Tag: Nature Notes

Beauty amid death

As a nation, we have been conditioned to view our cemeteries as dark, macabre places. And, to a certain extent, they are – each and every one subtly different to the next, but all standing as everlasting memorials to the ephemeral nature of life, and the certainty of death. They are sombre places which, even without a deep-rooted personal connection, dampen the spirits – generating countless doubts as to whether it is proper, or indeed, acceptable, to visit them at all absent cause to mourn. At the same time, they are also rather beautiful.

I love cemeteries. A bit of a morbid thing to announce publically but true, nevertheless, as for me – stranded in an urban setting – such places provide respite, escapism and wild allure. The sacred nature of such sites meaning that they are, more often than not, spared pesticides and the flail and, instead, are left to grow wild and undisturbed. In our cities, such places provide a rare glimpse into a forgotten age and make it possible to imagine, just for a moment, that you are elsewhere. Somewhere markedly more tranquil and wild.

This week, I visited Jesmond Old Cemetery in the heart of Newcastle. A particularly impressive site, by urban standards, rife with aged yews, tree-like giant hollies and countless other gems. Each wall gripped by the tendrils of ivy and each gravestone festooned with the rust and pearl coloured flecks of lichen. With some of the more impressive stone crypts – those which one cannot gaze at without contemplating their cost – now accumulating sufficient humus to facilitate the growth of woody cranesbill, slender-leaved ragwort, campion and other treasures. All of which, combined, makes the site flaming brilliant for wildlife.

Ivy and holly formed the basis of my most recent venture: the larval food plants of the enigmatic holly blue butterfly, Celastrina argiolus. Jesmond Old Cemetary, with its abundance of both, has long been revered by local lepidopterists for being one of the few sites locally where one can catch a glimpse of this high-flying and fleet-footed butterfly. Sure enough, within moments of my arrival, my eyes were drawn a lone butterfly perched atop a headstone, sapphire wings occasionally folding so to allow observation of the species characteristic, pearl-coloured underwings. Flecked with black and most different to the much more abundant common blue.

The butterfly in question did not stay long, darting upwards as soon as my camera departed my bag and leaving me with little option but to explore the site further and see what else may be hiding among the cracked, crusted tombs. Further investigations revealing a glut of common butterflies: comma, speckled wood, small copper, green-veined white, small tortoiseshell and large white, all engrossed in the equally vital processes of feeding and breeding. Elsewhere, tree bumblebees moved between ragwort blooms and my attention fixated, for a considerable time, on some delightful, soft pink bindweed flowers. My earlier identification of Field Bindweed proving incorrect upon consultation with the botanically-minded on Twitter. No matter.

Moving further along the twisted uneven footpaths that, once upon a time before they were overtaken with brambles and pioneering saplings, formed the walkways along which mourners would have travelled, it was difficult not to note the abundance of one of my favourite wildflowers: Bittersweet. The plant’s common name taken from the taste of its berries, being at first bitter but then sickly sweet. Not that I would advise eating the fruits of this particular nightshade: they do, after all, contain solanine, an alkaloid glycoside which, when ingested, leads to vomiting and convulsions. Interestingly, the degree of harm caused by ingestion is thought to depend on the quality of the soil on which the plant grows – with light, dry soils increasing its potency.

Concluding my visit, a rather distinct ladybird drew my attention. Quite unlike anything I have seen before here in the North, it’s distinct appearance reminded me of something seen elsewhere, in France and in London. My suspicions proving justified when, upon closer scrutiny, it was revealed to be a Harlequin Ladybird – perhaps the only ladybird in the entire world maligned as opposed to adored. And also a rather damaging invasive species prophesied to bring about the downfall of native ladybird populations.

Harlequin Ladybird and larvae, brought home for closer inspection

A paradise of parched grasses

Walking at Weetslade Country Park this past weekend, the rolling grasslands of the former colliery site appeared almost Mediterranean. Parched grasses, sapped by what seems like an eternity of vigorous sunlight, appearing yellowed, dry and lifeless. The vista laid out before me more like a sight from the South of Spain, or Portugal than one from usually tepid, often grey Northumberland.

Where grasses wilt and fall, however, others persevere and all around the site, the matt of drained yellows and browns was streaked by colour. By the countless blooms of wildflowers, themselves undaunted by the Summer heatwave. The pale purple of Creeping thistle interspersed with much more delicate heads of Yellow Rattle and Lady’s Bedstraw, and studded by the vibrant, sickly yellow blooms of ragwort. All of which, alongside the odd, almost alien spikes of Vipers Bugloss, lent an uncharacteristically tropical feel to the morning. Something only amplified by the presence of a huge number of butterflies.

All around Weetslade, energetic Small Skippers darted from bloom to bloom, feeding hungrily but occasionally stopping to bask and preen. Elsewhere, Ringlet and Meadow Brown quartered the rank margins, and many Large White’s, crisp and fresh from the chrysalis, danced as they pursued potential mates. A fantastic sight, plucked straight from a lepidopterists dream, only enhanced by the punchy colours of the occasional Peacock, Small Tortoiseshell and golden Large Skipper.

Despite their numbers, butterflies, however, were not the most numerous winged creature on the wing this weekend: that honour goes to the Six-spot Burnet. A remarkable little moth, clad in a beautiful yet a cautionary mix of black and red and boasting a set of preposterously long antennae.

This day, these moths were everywhere: flying in a typical clumsy manner between the heads of ragwort and thistle and, where flowers shone, gathering and copulating en masse. A true Summer spectacular, and not something you see every day. Indeed, a very rough count of the moths on show revealed well over one-hundred – including twenty in a single riving ball of dotted wings and extraterrestrial-looking appendages.

Six-spot Burnet’s cluster on a thistle-head

Of course, no visit would be complete absent a highlight and, heading back to the car, a definitive one landed right in front of our noses. The sight of a delicate butterfly taking flight between thistle-heads drawing us closer until the identity of the curiosity was revealed: a White-letter Hairstreak. A very scarce butterfly in Northumberland which, spurred on by the pleasant weather, appears to be enjoying somewhat of a resurgence – popping up at various local sites including Prestwick Carr and Gosforth Park, wherever it’s foodplant, Wych Elm, clings on.

All good things must draw to a close and, as the hairstreak took flight, we did too. Pausing briefly, car-door ajar, to savour the song of a Yellowhammer drifting over from a tangle of hawthorns to our right. A little bit of bread and no cheese, never has a birds song had a better mnemonic attached to it.

White-letter Hairstreak, Weetslade Country Park

Large White feasting on Burdock

Hairstreaks in the morning sun

Traversing the dappled woodland of Gosforth Park Nature Reserve earlier today, I had only one thing in mind: hairstreaks. Purple hairstreaks, to be precicse, Neozephyrus quercus, a remarkable, handsome butterfly that spends the majority of its time high in the canopy. Feasting on honeydew in close proximity to the species larval food plant, oak.

Unlike most butterflies, purple hairstreaks seldom descend to ground level, making them altogether difficult to see. Imagine my excitement then, when high in a sunny glade, two petite butterflies took flight from the upper echelons of an oak. Twisting round and around in territorial (or romantic) dispute as they spiralled upwards towards the pinnacle of their makeshift arena. Before that is, action ceased and both butterflies returned to their respective perches –  activity muted again for the time being. A faint flash of purple in my binoculars the only indication that, after years of failed attempts, I had finally caught up with my quarry.

Unique in a local sense, the woodlands of Gosforth Park have a queer effect on the mind: making it not just possible, but also quite easy, to imagine yourself elsewhere. Away from the hustle and bustle of the city located a mere stones through from the reserve and instead, somewhere truly, deeply, wild.  Indeed, the site is a veritable oasis, my short loop through its wooded peripheries this morning revealing some real gems. An Emporer dragonfly hawking a sunny glade; a roe deer, engrossed in the process of pruning an ash sapling; two jays, vocal as they scorned as passing sparrowhawk; and dozens upon dozens of common yet appealing invertebrates. Two of which – the Comma and Common Darter pictured below – posed conveniently for a photo or two.

Comma and Common Darter – Gosforth Park Nature Reserve

One thing I was not expecting, following my success with the dainty purple butterflies and the glut of other wild offerings on show, was a second new experience. An encounter with a species that, before now, had been enjoyed only in fleeting glimpses, absent time to savour. Sure enough, however, as I departed the reserve, my attention was drawn to a small butterfly flitting around the lower branches of a stunted Wych Elm. Adrenaline pulsing as I moved closer, confirming expectations: a White-letter Hairstreak. And a little corker if I may say so myself, exquisite and fresh.

While Purple Hairstreaks are reasonably abundant in the local area, the same cannot be said for their close cousin. Indeed, White-letter Hairstreaks declined markedly following the outbreak of Dutch Elm disease in the 1960’s and still, to this day, find themselves listed as a “high priority” species by Butterfly Conservation. As a species, they are also right on the edge of their range here in the North East; thus today’s encounter was a special one. Both as a result of rarity, and the sheer beauty of the butterfly involved. Indeed, I had not realised just how attractive they are: sporting their radiant orange flash, namesake white ribbons and curious looking, vividly marked ‘tails’.

White-letter Hairstreak – Gosforth Park Nature Reserve

Small Skipper

This year appears to have been a good one for the Small Skipper (Thymelicus sylvestris). All around the local area at present, these energetic, golden, thimble-sized butterflies adorn roadside verges, roundabouts, parkland and wasteland: livening up walks in the city as they flit from bloom to bloom. Appearing to particularly favour the pale-purple flowers of  Creeping Thistle.

We hear an awful lot of doom and gloom centred around our butterflies – rightfully so, with many populations in freefall – thus it lifts spirits to see these small, moth-like butterflies faring well this year. A walk around the small park at the end of my street revealing totals of 65 and 40 on separate visits. Perhaps its the glorious weather?

The beauty of Bee Orchids

For me, the Bee Orchid (Ophrys apifera) has always been somewhat of an enigma: a species I frequently encounter on TV, on social media and on the blogs of other naturalists yet never in the flesh. This petite yet flamboyant bloom, famed for its status as one of nature’s great mimics, eluding me at every turn.

The bee orchid is not a particularly scarce plant, nor is it overly abundant – growing on base-rich soil and disturbed ground, often in the heart of our towns and cities. Flowering in June and July, it beggars belief that they have remained absent from my outings since I first started casting an optimistic eye over verges and meadows a number of years ago.

Thankfully, today, I was able to reverse this trend and, after half an hour on my hands and knees at a site in the heart of urban North East England, I was able to see one (eight, actually) for myself. I was not disappointed, they are just as beautiful as I had expected.

Bee Orchids – Silverlink Biodiversity Area

Though vivid orchids were the intended target of today’s trip, as ever, it was difficult not to get distracted. Particularly by the remarkable array of insects on the wing at the aptly named Silverlink Biodiversity Area. A short watch revealing Common Blue, Small Skipper, Small Copper, Large White and Speckled Wood butterflies, alongside a dapper 5-Spot Burnet and a multitude of vibrant Damselflies. Among them, a number of delicate Blue-tailed and a few freshly emerged Large Reds. Wildflowers continued to feature on the route home with Bloody Cranesbill and, perhaps my favourite bloom of all, Woody Nightshade, adding a pleasant splash of colour to the path-side margins. The latter, in particular, looks sensational with its deep, almost sinister, purple petals.

Woody Nightshade, Bloody Cranesbill, Oxeye Daisy, Common Blue, Speckled Wood & Blue-tailed Damselfly

Cuddy ducks, clowns and stench of guano

Britain’s seabird colonies represent a spectacle like no other: bustling, raucous municipalities where a multitude of species congregate to form a single, far larger, living being. An avian city, cramped and lively, which moves and reacts as one when presented with danger, or opportunity – similar in many ways to the concrete jungles so many of us call home.

Break down the riving mass of feathers and dagger-like bills, however, and one begins to see the individual characters, traits and virtues of the species present. Each occupying a niche somewhat different from the previous, which allows all to live, breed, fight and survive in close proximity, side by side. Our seabird colonies are marvellous things and, truth be told, I love each and every aspect of them: the hustle and bustle, the minidramas unfolding each minute, the deafening sound, and even the smell. Fishy, pungent even; though far from unpleasant.

Yesterday, I had the pleasure of once again visiting the Farne Islands. The sight of the bleached cliffs, painted brown by an undulating carpet of breeding Guillemots, inducing a familiar adrenaline rush upon approach to the jetty of Staple Island. The same giddy feeling that accompanies each visit without fail promising no end of drama and delights. I was not disappointed – the first portion of our visit filled to the brim with angelic Kittiwakes, marauding Great Black-backed Gulls and, of course, shags. Some of which now find themselves tending scaly, featherless young. Themselves reminiscent of something from Spielberg’s Jurassic movies – prehistoric and reptilian – and a far-cry from the emerald-eyed beauty of the adult birds.

 

As ever, it was the islands more abundant residents – the auks – which held the most allure. There is something to be said about Razorbills, of course, though the squabbling ranks of Guillemots amassed atop the peaks of their Whin sill stacks are mesmerising. Especially when ranks close as a predator descends: birds ceasing their petty, territorial squabbles as countless piercing bills turn upwards in mutual defence. The colony transforming momentarily from a loose assemblage of bickering neighbours into a coherent wall of spears that only breaks when the shadow above passes. An avian testudo, doubtless unwelcoming to the hungry gulls above.

 

Away from the cliff-tops, Puffins reigned supreme. The burrows of countless clowns nestled amid a blanket of blooming Sea Campion as the adult birds, their bills laden with the catch of the day, braved a course of thieves to make it home. Zipping overhead like glamorous torpedos, determined not to part with their hard-earned and life-giving haul.

No trip to the islands would be complete absent a somewhat stereotypical shot of an adult Puffin triumphant with its bill-full of shimmering sandseels, and thankfully, many were seen. An indicator as to the presence of growing chicks concealed amid the gloom of their burrows. Let us hope that, given the recent, altogether disheartening news regarding the Farnes Puffin populations, this year is one of success.

Departing the islands, a whirlwind boat tour ensued. I am not quite sure how many such ventures I have undertaken over the years past since I first visited; though I never tire of them. The sight of plump Grey Seals hauled out on unyielding shores, the sight of Grace Darlings famous lighthouse rising like an oversized candy cane from the rock, and the airborne antics of Gannets and swallow-tailed Arctic Terns, never boring, nor repetitive.

 

Back on dry land, the harbour at Seahouses, as ever, hosted a good number of Cuddy Ducks – Eiders, for those not familiar with the ins and outs of Northumbrian folklore. Females only on this occasion, cryptic yet beautiful in their mottled brown and black garb, interspersed with a handful of downy young. The victors, by all accounts – those who have successfully completed the voyage from the species breeding grounds on the islands and now, following their nocturnal escape, find themselves in the (relative) safety of the port. Given the size of Eider broods and the poultry number of young present, however, it is safe to assume not all made it. Such is life.

Rose-coloured Starling

I’ve had very little time this week for my usual outdoor pursuits, largely owing to a growing workload and a multitude of mounting side projects. That said, yesterday I managed an all too brief outing in search of a bird I have wanted to see for many years: a Rose-coloured Starling. A rare vagrant to British shores from Eastern Europe and middle-Asia, where the species breed before migrating South, to India and Pakistan, during the Winter.

This confiding individual – a superb adult – has been gracing the chimney pots, gardens and bird-feeders of Ashington, in Northumberland, for two days now. And while I would much rather have caught up with my quarry amid a more natural and less intimidating setting (Ashington, for those unaware, has a reputation for being somewhat rough), I am thrilled to have enjoyed a good half-hour in the company of this particular bird. It’s delightful mix of faded pink, iridescent blue and intricately marked brown complimented marvellously by the current bout of fine, Spring weather.

Usually in a post such as this, I would go to great lengths to waffle on about the encounter, its significance and story; however, on this occasion, I think I will let pictures do the talking. For once, owing largely to the birds less than timid demeanour, I managed some rather good ones…

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Glossy Ibis and more

 

Spring has sprung, at long last. And all about my local area, the sapphire blooms of English bluebell mingle with the garish, Simpson-yellow of lesser celandine and the pristine white of flowering wood anemone. The air encompassing them ripe with the stench of ramsons carried on the breeze and nearby waterways – the ponds, streams and ditches that crisscross the landscape here – choked with riving masses of Amphibian spawn, just about ready to hatch. In the hedgerows, myriad insects buzz, spurred on by rising temperatures, and in the woodlands, trees stir as the canopy is painted green once more. A canopy which now, during the heyday of Spring, plays host to countless migrant birds, fresh from their travels and engrossed in the process of attracting a mate.

On the subject of migrant birds, I have enjoyed nearly the full array this week. Hoards of hirundines – swallows and martins – hawking for insects over bustling waterbodies; Blackcaps and Whitethroats uttering erratic bursts of song from within lime-green hawthorns; and even Swifts, that most iconic of May arrivals, screeching as they hunt in whirling arcs above street, field and copse. The occurrence of these resurgent wonders interspersed by other heralds of this most joyous of seasons: by reeling grasshopper warblers, hidden from sight yet conspicuous to the ear; and by common sandpipers, sedge warblers, whimbrel and dazzling yellow wagtails. Familiar species, longed for since they departed, who liven up my rural walks – replacing the redwing, fieldfare and waxwing that reigned supreme previously.

Of course, given the tumultuous nature of the season, the unfamiliar has also featured in my escapades of late. Manifested in the occurrence of birds I am not accustomed to seeing with any degree of frequency. Garganey and Black-necked Grebe, scarce wanderers, dropping in locally on route to their breeding grounds. The latter, a species currently teetering on a knife edge in this country, savoured as it fished, content, adjacent to a local bird hide. This individual just starting moult into its renowned, and rather beautiful, Summer plumage. As for the Garganey, the drakes (of which three were seen) appeared sublime in their alternating shades of brown, white and angelic, sky-blue – far more demure than the vibrant tones some of our more abundant ducks yet, in their own way, perfect.

Black-necked Grebe – Druridge Pools, Northumberland

Despite their allure, both grebe and duck have, this week, found themselves eclipsed. Cast into obscurity by the arrival of a far more unusual visitor: a glossy ibis. A bird I have observed to no end in Spain, yet one I had not, until now,  encountered here, in my slightly cooler homeland. The bird in question – shown below – showing marvellously on a flooded field – catching earthworms in it’s near preposterously long and downcurved bill before tossing them back with gusto, in a jerky motion unique to long-legged wading bird such as this. Engrossing as it went about its business unperturbed by the crowd of admiring apes amassing mere feet away.

It is easy to see where this species gets its name, beautifully iridescent or dull, unassuming brown depending on the light. Ascetics reminiscent of the Ibis’s patron: the Egyptian god Thoth. A deity in the ancient pantheon often depicted with the head of an Ibis and credited as the inventor of writing, and alphabets. Indeed, watching the bird closely, a distinct sense of regality was observed of which I am sure its mythological counterpart would be proud.

 

 

 Glossy Ibis – Druridge Pools, Northumberland

As the calendar advances and the last vestiges of our lastest, stubborn Winter finally dissipate, I find myself drawn increasingly into the avian world. Not because birds, in spite of their beauty and appeal, are somehow grander than other life, but because unlike plants, amphibians and even mammals – whose occurrence and actions one can quite easily, with some research, predict – they are erratic. Unpredictable in their movements to such an extent that one can never really know what will occur next, or what to expect.

Grey Heron – Cresswell Pond, Northumberland