The Norfolk Cranes' Story

Cranes on their wintering grounds in Extremadura, Spain

Whether common cranes were ever actually common in East Anglia is open to debate. Circumstantial historic evidence indicates they may well have been a widespread and abundant breeder in our marshes and fens in centuries past, or used the region as a wintering ground, but there is little concrete proof in support of this. The documentary evidence is sparse with one allusion to a ‘Pyper crane’ being contained in a document dating from 1543, but this could just as easily have been a colloquial reference to a grey heron or some such. There are other references to cranes featured as illustrations in manuscripts or listed as components of medieval feasting. But if it was once to be encountered gracefully striding across our soils, its evocative bugling cries echoing across our flatlands we will never know for sure.  What we do know and can justly be proud of is that common cranes did take up residence in Norfolk in 1979 and have been here ever since, slowly building a breeding pool that when joined by non-breeders and migrants now number some 70 birds county wide.

The story of their return began in September 1979 with a phone call received by John Buxton of Horsey Hall from an estate farmer who excitedly reported he had just seen “the biggest bloody herons”. The birds turned out to be a pair of common cranes that were joined by a third bird later that autumn. This trio spent the winter in the Hickling/Horsey area of Broadland feeding in potato fields and amongst stubble.  These birds left the area the following April no doubt attempting to return to their native Scandinavia to breed. Perhaps deterred by the long sea crossing they abandoned this migration attempt and returned to Norfolk a couple of weeks later. There they remained with the original pair eventually settling down to breed during the spring of 1981. That pioneering breeding attempt proved unsuccessful, but the birds tried again the following year with greater success, rearing a single chick to the fledging stage. This represented the first known common crane to be reared in the UK since perhaps the 16^th century marking a red-letter day for all concerned with the bird’s welfare and conservation.

Being large and obvious ground nesting birds, crane nests and chicks are very vulnerable and open to predation. The recolonising birds had a tough time of it over the next twenty years, but eventually reached the stage where numbers outgrew their original Horsey home. In 2003 they began nesting at the Norfolk Wildlife Trust reserve at neighbouring Hickling and in 2007 began to spread further afield when a pair nested at the RSPB’s reserve at Lakenheath Fen in Suffolk following an influx of Continental migrants into the region. Since then the birds have spread naturally as far afield as Yorkshire and Scotland.

During the period 2010-2014 the RSPB together with the Wildfowl and Wetlands Trust and Pensthorpe Conservation Trust released around 90 captive bred cranes into the Somerset Levels. The Great Crane Project had the purpose of securing the future of common cranes within the UK and was greeted with publicity and media attention, in my view somewhat detracting from the decades of dedicated conservation effort that took place here in East Anglia to nurture a viable natural recolonization.

It would be quite wrong to forget the magnificent efforts of John Buxton, his estate employees, RSPB staff and volunteers who acted as guardians for this vulnerable species throughout the critical first few years of its precarious tenure. Without the efforts of this dedicated band it is doubtful whether the cranes would have been left undisturbed by egg collectors, farming activity and well-intentioned but ultimately disruptive sightseers.

Happily, the full story of how common cranes came to once again reside in eastern England has been documented in a marvellous book entitled ‘The Norfolk Cranes’ Story’ co-authored by Chris Durdin, a Norwich based conservationist who runs Honeyguide Wildlife Holidays. Chris worked with John Buxton to fully detail the trials and tribulations of these enigmatic birds as they slowly regained their place as a UK breeding species. I can thoroughly recommend the work which was first published in 2011 and is now available in paperback. It will have special resonance with anyone who loves the wild open spaces of East Anglia.  If you feel in need of an uplifting read visit www.norfolkcranes.co.uk for details of how to buy your copy.

This winter several birds have been regularly feeding in the stubble fields next to the A1064 at Billockby near Acle. They are wary birds though and will not allow close approach. One of the best places to see common cranes during winter is from the Stubb Mill raptor watchpoint at Hickling. The birds often come to roost amongst the wide expanse of marsh and fen together with many marsh harriers and occasional hen harriers. It is an amazing sight and we should all be proud that we are, once again, able to witness these majestic birds sweeping across wide East Anglian skies. 

Wintering Cranes. Extremadura, Spain 

My Younger Self

What a motley crew. There's me, back row 3rd from the right - cool or what!

A couple of spare hours between meetings led me (not for the first time) to Jarrold’s department store here in Norwich, more specifically their basement book store. I love books and it was whilst perusing the biography titles that I happened upon a compendium of essays by various famous people originally featured in Big Issue magazine. The theme was ‘What would I tell my younger self’ with 16 seeming to be the chosen age for revelation. Politicians, rock stars, authors, sportsmen and women, film stars and other well-known public figures had downloaded their nuggets of wisdom by turns funny, thought provoking and wistful. It got me thinking, what would I tell my own 16 year old self? An intriguing, if slightly narcissistic thought don’t you think? Well what would I........?

Let’s see now, 16 - hmmm. It would have been 1972, the height of glam rock with Bolan, Bowie and all things glitter (yes even him) filling young people’s minds with new found ideas of sexual expression and just plain old fashioned fun (remember that). I would have been in the throes of completing my 5th form year with O level exams looming just over the horizon. I was an underachiever, basically lazy and lethargic. A ‘couldn’t care less, why does it matter to me’ kind of attitude, but then I was 16 and that comes with the territory. So I guess I would try and tell myself to stop pratting around, knuckle down, do some work and get good grades, probably exactly what my parents told me at the time. Goodness knows I had the potential (as it was I scraped 5 passes which luckily was the benchmark for applying for any decent job). I would try and explain to myself, as I did to my own lad when he was about the same age, that all my school chums were nothing other than competitors in the real world and that if I didn’t achieve they would leave me stumbling behind. But how do you export adult wisdom(?) to somebody as naive and uncomprehending as I was at that time? In fairness to the youthful me, our school teachers, icons of enlightenment and profundity, were not much better. I remember my ‘career’ interview whereby a certain Mr High, quite ironic really because he was only about 5 feet tall, asked me what I wanted to do with my life. Needless to say this question was met with a look as blank as a virgin sheet of foolscap (alright then A4). I remember his subsequent pep talk quite vividly, it went thus ‘Well if I were you I’d leave school as soon as you can and get a job, at least then you’ll be earning some money’. Even me, so wet behind the ears I had a permanent trickle down the back of my neck, though this was, how should I say? Oh yes, total bollocks. But I left the room simply glad to have gotten a potential embarrassing interview out of the way in such short order. Career interview? What a joke! But then Mr High, he slightly better employed as our woodwork tutor, was more likely than not shoehorned into the role of careers master because nobody else wanted to do it. He was handed the short straw. You can imagine the other teachers clubbing together to make sure that poor old High who was late for the meeting was handed the poison chalice. ‘Sorry old chap but it’s the only job left’. I’ve just remembered that Mr High had a habit of throwing wooden mallets at wayward pupils should they infringe the etiquette of the woodwork room. For a teacher to do such a thing now would be unthinkable and would result in lawsuits, shaming, dismissals, grovelling apologies and social media cancelling. We took it in our stride mainly because him being so short, even a well aimed throw was only likely to brush your thigh. Wonder what happened to him......

All I really wanted to do was get home from school, hurriedly change, even more hurriedly cram my tea down my throat and join my mates to play football. We played football all the time, everywhere and anywhere. At school we played before assembly, during morning tea break, during lunch breaks, as part of the sports lesson and any spare time inbetween. We played with proper leather footballs the kind that left your foot numb when you kicked them and your brain oscillating across your cranium should you be fool enough to attempt a header, tennis balls, half a tennis ball (great for curling if you hit it right), power balls - that takes some doing believe me - and once the rubber stopper off the leg of a table. As long as it could be kicked, we kicked it. Perhaps I would tell my younger self that I would never make the England team and to concentrate on important things like logarithms and algebra. On the other hand perhaps I would be better encouraging myself to keep practising the noble art of footy and forget trivial bullshit like trigonometry and algebra. Goodness knows footy has subsequently given me great pleasure both watching and playing whereas I’ve never, not once, ever had to use logs, sines, cosines or algebraic formulae in anger, or peace for that matter.

I liked going to the footy!

My real aspiration, apart from the obvious one of rock star, was to be a fighter pilot. I wanted to fly Lightnings, I wanted to fly beyond the speed of sound. I still do. Me and my mates used to spend our school holidays watching these silver monsters thundering around RAF Coltishall a few miles north east of the city. We would walk or cycle there, prop against one of the yellow crash gates and spend the day revelling in the sight and sound of tons of high tech jet fighter ripping across the Norfolk skies. That I wouldn’t swap for the world, but I would perhaps have steered my young self along the path of a career, a real career, in the Air Force. I could have done it with application. I’d never have been clever enough to fly one of those things, but I could have got close enough to revel in their glory. Yes, I would encourage my spotty adolescent self to find out more, join the Air Training Corps, get my bloody hair cut and just do it. Things would have been different then, but that’s doesn’t necessarily mean better of course.

This is a wildlife blog, so mention should be made of how wild places and wild creatures featured in my life in those heady days of the early 1970s. The answer would be quite heavily. With my lifelong mate I spent a lot of time, the time not playing football or watching jet interceptors, rummaging around in bushes, shrubs and undergrowth searching for birds’ nests. In those far off days such practice was not frowned upon and was undertaken by just about every schoolboy. All of our peers had a collection of birds eggs, even such illumini as Bill Oddie openly confesses to doing the same. It was just what you did. But then of course there were millions more birds around and our pathetic pilfering hardly dented the reproductive aspirations of the proliferation of bird life all around - song thrushes more abundant than blackbirds can you believe. And both abundant in the true meaning of the word. But 1972 marked the beginnings of change, a change towards behavioral observation. During 1972 we began to record the contents of nests, where we found them and their ongoing fortunes. We started to paint birds, photograph them, write about them and watch what they were doing. Yes, we still took the odd egg, but the seeds of a more mature involvement in their natural history were beginning to germinate. If I could advise my 16 year old self it would definitely be to steer me towards greater hands on involvement with the conservation movement. To immerse myself in the evolution of a more enlightened attitude towards wildlife. That would certainly have been a life well spent.

And then girls. Yes those mysterious, curvy, moody, uninterested (in me) creatures that suddenly seemed to blossom from some gangly, bespectacled annoying sister person  (I had one of those too, in fact Ive still got one) into sultry, sexy, desirable, squidgy .....things. Just what were you meant to do with them? It was all quite different then in the dark ages of power strikes, flared trousers and Brut. We matured later, we didn’t know the rules, we had no road map. We were left groping in the dark, or rather that’s just what we weren’t doing. Oh dear, totally hopeless. I vividly remember, and my fellow protagonist and me howl with laughter about it over a pint even now, when the belle of form 3F, Sarah by name together with her mate Joanna, agreed to meet us for a date one Saturday afternoon. There they were bedecked in fashion attire, eyeliner, mascara, lipstick et al and there were we stepping off the bus in our dark blue raincoats. It got worse. Not having the foggiest clue how to entertain these sirens we treated them to an afternoon of pleasurable scrutiny of the latest airfix model kits in a nearby hobby shop. Somehow we weren’t favoured with a second date. To our credit later that evening we were both rolling around on the floor, tears of laughter rolling down our cheeks in realisation of what a couple of total nobs we were. As I say we laugh about it to this day and the tears still roll. What would I say to my 16 year old self in this regard? Hell’s teeth that’s a toughie. You see if I could give me advice that episode wouldn’t have taken place and years of gut wrenching mirth would have been denied us. On reflection I don’t think I would tell myself anything about girls - you can only find out how to cope with them through bitter experience.

I suppose in essence the best bit of advice I could have given to my embryonic self would be to always try and be yourself. Just do it, don’t give a damn what anybody thinks, says or does. Believe in yourself and your goals. Make it happen. Make it happen for you because only you can achieve or stop yourself achieving. Sound advice? Possibly. Would I have listened? I didn’t have the wit to comprehend. When all said and done life takes its own course, it all pans out the way it was meant to. And looking around at what I have and the things I’ve done I cannot be anything but content, proud and happy. I’m not content and happy obviously - that would be too much to ask - but I have no reason not to be. Most importantly I have no fundamental regrets. I was able to tell my dad I loved him before he passed away and that we would all look after mum. That was all he wanted to hear. It’s worth everything. I do regret no longer being able to say similar things to people who are no longer here or perhaps being able to apologise to those people beyond my reach for a small number of things I said or did that I now realise were wrong. Show me someone who doesn’t feel the same. But overall I think my 16 year old self contained the nucleus of being alright.  Sure I was a bit dopey, hot blooded, ignorant and daft. That’s what being 16 is there for. I could have worked harder at school, but where would that have led? Perhaps I’d have been wealthier. Big deal. No, going back and trying to change the course of your life is a flawed concept. I’m here and now because I was there and then. To alter that would be an unwise and dangerous thing. I’m raising my glass (I am too, it’s full of rather nice wine) to my 16 year old self. Good on you sonny you turned out ok.

Bad Moon Rising

‘Is that the moon?’ this said in an incredulous tone by my buddy.
‘Certainly is’
‘That’s pretty impressive’
‘A full moon, honey coloured, looks big doesn’t it?’
‘Those geese are heading right towards it; get your camera ready.....’

There we were standing patiently half way along a potholed, puddled track that leads from the small railway halt to the river. We had arrived 30 minutes before dusk after a good day birding the eastern section of the county clocking up ferruginous duck at a dull, squally Ranworth, a lonely looking cattle egret at Halvergate, a dozen common cranes at Billockby, buzzards galore, marshies everywhere and a lovely group of a dozen goldeneye at Martham Broad. A good haul, leading us smoothly into the current plan to spend a little while looking for geese on the marshes of the Yare Valley and to witness the corvids roosting in the wet carr. But we hadn’t factored in the rather surreal phenomenon of not just enjoying a dramatic sunset that sent bands of flaming orange across the western skies behind us, but coincidentally being able to witness an equally spectacular moonrise.

‘Last time I watched the moon rise I was in Brazil’ I quipped and proceeded to recount the tale of that evening waiting for a jaguar to return to its kill in the heart of the Pantanal with innumerable frogs chorusing all around and fireflies dancing on the warm night breeze (see Mad Mad Moonlight ). If he was impressed he wasn’t letting on.

The marshes between our location at Buckenham and the village of Cantley a couple of miles eastwards are managed by the RSPB to form part of the Mid Yare Reserve, a living landscape initiative that takes in large areas either side of the river itself. When young, nothing but a boy in truth, barely peeping over the counter at my teenage years, I used to frequent this area in spring recording the nests of all kinds of birds that choose these wide open wetlands to breed. Lapwing, redshank, reed buntings, coot, moorhen and mute swan could be encountered in good numbers together with the lots of reedy warblers and grebes. I seldom, if ever, visited in winter in those embryonic years of my love affair with wildlife; that particular sweet was only unwrapped once I reached my twenties and began to broaden my horizons and consequently my mind. My loss, for winter is when this place really comes to life. It is positively throbbing with life, pulsating, energised, invigorating. A scan of the area today showed thousands of birds grazing the well managed sward; geese of several species, wigeon aplenty, waders and the highest concentration of Chinese water deer I’ve ever seen. Periodically some raptor, either a peregrine that use this floodplain as their daily larder, or most likely a marsh harrier lazily flapping its way to roost at nearby RSPB Strumpshaw Fen (we saw at least 15 heading that way), would spook the smaller birds so that they rose en masse to twist and turn across the clear winter sky like so much confetti thrown over a smiling bride. Lapwings would flicker black and white, golden plover would spangle gold. The wigeon would whistle, the pink feet yelp, the grey lags bray. It is wonderful.

The sun sank in an arc of gold, the moon rose spectrally from behind the wood. Flights of geese, silhouettes against the deepest velvet blue, flew to feeding grounds inland, the air became chiller with the waning light. But still not a single crow. So late did it seem that we began to speculate that perhaps for some reason tonight the birds would roost elsewhere, when the faint chirrup of jackdaws reached our ears. In anticipation we moved closer to the roosting carr, positioned ourselves by a gate and waited. It happened in a rush. Without any preamble a sudden cacophony of caws and chirrups rent the air as wave after wave of rooks and jackdaws appeared from the west and wheeled above us towards their roost. Tightly massed flocks weaved across the sky, myriad small black dots against the deep blue of early night. These were crows but acted as murmurating starlings; twisting and turning as wisps of smoke, and still they came, thousands of birds assaulting the senses. Then on some signal, indecipherable to the human being, they plummeted to roost creating funnels of rapidly descending bodies; fluid, smooth, perfect. What must it be like to be within that mass, hurling downward with your brethren below and above, left and right towards an unlit woodland in near darkness? How do they manage not to collide and plunge to their doom? How exhilarating must it be? We will never know. The moon, now smaller, higher and brilliant white, unconcerned with these questions shone on. 

And For Desert.....

....more of a main course really, but I liked the play on words.

Walking along the tiered sea defences between Cart Gap and Eccles on the NE Norfolk coast the sheer might of the North Sea can be felt close at hand. A relentless battering of waves pounding on the smooth concrete steps just a few feet from where you stoically trudge toward your chosen goal. The tide was high, the breeze fresh but not excessive; what must it be like here in the teeth of a real gale? Terrifying I should imagine. Every so often, the seventh wave perhaps, there is a sharp crack as a large incoming crest meets a receding sheet of mud coloured water. It sounds like cannon fire and is quite impressive.

After about a kilometre walk a set of steps leads into a static caravan park, abandoned for the winter, and here in a small garden sheltered by the dunes hops a small buff coloured bird. A desert wheatear, a first winter male, lost, alone and quite possibly doomed. This rather splendid little bird has strayed somewhat off course. It should be wintering far, far to the east, the Arabian Peninsula perhaps or North Africa, but somehow has found itself marooned here in Norfolk probing under and around the empty summer residences for spiders, flies and other slim pickings. The mild conditions will probably allow it to find sufficient food for a while, but a cold spell would likely cause its demise. I doubt it would have strength to make another sea crossing, few vagrants make it back home, but who knows? For now this displaced waif is being admired by a regular turnover of birders all of whom have a smile on their face and are happy to share tales of its confiding nature.

The bird is foraging 30 metres away and after a while moves out of sight behind the caravan towards a stand of dense bramble. I move parallel with its trajectory, take up position propped against the side of another large white box and wait for it to re-emerge. It does so and to my delight proceeds to bound toward me foraging as it approaches. I pray silently for it to hop onto the fence post in front of me, muttering to myself: come on birdy you can do this, just pose for a few seconds. And to my joy it complies. There in front of me, at the edge of close focus range sits the loveliest bird. Tones of sandy buff delineated by a broken black mask, white fringed black flight feathers and jet black tail. What are you doing here little bird? You’re a real beauty. Good luck and thank you.

The walk back to the car was but a quick stroll, buoyed as I was with my good fortune. The light is perfect, the sea scape dramatic, all is good. A momentary stop to watch an unfortunate black headed gull, beak crammed with food, being mugged by a quartet of common gulls. Round and round they wheel, the pursuing gang wailing banshee like as they attempt to wear down the less robust bird. Spiraling patterns against a pure blue winter sky. Lovely.

Happy New Year

The scene before us: bleak. Miles of seemingly lifeless, creek fractured saltmarsh stretching to the horizon under scudding banks of rain laden cloud whipped by a cruel nor’ wester. The colour and light seemed drained from the world as another fleeting squall whipped our faces: the raw force of winter on the north Norfolk coast. A few fellow birders, making a pilgrimage for the day and determined to make the most of it, were also looking for twite. None of us stood much chance with that wind; any vulnerable small bird would hunker down and peck around for seeds in the shelter afforded by skeletal drifts of sea lavender. It was not a day for flying about. A single linnet gave hope, a bouncy lady jogger temporarily lifted the spirits, but of our target bird there was no sign. Time to move on and hope for better fare elsewhere.

And where better to fare than the RSPB reserve at Titchwell. Here in the car park sheltered from the wind, still relatively quiet and empty, we connected with four lovely bullfinches. A bird that can never fail to bring a smile, especially so since it could be added to the year list. For this jaunt represented a New Year’s outing when everything from the humble blackbird to a rough-legged buzzard could be counted afresh. A new year, a new start, a new list and with it a renewed energy and appreciation of each and every bird. Down on the list goes the bullfinches and those blue tits tazzing around in the hedges, pencil in that small group of chaffinches pecking around the car park, oh and don’t forget the pheasant we saw in the field as we drove in. It’s all new and wonderful, a rebirth of sorts making even this wet and windy day such a worthwhile venture. Tot up the list over a bacon roll and it stands at 20, there’s surely plenty more to see, on we go.

Titchwell seldom fails to deliver and with clearing skies we could enjoy unexpected sights of spotted redshank and a greenshank, bonus birds for a January bird tick. Contrary wise the sea produced nothing at all for us. No sea duck, grebes or divers, just a vast melee of boiling dark green waves topped with wind blasted spume pounding onto the beach. A distant red kite, recognisable at a kilometre distant by its angular shape was heartening, a pair of perky stonechats welcome. Some you win, some you lose but by the time we had splashed our way to the shore and back the New Year list stood at a respectable 58.

Holkham next where there was nothing but winners. The decision by the estate to fence off an area of beach for the shorelarks has paid off big time. People, and there were a lot of them together with their dogs, happily seem to respect the need to provide sanctuary which allows the birds some peace and quiet. Without this on such a day as today with so many humans making the most of the waning holidays, the birds would have been constantly hounded from one area to another. They simply wouldn’t have had a moments rest to feed and stay safe; a simple measure but one that works well. And of course if you have a mind you can stand and watch these lovely visitors from Scandinavia shuffling through the sandy humps and bumps playing hide and seek with your scope. Every once in a while one would suspend its incessant pecking and poke its head up for a look around. Then it’s beautifully striped head patterning could be appreciated, momentarily impressed on your retina and from there stored in the ‘good memory’ drawer of your mental file cabinet. The fact such an instance was highlighted by the golden rays of a late afternoon sun helped a lot. Yes, the clouds had cleared and blue skies ruled, if only for the next hour or so.

A scan of the churning sea from the vantage point of the dunes allowed clear, if constantly interrupted views of a raft of common scoter. With them was a long-tailed duck and an auk species. Trying to pin down birds in these conditions can be the devil’s own job as they appear as a bobbing dot once every 10 seconds. This auk, initially a presumed guillemot, would not show its beak sufficiently well to confirm identification. After several brief glimpses it dawned that it didn’t actually have much of a beak to reveal: little auk entered the list. Elated with this find we motored the short distance to Wells to conclude our day.

In the fading light of a now clear and relatively calm winter evening we stood upon a raised bank to scan the marshes, a sprinkling of geese and waders flighting to roost against the sky canvass daubed with subtle shades of grey and pink. The hoped for rough-legged buzzard was sitting in a distant field, its creamy head marking it as a special bird. As we looked at this beauty, a short-eared owl flew towards us, coming close enough to allow a great picture....if only I had brought my camera along with me. I’d left it at home, judging the earlier horrible conditions not conducive to photography. I stifled a curse. And then a barn owl appeared and you can’t be anything but elated when that happens. We watched both owls hunting along the field edges until the chill and gathering dusk forced us to leave and head home, there to sink into an armchair and bask in the warming glow of a day well spent.

We ended the excursion with 77 species on our list. Not record breaking but most satisfying. Some good birds in that list as well. It’s been quite a while since I was lured out to spend the day up there. Why have I left it so long? I love it and want more. Something of a rekindled interest in birding may be afoot and there is more to it than just getting a New Year list. I have a feeling the next year or so could be extremely interesting both for me and I very much hope for you too. I’ll explain more once I’ve settled in my mind exactly what I plan to do, but rest assured you’re more than welcome to come along for the ride. Watch this space!