaff and Blackcap still loiter, while the occasional Swallow can still be seen; though these look set to vanish in the coming days, yielding the skies and treetops to more typical winter fare.
Another sure-fire sign of the not so subtle shift from Summer to Autumn has come from Half-Penny’s Jay population – many of whom can now be seen flying high between the wood and nearby town, as they transport acorns between favoured feeding sites and their Wintertime hoards. This processing of caching – storing food for the harsh days of Winter – is not limited to the sites corvids however, indeed, the many Nuthatches that dwell within the wood have begun to do the same. As have the Grey Squirrels – those glaring icons of invasive tenacity which first colonised the wood back in 2013. Now, they scamper and dig, squeak and chew, as much a part of the wood as the reds that resided here during my childhood. I do, however, have some interesting news on that front to be revealed at a later date.
Finally, we come to another, much more subtle sign of the Autumnal shift in nature: the behaviour of the sites resident passerines. Indeed, tits (blue, great, long-tailed and coal to be precise) have begun to amass into impressive flocks, scouring the wood in search of food. This behaviour thought to be born equally of increased vigilance with regards to predators – sparrowhawks mainly – and the greater ability of a flock to find food, as opposed to a lone individual. Elsewhere, the resurgence of the elusive Willow Tit in the wood provided equal indication of the advancing calendar this week – they only ever appear here around Autumn – while, by the river, both the Kingfishers and Grey Wagtails appear to have departed the riparian abodes they favour, doubtless off to the coast ahead of the predicted chill. I will miss them. Though the sense of loss that coincides with their departure will doubtless be soothed by the arrival of Winter migrants in the coming weeks. Who knows, maybe this year will once again see Half-Penny graced by the presence of Waxwings, or the river by a wayward Goldeneye.
A not so subtle hint as to the news I mentioned earlier…
Recently I had the distinct pleasure of chatting to Bel Jacobs, the lead editor of How Now Magazine – a webzine focused on highlighting human efforts to counteract some of the most pressing problems facing the world today. Including, but far from limited to, environmental destruction and ecological ignorance.
Having been contacted for an interview, it was great to be asked to discuss New Nature magazine. Specifically, the reasons behind our decision to launch the outlet and what we, the editorial team, feel are the ultimate aims of the project. This interview can be found here for those interested – please take a look.
A new petition has been launched calling on the government to outlaw the release of ecologically damaging balloons and sky lanterns. The unnecessary practice of releasing both items is widespread in Britain, despite the fact that both cause harm to the environment. Causing death when ingested by both terrestrial and marine species, littering the countryside with plastics and, in the case of the latter, causing fires which threaten both animal and human life. I would urge everyone to take a moment, read the summary below and to sign the petition. It can befound here.
“Balloon releases may look pretty, but they have to end up somewhere. They land in our seas & countryside where birds get tangled up in the ribbons, or the balloons & ribbons are eaten by other wildlife causing slow & painful death. Sky lanterns are even more dangerous. Sometimes landing early before the flame has extinguished, causing fire & damage with the possible risk to life. We wouldn’t accept people littering our streets, so why accept littering our countryside?”
By large, birders are a nice bunch and bad behaviour and poor etiquette among devotees is, thankfully, rather scarce – though this does not mean it does not occur. Many of those boasting a penchant for the hobby will have witnessed such behaviour, the practice of tape luring birds during the breeding season for example, and I doubt I am the only one to cringe whenever the term organised flush is uttered. Which it is, whenever a particularly cryptic species turns up and onlookers desiring more than just a fleeting glimpse take it upon themselves to deliberately scare it from cover.
Generally, bad behaviour among birdwatchers falls into two distinct categories: actions which cause damage to property or habitat (bad) and actions detrimental to the bird itself (very bad). Both of which appear to have been rife at the recent Pallas’s Grasshopper Warbler twitch in Norfolk.
The video below, kindly posted to Youtube by SuperPeckinpah, demonstrates perfectly the behaviour which, at present, is giving birders a bad name. Trespassing, damage to habitat and organised flushing, coupled with arrogant individuals behaving like petulant, kaki-clad children. Hat’s off to the wardens of Holkham Hall Estate for confronting these individuals and acting in the best interests of both the bird and the law – it must have been hard keeping a cool head given the selfish and, at times, patronising drivel being spoken by some within the crowd.
Ultimately, if behaviour like that displayed in the above video continues, it will be we birders who lose out. If the ignorant minority continues to do as they please, ignoring best practice and the wishes of landowners, bird news will simply stop being published – leaving all of us in the dark. It is promising to see so many within the birding community highlighting and pouring scorn on this behaviour – just look at this thread – but it is up to all of us to remain vigilant and ensure that idiots like those featured above are kept in check.
Wading birds gathered in record numbers at Dove Stone in the Peak District this breeding season, all thanks to an ambitious ongoing bog restoration programme implemented by United Utilities and the RSPB.
Over the summer, RSPB staff and volunteer surveyors recorded 49 pairs of dunlins at the Saddleworth site, up a quarter from the 39 pairs observed in 2014 and up five pairs on last year’s previous record of 44. With the increase in breeding Dunlin mirrored, also, in Dove Stone’s Golden Plover, which increased from 92 pairs in 2014 to 110 this year.
Dunlin, small wading birds that love breeding in wet hilly places, have been gradually increasing at Dove Stone over the past decade after virtually vanishing from the Peak District in the early 2000s. Golden plovers are medium-sized wading birds that also favor nesting on wet bogs and, likewise, their numbers have been steadily growing at Dove Stone in recent years.
The RSPB, which manages Dove Stone in partnership with landowner United Utilities, has discovered a direct correlation between this increase of breeding wading birds and the restoration of blanket bog at the site.
Healthy blanket bogs, which are found on wet hilly plateaus, can provide great benefits both for people and wildlife. As well as provide insect food for birds, they lock up harmful carbon, improve water quality by acting as a natural filtration system and prevent flooding by slowing down the water flow. However, like much of this habitat in the UK, Dove Stone’s had been damaged by past industrial air pollution with the surface vegetation and peat-building sphagnum mosses having almost completely died out, leaving large areas of bare, dried out peat.
Since 2005, United Utilities and the RSPB have been working to restore Dove Stone’s bog by covering the bare, damaged peat with new vegetation, blocking gullies to raise the water table and sowing new sphagnum moss. The increase in breeding waders appears to be rising in direct response to the improving habitat.
Dave O’Hara, RSPB site manager at Dove Stone, said: “It’s no coincidence that numbers of breeding waders at Dove Stone began to increase at the same time we began to restore the blanket bog with our partner United Utilities. It’s gratifying and inspiring to see our continuing restoration work paying off with more and more wading birds nesting here every year.
“Thanks to generous funding from WREN, we are currently in the middle of Sowing the Moss, a three year project where we are working with volunteers to plant more sphagnum, which will help rebuild the bog. Restoring Dove Stone’s bog is a huge long-term undertaking but it’s such an important habitat that brings so many benefits for wildlife and people that it’s well worth all the effort that everyone has – and continues – to put in.”
Ed Lawrance, Catchment Partnership Officer at United Utilities, said: “The moorland restoration work is a long-term project, originally driven by our approach to improve water quality in a sustainable way, reducing treatment costs for our customers. It’s wonderful to see the dramatic result it has had for wading birds at Dove Stone. It’s a brilliant example of a win-win partnership and we are very proud of what’s been achieved.”
Follow all the latest Northern England RSPB news on Twitter at @RSPB_N_England
Cover image courtesy of Matt Tillett, licensed via Flickr Creative Commons.
There are many words used to describe species which, through human intervention, have found themselves existing far outside of their historic, natural range. Terms such as invasives, aliens, invasive aliens and nonindigenous species are quite familiar; while a glance at social media often reveals myriad more unflattering phrases: pest, nuisance, menace, vermin – I particularly loathe the latter. Regardless of the terminology applied to them, however, such species have become a figment of daily life in present day Britain: intermingling with and, in some cases, out-competing many of our native creatures. Some are unwelcome, some are accepted and others are ignored entirely; though for many, myself included, aliens and interlopers have quickly become a fact of life around our respective local patches. So much so, in fact, that they appear rooted in the very foundation of the places we know and love. My local patch, Half-Penny, is no different.
Setting out with the express intent of documenting the variety of exotic species thriving, or merely surviving, within the wood, I arrived just before dawn – the bright yet deceivingly cold sunlight just beginning to percolate down to the woodland floor. Bouncing off the palmate leaves of Sycamore and transforming the carpet of native Butterbur and Ground Elder beneath into a mosaic of jaded and rejuvenated greens. Sycamore – a non-native species introduced by either the Romans or the Tudors, depending on the source, so familiar that is often hard to imagine the tree being anything other than a time-honored resident. One alien down.
Further into the wood, an assortment of plump, white berries shone by the side of footpath – a beacon of unfamiliarity, far removed from anything else found within the depths of Half-Penny. I am, of course, referring to the ivory fruits of Snowberry Symphoricarpos albus – a North American species which here, in my wood, has spread like wildfire, now representing the dominant shrub species across at least half of the site. An appealing species, boasting delicate pink flowers earlier in the year that, reluctantly, I have come to accept as a permanent feature of life here. Indeed, it would take a considerable effort to halt its creeping but clearly apparent advance.
Moving forward, the smell of Himalayan Balsam caught my attention long before first glimpse of the the sea of swaying pink blooms that dominates the mid-wood in late Summer. A species familiar to many that needs no introduction: balsam is a blight to native flora yet a handy source of nectar for various pollinators, many of which, today, could be seen hovering deftly around the bell shaped flowers. The internal jury is still out on this one; though less so on the small stand of Japanese Knotweed uncovered further into the tangle. A species which, due to a combination of education and personal experience, I find it hard to look upon with even a hint of appreciation. I doubt said stand will remain small for long, given the tendency of this species to spread like measles. It may have a hard job competing with the already established balsam, however. May the best (or worst) plant win.
Stopping briefly to admire the hulking frame of a Turkey Oak – a much more welcome invader which, year after year, provides a reliable source of delightfully hairy acorns for woodland residents to savor – my attentions soon turned to a yellow bloom protruding conspicuously from amid a riverside depression. Monkeyflower Mimulus guttatus, another invader of American origin which, rather oddly, is the county flower of Tyne and Wear. This species, much like the Turkey Oak, does not appear to be causing much of the problem in the wood; and like the oak with its comical, fuzzy fruit, provides a handy resource for local animals. Demonstrated by the Carder bee buzzing hastily between flowers as I watched, intrigued.
Less conspicuous than the botanical interlopers yet equally as prolific, it was not long before I caught sight of my first Grey Squirrel of the day. An unwelcome arrival which, more so than any other, cuts straight to my heart despite its altogether cute appeal. You see, during childhood visits to the wood, native Red Squirrels were a familiar sight, common even. A trend which lasted right up until 2013, when, to my surprise and distress, I sighted my first grey in the area. An ill omen of things to come later as the latter increased and the former decreased, fading from existence by 2016 – the same time as I began work as a Grey Squirrel control volunteer.
Grey Squirrels are one alien I find it hard to tolerate; not because I see them in a particularly negative light – they are rather endearing, in truth – but because of the damage done to a much-loved local species. I suspect this makes me a frightful hypocrite given my begrudging fondness for balsam and the plants impact upon native flora, though none of us are perfect. Though I wish we didn’t, we all place varying amounts of significance on certain species, often at the expense of others. It’s human nature.
Today I appreciate the squirrel for what it is, a highly adaptive and incredibly successful species. With more evidence of the rodents continued success in Half-Penny uncovered upon my departure. A pile of gnawed hazel shells: a small but stark testament to the changing nature of Half-Penny which, in spite of human interference, appears set to shift further in years to come.
