On New Year’s Eve, in a cosy cafe over pots of tea, a friend put a question to the group: ‘So what are you going to do to save the planet this year?’ I don’t fly, and have for a long time tried to tread lightly and shop sustainably, although I can always do better. Over the following days, I mulled over the question and decided to rethink some aspects of my teaching. I currently teach music in a West Sussex primary school, which is blessed with a rural setting, planting to inspire the senses and chickens. Wanting to celebrate this in some way, I decided to integrate themes from the natural world into my music curriculum. I have linked the two in previous years but, with some creativity, I thought I could do more. In his wonderful writings on bees, Dave Goulson notes that young children are usually enthralled by nature, but lose interest as they grow up. I hoped that connecting musical learning with the natural environment might emphasis the significance of the latter, inspire the children’s creativity, and promote discussion and curiosity at a time when guardians of the planet are badly needed.
After some thought, my musical projects this term read as follows: singing and writing environmental protest songs with the oldest children; listening to and creating music descriptive of natural landscapes with the middle year groups, and exploring woodland sounds and songs with the youngest. One group will have the option to make percussion instruments at home – an opportunity to reuse and recycle. We’re just at the beginning and I will wait to see how the projects unfold.
I spend a noticeable amount of time, in January, longing for lighter evenings. Each day, when dusk begins to fall and I’m on my way home, I look upwards and will the sky to shed its sobriety and brighten. However, the silhouettes of bare trees against a sunset is a wonderful sight and makes my journey home more of a delight than a chore. Yesterday I decided to head straight out again after arriving home, inspired by the rural wooded landscape through which I had just passed and hastened by the knowledge that any last vestige of light would soon disappear. A stone’s throw from the house is an L shaped pond, bordered on two sides by silver birch. The tall, thin trees looked elegant in this half-light; the branches an intricate patchwork, disturbed here and thereby a great clump of twigs formed into a nest. By the time I reached the other side of the pond, the scene was lit only by a solitary streetlamp and the sky was black. I hadn’t been paying attention to sound, enjoying the relative quiet, but from somewhere above my left ear came the most beautiful of songs. In the dusk, a robin, perched delicately on a branch, sang out for me alone (or so it seemed).
Recently I was looking through the news when an article on tree planting caught my eye. The accompanying picture showed a forest of young trees, which turned out to be Heartwood Forest in Hertfordshire, planted by volunteers nearly ten years ago. What were once spindly bunches of twigs have now flourished into woodland, enjoyed by wildlife and people. I was one of those volunteers and, having forgotten all about it ten years later, this story was wonderful to read. After describing the various heights of trees to rather loosely illustrate the concept of pitch with a class yesterday, I told the children about my tree planting and the resulting forest. Wouldn’t it be amazing if they planted a tree and came back to see it when they were in Year 6, I said. One child already had, and told me all about it. Get planting; it’s never too soon.
The bright sunshine urged me out of doors this Sunday morning, and I pulled on boots and a raincoat in readiness for a walk. Long-standing readers of this blog may recall I previously wrote about experiencing nature in the city. Living in the midst of a built-up area, surrounded by blocks of flats and busy roads, I tried to notice beauty everywhere I went and this would make a routine walk much more interesting, as well as raise my spirits. Earlier this year I left London for the Surrey Hills. It’s wonderful to be here, but I still feel the need to see and celebrate nature. I’d argue many of us do. So here’s what I noticed on my winter stroll.
I walked to the edge of town and found a footpath sign pointing the way. The path wove along the backs of houses, climbing gently through thick mud. I was on the north side of the town, with Denbies Vineyard stretched out on my right and wooded slopes in front. The path was bordered on one side by spindly sticks of hedgerow that silhouetted beautifully against the blue sky. Around the bare twigs curled the soft, silky flowers of old man’s beard, still intact despite the battering they must have had from the rain. Further up, the hedge filled out with evergreens and I noted pyracantha, holly, and brambles still with the odd shrivelled berry. The path now edged round a copse of beech trees. A bullfinch flew across my way, pausing just long enough in the uppermost branches of a silver birch for me to notice its colourful plumage. A blackbird hopped from twig to twig on my left-hand side, and the trees were now leaning towards each other, over the path, to create an arboreal ceiling. The trees in the copse had shed many of their leaves and, after the downpour the previous night, the copper carpet glistened in the sunlight. Over the crest of the hill, th
e path turned into a muddy track that led into the vineyard. Despite not feeling that I’d climbed very high, I had views across to the east, west and north; if I looked due west towards Ranmore I could follow with my eyes the North Downs Way, which came down the hills, around the vineyard, and on across to Box Hill and beyond.
Being outside on this bright winter’s day felt good, and after looking up at the many shapes of the trees covering the hillside to my left, I stomped forward on a path between the vines. The tyres of a tractor had formed troughs in the mud, and these had filled with water, creating a series of similarly shaped puddles that reflected the light. I reached the edge of the vineyard and, as I looked for a way out, was drawn towards a rose that had gone rouge over a wire fence. A stem covered in rose-hips had arched itself over the top wire, and made a beautiful feature of an otherwise purely functional barrier. I hadn’t been feeling very festive, and the bright sunshine and clear sky were almost spring-like, but I was suddenly inspired by what I’d noticed on my walk. Nature’s festive decorations were out here, bringing splashes of beauty in a mixture of shape and seasonal colour. I wouldn’t be bringing any home, of course, and, like others, I still like to light up my window with fairy lights in December. But getting closer to nature had, again, invigorated my spirits and set me up for the week ahead.
Yesterday I joined a walk on Wimbledon Common led by Peter Fiennes, author of an absorbing and beautiful book on trees. Oak, Ash and Thorn sets out the case for Britain’s woodland and I liked the idea of discussing this subject within the woodland itself. We gathered, rather aptly, under an oak, its crown providing a natural awning for the speaker and his audience. Peter told us how the book came into being, a response to the proposed selling of the country’s forests by the government in 2010, and how it led him to spend a year exploring the woodland of Britain.
This late Spring walk followed a rambling route through the oak and chestnut woods of the Common, with Peter pausing to enlighten us on the subject of woodlands and the myths, folk tales and opinion surrounding them. Winding down a footpath, we stopped at the base of a holly tree reaching far above our heads. The trailing fronds of the holly had a sense of mysticism and even awe, and we learnt that a holly leaf in a man’s pocket would bring him luck in love. We paused at an ancient yew and admired a resplendent chestnut, before passing through a small clearing where oak and birch saplings were growing. Free from the grazing of sheep and deer this was rewilding in action, Peter told us. After more than six years walking on the Common, I discovered a pair of lime trees to be growing deep in its depths; bright green, roundish leaves seeming all the brighter against the dark trunks and earthy woodland floor. Inspired by the location, and our guide, the conversation very quickly turned to trees, and we galloped through the merits of woodlands, street trees, and London’s parks and commons with passion. This walk was part of the Urban Tree Festival, promoting awareness of trees in London. There are all sorts of reasons why we benefit from trees, but this afternoon I was particularly conscious of the calm I felt on leaving the woodland. As we returned to our meeting place, drops of rain began to fall and grey skies suggested more was to come. I ambled back along a well-trodden path to my car. The sweet scent of elderflower filled my nostrils and the rampant brambles promised a good gathering of fruit this summer.
Passing the great green mound of Box Hill on my route home, I took a spontaneous decision to stop the car and get out. I scrambled up and within minutes had a vista of trees in every direction. Green overlaid on green, with shades and shapes so different and yet so in harmony with each other that I could look at them for hours. There was no rain here, and I paused to sit on bouncy turf for a moment. This was a wonderful spot, out on the hillside with a sea of green, and a fitting end to a tree-filled day. Go now, walk amongst the trees, and leave with a lighter mind.
I’ve been making a conscious effort, since January 1st, to notice nature in the grey bleakness of the city in winter. One morning last week, buttoned up against the irrepressible sleet and the bitter cold, I was walking fast through an industrial park in South London, having deposited my car at the mechanic. Following my nose, I headed for a gap between two walls, where, sure enough, there was a footpath that cuts through the buildings and then came out, completely unexpectedly, alongside a river. Three long-tailed tits bobbed from twig to twig in a bush in front of me and a robin manned a post on the footbridge. The red, straight twigs of the dogwood brightened the riverbank and the swish of the water over the little weir was a pleasant sound. By the time I reached the bus stop, the sun had come out and the streets glistened after their cold shower.
The following day was a windy one and I took a walk along the river. On impulse, I turned right through a small gate and into the nature reserve that lies between the Thames path here and the road. There’s a steep incline as you scramble a few paces up the bank to join the footpath that follows the edge of the reservoir. I reached the top and caught my breath. For a moment, I felt as if the entire population of ring-necked parakeets had arranged a party in the branches above my head. They were perched at all levels in a plane tree, holding animated conversations with each other. The squawks weren’t going to stop soon so I walked on, the river to my left and reservoir to my right; I was walking through the water, with the security of knowing I was on dry land. Three herons, sitting on three different bundles of twigs, surveyed the world from their watery look-out posts. Two Egyptian geese flew over my head to settle in a plane tree, from where they produced deep honking squawks to rival those of the parakeets. I came down from my river road and through the gate back onto the path, the greyness not bleak, but beautiful in a subtle way.
On Sunday I visited an exhibition at the William Morris Gallery in East London. It centred on the depiction of the garden, of cultivated nature, in paint and textiles. Light shone from the works, not only in the sun-filled skies of one or two but from the greens of the leaves, the lawns and the vines enveloping the brick walls. A painting by Pissaro epitomised the sense of light oozing from the paintings, in which there was often just as much green as yellow. This was a bright, colourful collection and we left inspired by its cheerful optimism. After a mooch around the rest of the gallery, where nature is a constant inspiration in Morris’ designs, we headed out to the gardens behind the house. Despite the bitter cold, a spontaneous desire to be in nature, however, cultivated, seems to have prevailed; we were now really amongst the green, the birdsong and the floral designs that were yet to appear in the formal beds. The light, in the clear sky of the late afternoon, though faded to sunset by the time we reached the road to go home, had lit up every branch and shrub with its brightness. Nature imitating art, imitating nature.
So you want to start a blog. A nature blog, no less.
Hats off to you for taking some steps closer to creating one. There is always room on the web for another voice for the natural world.
This article is all about how to blog about nature. What format and style to choose, the structure and word-count that work best, and what to remember in the face of feeling nervous about writing. There’ll also be some help on what to blog about, to spark some ideas, or organise the ones you already have.
Firstly, I want you to shelve those notions of blogging as a passive income or becoming an international celebrity blogger. Not only is this a mostly delusional goal for the majority of bloggers (think dime a dozen travel blogs, for one), in the fields of nature and the environment you have to be really exceptional to grow an enviable audience. Even then, it will be nothing like the success achieved by celeb-bloggers such as Perez Hilton or Darren Prowse of Problogger. Articles about the natural world just aren’t as sexy as those about London Fashion Week or bitcoin investment. Sad but true.
Hopefully, you’ve come here because you want to write a blog for your own noble reasons instead: self-development, sharing opinions, teaching others, spreading awareness. And we could all do with more of that on the world wide web (with some real-world action to follow, of course).
How to write your blog
Whatever your reasons for deciding to write a blog, the most important thing to remember is (cue corny lines) write from the heart. Be yourself. Follow and share your passions. Clichés aside, your blog will be richer, more honest and more relatable if you do this. Being authentic is what will make you more appealing. Why write something that’s a carbon-copy of what others are doing, anyway? There’s no sign of the neoliberal celebration of individualism coming to an end any time soon. Embrace your uniqueness. Be weird and proud of it.
Diary style
A good angle for a nature blog is to write it like a journal.
Remember the old days, when naturalists only had a pencil and paper-based fieldbook to take out into the wilds? Try doing this yourself. Connecting our minds through our hands by using a real pen with real paper helps us to process and articulate information better (scientific fact[1]). Head out on a hike and observe, record and draw. Let nature be your inspiration.
After your wanderings in the wilds, grab your keyboard and transfer your handmade notes to digital format. Type up your observations. Upload the photos. Scan your sketches. And don’t forget to add the location, date, time and weather. Details make a difference. Once the raw data is on your computer, it’s ideal material to add to compilations of stories, thoughts and feelings.
People love reading personal diary-like accounts, especially when they include interesting facts or images from a trip out into the field. It’s worth noting that if it weren’t for the old journals of past-naturalists, much of our knowledge about species (particularly extinct ones) would never have been gathered. You can be a part of the global accumulation of data about our natural world.
Your blog will also serve as a record for you to refer to time and again, whether for research or reminiscence. And you’re sure to have a following of folks who love to have a nosey in other people’s diaries.
Putting it together
What puts off a lot of wannabe bloggers is how to word and structure their posts. Assembling a readable, engaging and enjoyable blog post isn’t as difficult as you’d imagine, however. There are tried-and-tested formulae, as well as structures and styles you can employ to be sure your site visitors stick around and enjoy the show.
Style
Consider the voice you want for your blog. By voice, I mean the way your blog reads in the eyes and minds of your audience. This is the difference between “punchin’ keys like a pro to serve up some flamin’ hot content” and “eloquently crafting prose that produces magnificently alluring subject matter”. Informal vs. formal. Slang-filled casual text or loftier, more lucid wordsmithing.
Who you appeal to can depend on the way you write.
Most folks don’t want to learn stuff while poring over jargon-heavy text that reads like an audit for a law firm. However, if you’re writing among circles of scientists and other academics, your blog posts should include much meatier, more complex vocabulary. Again, the adage “Be yourself” applies here. Use the language you’re most comfortable with, to avoid sounding pretentious (or out of your depth) but don’t be afraid to research and employ new words too – blogging is a voyage of discovery in many ways.
Fortunately for bloggers everywhere, the sweetest read tends to be an informal, conversational tone, like you’re listening to a friend describe their day in a chatty email or diary entry. If you can write in a friendly yet informative way, you’ll be on to a blogging hit. Just don’t create an extreme version of an informal article; a dumbed-down post that sounds more patronising than personable (clickbait articles that have as much substance as a jellyfish fart are prime examples).
Structure
Whenever you create a blog post, the layout and structure of the piece is just as crucial as the content. Conscientiously organising writing on a page is something a lot of bloggers overlook, to the dismay of their readers.
Imagine chancing upon a marvellous title on a topic you’re passionate about, only to find it is written as a single, gapless, wall of words. A huge block of intimidating text. To the reader’s eye, it’s the visual equivalent of a brick in the face. All but the most determined (or possibly dullest) readers will skip it for a lighter read.
By paragraphing your article, you divide the information into bite-sized chunks. Now, instead of trying to force-feed someone a bullion bar of 97% dark chocolate, you’re presenting them with a tray of appealing, cocoa-filled dainties they can pick at one by one.
Adding titles, like the ones in this post, will also make for easier reading. Images inserted between sub-topics also have the same effect, breaking up huge areas of text and leading the reader onwards within the article.
Single, isolated sentences are another device that writers use to maintain engagement.
Like the one above.
Or the one you just read.
They act like a snap of the fingers to grab attention and are especially effective for spurring someone into action or helping them retain some information.
There’s a lot of contention about word count in online content. Some say 200-400 words is ideal because most people only have the opportunity to read something in the time it takes to boil a kettle, or else have as much concentration capability as a cat with ADHD. Others insist that search engines like Google favour articles which are longer than 1000 words because these ample reads contain more value for readers.
In my humble opinion, a blog post written for the joy of writing – not just for increasing eyeballs to your website – can be as long or as short as you bloody well like.
If you want to appeal to an audience of trigger-happy perpetual-surfers whose attention spans are as long as the autoplay timer between YouTube videos, you should keep posts under 400 words and cram in plenty of images to keep ‘em happy.
But if you want a following who desire a hearty meal of a read that’s brimming with information and insights, you can pour out a 2000-word essay without fear of inducing blog-jumping boredom. Incidentally, a blog post of 1700 words constitutes a 7-minute read, which is the optimum length of reading time according to the popular publishing platform Medium. So perhaps reports about creating sizeable articles are true.
If you’ve made an effort, your audience will too.
Professionalism
Writing a blog can be daunting, especially when we have plenty to share and say, but believe we lack the language skills to do it.
If your spelling and punctuation leave a lot to be desired, or your grasp of grammar is tenuous at best, there’s a risk that your readers won’t have faith in what you say. Your facts could be spot on, your stories compelling and inspirational, but if your reader continually stumbles over misplaced commas and blunders into dangling participles (say whaaat?), they’ll be so jarred by the experience they’ll have missed what your post is really about.
That said, in the blogosphere (yes, it’s a real word) most people understand that no one is perfect, and people can be very forgiving if they read material that has clearly come from the heart. What’s more, writing is a skill like any other and improves the more you do it. Perseverance and practice will make perfect.
And with online assistance in the form of spellchecking software, websites and forums on grammar rules, and professional writing coaches for hire, you can develop your penmanship in tandem with your blogging journey.
Before publishing posts, be sure to scan your text for errors and readability. If you’re still in doubt, have it proof-read by another set of eyes. Sometimes, leaving a freshly-written piece for a while, then returning to read it again, can often highlight mistakes you would have otherwise missed.
As a writer, editor and English teacher by trade, I’m biased in opining that a human eye is far more reliable for checking work than a machine. Perhaps the software is advancing faster than I can type this article, but almost all grammar-checking programmes currently on the market still can’t identify word-choice errors, suitability and tone of voice, structure, flow or formatting. Nor can they give constructive feedback about someone’s writing ability.
Rise of the robots…?
Not just yet.
What to write in a nature blog
Many bloggers falter at the thought of what to write about. Again, the rule of thumb here is to draw from what fires your imagination the most; what do you feel most passionate about? Choosing a niche, or a blending of a few niches also brings an interested audience to your blog.
You could focus on places you love to visit, perhaps your local area or a regular twitching haunt. Describe the trips you’ve made and your excursions to areas of natural beauty or sites of special scientific interest. It could be a blog solely dedicated to national parks, river walks or wildlife in the urban jungle. The choice is yours.
Another option is to showcase animals in your blogs, from broad coverage of entire families of animals to a focus on single species. Consider what to include about each creature: scientific information; hilarious, strange or astounding facts; stories inspired by their habits and habitats; tales of your own encounters with the species.
When I was writing for the Dorset Wildlife Trust, I presented several stories that happened to feature facts about the unbelievable genitalia of some marine species. Did you know that a barnacle has the longest penis of any animal in relation to its size?! Fascinating and wonderfully risqué at the same time. What can I say? Sex sells.
Why not write a blog filled with practical advice for naturalists and nature enthusiasts? We all have knowledge and expertise to share – from what equipment to take out into the field, to where to spot corvids in the UK – your blog could be a mine of information for others.
And if you feel you don’t have any tips or advice to share, opt for your opinion instead. Your blog can be a sounding board for your views on conservation, land use, species extinction or pollution… the topics are limitless. Throw in a forum and you could generate a whole new wave of ideas in your very own online community.
Take a journalistic stance and publish posts that report on environmental, ecological and social issues. In a world plagued by greedy corporations, fake news and unscrupulous authorities, independent journalism is a worthy and much-needed field to enter these days.
The marvellous thing about blogging is the sheer variety and scope you have as a self-publishing author. All manner of topics can be covered in the same blog. Your nature writing could include wild foods and foraging tips, places to do rock-climbing, how to photograph invertebrates with a macro lens, plus a report on a silversmithing project you’re undertaking.
Combos and cross-fertilisation of concepts make the most captivating blogs.
So, what are you waiting for?
Grab your pen and fieldbook, do up your boots and start some online literary trail-making of your own. Our natural world needs our voices more than ever before.
If you liked this post, please consider casting a vote for me in the UK Blog Awards 2019 by following this link. All you need to do is select the ‘love heart’ beside Common By Nature.
I was returning home from work along the scenic route, having been tempted by the sunshine to prolong my journey. I followed the path along the river, which was a busy, but pleasant, highway with cyclists, runners and pedestrians, some pausing and taking a slower pace than they might otherwise in cooler weather. The trees overhanging the Thames were illuminated by a rich, warm light and the water sparkled like lights in a Christmas window. Long boughs dipped and swayed. Rowers directed their boats through the water leaving waves that lapped the shore in a gentle rhythm. I looked ahead; the path led through a corridor of different shades of greens and yellows, the trees glowing in the sunshine with all the presence of an opera diva; the stage is theirs at this time of year as particular species give us a brilliant show of colour. Acers, or maples, are wonderful trees for colour in the Autumn, and any walkthrough beech woods will provide a canopy of oranges and yellows.
I lingered momentarily to survey the scene and then turned up the path away from the river. Peeping through the blue diamond fencing were clusters of rose-hips, bold beads of crimson in a green tangle of foliage. Brambles with shrivelled fruit reminded me of the summer’s harvest; foragers had needed to be earlier than usual this year. A great tit dived in front of me, closely followed by another, and I listened to their call, sheltered from the traffic in this patch of green.
On the other side of the path the blousy white flowers of bindweed decorated the railings of the playing field. If left to its own devices, the weed will have covered these metal bars by the end of the year. I passed holly trees standing tall with bright red berries, perfect for use in decoration in a couple of months time. A little further on and the autumnal colours appeared again in a burst of exuberance. A well-established Virginia creeper had enveloped the railings between two houses, covering the metalwork and adjacent bricks with deep reds and vibrant yellows. I liked the fact that nature had been allowed to run riot in a small way, in this little corner of the city.
As I crossed the common on the home straight, I paused to look at the trees lit up by the late sunshine. The differing oval-like shapes of oak, silver birch, and many others lent a softness to the scene that contrasted with the rigid lines of the houses I had just passed. Children lingered, using the last hour of daylight, knowing it would soon disappear. At my feet were the first scatterings of this year’s fallen leaves and the mist in the mornings reminds me that the seasons have changed. Summer has bowed out, despite the temperature trying to tell us otherwise. The glorious colours of Autumn brightened my walk home and the slow setting sun provided a fitting finale to a beautiful day.
The next morning, the pavement was covered with a spectrum of colour from the leaves that had blown down overnight. Shades of reds and yellows from a Japanese maple covered the ground so completely that they almost created a tessellation on the tarmac. I found myself peering down to look at the beauty of a single leaf. The heavy rain had turned the leaf-festooned pavement into a slippery route, however, and I trod carefully. A splendid rowan lit up the grey morning with its bright red berries, and its leaves had already formed a pattern on the pavement. I am lucky to live in an area where trees grow on residential streets and I took extra notice of them on this blustery Autumnal day.
The Yorkshire village of Malham was basking in the mid-morning sunshine when we set off for a circular walk up over the hills via Gordale Scar. It was a pleasant temperature for walking and we started at a good pace, passing several other walkers out on this sunny bank holiday Saturday. Not far down the track, shaded by trees, was Janet’s Foss. The clear water pouring down from the rocks looked refreshing and incredibly clean and I felt healthy just gazing into the depths. Up and onwards, through increasingly rocky terrain, and we came to Gordale Scar, a steep cut through the rocks, through which it is possible to climb. I stood for a while, looking at the limestone around whilst keeping an eye on the walkers in front trying to scale the Scar in a dignified fashion. Nerves or sense overcame me and we opted not to risk the chance of a misplaced foot, instead of doubling back to follow an alternative route over the hill. We wound up and up, looking back at Malham in the valley, where the annual Malham Show was now in full swing. A swallow flew across our path and we continued, past a bull sitting regally in the middle of a field for all the world like a king surveying his subjects.
We followed a path across the moor and through slightly boggy terrain before dropping down just above Malham Cove. There were peaceful views across the country; green speckled with the white of sheep and crisscrossed with dry stone walls. The limestone pavement above the Cove is striking. The gaps, or grikes, breaking the limestone into separate stones is caused by water erosion and peering down we noticed ferns and small trees, perfectly at home in the cool depths. Around 400 man-made steps took us down into to the Cove, where again, the temptation to jump into the cool water, despite it not being a hot day, was strong. A beautiful scene and one which lots of people were enjoying, from little ones hitching a ride to more senior gentlemen resting on the bank.
The following day, with driving rain and an autumnal chill in the air, I opted to go in search of nature indoors and took a train to Saltaire to visit the David Hockney exhibition, ‘The Arrival of Spring’. The exhibition is on the top floor of the old mill with views of the surrounding tree-covered hills. Bright greens in the paintings made quite a contrast with the dark grey of the ceiling and floor. The light in the gallery was enhanced by the effective lighting of the paintings and the bright shades within them. There was certainly not a great deal coming through the windows on this rain-soaked afternoon.
If you follow the paintings chronologically, as the artist intends, and not, as I did, halfway through and in a random fashion, you’ll see that Hockney captures the changing of the season, sometimes painting a scene two or three times in different shades and colours. There is more detail to be picked up than one might at first think. When I reached the exhibition’s start, I went round again and enjoyed the paintings much more now I had grasped the order. Go and see this, if you can. A splash of well-placed colour on a rainy, dullish day made for cheery faces in Salts Mill. And if it helps us to wonder, to see more keenly the new growth that emerges as if by magic each year, that can only be a good thing.
Sunday promised a break in the rain and I set off early. I alighted from the bus at Bolton Abbey and passed through the gap in the wall that leads down to the water and the ruins of the priory. Grass and trees were bright with the wet of recent rain. I turned to walk across the bridge and up along the path that runs roughly parallel to the River Wharfe. Silver birch, oak and beech-lined the path on the steep hillside whilst mountain ash trees were also dotted around, recognisable by their red berries. There were views across the valley to the hills beyond, and the higher I climbed, the more I could see. At the highest point, I dropped down and followed the path away from the Abbey in the other direction. Here, I passed through a field where swallows ducked and dived. I stood still whilst they swooped in circles around me. A dog tried to chase one, in foolish pursuit. I followed the Dales Way along the river, through a field of munching sheep. The sun came out between the showers and cast a benign light on the calm scene. It’s possible to do a circular walk following the signposts and there are also walks marked in the other direction. Time dictated, however, that I return the way I had come so, on reaching the old road bridge, I retraced my steps back to the abbey. My time in Yorkshire was drawing to a close but I carried memories of the hills, the valleys and the swoop of the swallows all the way home.
This latest guest blog comes from AMA student, Edward Grierson, and focuses on the subject of Driven Grouse Shooting. Disclaimer: the words below are not those of the blog owner and queries and comments should be directed to the author, as appropriate. If you would like to submit a response for publication on this blog, please get in touch.
There is no topic in modern conservation more polarising than driven grouse shooting. As it stands, the debate on the subject, for the most part, is between two opposites: those who want to ban the sport and those who want to change nothing about the sport. Nor is there a topic which has been the subject of more discussion from both sides, to the point that this article feels like a flogging a dead horse. I’ve even written about this subject several times myself. Unfortunately, the recent disappearance of three hen harriers near grouse moors in the Borders and Cumbria has reminded both sides that wildlife crime is still rife within the sport[1]. With this in mind, now feels like as good a time as any to discuss a possible middle ground in such a schizophrenic debate. I am of course referring to licensing grouse shooting in the UK.
To understand why I support this approach, we have to look at the other two sides in this conflict. Firstly, there are those who oppose a ban, or any form of legislation, being applied to driven grouse shooting. Essentially, this equates to keeping the sport exactly as it is. And therein lies the problem: with grouse shooting as it is, peregrines are declining in the Peak District[2], red kites are as badly persecuted in Scotland as they were 25 years ago[3], and only three pairs of hen harriers bred in England last year[4]. This is despite the decades of negotiations between conservation organisations and shooting estates, which are still being touted as the solution to solving raptor persecution. Put simply, trying to keep the status quo, when the status quo is so clearly flawed, as with driven grouse shooting, makes no sense.
That being said, neither do I side with those who want to see driven grouse shooting banned. Admittedly, I have a history with this side; I proudly signed the first three e-petitions created by Mark Avery, and when the third e-petition earned Parliamentary debate, I wrote to my MP encouraging them to support a ban (they didn’t even turn up to the debate). More recently, however, I’ve begun to have doubts about it. Not only is it unlikely to be effective in the long term, since it would only apply for one part of the UK, but for a lot of our upland wildlife, it could be a major setback. Curlew, lapwing, golden plover, merlin, kestrel, ring ouzel, black grouse…all these would be far worse off if driven grouse shooting was to be banned. Don’t get me wrong, I want to see more of our uplands, including grouse moors, allowed to revert to natural conditions. But I can’t deny the importance that grouse moors have played in keeping a lot of Britain’s rarest species from going extinct. Not to mention that there are a lot of people working on these landscapes with a genuine love of what they are doing, who don’t deserve to be put out of a job if this ban were to be put into effect.
Which is why I favour licensing grouse shooting: it’s a compromise between two extremes. It’s not likely to put people out of a job or lose important species, as a ban would, but it also provides would-be raptor killers with an incentive not to do so. It also allows for prosecutions to take much less time, as a perpetrator of wildlife crime can simply have their license revoked, and if licenses are issued to both the keeper and the shooting party, it would avoid the situation in which one is prosecuted for the actions of the other. It’s also worth noting that the UK is far behind in enforcing this, in comparison to continental Europe: France, Spain, Germany, Latvia, Romania, Poland, Norway, Sweden and Denmark, to name a few, all require shooters to have licenses to kill game[5], and all still have thriving shooting industries.
It goes without saying that licensing is not the be all and end all in combatting wildlife crime. Other measures, such as increased powers for conservation charities to investigate crimes, also common in many European countries, also need to be implemented. But it’s a big step in the right direction. Taking the middle ground in an argument rarely feels desirable, and to me can often feel as if it lacks a sense of conviction. In this case, however, I’m happy to make an exception, so that both people an wildlife can get the best deal. If I’ve convinced you that licensing driven grouse shooting is the way, you can sign the e-petition here[6].
Frances was brought up in Shropshire. She writes about country walks, urban gardens and the wildness that can be found on the doorstep. A music teacher by training, Frances currently volunteers part-time at Chelsea Physic Garden.
I arrived at Sandbanks in the early evening. Despite it being June the light was fading and there was a chill in the air. Brownsea Island looked more of an ominous cloud than welcoming retreat. Two National Trust wardens appeared, unflappable and cheerful, and took us in their little boat across the water and deposited us on the jetty. Walking through the trees to our hostel there was a curious feeling of being both within the grounds of a stately home and being on an uninhabited island, such as the one camped on by John, Susan, Titty and Roger in Arthur Ransome’s Swallows and Amazons. Brownsea has sandy beaches, and pine trees that are home to the island’s treasured population of red squirrels. That evening we met one of Browsea’s resident peacocks, Benedict, who patrolled the area near the hostel, sometimes with his peahen, and wasn’t averse to climbing on top of the shed roof and uttering a long, loud squawk.
We woke to a beautiful morning. I went down to the sea before breakfast and watched oystercatchers fishing at the water’s edge. The sea was calm, the sun gently rising and it really was the most peaceful setting. A tiny bird darted between the branches of a pine tree and underneath I started to feel the warmth of the sun.
There is a lot of history to Brownsea, formerly known as Branksea, and Patrick Barkham gives an account of it in his book Coastlines. The terrain is varied and, although not a place for long walks because of its size, there is a lot to discover. My first sighting of a red squirrel, running the length of a log pile not far from the hostel was exciting; even better was seeing them up close once we were out exploring the island. Smaller and more delicate than greys, with pointed tufts for ears, they really are the definition of cute.
The island was busy with day trippers throughout our stay and, given the glorious weather, this was hardly surprising. To really notice Brownsea’s wildlife you have to visit the other part of the island managed as a nature reserve by the Dorset Wildlife Trust. Following a little path bordered by semi-wetland, the cries of people and peacocks melted away and we were in another world. Dragonflies, damselflies and a host of other insects flew about and there were birds we could hear but not see. At the centre of the reserve stands The Old Vicarage, now used to house the DWT’s wardens and a little shop. Nestled at the bottom of the hillside with plants and shrubs growing up around it, the house looked ripe to explore as we came across it in the late afternoon, and, amazingly, it was open, without a soul in sight. A list of birds currently in the island’s waters was written up in the hallway and inside a range of cards and books sat above an honesty box. There was a bird feeder in the front where tits and chaffinches were snacking, and a couple of red squirrels popped down to see what they could find, boldly seeing off a rook who thought he might join in. We left the house and followed the path into an arboretum, planted many years ago and increasing the diversity of tree species on the island. A carpet of beech leaves underfoot, then oaks and a mulberry tree, but there were many more I didn’t identify. Reaching the top of the hill we found ourselves on a cliff overlooking the water. The sun still shone with intensity and the white painted buildings of the mainland and white sails stood out in contrast to the bright blues of the water and sky.
The next morning I returned to visit the bird hides, two of which looked out onto the Lagoon, a stretch of water separated from the sea by a thin piece of land. It was nesting time for the black-headed gulls and we saw crowds of them standing guard and protecting their chicks. Common terns also perched on posts nearby, but their nests were elsewhere and we didn’t notice any tern chicks. Shelduck swam serenely in this stretch of water. A kind volunteer lent me his binoculars and I vowed to do my next bit of bird watching with my own.
Brownsea is a beautiful place to visit. It’s hard to get off the beaten track, unless you are lucky enough to stay overnight, but that, ironically, is not what this island is about. Occupying a unique place nestled in Poole Harbour, it provides a haven for wildlife and gives visitors the chance to share this spot with the natural world whilst keeping a relatively low footprint. There are no cars on Brownsea, except for a couple of land rovers used by the wardens. Without the visitors and the shop and amenities that often come as standard, the National Trust would struggle to finance it and, ultimately, manage it for wildlife. The island is a lovely place to amble, but the DWT’s reserve is an absolute must for visitors wanting to see bird-life
With a train to catch, we opted to take the ferry bound for Poole, rather than Sandbanks. This was an unexpected bonus as the boat took us around Brownsea and its neighbouring islands with a richly entertaining commentary from the captain. A glorious ride with green fields to one side and the pines of Brownsea to the other. Go and explore, and the quieter you are, the more you will discover.
All images included with this post are credited to Stephanie Bull.
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!
The concept of island biogeography was first laid out by MacArther & Wilson (1967) in a book entitled ‘The Theory of Island Biogeography’. The concept was relatively simple in its key principles; that ‘islands’ that are small are capable of supporting fewer species than larger ‘islands’, and that the further away these ‘islands’ are from each other, then the less likely it is that a species is able to re-colonise once it becomes extinct.
Since the industrial revolution and Second World War, semi-natural habitats including our flower-rich meadows, heathlands, mosslands and woodlands have been lost, predominantly due to agriculture and forestry. This has left many of our plants in a rather awful predicament; huge expanses of our once flower-rich habitats have been lost, and remaining flower-rich places are in generally very isolated and small pockets of our countryside. In this case, the concept of island biogeography could be said to apply; isolated and small floristically-rich islands are both prone to extinction events, and things that are extinct, are unlikely to re-colonise. The sheer level of habitat loss that has occurred over the past century, and rate at which our flower-rich habitats are still being lost, has meant that one in three wildflowers in Britain are under threat of extinction. Additionally, per county, on average one-two species goes extinct every year in England!
Growing up as a child, one of the most infuriating memories I had each year, was to look at my county’s rare plant register which gives information on the very rarest plants in the county. Almost every year there were new extinctions; it has always been a devastating prospect that the rare, and even some of the more common plant species, could be utterly gone from the region when I am an old man…given the often immense distances other sites are where the species is present, it often will not re-colonise and will be extinct for good.
I now have over 15 years botanical cultivation and recording experience, and this same devastating prospect was the rationale for the beginnings of an initiative for my region (north-west England), the North-West Rare Plant Initiative; to put back & reinforce species on suitable sites that are on the very cusp of extinction in the region.
The North-West Rare Plant Initiative (NWRPI): aims & objectives
The NWRPI is an initiative that I formalised in August 2017 operating across Cheshire, Greater Manchester, Merseyside, Lancashire and South Cumbria. There are just under
50 target species for my initiative for which I want to reintroduce and reinforce throughout the region; this isn’t a quick process and involves lots of steps including suitability assessment, consideration of biosecurity concerns, feasibility, etc. (to view an overview of the reintroduction protocol I follow, see www.nwrpi.weebly.com). Additional to my aims involving reintroducing and reinforcing species, the NWRPI aims also to work with landowners of sites with these rare species, to incorporate more favourable management practices. It also aims to establish a national network of propagators for target species to assist in cultivation effort and to act as back-up in the very worst scenarios.
Priority Species
Although extinctions of plants at a regional level doesn’t necessarily equate to extinction at a national level, it is often a precursor to such; thus, conservation at a regional level is of paramount importance, in addition to looking at species in a national context. As well as conserving rare plants because we need to maintain a level of biodiversity, plants offer us a lot…They are the fundamental basis of all life on earth; they give us food, building materials, medicine and are shown to improve aspects of our mental health. Aside from these qualities and products plants offer, they’re just downright AMAZING…
An example of one of the species I am cultivating is Oblong-Leaved Sundew (Drosera intermedia). It is one of the more spectacular things I grow and is a carnivorous plant in the family Droseraceae. It grows on very wet, acid, nutrient-deficient peat bogs and wet heaths throughout Britain and Ireland & has fantastic tentacle-like structures with terminal mucus-producing glands. Once small invertebrates land on these mucus-covered tentacles, the plant is able to digest the organism and absorb the nitrogen content which is otherwise unavailable in the nutrient deficient peat bogs. Oblong-Leaved Sundew has unfortunately declined substantially in the region due to these peat bogs being formerly drained for forestry and excavated for peat; it now exists in often very isolated pockets of wet heath and peat bog that remain across the North-West region.
Olong-Leaved Sundew courtesy of Steven Barlow.
Into the not-so-distant future!
Within the next year of my initiative, a lot of prospective reintroductions are planned many thanks to the assistance provided by funding from individual donors and Chester Zoo. An example of one up-and-coming introduction would be the introduction of Sheep’s-Bit (Jasione montana) onto Freshfield Dune Heath, Sefton Coast. This fantastic place is a Site of Special Scientific Interest and is currently under the management of Lancashire Wildlife Trust, dominated by expanses of acid heathland and grassland. Sheep’s Bit is a species doing rather poorly in the region given its poor ability to disperse and loss of heathland and acid grassland; so bad in fact, that in 2017, the entire S. Lancashire population was down to two individual plants. Following 2017 sampling of seed from Cheshire and North Wales and permission granted by the trust, I now have a substantial number of plants ready for introduction onto Freshfield Dune Heath, close to where it had recently disappeared from.
On a final note, it should be noted that all species introductions are well justified by a stringent protocol and with the permission of relevant landowners and statutory bodies. It is important not to take any rare plant or plant things onto nature reserves. All sampling and introductions are done in strict accordance with IUCN guidelines and the BSBI code of conduct.
There is poetry everywhere in the natural world, but for me nowhere more so than in butterflies. What is poetic about butterflies? Poetry is a heightened form of writing that plays on our emotions and imagination. Poems use imagery, beautiful or expressive words, rhythms, rhymes and sounds that encourage us to see the world a little differently, as if through a lens. At their best, poems inspire an intensity of perception that changes the way we think and feel.
Butterflies can have similar effects on people, and have done so for thousands of years. In the foreword to my new book Papiliones, published on 2nd December 2017 by Choir Press, the author and naturalist Matthew Oates writes about this:
“Butterflies have long been in the poet’s eye. This fascination flows back to the ancient Greeks, who believed that the human soul departs from the body on the wings of a butterfly.They created Psyche, the goddess of the soul, from their word for a butterfly – psyche. There is also the symbolism of metamorphosis, which from a poetic angle is deeply profound, offering myriad possibilities and analogies with the human condition.”
He goes on to remind us that the poets Wordsworth and Coleridge wrote about butterflies and that a few years ago some modern poets published a collection entitled Shropshire Butterflies: A Poetic & ArtisticGuide to the Butterflies of Shropshire, published by Fair Acre Press in 2011. T.S.Eliot, Edward Thomas the war poet, Vladimir Nabokov and many other poets and novelists have written about butterflies and their symbolism.
In my own case, I was originally drawn to butterflies by my children when they were young. On our country walks together I found that trying to stalk and spot birds with noisy toddlers was very frustrating because the birds would just fly away, and butterflies were less scared of us. Besides, they did not fly as fast. So we searched for them instead. They are so colourful, and occur in such beautiful places, that we were all captivated. My daughter and son now have children of their own and I am sure they will enjoy butterflies just as much.
Butterflies soon became a passion; then I realised that without friendly habitats they could not flourish, and that they represent a highly sensitive barometer of the natural world. Pollution, pesticides, reckless building development, loss of green spaces, and reduction of plant diversity, all result in the death or even extinction of butterflies.
Since the age of about fourteen I had always also loved poetry, and had written some of my own from time to time. My two passions for butterflies and poetry started to converge and the idea formed in my mind of writing a poem about every one of the sixty or so butterflies regularly seen in this country. As far as I could tell from my researches no-one had, or for that matter has now, ever done such a thing. When I had finished thirty-three of the poems I decided to publish those, with the intention of writing the rest in due course. I am trying to live a healthy life so that I have a chance of living long enough to finish the task!
My book Papiliones contains my thirty-three poems and one written by a poet friend, Mick Escott. Each of the butterflies featured in the book has a passage telling the story of its names in English and Latin. Some of these are poetic in themselves. The Small Blue butterfly for instance, which is scarcely bigger than a thumbnail bears the scientific Latin name “Cupido Minimus”, which roughly translates as “Tiny Cupid”. There is also a photograph of each butterfly in a natural setting. Here is the Small Blue story, quoted from my book:
“Known as Eros by the ancient Greeks, Cupido carried off the beautiful maiden Psyche, who then became his wife and a goddess. Psyche is also the Greek word for soul and, by happy coincidence, for butterfly. Cupido is traditionally depicted in art as a winged cherub carrying a bow and arrow to fire love-darts. In this case he is minimus because the Small Blue butterfly is tiny…”
My poem imagines a Small Blue butterfly needing only a tiny meal – a drop of nectar – to satisfy its “cupidity”, that is desire, appetite or even lust, and refers to the ancient concept of angels dancing on pinheads. Here is the poem, with a picture:
SMALL BLUE
Cupido minimus in the book
is small enough to overlook
and in the field
is well concealed
it’s a shy
little fly
a dullish hue
of muddy blue
a twinkle in its eye
and winking antennae
it indulges in
minimal cupidity:
a monstrous meal –
a tiny nectar drop
would perch atop
a pinhead
large enough
for minute angels
to light on
take flight from
like a new Small Blue.
In some ways butterflies lead ambivalent lives. On the one hand, they suffer the melancholy fate of decline or even extinction because of an implicit trust in human beings, who should be their guardians but have betrayed them. On the other hand they have a way of fighting back and surviving against the odds: they colonise railway embankments and vegetable gardens.
I feel that butterflies are part of the poetry of nature, and a world without butterflies would, in the end, be a world without people. The poems are about butterflies and about people; we depend on each other. Though they may not be aware of it, butterflies give us enormous pleasure, and in my case the inspiration to write about them. I very much hope that my book will help readers to enjoy the beauty and poetry of butterflies.
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.
If you like this post, please consider casting a vote for me in the 2018 ‘Wildlife Blogger of the Year’ competition. You can read my entry, and cast a vote for number 13, here >> http://www.terra-incognita.travel/2018/a-bittersweet-return
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.
