Tag: Bedlington

Half-Penny: how things have changed

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.

Half-Penny: signs of the seasons

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…

Half-Penny: by the riverside

Today I thought I would try something different and, forgoing the urge to travel in search of nature, opted for a more relaxed approach to observation. Choosing to simply sit, watch and wait in a setting that, more so than any other, has enthused me since childhood: the Half-Penny Wood.

It was the river which held my attention this morning: the water, cocoa brown and flecked with uneven patches of creamy foam, washing past at middling pace as I took up position on a nearby rock. Carrying with it a whole manner of oddities: delicate, fairy-like seeds born of dandelion and thistle, blushed leaves already extirpated from the canopy above and, occasionally, a stonefly – latticed wings glinting in the sun as the insect hitched a free ride downstream. The only sounds to be heard here, at first, coming from the quaint bubbling of the water as it snaked its way around the many boulders dotting the channel, and the mew of a Buzzard circling vulturine overhead. A good start.

The sounds of nature descended and disappeared as I waited by the river, unsure of what exactly I was waiting for yet oddly full of hope. The shrill hweet of a Chiffchaff concealed amid the riparian vegetation and the sharp, singular flight call of a passing woodpecker delivering welcome music to my ears. These initial signs of life followed, in turn, by the varied notes of Robin, Nuthatch and Great Tit and, later, the soothing purr of a Woodpigeon watching suspiciously from the twisted upper limbs of a Wych Elm. Wonderful sounds, each indicative of my love of the wood and her verdant reaches yet all forgotten as a piercing whistle found my ears. A familiar precursor to joys to come as, within seconds, a sapphire blur crossed my line of sight. The bird, a Kingfisher, disappearing as soon as it arrived leaving nought but a smile and a vague sense of accomplishment. I would not have seen it had I opted to walk.

Equally as appealing as the blue of the Kingfisher today was the flush of pink engulfing the river bank to the left of where I sat. The combined result of an amalgamation of the countless blooms of Himalayan Balsam and daintier flowers of Herb-Robert. The flushed portion of the bank, rife with bell-shaped and vibrant blooms, eventually instigating my departure as I set about combing through the jungle of brittle stems in search of life. Life that was soon found in the form of myriad bees and wasps painted white by the pollen of the waterside invader.

To my surprise, most of the bees observed today were Honeybees – buzzing too and fro between flowers boasting a conspicuous dusting of what almost looked like icing sugar. The sight of a few Common Wasps was equally welcome, however, given news of recent declines. I know that, as a conservationist, I am supposed to loathe balsam, and to an extent, I do begrudge the damage it causes. To floral communities, to riversides and human interests. Today, however, with more insects seen around this tiny portion of the bank than during the rest of the outing combined, it was hard to scorn it. This alien botanical may be problematic, but the bees certainly like it and I, personally, quite like the sickly-sweet smell of ombrophilous balsam growths too.

Departing the wood in a hurry, only two more sights gave cause to pause. The first, a conspicuous pile of gnawed, green hazelnuts a telltale sign of another, much more damaging, invader thriving in the wood at present – Grey Squirrels – and the second, a sign of illness. Rhytisma acerinum or Tarspot, as it is commonly called, is a fungi which infects the leaves of Sycamore – turning previously chlorophyllin foliage into a mosaic of black-brown lesions, bordered with yellow. It is quite harmless and does not do too much damage to the tree it infects; though it does make for an interesting picture.

Rewilding my urban garden

Like any self-respecting nature lover, the idea of wildlife gardening has always appealed to me. By nature, I want to do my bit to provide wildlife with a home and in doing so, conserve the various critters with whom I share my local area. A noble idea that many, thankfully, commit to, though one that has proven somewhat difficult for me. The fact I share my garden with younger siblings keen to utilise the limited space for sunbathing and play respectively, and a parent altogether fond of the stereotypical urban gravel/grass monoculture. Indeed, to date, my attempts to rewild our small patch earth have met with frowns and disapproval – especially when I took it upon myself to plant weeds along the margins of my mothers neat and tidy lawn. Not that I, personally, class teasel as a weed…

Well, fast forward a few months and I am making leeway. I have reached an agreement with my family where the back portion of our garden, a small 5 x 8 meter stretch of gravel (complete with a trampoline and a summerhouse I must add) is mine to do with as I please. Seizing upon this, and in an attempt to increase biodiversity around my home, I have made a few much-needed amendments. Among these: a small pond, a large flowering currant bush, a compost heap, a miniature rockery, and, as of today, a number of planters installed to act as a makeshift meadow. The latter planted with red valerian pilfered from an abanonded garden and a seed mix consisting of cornflower, knapweed, tansy and other lovelies. My initial efforts, while looking wonderfully messy, can be seen below.

While I will undoubtedly have to wait some time for the meadow to begin yielding fruit, I have, however, made a concerted effort to record the species venturing into my little wild space of late, and surprisingly, have reached a grand total of 71. This, of course, includes everything from common garden birds to colonising nettles and pondweed but also, some real gems. Common frogs have spawned in the pond this year, with a grand total of 12 adults observed on one day during the Spring. With these, smooth newts have also appeared and, perhaps more surprisingly, we also appear to have a resident toad. The latter taking a particular shine my younger brothers play house where, for the second consecutive day, he was photographed hiding amid the pillows. The small crack in the outside panels which allows slugs and woodlice entry (much to the horror of my brother) also providing the amphibian with an entry route should he find himself seeking comfort.

One of the greatest increases observed thus far in the garden has come from the invertebrates: the pond harbouring no end of common water slaters, pond skaters and vivid sun hoverflies, but also (as of today) my first large red damselflies – a pair seen copulating on a marigold leaf earlier this morning. The nearby flowering blackcurrant has also proven successful; providing pollen to visiting tree, white-tailed and garden bumblebees in addition to the odd peacock and red admiral butterflies. While speaking of butterflies, a fabulous painted lady was also observed today making the most of the aforementioned valerians. A nice follow-up to last years visiting hummingbird hawk-moth.

As expected, the addition of a compost heap too has worked wonders, particularly for snails: with white-lipped, strawberry and garden snails quick to colonise – alongside myriad slugs, millipedes and woodlice. Though more impressive is the addition of some new mammals to the garden list. With wood mouse and hedgehog new this year – both captured on a camera placed out to document the nocturnal inhabitants of the lawn. Alongside these, our fox maintains his usual pattern of visitation and pipistrelle bats continue to hawk over the lawn by night. Doubtless in search of moths.

Speaking of moths: a quick sweep with a net last night revealed a number of species – brimstone, garden carpet, light brown apple moth and silver ground carpet to name but a few – and with my new moth trap set for delivery tomorrow, the number of nocturnal beasties uncovered here looks set to increase markedly. The trap sure to aid in my efforts to document the wonders lying just outside of my unassuming front door. I will, of course, be blogging quite frequently about developments in the garden; as more species arrive and I spend an increasing amount of watching wildlife at home, as opposed to chasing it around far-flung areas of the country. Stay tuned, I hope I will have more to discuss in a short while.