Tag: Migration

Adventures in the night garden

There is something quite exhilarating about spending time outdoors by night – each sound, each rustle in the shrubbery and splash in the water indicative of hidden treasures lying just out of sight amid the gloom. Watching wildlife by night is intoxicating, plain and simple, and recently, has become somewhat of a hobby of mine. A pastime born of necessity, with my days of late spent catching up on university work carrying and out a host of more menial tasks, thus leaving little time for adventure.

Last night, I spent three hours in the garden – watching, waiting and, most rewarding of all, listening, with only the blue glow of my actinic moth trap to light my way. My watch beginning at 10 pm as, with the light fading fast, the local Pipistrelles arrived to feed. Their coming timed to perfection to coincide with the departure of the first moths from their daylight hideaways. Indeed, as I watched, more and more moths emerged – springing forth from the Privet hedge and the nearby Hawthorns before heading upwards, often with the bats in close pursuit. I am yet to see a bat actually catch a moth, though I did witness one interesting piece of behaviour as a rather large individual – a large yellow underwing, I think – plummeted downwards, rigid as a stone, clearly having caught wind of its would-be pursuer. An interesting defence mechanism, and something that, to date, I have only seen on TV.

By 11 pm the last vestiges of light had faded and the moth trap had been fired up – the first arrivals, as ever, being the underwings. Followed closely by a number of Smoky Wainscot, Riband Wave and Snout – some of the more numerous species to inhabit my urban garden. Many moths came and went as I watched, with some – a rather beautiful Straw Underwing included – landing conveniently in the trap, and others, missing it entirely. No matter.

Before long, a faint rustling in the compost heap diverted my attention away from the trap. The sound of crunching, desiccated vegetation easily audible as a fleet of Common Frogs began to emerge. Ambling forward, into the open, before splitting up in all directions: towards the lawn, pond, borders and hedge. Easily counted by torchlight, a total of seven frogs were found, with another, concealed in some waterside vegetation, croaking loudly upon my approach. This particular individual joined amid the Water Mint by a delightful Smooth Newt. The latter watched and enjoyed as it emerged from the shallows before slinking, with surprising speed, out of sight. My efforts to facilitate my local amphibians are paying off, it would seem.

Come midnight, I had resumed my watch of the moth trap, adding Light Emerald and Common Plume to my list as I listened to the screeches of a distant Tawny Owl in the park adjacent to the house. I had just about grown tired when another sound caught my attention: an undoubtedly familiar call of a bird above that, for the life of me, I could not place for some time. I did eventually, however: it was a tern. A very unusual addition to the list of animals seen and heard from the garden, and a quite unexpected one, if that – I do, after all, live some way from the coast. Doubtless, this had to have been a migrating bird heading overland on its way South for Winter.

The tern was not the only migrant heard this night, however, and soon the call of an Oystercatcher became audible as it passed overhead. The high-pitched flight calls of the bird (or birds) followed soon, by the much more exciting sound of a Whimbrel, and then, the honking of geese. It really is amazing what you can hear from the comfort of your own deck chair at night, once the hustle and bustle of urban life has died down and others have succumbed to slumber.

My night outdoors finished as it began: with moths. A graceful Barred Red the last species to enter my trap before it was sealed and concealed for study the next day. Making my way to the house 1 am – placing my feet carefully so not the injure any of the snails moving slowly across the lawn – I found myself rather giddy, and grinning profusely. It really was an evening well spent.

Oh yes, and I am pleased to announce that, following their arrival last Spring, our garden foxes have returned. Hurrah!

 

Common Rustic agg.
Willow Beauty
Elderberry Pearl
Barred Red

The Joys of Migration

After weeks of measured gains and stop-start bouts of action, it finally feels like migration has reached its peak here in Northumberland. With this week alone bringing many and more enjoyable encounters with the vast majority of our more abundant Summer visitors – sometimes in volume, sometimes alone – as breeding sites dotted around the local woodlands, reedbeds and moorland stretches are occupied once more by an eclectic mix of treasures.

There have been some wonderful birds popping up of late: a surprise Pallas’s Warbler on the Farne Islands and a Hoopoe at Derwent reservoir foremost among them. Delightful birds which, unfortunately, I did not see but not the subject of this post anyhow. With this particular account dedicated to the myriad common species now singing and feeding right across the local area. Each and all providing a welcome respite for work, university and other necessary yet tedious tasks occupying so much of my time of late.

Ring Ouzel at St. Mary’s Island on Tuesday

Following the surge of Blackcaps and hirundines a fortnight ago and, before that, the welcome return of our Chiffchaffs and Willow Warblers, two species appear to have exploded into consciousness of late: Grasshopper Warblers and Whitethroats. With the former now reeling from unkempt patches across the length and breadth of the coast – at Druridge Pools, where a particularly showy individual delighted on Thursday, and elsewhere at Cambois, Sleekburn, Bedlington, St. Mary’s. Likewise, with only two separate Whitethroats observed prior to this week, I have now reached double digits with several of these rather lovely warblers now back amid the brambles growths and hedgerows of my local patch. Singing as they ascend into the air during their enthralling song flights, before plummeting back into cover and in a flurry of scratchy but satisfying calls.

The distinct highlight of the past week came in the from an up close and personal encounter with two cracking Ring Ouzels at St. Mary’s  – a temporary pause in the sites usually incessant human traffic allowing me to enjoy the birds in quiet solitude as they fed amid the tussocks. The pair providing unparalleled views for a species I am more used to seeing as a brown-black blur disappearing into cover immediately after making landfall. Here too, a female Pied Flycatcher fed in the dabbled shade cast by a fresh looking Hawthorn – a pleasure to behold under any circumstance – and, arguably better still given my track record with the species, a Garden Warbler reared its head temporarily from some nearby brambles. The bird going on, later, to mimic the aforementioned flycatcher – snatching a bluebottle mid-flight before returning, once more, to cover.

Following a few encounters last week, Sedge Warblers now bejewel the vast majority of the local scrubby areas. Singing their distinctive, clamourous song from the tops of saplings, from swaying reeds and the browned stems of last years hogweed. Their vocalisations occasionally interspersed by brief bouts of Reed Warbler song at some of our more wild locations – East Chevington and Druridge Pools. While, on a final warbler-centric note, some favourable winds also brought me my first Lesser Whitethroat of year. The charming little bird, a personal favourite of mine, singing from the margins of a nearby playing field; its characteristic sooty face-markings prominent in the fine sunshine.

Bypassing the numerous swallows, sand and house martins now in residence, the inland reaches of the county currently throng with life. A trip to Beacon Hill – a mid-sized stand of mature woodland not far from the town of Longhorsly – throwing up three radiant male Redstarts. The birds voicing their virility from the tops of a few of the sites unfurling Oaks. With these, a Tree Pipit was also observed – briefly perched amid the twigs of Birch – while a second was heard singing later in the day. Its descending notes providing a pleasant reminder of last summer’s field season in Scotland, where this species provided the accompanying soundtrack to many ornithological surveys. A Cuckoo was also heard singing here, my excitement surging with each repetitive call from the frustrating elusive bird.

Spring has sprung in Northumberland and while I am yet to catch up with a few of our late or more secretive migrants – Spotted Flycatcher, Swift and Wood Warbler – I stand content with this weeks haul. The above posting going without mention of the innumerable Whimbrel observed on their Northbound migration and, for that matter, the Common Sandpipers now bobbing along the margins of many nearby rivers. Winter migrants have departed by the large part, though some remain. This week bringing sightings of European White-Fronted Goose and Whooper Swan, and last week, a pair of Redwing – perhaps my latest ever. Largely, however, such species are a bygone memory and the new season has well and truly dawned, much to my own personal delight.

 Willow Warbler

 

Oh yeah, butterfly numbers are also up…

Autumnwatch without taking a step

Sometimes it is necessary to simply sit back and wait for wildlife to come to you. To forsake the tendency to travel, far and wide, in search of wildlife, and simply wait in one place and allow nature to spring forth around you. This is what I have done on a number of occasions this week – choosing to test the “patience pays off” approach to things, and opting for some much more laid back birding around my local patch. My regular seat in the sand dunes that sprawl out along my small stretch of the Northumbrian coast, the perfect setting from which to enjoy the wonders of Autumn migration without taking a step. It really did work…

Perched amid the Marram fronds this week, coffee in hand, I found myself treated to a pleasant spell of migration watching. More of a trickle than a flood, by my own admission, but more than enough to keep me sated. The day beginning early with the familiar call of Meadow Pipits raining down from within the gloom. Innumerable birds passing overhead before the darkness finally lifted and a further 350 zipped over during the course of the day. Each and all heading South with some haste; in loose groups of ten or less at a time, often with another species secreted among their ranks. A Grey Wagtail, yellow tones and protruding tail standing out like a sore thumb amid the dulcet hue of the pipits; a few Pied Wagtail and, later, a small party of Siskin – all bound for more hospitable climes no doubt.

Waiting, the hours ticked by and the pipit passage gradually stilled, though other migrants soon took on their mantle. A dozen Skylarks, their melodic tones gradually fading as they too moved out of sight and next, a Great Spotted Woodpecker rising and falling above the beach. It’s undulating flight a clear giveaway, despite the distance between us. With these, a number of species I seldom see on passage. Species more often observed in my garden, within the local wood or patches of farmland. A Dunnock, four Bullfinch, a Reed Bunting and a Snipe: again, all heading South, followed promptly by the classic winter sight of a small flock of Mistle Thrush flying low about the waves – their machine gun rattle audible upon making landfall.

Speaking of the waves; with the passerine passage overhead soon wavering, my attentions inevitably turned to the sea. And, scope in hand, I soon set about observing the annual pilgrimage of some far larger characters. The first of which, a skein of fifty or so Pink-Footed Geese were quickly noted high above the surf. Followed, in quick succession, by yet more precursors to the forthcoming chill – ducks. Wigeon streamed south, some two-hundred of them to give a rough estimate. Most still looking somewhat drab, clearly moulting out of their less-appealing Summer garb. Later, a few dozen Teal, a female Pintail and two score Common Scoter, followed, finally, by ten Goosander trailing in their wake. Each and all resident species yes, but ones that increase tenfold during Winter. Visitors from Iceland, Scotland or the continent, though their origins matter not and all made for an interesting wait.

Gazing at the the white horses rolling, with some force, towards the beach, it was not just wildfowl on show, however. And species often associated with the more palatable climes of Summer and Autumn were also clear to see. Two Whimbrel headed South later in the day, as did a number of Sandwich Terns, and later, a large mixed flock of Hirundines – Swallows and House Martins – moving with purpose across the sea. Their numbers at the local roost sites – along the telephone lines of the nearby towns – having dwindled considerably in recent days. A pleasure to see, as always.

As the hours ticked by, my supply of coffee diminished and I began to fight the urge to depart, yet more migrants became apparent. Red-Throated Divers – not really a migrant, per say, yet a visitor to my patch nonetheless – came sporadically, one still bearing the vestiges of its crimson finery. Followed by a Great Crested Grebe and drawn-out string of Golden Plover – species which, like the divers, move on mass towards the coast in Winter. Though the real treat came in the dunes. A short stint admiring the local Stonechats – perched in somewhat stereotypical fashion on the yellowing stems of hog weed – revealing a less familiar character. A Whinchat, the first I have seen here no less, doing its best to blend it amid the aggregation of its commoner cousins. Not a sight that would set most birders hearts to racing, but good enough for me.

Wheatear

Departing, around midday, the steady stream of fleeing summer visitors, and arriving winter ones having ground to a halt, a few more titbits lay in store as I moved. A pair of Wheatear (not the one pictured above, that was taken a few weeks back) fed on the nearby footpath during a pause in the human traffic, and a Blackcap “tacked” from the brambles along the railway lines. A quick pitstop here revealing no less than eight birds, tossing back the now overly-ripe berries with a clear sense of urgency. Building up their fat reserves I suspect. With these, a few Chiffchaff and Whitethroat, and a Willow Warbler – potentially my last of the year – singing a half-hearted autumnal song from a nearby Willow. Perhaps the first time I have actually seen this species warbling from a Willow?

All in all, this weekend provided a welcome break from the normal, and somewhat monotonous travelling so often associated with my chosen hobby. Slowing down has its perks, and it was nice to witness the joys of migration first hand. Nothing overly rare, and as such many may scoff at my excitement, but all in all, a very enjoyable morning. And a welcome slice of avian respite before beginning my Masters degree this week.