Tag: Half-Penny Wood

Half-Penny: a woodland ablaze

Upon my latest visit to Half-Penny, it was not that birds that, as usual, occupied my undivided attention. Despite both the local Kingfishers and Dippers performing admirably. Nor was it the sites mammalian inhabitants, despite a Red Squirrel putting on a mighty fine show as it collected hazelnuts from the riparian shrubbery. No, today it was the trees – those towering, leafy cornerstones of Half-Penny – that held the most allure, entrancing in all their seasonal glory.

Structurally, Half-Penny is a very odd woodland – falling into the bracket of semi-natural woodland yet boasting a number of distinct transitional areas, each characteristic of other woodland types. For example, there are two growths of mature Beech trees, open and spacious, as well as dense riparian areas of willow, Alder and Hazel. Midway into the wood, there is a spacious area dominated entirely by three species of oak – Sessile, Pendunculate and the non-native Turkey – while elsewhere, spread between these patches, the majority of the wood is comprised of a delightful blend of Wych Elm, Sycamore and Ash, dotted in places, with the odd Yew and Horsechestnut. It is this charming blend of species, native or otherwise, which makes Half-Penny the place to be come Autumn, when chlorophyll retreats and formerly vibrant leaves begin to turn.

Today, the variety of colours on show in the wood was nothing short of spectacular: from the pure, golden hue of fallen Beech leaves to the radiant yellow of Field Maple. Syacmore leaves, grey/brown and dotted with the characteristic black spots of Rhytisma acerinum , blanketed the footpath, blended artistically with lemon yellow foliage of Wych Elm and the elongated leaves of ash which, by now, have turned myriad colours ranging from sickly, diluted green to outlandish purple. Indeed, everywhere I looked my eyes found themselves besieged by colour: from the marvellous crimson of the sites scant Wayfaring Trees and the auburn of crisped oak leaves. Colours contrasting remarkably with the that of the curled, purifying leaves of a whole manner of woodland titans cast downwards weeks before. Most of which, by now, have blended with conker shells and wilted grasses to form a tricoloured mulch of ominous black, mouldy grey and fading brown on the woodland floor.

Looking closely at the trees, it was clear from my latest excursion that it has not been a great year for nuts. Few acorns adorn the sites oaks and both beech masts and cobnuts remain scant. A trend, I fear, which may have a knock on effect on the species reliant on the crop at this time of year and I suspect that, over the coming weeks, both Jays and squirrels will become scarce as they are forced to seek food elsewhere. Unless they turn their attention to berries that is. It has, after all, been a bumper year for fruiting Elder, Hawthorn and Dog Rose – something not lost on the weary Winter thrushes currently traversing the depths of Half-Penny in noisy, roving flocks. The sight of sixteen Redwing on this visit giving considerable hope for things to come, as the season creeps forward and numbers of these vocal travels swell ahead of the continental chill.

Half-Penny: how things have changed

To those familiar with this blog, you will know that I owe my passion for nature almost entirely to my Grandmother. The lady who first introduced me to the joys of a life outdoors and who, through no end of weekend adventures, provided my first insight into the world of trees, birds, bugs and bees. An insight gained through regular forays into the dappled, imperfect depths of the Half-Penny Wood – located a mere stones throw from where my Gran once lived on the fringes of Bedlington.

It is been a long time since these early visits to the wood; a long time since I gathered conkers and marveled, absent care, at the beauty of fruiting Fly Agaric under the watchful gaze of my childhood walking companion. Despite the passing of time, however, my relationship with the wood remains the same: I still visit Half-Penny, I still enjoy its wildlife throughout the seasons and I still, despite visiting the site near constantly for two decades, find myself continuously surprised by new and unusual finds. My attitude to the wood itself has not changed either, it remains a place of wonder, a retreat of sorts to which I venture whenever time allows; though I cannot say that the wood itself has remained the same. Much has changed over the years.

Since my earliest visits, Half-Penny has changed beyond recognition: a shift reflected not in its general appearance, size nor shape, but in its very foundations – in the cast of creatures that now call the wood their home and together, form the green, beating heart of this special place. Indeed, some prominent fixtures of my early years have been lost entirely from the wood and her surrounds. The song of the Cuckoo, once an eminent fixture of springtime outings, has fallen silent in the wood – the result of the increasing scarcity of cuckoo across the local area. Red Squirrels too have disappeared, for the most part; while in recent years, once reliable Redstarts appear to have vanished. Poof.

Given the absence of the aforementioned species, you would be forgiven for thinking that my visits to the wood now must take on a somewhat mournful tone, though this could not be further from the truth. As for every species lost from the wood, for whatever reason, another one appears to have found a foothold. Little Egrets are now a daily sight on the river where a mere decade ago the sight of the pristine white herons would have been thoroughly out of place. Green Woodpeckers have colonised too, as have Spotted Flycatchers; while other once scare fixtures of life here have risen to such heights as to now be labeled as common and widespread. Tree bumblebees, Comma’s and Willow Tits: all give cause for celebration. As do the otters which can now be seen regularly, but never often, by dusk within the woods more secluded reaches.

Of course, not all new arrivals in the wood are to be cherished, and I have previously covered the growing presence of various invasive species in Half-Penny. These, the balsam, knotweed, snowberry and grey squirrels that now grow and scamper widely across the wood, do give cause for concern and, in some cases, warrant action. Although all can be seen as a clear and apparent sign of the times in which we live.

Taking pause to assess the changes currently rocking the very foundations of Half-Penny, it is easy to draw parallels with the wider changes currently taking place across Britain. Changes born of our own actions as a warming climate spurs range expansion in certain species, and hinders the good fortune of others; and as conservation actions strengthen some wildlife populations at the same time as human ignorance facilitates the spread of non-natives across the landscape. The decline of the Cuckoo and Red Squirrel, the good fortune of Little Egrets and Otters, and the creeping advance of Himalayan Balsam, all indicative of nationwide trends. Half-Penny, to me, stands as a microcosm of wider-Britain: rife with both the highs and lows that come cheek by jowl with a life in nature. As certain species flourish and others fade while we watch, worried and intrigued in equal measure. It’s all very educational.

Half-Penny: signs of the seasons

Traversing the sunny (yet surprisingly cold) depths of Half-Penny this morning, one thing struck me above all else: the bounty of Autumnal fruit. This year, each and every fruit-bearing shrub appears laden with berries, much more so that usual. The stand of Blackthorn that grows, spindly and unkempt, by the entrance to the wood abounds with deep blue berries that grow purple when touched, as the queer powdery substance that adorns them is swept aside. Add to these no end of glorious red Hawthorn fruits, damsons, crab apples, rose hips and slowly fermenting blackberries, and the wood is starting to resemble a rather decadent fruit salad. Ready and waiting for the imminent arrival of migrant birds.

Some migrants have touched down in the past week, another sure sign of the shifting season. The most numerous of these being Redwings, with some twenty noted on the passage in recent days – the distinct seep of roaming flocks audible by dusk, as the thrushes pass overhead, shrouded in darkness. Their larger cousin, the Fieldfares, have yet to materialise; though both blackbirds and song thrush have shown a distinct upwards trend of late. Joined by an apparent arrival of robins (I counted 22 ticking from the shrubbery the other day) and diminutive goldcrests. Of course, given the nature of the season, Summer migrants have not departed entirely, just yet at least. A few Chiffchaff and Blackcap still loiter, while the occasional Swallow can still be seen; though these look set to vanish in the coming days, yielding the skies and treetops to more typical winter fare.

Another sure-fire sign of the not so subtle shift from Summer to Autumn has come from Half-Penny’s Jay population – many of whom can now be seen flying high between the wood and nearby town, as they transport acorns between favoured feeding sites and their Wintertime hoards. This processing of caching – storing food for the harsh days of Winter – is not limited to the sites corvids however, indeed, the many Nuthatches that dwell within the wood have begun to do the same. As have the Grey Squirrels – those glaring icons of invasive tenacity which first colonised the wood back in 2013. Now, they scamper and dig, squeak and chew, as much a part of the wood as the reds that resided here during my childhood. I do, however, have some interesting news on that front to be revealed at a later date.

Finally, we come to another, much more subtle sign of the Autumnal shift in nature: the behaviour of the sites resident passerines. Indeed, tits (blue, great, long-tailed and coal to be precise) have begun to amass into impressive flocks, scouring the wood in search of food. This behaviour thought to be born equally of increased vigilance with regards to predators – sparrowhawks mainly – and the greater ability of a flock to find food, as opposed to a lone individual. Elsewhere, the resurgence of the elusive Willow Tit in the wood provided equal indication of the advancing calendar this week – they only ever appear here around Autumn – while, by the river,  both the Kingfishers and Grey Wagtails appear to have departed the riparian abodes they favour, doubtless off to the coast ahead of the predicted chill. I will miss them. Though the sense of loss that coincides with their departure will doubtless be soothed by the arrival of Winter migrants in the coming weeks. Who knows, maybe this year will once again see Half-Penny graced by the presence of Waxwings, or the river by a wayward Goldeneye.

A not so subtle hint as to the news I mentioned earlier…

Half-Penny: aliens and interlopers

There are many words used to describe species which, through human intervention, have found themselves existing far outside of their historic, natural range. Terms such as invasives, aliens, invasive aliens and nonindigenous species are quite familiar; while a glance at social media often reveals myriad more unflattering phrases: pest, nuisance, menace, vermin – I particularly loathe the latter. Regardless of the terminology applied to them, however, such species have become a figment of daily life in present day Britain: intermingling with and, in some cases, out-competing many of our native creatures. Some are unwelcome, some are accepted and others are ignored entirely; though for many, myself included, aliens and interlopers have quickly become a fact of life around our respective local patches. So much so, in fact, that they appear rooted in the very foundation of the places we know and love. My local patch, Half-Penny, is no different.

Setting out with the express intent of documenting the variety of exotic species thriving, or merely surviving, within the wood, I arrived just before dawn – the bright yet deceivingly cold sunlight just beginning to percolate down to the woodland floor. Bouncing off the palmate leaves of Sycamore and transforming the carpet of native Butterbur and Ground Elder beneath into a mosaic of jaded and rejuvenated greens. Sycamore – a non-native species introduced by either the Romans or the Tudors, depending on the source, so familiar that is often hard to imagine the tree being anything other than a time-honored resident. One alien down.

Further into the wood, an assortment of plump, white berries shone by the side of footpath – a beacon of unfamiliarity, far removed from anything else found within the depths of Half-Penny. I am, of course, referring to the ivory fruits of Snowberry Symphoricarpos albus – a North American species which here, in my wood, has spread like wildfire, now representing the dominant shrub species across at least half of the site. An appealing species, boasting delicate pink flowers earlier in the year that, reluctantly, I have come to accept as a permanent feature of life here. Indeed, it would take a considerable effort to halt its creeping but clearly apparent advance.

Moving forward, the smell of Himalayan Balsam caught my attention long before first glimpse of the the sea of swaying pink blooms that dominates the mid-wood in late Summer. A species familiar to many that needs no introduction: balsam is a blight to native flora yet a handy source of nectar for various pollinators, many of which, today, could be seen hovering deftly around the bell shaped flowers. The internal jury is still out on this one; though less so on the small stand of Japanese Knotweed uncovered further into the tangle. A species which, due to a combination of education and personal experience, I find it hard to look upon with even a hint of appreciation. I doubt said stand will remain small for long, given the tendency of this species to spread like measles. It may have a hard job competing with the already established balsam, however. May the best (or worst) plant win.

Stopping briefly to admire the hulking frame of a Turkey Oak – a much more welcome invader which, year after year, provides a reliable source of delightfully hairy acorns for woodland residents to savor – my attentions soon turned to a yellow bloom protruding conspicuously from amid a riverside depression. Monkeyflower Mimulus guttatus, another invader of American origin which, rather oddly, is the county flower of Tyne and Wear. This species, much like the Turkey Oak, does not appear to be causing much of the problem in the wood; and like the oak with its comical, fuzzy fruit, provides a handy resource for local animals. Demonstrated by the Carder bee buzzing hastily between flowers as I watched, intrigued.

Less conspicuous than the botanical interlopers yet equally as prolific, it was not long before I caught sight of my first Grey Squirrel of the day. An unwelcome arrival which, more so than any other, cuts straight to my heart despite its altogether cute appeal. You see, during childhood visits to the wood, native Red Squirrels were a familiar sight, common even. A trend which lasted right up until 2013, when, to my surprise and distress, I sighted my first grey in the area. An ill omen of things to come later as the latter increased and the former decreased, fading from existence by 2016 – the same time as I began work as a Grey Squirrel control volunteer.

Grey Squirrels are one alien I find it hard to tolerate; not because I see them in a particularly negative light – they are rather endearing, in truth – but because of the damage done to a much-loved local species. I suspect this makes me a frightful hypocrite given my begrudging fondness for balsam and the plants impact upon native flora, though none of us are perfect. Though I wish we didn’t, we all place varying amounts of significance on certain species, often at the expense of others. It’s human nature.

Today I appreciate the squirrel for what it is, a highly adaptive and incredibly successful species. With more evidence of the rodents continued success in Half-Penny uncovered upon my departure. A pile of gnawed hazel shells: a small but stark testament to the changing nature of Half-Penny which, in spite of human interference, appears set to shift further in years to come.

BBC Wildlife Blogger of the Week

This week, I was kindly awarded the honour of Blogger of the Week by BBC Wildlife Magazine for my recent piece regarding my local patch: the Half-Penny Wood. This is the second time I have been lucky enough to be featured by the publication – the last being back in 2015 – and I really am very grateful.

Patch reporting has always been a passion of me, as both a dedicated amateur naturalist and an aspiring writer. It is a great way to relive the joys of seasons past, to keep track of your wildlife sightings and, all in all, to extoll the virtues of your favoured haunts to like-minded individuals. I will certainly be writing a lot more on the subject over the coming weeks; though if you wish to do the same, why not sign-up as a BBC Local Patch Reporter too?

 

 

 

 

Half-Penny: by the riverside

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Waiting Game

Sometimes it is nice to just sit still; to abandon the urge to chase nature and allow wildlife to come to you. To wait; a moss-clad boulder, park bench, bank or fallen branch the ideal perch from which to watch the natural world go by, and from which to admire the myriad secretive creatures set to creep into consciousness as the minutes dwindle in quiet solitude.

This is exactly what I found myself doing yesterday evening; opting for an uncharacteristically patient approach to wildlife watching along the weathered banks of my local river, the Blyth. My seat for the duration of my stay – a mere half an hour – a fallen birch; her trunk slick to the touch and crumbling as a result of the trees prolonged and unrelenting decay. This particular tree, a favoured seat of mine for many years now, located midway through the Half-Penny Wood: a cherished childhood haunt that I discuss quite frequently on this blog, and one of only a scant few designated nature reserves in my local area. A rather nice place, in truth.

Waiting, as the light faded and the washed-out tones of the Winter day faded, gradually, into crepuscular darkness, all remained quiet. At least at first. The pronounced trickle of the Nesquick coloured river, rife with sediment, and occasional rustle in the jaded leaf-litter the only sounds to be heard. Abiotic notes, only noticed in my more quiet moments, soon cast into obscurity with a series of shrill screeches from the yellowed riverside grass. A vole, though who knows which species. The rodent clearly perturbed at the presence of some unseen being; voicing its displeasure from deep inside its fortress of rotten foliage.

A Dipper came next – though, as is often the case, I missed it. The electric call of the bird as it passed unseen, a painful indicator as to an opportunity missed. My head, on this occasion, turned the other way; the call heard once more above the soft rumble of water as the small bird, obscured by a bent, passed further upstream. The blow of its departure softened somewhat by the sight of another sought after woodland denizen. It’s arrival marked by a brief serious of maladroit notes as the bird – a bullfinch – dropped into the lower branches of a denuded alder. Watchful yet content at the far side of the river.

 Bullfinch have always been one of my favourite birds – so much to that, to my shame, I once considered a tattoo of one. The sight of the splendid little bird before me – plump, rosy red and sporting a delightfully glossy cap – a sight for Winter-weary eyes. A bird table regular whose appeal cannot be overstated: the birds themselves, resplendent in their vermillion finery (the males at least), surprisingly shy and reclusive for such a stocky songbird. Prone, at this time of year, to traversing the wood in small groups, or pairs; and rarely as single birds. The presence of the lone bachelor on this day, in this sense, somewhat surprising. Did his mate fall victim to the Winter weather? Mild though it has been. Or was it the local hawk? Maybe she is just waiting, pink feathers obscured behind the bottle-green veil of needles shrouding the nearby Yew.

Minutes pass after the finch departs, calling once more as it lifts, flying overhead and out of sight in a series of undulating motions. Gone, for now; biotic silence returned to the river and wood once again, albeit momentarily. Broken again with a sharp “zrik” and the familiar sight of a white/brown blur hurtling towards me from upstream. It is the Dipper again, flying back the way it came; seemingly having hit the invisible yet clearly defined force-field that separates his territory from that of the adjacent bird. The unseen territorial barrier than splits this small stretch of river in half – a barrier whose crossing, for the Dipper at least, carries the threat of retribution. Or, at the very least, a serious scolding courtesy of his peeved neighbour. Ready and willing to fight to maintain his borders and thus ensure his dominion over any nearby aquatic invertebrates.

The Dipper passes by in a flash; enjoyed briefly before it fades, once more, from sight. I follow suit, heading home in the same direction. My evening concluded in enjoyable fashion absent the need for far-ranging adventure nor physical excursion. The patient approach, when applied here, as with all places, forever fruitful.

Cover photo:  © Francis C. Franklin / CC-BY-SA-3.0, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=37675952