Last weekend, I had the pleasure of catching up with the long-staying male Black-throated Thrush at Whipsnade Zoo, in Bedfordshire (a long way from home for this Geordie).
Enjoying a scarce bird is always a pleasure but, I confess, the experience of observing just such a lost waif in the company of free-ranging South American Mara and hods of perplexed zoo-goers was certainly something new. The bird in question not at all perturbed by the crowds as it foraged for worms on the lawn by the zoo’s cafe.
Black-throated Thrush (Turdus atrogularis) is a migratory Asian species, breeding from the far East of Europe, through Siberia and down into Northern Mongolia. It is an occasional vagrant to Western Europe with this winter, in particular, seemingly a good once for this eye-catching species.
A week ago, I begrudgingly returned home from a spur of the moment family holiday in Crete – a part of Europe I had yet to visit which, in retrospect, turned out to be rather beautiful. The week was marked by blissful temperatures, great food, a lively local culture and numerous excursions on foot to investigate the natural history of the rugged, olive-riddled land around Elounda.
As ever, birds formed the basis of most of my forays. The undisputed highlight of my time here comes from the countless Griffon Vultures noted high above the crags to the rear of our apartment. An undeniably awe-inspiring species which I will never tire of, joined on occasion by the odd Buzzard, Kestrel and, as the week drew to a close, a Golden Eagle lazily riding the thermals thrust upwards from the crumbling limestone escarpment. I am led to believe that Golden Eagles are not all that abundant on the island, thus I am quite happy with this one.
Elsewhere, multiple trips into the tightly-packed olive growths carpeting the land around Elounda provided some welcome sightings. A small flock of European Beeater, kaleidoscopic in the midday sun; a pair of Red-backed Shrike, multiple Blue Rock Thrush and a healthy number of both Crested Lark and Sardinian Warbler. Species one would struggle to encounter in the UK. Although, that said, more familiar species were abundant also: the gnarled old trees, rife with succulent purple fruits, teeming with Spotted Flycatcher, Willow Warbler, Great Tit, Goldfinch and House Sparrow – at least some of which turned out the be Italian Sparrow. The persistent kronking of Ravens overhead, a welcome soundtrack to the week’s sweaty wanders.
A further highlight came from the swirling mixed flocks of hirundines and swifts noted early each day in the skies above the resort. Familiar species, House Martin and Barn Swallow, mixed with the less familiar shapes of Crag Martin and Red-rumped Swallow. As for the swifts, it was lovely to finally gain good views of Alpine and Pallid Swift.
Scrutinising the botanical community of the local area, it was interesting (if a little troubling) to note the sheer abundance of invasive species present within what was a relatively small corner of the island. Prickly Pear, Opuntia ficus-indica, and fearsome looking Eve’s-pin Cactus, Austrocylindropuntia subulata, added an element of peril to walks in rocky areas; whilst sprawling drifts of Hottentot Fig, Carpobrotus edulis, carpeted the ground in more shaded locations. Add to these no end of Century Plant, Agave americana, naturalised Hibiscus and Aloe Vera and the problems facing this Mediterranean Island become quite clear. The sheer domination of invasive species here is further emphasised by the presence in a wild setting of three species familiar from my own living room: Jade, Crassula ovata, Mother of Thousands, Bryophyllum daigremontianum, and African Milk Tree, Euphorbia trigona.
I should note that I did also find time to enjoy some native botanicals, albeit those that had not yet withered beyond recognition due to lack of rainfall. A personal favourite coming from the curious looking Exploding Cucumber, Ecballium elaterium.
Exploding Cucumber (Ecballium elaterium)
Moving on to the insect life present in close proximity to our temporary abode and as far as butterflies go, pickings were surprisingly slim. The most abundant species being Painted Lady, closely followed by the stunning Swallowtail. The smaller blues, warmed and energised by the persistent sun, were far too quick to identify, unfortunately. Although, multiple run-ins with Hummingbird Hawk-moth more than made up for this. As did my first encounter with the Cretan Cicada, Cicada cretensis.
Generally speaking, insects were few and far between on Crete. By far the most prevalent, at least in terms of biomass, were the hornets which, despite spreading fear among the ranks of the countless tourists beached around the pool, proved far from intimidating. Initially, I had assumed these were European Hornet; although upon closer inspection, they turned out to be Oriental Hornet, Vespa orientalis. A new species for me and one whose European distribution is limited only to Greece and other nations in the Southeast.
The abundance of hornets in the area was matched only by that of the aptly named Black-and-Red-bug, Lygaeus equestris. A species which managed to find its way everywhere: from inside our room, to inside my glass of Ouzo on more than one occasion. Numbers, however, are not everything and an honourable mention goes to the large, impressive and extremely vivid Socalid Wasp pictured below. I confess that I have not been able to identify this species. Any thoughts?
These are only a few observations from what was a holiday intended not as a ‘nature expedition’ but as an opportunity to relax and catch up with family. As I am sure readers of this blog will testify, however, it is difficult not to at least try to observe wildlife when travelling abroad. I, for one, am quite satisfied with the variety of life unearthed in the vicinity of Elounda, particularly given my inability to travel further afield, and would very much like to revisit the island in the future. This time, with the express intent of observing and enjoying the more iconic species that call Crete home.
There is rarely any cause for hope in the environmental field. Indeed, everywhere we look, habitats are being erased, ecosystems dismantled and vulnerable species pushed ever closer to the brink of annihilation. It can be grim, at times, and outright depressing at others.
Every once in a while, however, something bucks the trend – the airwaves this week rife with positivity and triumph, as opposed to shock and sorrow. I am of course talking about the successful campaign launched against the damaging bird netting used all too frequently by developers and local councils to spare them the inconvenience of nesting birds.
The uproar centred on this issue has been unprecedented, taking the airwaves and internet by storm in little over a week. In that time, 330,000 people have signed a petition demanding the netting of trees and hedges by developers be made illegal; countless individuals have bombarded the inboxes of MP’s and councillors [to great effect], and others have resorted to direct action – to the tracking, reporting and even removal of nets – in order to spare nature this latest bout of agony. People across the country have rallied together in disgust and concern and, thankfully, it seems to have worked!
All across social media, examples of people power successfully landing a victory for nature have been apparent. First, there were the tweets of numerous MP’s, including the Environment Secretary, keen to hop aboard the bandwagon and support the campaign. Next, there were the developers, leaping into action to spare themselves the wrath of the infuriated public: nets came down, apologies were issued and promises with regards to best practice were abruptly made. Finally, there was the resounding defeat of North Norfolk Council who, after a failed attempt to justify the exclusion of Sand Martin’s from a large expanse of breeding habitat at Bacton, backtracked remarkably and set about removing nets.
All of this may not seem particularly important in the long run – netting is, after all, a relatively small issue in the grand scheme of things, at least when compared to habitat loss, agriculture, pesticides, persecution and the like. However, like these, netting is a symptom of our societies widespread disregard for the natural world – a sorry sign of the low-value we place upon nature and our tendency to bend it to our will whenever it poses the slightest inconvenience. With that in mind, a victory for those at the heart of the #NetsDownForNature campaign is a victory not just over greedy developers and ignorant councils, but over the prevailing attitude towards wildlife.
The recent uproar over netting has displayed people power at its finest and represents a triumph for those seeking to alter the collective mindset with regards to the natural world. All involved should be immensely proud and I, for one, am grateful to those who took a stand.
Before yesterday commenced, I had only seen three Red-necked Grebes in my lifetime. Two as distant apparitions amid undulating heat haze on a vast swath of Estonian marshland, and the other, as an equally uninspiring spec on the horizon here in the UK. The latter being tossed astray by the tide around half a mile out from a well-known watchpoint on the Northumbrian coast.
I must confess that these encounters, while enjoyable, did little highlight the appeal of this species at their heart. They provided little opportunity to admire and scrutinise. Standing as polar opposites to yesterdays encounter – a prize find by some local birders allowing me to enjoy the species in full, at point-blank range.
Views of this species – Britain’s rarest regular grebe – are seldom so good. Indeed, I could not quite believe my eyes upon catching sight of this particular bird as it fed in a shallow, salt marsh channel mere inches from the feet of the few birders assembled in appreciation. The sight of the surprisingly delicate waterbird was unbelievable, inconceivable almost, as it hunted for small fish within touching distance. So close that its antics underwater, as it twisted and rived in pursuit of prey, were equally visible. A Red-necked Grebe, under any circumstance, is a sight to treasure; though under these circumstances, is quite the treat.
The reason for the grebes confiding nature remains a mystery to me; although speaking to those in attendance, inexperience seems most likely. It was a young bird, so perhaps it had simply never encountered man before – migrating from the species breeding grounds in the far North or East has never stumbled across a single human. It certainly showed little fear of those in attendance and here, at least, it has little need to fear.
I dare say I will never view this species under these circumstances again and, as such, this experience will go down in the record books as a one-off. An encounter to be treasured.
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Winter visitor. Waxwings are winter visitors to Britain, migrating here from their breeding grounds in the boreal forest belt that stretches from Scandinavia, through Russia and across parts of North America. The numbers that reach the UK depend on the availability of berries on the Continent. In years where berry crops fail, birds are forced to migrate greater distances in search of food, often reaching our shores en masse.
Irruptions. Given that the winter movements of waxwings are dependent on the amount of food available on the continent, the UK can receive anything from a few dozen birds to as many as 12,000 each year. Most years, Britain hosts at least a few birds; though, during irruption years, many more can arrive on our shores. Eastern and northern Britain tend to receive the highest number of waxwings during the winter due to their proximity to the North Sea crossing points.
Mountain Ash connoisseurs. Experts believe Rowan (aka Mountain Ash) to be the favoured food of waxings; though they regularly feast on other native and non-native Sorbus berries in the UK. Among these: hawthorn, cotoneaster and dog rose. With Spindle and Whitebeam are also taken with gusto. Where berries are in short supply, waxwings can often be drawn to an area with apples, either left as windfall or deliberately placed.
Feeding habits. Fruiting plants are incredibly important for waxwings in the winter as they typically eat 800-1000 berries a day, roughly twice their body weight. This changes during the breeding season, however, when the species feeds mainly on midges, mosquitoes and other small insects. It is therefore not unusual to see any waxwings remaining in Britain during the spring feasting on insects.
Selfless Symbolism. Spiritualists believe waxwings to be a symbol of selfless generosity. The symbolism of the waxwing totem is believed to teach selflessness and the practice of giving to others for their benefit, and not your own. Waxwings are traditionally associated with the politeness you should have when you give away to others the thing you have craved for or cherished for so long.
Selfish, not selfless. It is believed that the association of waxwings with selflessness and giving stems from their courtship habits. When a male waxwing sets out in search of a mate, it often carries a berry – passed to a female bird in an effort to impress her. The female waxwing then takes the berry and returns it to the male, with the gifting ritual repeated many times until, eventually, mating takes place. While some may view this as a sign of selflessness, in reality, the male instigates this ritual in order to spread his own genes; thus the process, while touching, is actually rather selfish.
Waxwing separation. Two species of waxwing have occurred in Britain: the commoner Bohemian Waxwing (Bombycilla garrulus) and much scarcer Cedar Waxwing (Bombycilla cedrorum). The separation between the two can often be difficult; though the colour of the bird provides a good indicator. A Bohemian Waxwing has a grey chest and belly while a Cedar Waxwing has a brown chest with a yellow belly. Additionally, if the bird’s undertail is a brownish-orange, it’s a Bohemian Waxwing. If the undertail is white, it’s a Cedar Waxwing.
Cedar Waxwing (Bombycilla cedrorum)
A rare repeat performance. Having visited our shores during winter, individual waxwings seldom return to Britain – demonstrated by the incredibly low number of successful ringing recoveries. That said, in 2010, one particular bird bucked this trend, returning to the village of Kintore, in Aberdeenshire, almost a year to the day it had first been ringed by the Grampian Ringing Group. This represented only the third confirmed record of a waxwing returning to the UK in a subsequent winter from over 4,500 ringed birds successfully banded.
Global Abundance. While we Brits tend to think of waxwings as a seasonal scarcity, they are actually rather abundant. The global population of waxwings has been estimated at more than three million birds, and the breeding range covers about 12.8 million km2. Although this species’ population, as of 2013, appears to be declining, the decrease is not rapid nor large enough to trigger a change to their vulnerability criteria. The waxwing is classified by the International Union for Conservation of Nature as being of ‘least concern’.
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We all have days when everything feels like just a little bit too much: like myriad tasks are mounting up uncontrollably while motivation [and self-worth] are cascading downwards. Slumps and spells of low creativity as we bemoan mounting pressures but do little to combat them due to persistent, nagging and quite frankly, irritating, doubts. Yes, it has been one of those weeks – fine and dandy at work, and in public, but strangely deflated at home.
For some obscure reason, I have found myself demoralised of late. I wouldn’t go as far as to say “down” but definitely lacking the energy and incentive to do the things I usually love: writing, blogging, even birding. All of which has culminated in prolonged spells of sitting and staring vacantly at my laptop screen. Hoping for the miraculous resurgence of inspiration yet getting nowhere fast, until this morning that is, with a prolonged bout of ‘curtain twitching’.
I had chalked my recent slump up to a lack of time in nature, something I suspect many of us need to function properly as human beings. Perhaps I was correct; although gazing outwards from the window, I quickly came to realise I had been ignorant, and that one need not be galavanting in the countryside to enjoy, and seek motivation from the natural world.
For those unaware, my bedroom window looks out directly on to a busy street – the only perk being the bird feeders tactfully positioned outside in our minuscule yard. These attract a good range of species given our position in central Newcastle: house sparrows (over 70 at times), goldfinches, starlings, woodpigeons, doves, dunnocks and the occasional tit and Robin. All of which I fear I have overlooked in my current self-reflective grump.
Today, the feeders thronged with sparrows – around forty of them – jostling for position and making an ungodly mess, all to a persistent soundtrack of high-pitched chirrups. The testosterone-fueled jostling of the male birds, clad in their dark masks of alternating hues – a sign of dominance, I was once told – bemusing, and the boldness of the entire folk in the face of passing dog-walkers and cyclists, outstanding.
Above the sparrows, a pair of visiting Goldfinches raided the Nyger; appearing almost snobbish as they watched the scrum beneath. On the ground, a plump Woodpigeon waddled through the mass of small, brown birds, dispersing them in its wake as it mopped up fallen fragments of sunflower and wheat. From the pot which holds our now decrepit Cotoneaster, a Dunnock tentatively emerged, far too polite to engage in the frenzy and content to pick off stray morsels from the peripheries.
I confess that it took me a while to realise I was feeling better; mood building as I observed the fray until begrudgingly, I returned to my screen. Now, three hours later, I have obliterated my ‘to do’ list: answering emails, writing a reference, drafting a post for a notable NGO, proofreading a magazine and quickly producing a few snippets of overdue copy. Hell, now I even find myself writing this post – the first piece of genuine writing I have submitted to this blog in weeks.
It really is remarkable what a brief spell in nature can do for you. I should take five, sit back and watch more often – even when commitments render me unable to travel further afield.
Britain’s seabird colonies represent a spectacle like no other: bustling, raucous municipalities where a multitude of species congregate to form a single, far larger, living being. An avian city, cramped and lively, which moves and reacts as one when presented with danger, or opportunity – similar in many ways to the concrete jungles so many of us call home.
Break down the riving mass of feathers and dagger-like bills, however, and one begins to see the individual characters, traits and virtues of the species present. Each occupying a niche somewhat different from the previous, which allows all to live, breed, fight and survive in close proximity, side by side. Our seabird colonies are marvellous things and, truth be told, I love each and every aspect of them: the hustle and bustle, the minidramas unfolding each minute, the deafening sound, and even the smell. Fishy, pungent even; though far from unpleasant.
Yesterday, I had the pleasure of once again visiting the Farne Islands. The sight of the bleached cliffs, painted brown by an undulating carpet of breeding Guillemots, inducing a familiar adrenaline rush upon approach to the jetty of Staple Island. The same giddy feeling that accompanies each visit without fail promising no end of drama and delights. I was not disappointed – the first portion of our visit filled to the brim with angelic Kittiwakes, marauding Great Black-backed Gulls and, of course, shags. Some of which now find themselves tending scaly, featherless young. Themselves reminiscent of something from Spielberg’s Jurassic movies – prehistoric and reptilian – and a far-cry from the emerald-eyed beauty of the adult birds.
As ever, it was the islands more abundant residents – the auks – which held the most allure. There is something to be said about Razorbills, of course, though the squabbling ranks of Guillemots amassed atop the peaks of their Whin sill stacks are mesmerising. Especially when ranks close as a predator descends: birds ceasing their petty, territorial squabbles as countless piercing bills turn upwards in mutual defence. The colony transforming momentarily from a loose assemblage of bickering neighbours into a coherent wall of spears that only breaks when the shadow above passes. An avian testudo, doubtless unwelcoming to the hungry gulls above.
Away from the cliff-tops, Puffins reigned supreme. The burrows of countless clowns nestled amid a blanket of blooming Sea Campion as the adult birds, their bills laden with the catch of the day, braved a course of thieves to make it home. Zipping overhead like glamorous torpedos, determined not to part with their hard-earned and life-giving haul.
No trip to the islands would be complete absent a somewhat stereotypical shot of an adult Puffin triumphant with its bill-full of shimmering sandseels, and thankfully, many were seen. An indicator as to the presence of growing chicks concealed amid the gloom of their burrows. Let us hope that, given the recent, altogether disheartening news regarding the Farnes Puffin populations, this year is one of success.
Departing the islands, a whirlwind boat tour ensued. I am not quite sure how many such ventures I have undertaken over the years past since I first visited; though I never tire of them. The sight of plump Grey Seals hauled out on unyielding shores, the sight of Grace Darlings famous lighthouse rising like an oversized candy cane from the rock, and the airborne antics of Gannets and swallow-tailed Arctic Terns, never boring, nor repetitive.
Back on dry land, the harbour at Seahouses, as ever, hosted a good number of Cuddy Ducks – Eiders, for those not familiar with the ins and outs of Northumbrian folklore. Females only on this occasion, cryptic yet beautiful in their mottled brown and black garb, interspersed with a handful of downy young. The victors, by all accounts – those who have successfully completed the voyage from the species breeding grounds on the islands and now, following their nocturnal escape, find themselves in the (relative) safety of the port. Given the size of Eider broods and the poultry number of young present, however, it is safe to assume not all made it. Such is life.
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…
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!
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.
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.
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.
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.
Bakethin, located a short-way upstream of Kielder Reservoir, is unique among nature reserves in Northumberland. Here, among the hulking frames of aged firs and a forest floor dominated by mossy knolls and straggly Bilberry, it is quite possible to pretend you are elsewhere: to imagine yourself strolling through the wilds of Scandinavia or Canada. The only sounds here, in the wild heart of the North-East, coming from natural sources: the soft plop of falling snow as, warmed by the sun, it tumbles from overhead branches, the sound of lapping water, creaking trunks and, of course, birdsong. It is this sense of wilderness, the feeling of isolation and remoteness, which makes a visit to Bakethin so enjoyable, cathartic even. This superb site boasting its own unique array of wildlife, quite unlike any other place in our region.
My visit to Bakethin started well, the sight of frozen waterways, frost-strewn mosses and delicate hoarfrost giving the appearance of a true Winter wonderland as we set out on the trail mid-morning. Indeed, while most of the previous night’s ice had melted in the Winter sun, trees in the shadier reaches of the wood found themselves festooned with some truly impressive works of ice. Branches, twigs and trunks alike coated in fern-like crystals, each similar yet also different from the last. Frosts such as this only form under the right set of climatic conditions, usually on clear and still nights, and, in truth, they were rather magical to see.
Following the woodland trail from our start point at Butteryhaugh Bridge, it did not take long for the site’s wildlife to become apparent. First, a Nuthatch scampering deftly up the trunk of a weathered-looking Sitka Spruce and next, a party of gold-black Siskin taking flight from the canopy and passing overhead against the blue sky in a flurry of pleasant twittering. Further into the wood, in the area surrounding the new (and rather nice) hide overlooking the reservoir, a Treecreeper showed well as it foraged in the dappled sunlight and the sharp, one-note flight call of a Great Spotted Woodpecker was heard as the bird passed by out of sight. These were, however, not the most exciting species to be seen here and soon, with a brief flash of soft-crimson, the days target species flew into sight: Crossbills.
Common Crossbills are not a species encountered very often by casual nature lovers in Northumberland. Their conifer-based diet and resulting habitat preferences meaning that they are confined, for the main part, to the interior of the county. To areas such as Kielder Forest, where their preferred food plants grow in abundance. They are extremely attractive birds: the males in their warm, red attire and the females in their paler, green plumage making for riveting viewing as they delicately extract the seeds from robust spruce cones. A sight we enjoyed for a good half-hour at Bakethin before the niggling cold forced us to take shelter in the lakeside hide. Leaving the birds to their feast in peace.
From the hide, the extent of the prior nights cold snap became clear: the lake frozen for around 25m in every direction. Something which resulted in what wildfowl there was – Mallard, Tufted Duck and Goldeneye – lurking far offshore. Not that it mattered much; the landscape before us, illuminated by the sun, making for relaxing viewing. A sight of tranquillity which, coupled with rare silence, made for a most luxurious pitstop. The ephemeral stillness outside now, set to disappear come Spring: when migrant birds arrive once more, wildflowers burst into life, amphibians and reptiles emerge and ice retreats, again, for another season.
On the return journey, the sound a singing Crossbill could be heard – although the bird itself was never seen – and, in the carpark, shaking branches heralded the arrival of another must-see Bakethin resident: a Red Squirrel. The Auburn one, boasting some truly impressive Winter ear-tufts, dropping briefly to the ground in search of food before taking off out of sight moments later. Red Squirrels are not doing all that well in the wider countryside, thus it lifts heart to see them going strong here, in their English stronghold. A testament to the diligent work of conservationists working to protect the precious population living across the wider Kielder Forest area.
