The
smell gave it away, that sickly sweet, rotten fish kind of smell. At first I
thought it was simply a stench arising from discarded fisherman’s pots, but no.
The source of this particular aroma could be found by looking a little more
closely at the beach where amongst the thousands of pebbles were thousands of
dead sea creatures; crabs, lobsters, starfish, and various other species of
marine life including dogfish and what I took to be mullet or smelt, too
decomposed to be sure. Unseeing, wrinkled eyes staring into a sombre grey sky,
the wind drying their rotting skins; born to a life of freedom under the
limitless sea, dead now and littered along the strandline. Lifeless waste from
a cruel sea wracked by strong wind and freezing temperatures.
Sheringham
beach a week after the snow storms; the toll of nature’s wrath all too clear.
Whilst the news bleated on about us humans stranded in our tin cans or unable
to spend our money on unnecessary crap from Tesco, the real effect of the
blizzards and gales was felt in the wild world. The world from which we are
increasingly detached and disconnected. We have little concept about what
survival really means, as long as the TV works, the freezer is stocked and Wi-Fi
is running we’re happy. For wild creatures however the struggle to survive
means sometimes you don’t win. It’s no computer game, no chance to reboot and
start again. In the real world you can die and lay stinking on a cold and
lonely beach.
But it
is an ill wind that blows no good it is said; the evidence to support this
adage was plain to see. The sea dwellers loss was the land dwellers gain.
Turnstones, crows and gulls revelled in the bonanza left by a high tide; such
easy pickings were not to be squandered. The crabs had already been plundered,
their empty shells piled around, but there was flesh still to be found deep
within the lobster’s dark blue armour and plenty of other tasty morsels
enmeshed within the heaped flotsam. The turnstones were ever busy, probing with
their dainty, upturned beaks at every potential snack. They are omnivorous
opportunists these arctic breeding waders, equally happy taking live insects
and sea lice revealed by their stone turning, nibbling dead flesh or wolfing
down chips proffered by well-intentioned humans. They do well here. And of
course the ever present gulls will gulp just about anything, tearing holes in
the corpses with their ferociously strong beaks. Burly great black-backs were
asserting their dominance, muscling their way into any food source discovered
by their smaller cousins. Soon there won’t be much left to stink up the sea
front.
Further
out, on the heaped, bladder wrack encrusted, granite blocks, pecking
inconspicuously at unseen particles were three purple sandpipers. These
unassuming coast dwellers are constantly picking up tiny morsels from the
slippery stone, their black and orange beaks working overtime to find
sustenance to carry them through another day. Scurrying away from the effects
of the seventh wave they demonstrate their hardiness; there is always plenty of
food thrown up by the merciless sea. They are not quite so tolerant of close
approach as the turnstones that sometimes dance around your feet, but if you
keep still they sometimes come close enough to afford a good look and a half
decent photograph.
A treat
and a rather more uplifting sight awaited on the drive home, for near Edgefield
a barn owl drifted across the road, flew parallel to the car for a few
heartbeats before alighting on a road sign. Quick stop in a gateway, three
point turn - needless to say it had flown. However the bird hadn’t gone far, it
was hunting over the adjacent field. When it bounced away through a gap in the
hedge another barn owl appeared behind it, chasing it from its territory. This
is excellent news indeed, for despite being unable to hunt for at least three
days last week these birds did manage to survive. The fact they were hunting
well before dusk probably means they are hungry, but unlike the ruins on the
beach, they are at least alive.
At home,
the enforced confinement to the house last week did provide an opportunity to
have a good look at the garden birds. A total of 13 species took advantage of
the food we put out, with our resident wren the star. This perky individual
made short work of the live maggots placed in a flower pot on the patio. On its
regular sorties it would select a wriggling maggot, whack its prize a couple of
times on a branch kingfisher style before flying off to complete the meal in
thick cover. Blackbirds were more forthright, their larger size and bigger
appetites satisfied by taking several maggots at a sitting, swallowing them
greedily without ceremony. To allow the wren more access and less bullying, a
couple of apples and a chunk of unwanted Christmas pud did the job of distracting
the blackbirds .......at least most of the time. What was particularly good to
see though was a small flock of goldfinches making use of the dried seed heads
of the hollyhocks. It is all too easy to cut these down and tidy them away in
the autumn, but if left they do provide a useful food source for hungry birds
as well as a refuge for various small invertebrates when winter bites. I do
sometimes look at my humble estate and think what a mess it is, resolving to
‘sort it out’ when spring arrives. But then I see the birds and other animals
making full use of the disorder and content myself with the thought that
although not a large area it is certainly to their liking, and that was always
the plan. What the heck would I do with a well-managed lawn anyway?
