Tag: Northumberland

Exploring the North East’s solitary bees (part 1)

The last few weeks have seen countless bee species emerging across the North East. The annual appearance of these colourful invertebrates providing the ideal opportunity to reacquaint myself with the common and abundant species found close to home but also, as restrictions ease, to set out in search of a few new and exciting species. Spurred on by the Natural History Society of Northumbria’s North East Bee Hunt, I am pleased to have caught up with my fair share of these winged treasures of late. A sample of which can be seen below.

Tawny Mining Bee, Andrena fulva
Tawny Mining Bee, Andrena fulva

One of the most numerous solitary bees spotted over recent weeks, Tawny Mining Bees are everywhere at the minute. The lovely females shown above were spotted in Iris Brickfield, my local park, where a small colony can be found amid the close-cropped grass on the margins of the playing field. Always a delight, it is far easier to photograph them on dull days – they are just too quick when the sun is shining.

Buffish Mining Bee, Andrena nigroaenea
Buffish Mining Bee, Andrena nigroaenea
Buffish Mining Bee, Andrena nigroaenea

Another abundant bee, Buffish Mining Bees have emerged en masse over the last week or two. A visit to the famed colony at the Prudhoe Spetchells rewarded Matt and I with the sight of what must have been a few thousand bees engaged in what appeared to be a breeding frenzy. The sheer volume of bees made for quite the sight even if I found it difficult not to feel for the females engulfed by frenzied swarms of males.

While it is possible to visit the Spetchells safe in the knowledge that you will see Buffish Mining Bees, I had not expected to encounter a fresh female in our yard a few weeks back. The latest in what is turning out to be a long line of bee species to visit our patch since we started planting intentionally for them last year.

Chocolate Mining Bee, Andrena scotica
Chocolate Mining Bee, Andrena scotica

Superficially similar looking to the above species but sporting a white/blonde pollen brush as opposed to a buffish one, I seldom find Chocolate Mining Bees to be numerous. Indeed, over the last few weeks, I have noticed ones and twos at various sites locally, but alas, no great aggregations. Last year, I was lucky enough to discover a small colony of these chunky bees in my local park and sure enough, this year they emerged on cue. Once again favouring a particular stand of Cherry Laurel – the shrubs broad, glossy leaves apparently provide the ideal spot to bask and warm up.

A nice resource highlighting the difference between Chocolate and Buffish Mining Bees can be found here, courtesy of Charlotte Rankin.

Sandpit Mining Bee, Andrena barbilabris
Sandpit Mining Bee, Andrena barbilabris

A slightly more unexpected find, this time on the sandy banks of the Tyne near Close House Riverside, was a colony of Sandpit Mining Bees. Small and looking somewhat ‘silver’ in the field, a good number of these delicate little bees were observed around burrows positioned where a landslip has removed a good chunk of the bankside vegetation. Further bees still were observed foraging on Dandelion nearby.

Red Mason Bee, Osmia bicornis
Red Mason Bee, Osmia bicornis

Each year we eagerly await the emergence of Red Mason Bees in our little corner of urban Newcastle. Sure enough, right on cue, the first mason bees began emerging here roughly a fortnight back. A few pioneering males followed, in turn, by the larger females. Despite a wealth of potential nest sites in our yard, these bees appear to show no interest. The male pictured above (right) was however quite taken by the scabious we’ve planted to attract our local pollinators.

Hairy-footed Flower Bee, Anthophora plumipes
Hairy-footed Flower Bee, Anthophora plumipes

Now, this is an exciting one. Previously only known from the Alnwick area, the Hairy-footed Flower Bee now appears to be rapidly colonising much of Northumberland. Or perhaps they were there all along and are only now being noticed? No matter.

A few weeks passed, I was delighted with the opportunity to visit a known site for this species at Warkworth and sure enough, within minutes, was enjoying the sight of three of these energetic bees feeding on Flowering Currant. Fast forward a short while I have now also encountered these species in multiple squares around Felton and possibly also at Ulgham. They really are a joy to behold and I look forward to a day when they can be encountered closer to home in Newcastle.

Early Nomad Bee, Nomada leucophthalma
Early Nomad Bee, Nomada leucophthalma

While visiting Felton in search of the aforementioned flower bees, we also bumped in striking Early Nomad Bee shown above. A new species for me! A nest parasite of Clarke’s Mining Bee (Andrena clarkella) it was intriguing to watch the fearsome-looking cuckoo bee marauding about what I suspect was a colony of the former.

Bees really are a tricky group and, over the last month, I’ve made many mistakes while trying to identify the various species encountered on my ventures across the North East. Still, they are a fascinating group and I am very much enjoying the opportunity to get to grips with some of the more abundant species to be encountered in my area. As I (hopefully) encounter more over the weeks ahead, I’ll update this blog with any findings.

Exploring the Fascinating Flora of Lindisfarne

I have visited the Holy Island of Lindisfarne many times to admire the sites birdlife, chase rarities and even seek out insects, but never to appreciate its diverse and interesting flora.

Lindisfarne is well known as an excellent site for those interested in botany, it’s unspoilt beaches, sprawling dune slacks, fields and expansive areas of salt marsh reminiscent of a time before man altered Britain’s coastal habitats beyond recognition. Home to many intriguing and, in some cases, scarce species, the botanical community here is diverse enough to keep visitors enthralled for hours. As it did us on overdue visit this week.

Brace yourselves, this could be a long one…

Arriving on Lindisfarne and heading first for the quiet reaches of The Snook, we set off in search of the islands most sought after plant species: the Lindisfarne Helleborine. First discovered on Holy Island in 1958, this understated but beautiful orchid is endemic here and in July, blooms in small numbers across the Western tip of the island.

During a half-hour search of the Snook, we were able to locate just a single orchid. Stumbling across the delicate, green and white flower atop a small mound where it grew conspicuously amongst the Marram. Perhaps a little muted, at least compared to the island’s larger, showier orchids, but a pleasure to behold nevertheless.

Moving on to investigate the nearby dune slacks, it seemed we had timed our visit perfectly to coincide with the emergence of another, arguably more appealing orchid: the Marsh Helleborine. Blooming in their hundreds right across the Western tip of the island, these orchids made for quite the sight – purplish flowers contrasting with the suppressed tones of many other Helleborines, and boasting an exceedingly frilly ‘lip’. These locally abundant flowers are by all accounts a real beauty.

Now well and truly hostage to the ‘orchid fever’, a search for the islands other orchid species revealed good numbers of vibrant Pyramidal Orchid, now reaching their peak; while other species observed included Common Spotted Orchid, Northern Marsh Orchid and Common Twayblade – the latter three now appearing somewhat haggard and spent. No matter.

Orchids are special but by no means are the be-all and end-all of the trip to Lindisfarne, and during our stay, many other interesting species were to be found. None more so than a single specimen of Scots Lovage found nestled in a sheltered area of the dunes. An Arctic plant, Northumberland marks the most Southerly limit of its UK range and records from Lindisfarne have been few and far between since 1985.

Here too, the succulent stalks of Sea Sandwort protruded from the bare sand, reminiscent of something you would find in the houseplant section of your local garden centre.

Back in the dune slacks and we were delighted to encounter the deep-pink flowers of Seaside Centaury; whilst a low-growing purple flower turned out to be Purple Milk-vetch, another first for this amateur botanist. I confess, I almost mistook it for one of the countless Self-heal flowers showing en masse here…

Common Valarian and Tansy were observed here too and the wetter areas were flush with the delicate yellow flowers of Lesser Spearwort and the curious, circular leaves of Marsh Pennywort.

At ground-level, Creeping Willow was conspicuous and a few large areas of blooming Hop Trefoil provided interest.

Departing the Western reaches of Lindisfarne, we headed East to the village. Passing through, it was difficult not to appreciate the plant diversity present in the high garden walls – old stone painted a wonderful mix of greens by the fronds of countless ferns. Here, we found a good range of common species, including Wall-rue, Maidenhair Spleenwort and Polypody; while it was nice to see both Biting and White Stonecrop in bloom. The island’s abundant Wallflowers had gone over, now displaying a glut of pea-like seed pods.

Departing the thronging village streets, a long walk around the Eastern side of the island ensued, taking in the iconic castle en route. In the vicinity of the castle, we stumbled across a nice clump of blooming Harebell alongside Thrift and a pretty example of what I think could be Dwarf Mallow – far daintier than its hulking cousin found growing here too. The castle walls were draped in an impressive display of Red Valarian and both Sea and Buck’s-horn Plantain were noted.

Attempting to curtail this particular botanical tale, towards the North Shore of the island highlights included large expanses of Wild Thyme and Common Cottongrass, as well as what I think could have been Slender Thistle (I really must practice my thistles). Grassier areas proved productive too with an impressive display of Meadow Vetchling interspersed with the pink blooms of Red Bartsia and, in select places, the familiar flowers of Field Scabious. Finally, the buried remnants of an old wall held Carline Thistle – a species I have seen further afield but never before in my native Northumberland.

Of course, no trip to Lindisfarne would be complete absent an encounter with the omnipresent Pirri-Pirri-bur which blights the island. Originating from Australia, this tenacious invader was observed right across the site; though only twice did I fall foul of its hooked burs. Controlling this species presents many problems and it seems unlikely that it will be going anywhere anytime soon, despite the best efforts of those who manage the reserve.

Of course, where there are wildflowers, there will also be pollinators and it would be rude not to cast the spotlight on a few of the insects observed throughout the day. In particular, this superb Dark-green Fritillary delighted as it nectared from the blooms of Creeping Thistle. Other butterflies observed include many Small Heath, Ringlet, Meadow Brown and Common Blue, alongside smaller numbers of Small Tortoiseshell, Red Admiral and Large White.

Dark Green Fritillary (Speyeria aglaja)

Investigating the Prudhoe Spetchells

For a long time, I have read with envy the blog posts of others who have visited the Prudhoe Spetchells yet, shamefully, have never found the time to visit myself; though this all changed a fortnight past.

The Spetchells are an interesting site in a great many regards. Created as a by-product of factory work during World War two, they represent the only example of a chalk dominated habitat in Northumberland. The deposited chalk and the imposing mound created decades ago forging a locally unique habitat home to a very interesting community of plants and invertebrates.

Starting out and taking the short track uphill towards to top of the mound, we quickly found ourselves stopped dead in our tracks – bees! And a great many of them. Honestly, I don’t think I can recall a time when I have witnessed so many bees in one spot at the same time. The sight of countless insects on the ground, in the air, and adorning low-growing vegetation was truly impressive.

Looking closer, the vast majority of the bees on the show turned out to be Buffish Mining Bee – the Spetchells is, after all, renowned as a location at which to observe and enjoy this species. We estimate that we saw maybe four to five hundred of these bees during our visit; though I have been informed that earlier in the season, visitors can expect to see many thousands.

Buffish Mining Bees (Andrena nigroaenea)

Less numerous than the Buffish Mining Bees and easy to pick out from the swarm were a number of Ashy Mining Bee – a new species for me and perhaps one of Britain’s most eye-catching solitary bee species. The monochrome appearance of this species is rather endearing, and definitely eye-catching.

After a few fleeting glances, we were lucky enough to catch sight of a female excavating a fresh burrow while nearby, another watched us intently from the entrance to a nest hole. A few smaller, less striking males were also observed.

Ashy Mining Bee (Andrena cineraria) are somewhat harder to find on the Prudhoe Spetchells

Of course, where there are solitary bees, there will inevitably be nest parasites, and throughout the afternoon, we enjoyed the sight of many Nomada cuckoo bees inspecting burrows with sinister intent. These are a confusing bunch and of the handful of species present, only one was identifiable to our amateur eyes: Gooden’s Nomad Bee. Still, these colourful bees made for enjoyable viewing as they carefully inspected the many visible burrows, occasionally being forced to beat a hasty retreat having encountered the burrow owner mid-way down.

Elsewhere, whilst photographing bees of the buffish variety, Matt emerged with some grainy images of a new bee – one I definitely hadn’t seen before. Thankfully, local naturalist Louise Hislop was quick to identify this as Hawthorn Mining Bee.

Hawthorn Mining Bee (Andrena chrysosceles) and Gooden’s Nomad Bee (Nomada goodeniana)

The Spetchells is a notable site for more than just bees and the floral community here is also rather unique. I confess, we did not spend half as much time as we should have to look at wildflowers but what we did see was most interesting.

At ground level, the fragrant leaves of Oregano were very obvious and definitely worthy of a ‘scrunch and sniff’. Slightly more eye-catching were the dropping, pink blooms of Columbine and dainty purple flowers of Wild Pansy. The many buttercups just starting to bloom here turned out to be Bulbous Buttercup; while Wild Mignonette and Bird’s-foot Trefoil were just starting to flower. One of the site’s most damaging invasive species, Creeping Cotoneaster, was extremely obvious; though it appeared that the dedicated volunteers who tend the site had managed to beat the invader back to a few albeit sizeable patches.

Columbine (Aquilegia vulgaris), Bulbous Buttercup (Ranunculus bulbosus), Oregano (Origanum vulgare) and Wild Pansy (Viola tricolor)

The presence of the aforementioned Bird’s-foot Trefoil at the site led to a most welcome encounter with a Dingy Skipper butterfly, as ever too quick for a decent photograph. A handful more of these dull yet charming sprites were observed on the return journey too. Ever welcome – they remain a relatively uncommon sight in my area.

Dingy Skipper (Erynnis tages), a common sight on the Prudhoe Spetchells

Ultimately, the Spetchells is a site that warrants much further investigation. Unique and beautiful, this is a truly wonderful location and one of South Northumberland’s hidden gems. I thoroughly enjoyed my first visit and can’t thank enough the members of the local community who keep this fabulous site safe, secure, and in tip-top shape for wildlife.

Into the Wild Woods at Allen Banks

Spurred on by the gradual easing of lockdown restrictions in England, this weekend past saw us venture forty-five minutes inland to the wild reaches of Allen Banks. An ancient woodland site situated on the banks of the River Allen and maintained by the National Trust.

Now, I visit Allen Banks at least once every year to make the most of the aged woodland setting and enjoy the species that come hand-in-hand with such places. This visit, however, felt extra special following months couped up at home with only short, urban walks from which to derive enjoyment. After a few minutes of gazing upwards at the canopy of old oak, ash and towering beech trees, it was clear I had made the right decision.

Allen Banks is a fantastic location at which to enjoy a suite of scarce Northumbrian birds and, sure enough, upon entering the wood, the song of a Pied Flycatcher drifted down from the canopy of a, particularly tall beech. One of four heard during the course of the day. Elsewhere, a Sparrowhawk rode the thermals above the river and riparian species – Dipper and Grey Wagtail – held our attention for some time.

Rather unusually, birds were not the purpose of the day’s visit, however, and we soon set off uphill intent on some botanising around Morralee Tarn. On route, we were pleased to note a single Early Purple Orchid blooming amid a rather desolate patch of brash. A new species for me and one which stood out like a sore thumb, the purple flower spike contrasting sharply with the browns and greys of the fallen timber.

Early Purple Orchid (Orchis mascula)

At the tarn, we noted another new species for this [very] amateur botanist: Opposite-leaved Golden Saxifrage, a rather lovely, moisture-loving plant characteristic of stream-sides and damp places in upland Northumberland. Other plant species observed here included Wood Ruff, Mare ‘s-tail, Marsh Marigold, Marsh Cinquefoil and introduced White Water Lily. I confess I was unable to identify the small Stitchwort species growing around the pool margins; though a patch of Wild Strawberry in bloom was less tricky.

On the tarn-side vegetation, Large Red Damselflies rested, freshly emerged and looking rather radiant; while the shallows held the tadpoles of Common Toad and what was likely a Palmate Newt.

Opposite-leaved Golden Saxifrage (Chrysosplenium oppositifolium), Wild Strawberry (Fragaria vesca) and Large Red Damselfly (Pyrrhosoma nymphula)

Heading downhill this time and west along the river, the diversity of ferns on show in the lower reaches of the wood was impressive. Hart’s-tongue and Polypody were identifiable though the rest, not so much. As such, we made do with appreciating the somewhat primordial sight before dashing off in search of something a little more colourful.

Upstream, we spent a good hour combing the tussocky grassland of a riverside meadow having been stopped dead in our tracks by a sprawling patch of delicate Mountain Pansy – more on these later. Here, the queer-looking flowers of Crosswort were obvious, as were plenty of English Bluebells; though more interesting were the sunny, yellow flowers of Yellow Pimpernel. A low-growing plant with a Northumberland distribution limited [in the most part] to inland sites such as this.

Yellow Pimpernel (Lysimachia nemorum), Mountain Pansy (Viola lutea), Bluebell (Hyacinthoides non-scripta) and Crosswort (Cruciata laevipes)

With plenty of wildflowers in bloom, there were a great many invertebrates to admire here too. The best of which, a rather large and colourful sawfly apprehended for closer inspection. Advice from the knowledgable folk on Twitter would suggest this is Tenthredo maculata, a rather impressive, if intimidating looking beastie and a species with few records in the North East.

Other insects observed were Gipsy Cuckoo Bee, Orange-tip, Green Long-horn and the unusual, outlandishly hairy fly shown below. After some excited Googling, I suspect this is Tachina ursina.

A Sawfly (Tenthredo maculata) and a fly (Tachina ursina)

Crossing the river further upstream and doubling back towards the car park, we were surprised to stumble upon a glade chock-full of purple blooms. Mountain Pansies, yet again, blooming en masse right across the clearing. Closer inspection of these beautiful little flowers revealed an impressive mix of colour forms: deep purple, violet and yellow.

Further reading on this eye-catching viola seems to suggest that they grow and proliferate so well here due to the presence of heavy metals in the soil – a relic of the [thankfully] long-gone days of lead mining in the county.

Mountain Pansies (Viola lutea)

Setting off towards the car, it was wonderful to see another, a far larger swath of Early Purple Orchid blooming on a south-facing bankside. These, alongside the countless flowers of Ramsons, Wood Speedwell, Dog Violet, Wood Ruff and Red Campion painting the woodland a vibrant mix of colours. A stark reminder of what could and should be in woodlands across Northumberland.

Another new species on walk home came in the form of a dense clump of Wood Crane’s-bill; while Barren Strawberry was also noted and it proved impossible not to pause briefly to admire the deep-blue spikers of Bugle protruding from the riverside grasses.

Winter wildlife doesn’t come much better than this

It’s shaping up to be a good year for Bohemian Waxwings (Bombycilla garrulus). Sure, the much anticipated ‘waxwing winter’ – an irregular spectacle marked by the mass arrival of these colourful birds to our shores – never quite came to fruition, but there is still a good number around. Hundreds, as opposed to thousands, yet more than enough to delight those, like me, who await their arrival with bated breath each year.

Locally, waxwings are fairly abundant this winter. A few larger flocks of between sixty and one-hundred birds feasting on berries in urban areas, and smaller groups appearing just about everywhere else: in villages, industrial estates, rural areas and city centres. As of last weekend, one such large flock appeared to have taken up semi-residence in a small, Whitebeam-laden park only a few miles down the road from my front door. It would have been rude, therefore, not to make the short journey to North Shields to seek them out.

Arriving at Laurel Park, a small, urban green space marked by an impressive (and somewhat creepy) statue of Stan Laurel, it wasn’t long before the birds descended. Their chiming, merry calls arriving in advance of their physical form. Filling the ears of the amassed observers – the birders, photographers and bemused locals that materialise wherever waxwings touch down – and heralding the arrival of a mid-sized flock of around thirty birds. All of which quickly took to the treetops, casting a wary eye over the kaki-clad, tripod wielding humans below.

It wasn’t long before the niggling urge to feed eclipsed the apparent cautiousness of the birds and, moments later, the flock descended en masse into the branches of a particularly bountiful whitebeam. Each individual doing their best to toss back as many plump, red berries as possible before the alarm sounded, and the birds returned to their swaying vantage point.

I enjoyed the North Shields Waxwings for a good half-hour, keen to make the most of the spectacle while it lasts. Before this particular band of nomads continue on their berry-fuelled journey elsewhere. Further south perhaps, or inland, where hedgerows and parks are yet to be plundered.

Winter wildlife doesn’t come much better than Waxwings.

An out of focus feeding frenzy

A tree-full of waxwings. Who needs baubles, eh?

On the hunt for orchids

Orchids capture the popular imagination to a far greater extent than any other group of plants. Indeed, birders, entomologists, mammal-watchers – those who would never, under normal circumstances, label themselves a botanist – often find themselves weak and the knees and enraptured by their blooms. Perhaps this is due to visual appeal – orchids are undeniably striking – or perhaps this is due to rarity. Many orchids, after all, require a certain degree of ‘seeking out’ due to their incredibly particular habitat preferences and constrained distributions. Who knows; although I confess, I too am guilty of holding these plants in high regard.

In my free moments over the past fortnight, I opted to set out in search of the orchid species to be found in my local area: both abundant and altogether more scarce. A mini-expedition, of sorts, intended to provide some much needed wild respite and get me looking downward, instead of up for a change.

First on the agenda was the Bee Orchid (Ophrys apifera), that family insect-mimicking of base-rich soils, so named due to flowers bee-shaped lip. The aim of the plant’s mimicry being to attract passing male bees and tempt them to mate, thus pollinating the flower in the process. It is worth noting that Bee Orchids in the UK self pollinate, so this deception boasts little practical application on our shores; although it does provide a draw to the would-be orchid watcher.

Prowling the expanses of a reclaimed spoil heap in urban North Tyneside, it wasn’t long until I stumbled across my first orchid. It’s flower spike standing tall amid atop a matt of Creeping Cinquefoil – easily seen and altogether conspicuous. With further scrutiny, another 23 spikes were observed making for a fine start to proceedings.

Bee Orchid (Ophrys apifera)
Bee Orchid (Ophrys apifera)

Moving on the coast a few days later, I was keen to catch up with another insect-namesake. Albeit an altogether scarcer species which, until now, I had not been lucky enough to observe in the wild. Making a bee-line for Northumberland Wildlife Trust’s fabulous East Chevington reserve, it wasn’t long before I was face-to-flower with a number of altogether less garish Lesser Butterfly Orchids (Platanthera bifolia). During my stay, I counted a healthy number of the delicate, ivory-hued flowerheads – not bad given the precarious state of this threatened species in the wider countryside.

Also at Chevingtin, vast numbers of Common Spotted Orchid (Dactylorhiza fuchsii) were noted, ranging in colour from pristine white to deep purple. Here too, a number of altogether less striking Common Twayblade (Listera ovata) were observed. A green orchid amid a sea of green grasses, hardly awe-inspiring. Instead, the most interesting thing about these plants was their foliage – plump, succulent leaves forming almost a cradle from which the spikes emerged. Quite similar to the ornamental Phalaenopsis orchids many of us possess at home.

Common Twayblade (Listera ovata)
Common Spotted Orchid (Dactylorhiza fuchsii)
Lesser Butterfly Orchid (Platanthera bifolia)

Last but not least and a further two orchid species were observed inadvertently on recent outings. The first, Heath Spotted Orchid (Dactylorhiza maculata) growing in abundance across a lovely area of heath on Anglesey, enjoyed during a failed hunt for Marsh Fritillary, no less. Closer to home, and an avian-fueled ramble around Rising Sun Country Park in North Tyneside came up trumps with a number of deep purple Northern Marsh Orchid (Dactylorhiza purpurella). Their chubby, rounded flower-stems standing in stark contrast to the greens and yellows that surrounded them.

I hope to hunt out a few more arguably more impressive orchid species in my local area over the coming weeks.

Heath Spotted Orchid (Dactylorhiza maculata)
Northern Marsh Orchid (Dactylorhiza purpurella)

Heath Spotted Orchid (Dactylorhiza maculata) and Northern Marsh Orchid (Dactylorhiza purpurella)

A once in a lifetime encounter

Before yesterday commenced, I had only seen three Red-necked Grebes in my lifetime. Two as distant apparitions amid undulating heat haze on a vast swath of Estonian marshland, and the other, as an equally uninspiring spec on the horizon here in the UK. The latter being tossed astray by the tide around half a mile out from a well-known watchpoint on the Northumbrian coast.

I must confess that these encounters, while enjoyable, did little highlight the appeal of this species at their heart. They provided little opportunity to admire and scrutinise. Standing as polar opposites to yesterdays encounter – a prize find by some local birders allowing me to enjoy the species in full, at point-blank range.

Views of this species – Britain’s rarest regular grebe – are seldom so good. Indeed, I could not quite believe my eyes upon catching sight of this particular bird as it fed in a shallow, salt marsh channel mere inches from the feet of the few birders assembled in appreciation. The sight of the surprisingly delicate waterbird was unbelievable, inconceivable almost, as it hunted for small fish within touching distance. So close that its antics underwater, as it twisted and rived in pursuit of prey, were equally visible. A Red-necked Grebe, under any circumstance, is a sight to treasure; though under these circumstances, is quite the treat.

The reason for the grebes confiding nature remains a mystery to me; although speaking to those in attendance, inexperience seems most likely. It was a young bird, so perhaps it had simply never encountered man before – migrating from the species breeding grounds in the far North or East has never stumbled across a single human. It certainly showed little fear of those in attendance and here, at least, it has little need to fear.

I dare say I will never view this species under these circumstances again and, as such, this experience will go down in the record books as a one-off. An encounter to be treasured.

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Cetaceans on the Northumbrian coast

Yesterday I experienced something new and otherworldly: discovering a new side to my home county – Northumberland, for those who haven’t yet guessed – on a ten-hour trip into the North Sea with Northern Experience Wildlife Tours. The trip delivering a surreal experience as, at long last, I was able to get up close and personal with cetaceans in local waters, and resulting in a number of simply jaw-dropping moments.

Setting out from Royal Quays, the first few hours served to build anticipation. The sight of countless seabirds over open water – Gannets, Razorbills, Kittiwakes, Guillemots and more –  providing a welcome change from the norm, and a few Grey Seals, as ever, most welcome. It was not until the team at helm spotted a flock of Gannets feeding en masse, however, that things really picked up. The sight of myriad birds torpedoing downwards into the depths reminiscent of some Attenborough documentary; entrancing, at least until the birds lifted. Yielding the water to the barrel-like body of  Minke whale lunging up from the depths – the sight of this behemoth as it emerged and fell in one, surprisingly swift rolling motion, quite unlike anything I had ever seen before. Awe-inspiring – minkes may be relatively small in comparison to other baleen whales but they are still impressive beasts.

I missed the whale with my camera: intent on staring and enjoying, mouth agape, rather than fumbling for my lens. No matter. Moving further North, miles off-shore, there was plenty opportunity to take pictures – the sight of a single White-beaked Dolphin and its brief appearance at the bow of the boat a pleasing precursor to an experience quite unlike anything I have witnessed before, anywhere in the world.

White-beaked Dolphins – somewhere off the Northumberland coast

Soon enough, as we meandered our way North, our boat found itself accompanied by an escort of dolphins: one pod after another tailing the vessel before peeling off and leaving room for another entourage to join. The animals breaching incessantly at both sides, at times within touching distance, and providing the ideal opportunity for closer scrutiny. They really are magnificent animals: clad in alternating hues of grey but appearing almost blue and white under the water – far more attractive, dare I say, than the much more renowned Bottlenose dolphins we all know and love. Indeed, it is only while watching dolphins beneath the waves that one gets a sense of their true power – sturdy, rudder-like tails propelling them at a truly incredible pace.

Watching the dolphins break the surface of the water, it was possible to discern a few of the features that allow researchers to identify individual animals: scars, holes and pale patches lending the animals an individual sense of character and allowing easy separation from their kin. One individual, in particular, boasting a queer pink patch on its cranium became an instant favourite, and it was interesting to hear from those aboard that she had been observed with some frequency during previous excursions. I think recognition of individuals, and the connection that undoubtedly ensues, goes some way to explaining the unrivalled passion of cetacean researchers. They are an enthusiastic and terribly knowledgeable bunch!

This weekends boat trip will certainly go down in memory as a winner. While also allowing me to easily respond to those who claim that “true wilderness” and breath-taking wild spectacles exist only on [or around] far-off shores. Indeed, my only regret is that I did not get a proper look at a dolphin leaping entirely out of the water. That said, the sight of a few individuals ‘spinning’ as they departed the waves vertically on the horizon did make for an enchanting sight against the sunny Northumbrian skyline. And already has me planning my return.

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

Broad-bodied Chaser

A quick visit to Gosforth  Park Nature Reserve today came up trumps with my first ever Broad-bodied Chaser (Libellula depressa). Now, this is a relatively common species, doubtless familiar to many of you, but as someone only just beginning their journey into the frustrating, complicated but altogether fun realm of dragonflies, this individual gave cause for quite a bit of excitement. Abundant, yes, but beautiful – boasting a superb, smoky blue colouration to its abdomen and whilst posed conveniently on a stick, providing uncharacteristically good views. I even managed some half-decent photos…

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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Northumberland’s Wild Interior

Uncharacteristically, I haven’t managed many far-flung ventures of late – the combined result of some drastic life changes, a busy schedule and the build-up of myriad more menial tasks. This, of course, has frustrated me to no end, boiling over with a snap decision this past Saturday to drop everything and travel outwards: inland to the wild uplands of my home county. Northumberland, for those not in the know…

Truthfully, we could not have wished for better weather on our outing: bright yet chilly sunshine, half-hearted, almost enjoyable showers and, better still, only the faintest whisper of wind making for a pleasant day as we traversed the surrounds of Harwood Forest in search of, well, anything really. The morning beginning with a flurry of excitement as, from a well known local watchpoint, we caught sight of two Goshawk’ drifting in slow circles above a bottle-green stand of Sitka and Norway Spruce. A hell of a bird, to say the least, usually elusive (often infuriatingly so) drawn out into the open due to the pressing need to court and breed. Marvellous, and a first for Matt.

Here too, no less than seven Buzzards rode the thermals – staying clear of the aforementioned hawks as they drifted upwards, casting vulturine shadows on the woodland and heath below. Joined, on this occasion, by a pair of Kestrel – engrossed in similar, amorous behaviour – and, better still, two Raven. The fabled jet-black corvids kronking loudly as they passed overhead en route elsewhere. A fabulous start to the day – the experience and refreshing feel of “proper” wilderness only amplified by the vocal antics of multiple singing Skylark; the repeated alarm calls of a particularly perturbed Red Grouse and the rich, evocative melody of a Song Thrush positioned high in a roadside conifer.

Moving briefly away from the impenetrable margins of Harwood, a female Merlin lifted from the roadside – passing a few meters in front of the car with uncanny grace before proceeding to quarter a heather-clad bank to the East. A bird I enjoyed, to no end, during my time in the Highlands of Scotland but one I see far too little of here: a moorland sprite and a sight to be savoured.

It did not take us long to reverse our earlier decision to head out over the moor: the ground was soaking, rendering our boots useless, and we quickly grew tired of the slow, squelching march. Instead, we decided on a walk through the forest itself, spending two hours or so wandering a variety of well-worn forestry tracks. Hemmed in, at times, by the hulking frames of the assorted confiders – destined for eventual felling – and, at others, liberated by open vistas and extensive woodland clearings. It was the subtle signs of the changing season that held our attention here: frogspawn in temporary forest floods and the song of countless tits, finches and thrushes; the radiant blooms of pioneering Coltsfoot and the sound of chattering squirrels concealed amid the gloom. Each and all an indicator of exciting times still to come as the year progresses.

This being a coniferous plantation – albeit one of impressive magnitude – the wildlife here was typical of such habitat. Species abundant inland yet few and far between in the coastal reaches I call home: Siskin and Lesser Redpoll in impressive numbers, rust-coloured Crossbills perched high in the canopy and a lone Green Woodpecker doing its damndest to frustrate as it called incessantly, yet remained invisible within the thick wall of encroaching trees. It’s pronounced yaffling taking on almost a taunting nature as the bird eluded us for a good quarter-hour – finally giving itself up and permitting a brief glimpse as it dropped down to the roadside a stone’s throw from our parked car.

Heading home, it was the distinct feeling of rejuvenation that defined our journey. Perhaps a result of the gradual shifts observed this day in nature, as Winter finally yields to Spring, or perhaps due to our own relief. Nature has a habit of refreshing the mind and, while they are far from perfect, our uplands boast the uncanny ability to centre the mind: casting out stresses and troubled thoughts and, ultimately, uplifting those who choose to visit.

Winters Gibbet – the site at which William Winter lost his lift for the crime of murder during the year of  1791.

The jewel in the crown

The ‘Newcastle Diaries’ are intended as a new series of blog posts brought to life by a recent move to the city; inspired by a growing frustration at not being able to visit my regular, rural haunts half as often as I would like. While I assumed a move here would greatly decrease the time I spend in nature, quite the opposite has happened. And I find myself growing increasingly fond of the city and her wildlife. Heading back to this blog’s roots as a patch diary, I hope to share my experiences wildlife watching around my new, urban patch (the whole city, to be precise) with regular blog readers.

Diligently maintained by the Natural History Society of Northumbria since 1929, Gosforth Park Nature Reserve is, without a doubt, the jewel in the crown of the scant few wild places remaining in and around Newcastle. Indeed, when walking in the dappled shade cast by the sites many imposing trees, or engulfed in swaying growths of Phragmites, it is quite possible to imagine yourself elsewhen – in a time when nature still reigned supreme across the landscape. The sights and sounds of the city located a mere stone’s throw away drowned out entirely by nature – lost in a chorus of birdsong, creaking trunks and soggy, squelching footsteps. Truth be told, Gosforth is a rather beautiful site and one I was keen to explore in greater depth this week.

Walking the woodland tracks of Gosforth before noon, I was pleased to see that the intermittent bouts of rain tumbling from the heavens had not disturbed the wildlife. Mere moments after arrival, my eyes greeted by sight of a Great Spotted Woodpecker pair cork-screwing around the trunk of a denuded oak, clearly in the midst of some energetic, amorous pursuit. The male – as told by the conspicuous red blaze behind his head – clearly feeling somewhat frisky as the Spring draws ever closer. He was not the only one: a yaffling Green Woodpecker off to the East, a singing Goldcrest and the repetitive chanting of countless Great Tits likewise signalling the forthcoming shift from Winter to Spring.

While the birds of Gosforth gave plenty of hope for things to come, the woodland itself gave few. Trees, with the exception of a few intrepid, Catkin bearing, Hazels, still dormant; with scant botanical offerings on the ground to be seen. Still, the lack of cover appeared to work in my favour on this occasion – the characteristic white-rump of a Roe Deer easily picked out among from amid the trees. It’s owner – a doe – promptly joined by three more of her kin, all of whom preceded to wander, in a most un-deer-like fashion ever closer. Stopping, eventually, to ogle their admirers before ambling, with no sense of haste nor fear, back in the opposite direction. A memorable encounter, to say the least, and one which even gave rise to a few hurried photographs.

Evidently, the parks Roe Deer like to use the same time-honoured pathways utilised by human visitors – slot marks and, in some instances, droppings, visible for a good quarter-mile stretch of our journey. Made visible by the lack of lower-vegetation, and the gradual rot of the assorted leaves which once carpeted the ground.

Here too the tracks of Badgers were visible, rounded with distinct claw-marks, covering some distance and culminating in the familiar sight of broken-ground – doubtless where the mustelids foraged in search of forms sometime before our arrival. Badgers are not a species I expect to see within the city limits anytime soon; thus, for now, relics of their nocturnal activity will suffice.

Having departed the woodland temporarily, only after taking heed of a passing flock of Siskin, I soon found myself casting my eyes over a frigid and very empty lake. Almost beating a retreat after ten-minutes of expectant yet futile scanning. I am glad I did not, however, the sight of a rounded head surfacing on the fringes of the reeds, and the ensuing flick of a meaty tail as the creature dived, heralding the arrival of the Otter. A dog, to be precise, which fished for sometime around the frozen margins, appearing to break the crystalline film of ice as it rose and fell. Never once casting an eye in our direction. I’m sure it saw us, despite the screen – I was not exactly shy in my excitement.

At one point, marking perhaps the most comical yet exciting moment of the trip, the Otter departed the water entirely onto the ice.  Climbing out and showing himself in all his glory. That is before the surface gave way and he plopped head and front-paws first back into the water. Clearly, it was not so cold last night as to warrant a “proper” coating of ice.

I hate to use the same phrase twice – at least knowingly – but the sight of an Otter really was the jewel in the crown of an already enjoyable visit. A crowning glory, seldom seen and definitely an experience to savour.

Following our success at Gosforth, a brief jaunt to Newcastle’s rural fringe ensued leading us quickly to Prestwick Carr. A site I visit often which, once again, yielded superb views of Willow Tit – never to be taken for granted given the state of the wider population of these underrated passerines. Here too, Buzzards mewed overhead, a charming mixed flock of Yellowhammer and Reed Bunting fed among the amassed feet of some local goats, and a squadron of Golden Plover passed overhead, seemingly on route further inland. To their heather-clad breeding grounds, I suspect.

Willow Tit: not half as vibrant yet equally as charming