Day of the Long Tails

Who amongst us doesn't regard long-tailed tits as charming little birds? They would, I imagine, be considered a common enough inhabitant of our woodlands and wayside, but just how numerous they really are was brought home to me on a visit to Strumpshaw Fen earlier this week. A stroll around the reserve on a dull day was brightened considerably by watching the nest building antics of several pairs of these perky little birds as they buzzed through the still bare trees looking for lichens and spiders webs with which to construct their well-hidden domed nurseries. My first encounter was of one rummaging around in the humus close to the woodland trail. Wondering what this innocent faced mite was doing, I approached closer to discover this bird plucking breast feathers from a dead woodpigeon. A little gruesome, but it was simply exploiting an easy source of nest liner; this soft down will insulate the structure from the rigours of spring’s wind, rain and chill. Further along I encountered a second pair uttering gentle 'tac' notes as they added moss, lichen and a binding of spider web to their nest situated in a low bramble. Bramble is a favoured nest site offering good concealment, dense rainproof cover and a thorny deterrent to would be predators. I watched this pair for 30 minutes as they made regular visits to add to the intricately woven ball. On each occasion the bird would jump into the half built nest, add their new material, wriggling their tiny bodies to optimise the shape of the cup and then do a bit of gardening around the edge. Both sexes performed in precisely the same manner and clearly had equal shares in the construction process. Totally oblivious to my presence visits were made every 2-3 minutes, a rate that would allow the nest to be fully constructed within a very few days. Quite a feat for such tiny sprites and the finished article is a real work of art and incredibly durable.

 

Fifty metres further along whilst chatting to a friend I met by good fortune, we realised another pair of these endearing creatures were nest building in another bramble bush close by. More buzzing, more 'tacking' and more feathers. As I moved around the reserve I encountered no less than seven pairs of these pink hued residents diligently engaged in nest building, and I guess I only really skimmed the surface as I didn't walk the river path and in any case only saw those directly adjacent to the woodland trails. I was mildly surprised at these numbers and equally impressed by the synchronous way the species seemed spurred into breeding action.

 

 

 

 

But it is not just the woodland birds that are engaged in the early stages of breeding, for out on the open water mini soap operas are being performed all over. The grey lag geese are noticeably paired with territorial ganders thrusting their necks out at any perceived intruder. Other members of their species are dealt with mercilessly, chased across the broad with much loud honking and ceremony. Smaller, totally innocent mallards, gadwall and shoveler are not immune from the testosterone fueled posturing and will be seen off with a threatening lunge.

 

Coots are similarly engaged in their cantankerous territorial skirmishes. Any potential infringement of what are to us invisible boundaries, results in the violated bird arching its wings high over its body and swimming purposefully towards the transgressor. Often the threatened bird will swim back to its own patch of reed fringed water, but if it does not then there are sure to be sparks. The ensuing fights can be brutal and violent; both birds contorting themselves as they launch at one another with their cruelly clawed feet. Last week I saw a fight between three pairs; all six birds flailing at each other wildly, causing the waters to boil. But all will settle as boundaries are firmly established and the birds will soon settle to building their woven platform of broken reed fragments anchored to others still standing.

 

 

 

 

It is hard to turn mid-March into mid-May as much as we would will it, but there are sure signs that the season is advancing. Unseen by us townies the countryside is astir; birds are paired and nesting has begun; queen bees have stirred from hibernation and are seeking fresh nesting sites to raise this year’s brood; frogs and toads are well into their spawning and if you listen closely you can almost hear the earth creaking as the myriad shoots of legion plants reach towards light.

It is all too tempting to hurry the season along, but as I gazed at a withered posy of snowdrops I realised it was only a couple of weeks ago they were shining as bright beacons in a desolate winters glade. Now they are over, all too quick, so we should perhaps simply let the world unfold naturally and appreciate what we can see whilst it is on offer. Savour the day and take delight in the small things. Certainly watching tiny long tailed tits attending to their domestic duties was a delight and I feel privileged to be able to witness such things.

The Yellow Gate

About 20 years ago I penned a short story for no other reason than I happened to be in the mood to do so one evening. It was simply meant as an account of the circular nature of life and successive generations; of childhood, fatherhood and the way that in an ever changing world some things (happily) remain constant.

By complete coincidence a letter appeared in the EDP a few days later asking for any memories/anecdotes/photographs relating to the tenure of Lightning interceptor aircraft at RAF Coltishall here in Norfolk. The chap requesting all of this was writing a book about this cold war beast and so I sent him my story. He happened to like it and used as an end piece which he thought perfect for documenting the transition from old to new. To date this is the only missive I've ever had published in a mainstream book......and I didn't receive a penny.

No matter. I'd pretty much forgotten about the piece, but found it lurking in a folder together with a few other well intentioned but ill fated attempts to write a cohesive tale. For what it's worth I reproduce it below, and note the irony that the base has now closed and the Jaguar itself retired from service. The ghosts of the aircraft, airmen and women live on though. If you stand by the old runway you can sometimes see them. Hope you like it.
 

THE YELLOW GATE

Ironically it is mostly very quiet and peaceful at this place. At the moment there is little sound apart from the seemingly ever present but unobtrusive song of a Skylark somewhere up in the wide blue heaven above us. It is pleasing background noise, a perfect companion to the dozy warmth of a summers day upon which my son has accompanied me to a small unfrequented country lane some 6 or 7 miles north of where we live. Progress along this particular lane is terminated abruptly after a few hundred yards by a bright yellow gate beyond which is the vast expanse of the air base. There is little sign of life on the base but through the shimmering heat haze, on the far side of the expanse, we can discern the distorted and disembodied image of the brisk, relentless swirling radar: the planes are flying. The planes are why we are here, me with my arms resting on top of the gate, my young son clambering up so he can sit beside me astride the top bar, legs swinging idly. We are here to see the jets, to experience the thrill of witnessing several tons of high tech avionics hurtle through the air not 50 yards from where we stand and somehow make contact with the tarmac runway and remain in one piece. It is a thrill we share now and again when the mood takes us and we can spare the time to lounge in intimate contact with this yellow crash gate in anticipation of that exhilarating few moments when an aircraft comes in to land. 

A few minutes later as I scan the distant horizon for the umpteenth time I see a small speck which can only be our quarry. I trace with my practiced eye the line of its approach from the edge of the runway through the tall sentinel landing lights, across the flat open country and eventually to its slowly enlarging image. “Hey James ! Here comes another one.”

 “Where dad?”

 “Over there look, you can see its light”. 

What began as an infinitesimal speck in the far distance is now appreciably larger and a faint smoke trail can be seen in its wake. The bright lights shining powerfully from its nose wheel flaps provide a disproportionately large reference point to track its progress. There is no noise as yet but as the seconds pass the image enlarges and more detail can be made out; it is soon possible to discern the distinct shape of a modern jet aircraft. Perhaps 30 seconds pass, a passage of time that seems far, far longer as the anticipation mounts.

“What is it dad?”

“A Jag I think”

Its approach seems much quicker now but it is still strangely silent until it almost pounces upon us and zooms past with a tremendous cacophony of sound. Within moments it hits the ground at over 100 miles an hour smoke flying from its tyres on impact. My lad has his hands over his ears but I can see he enjoys the moment. We note the checkered blue and yellow markings of 54 squadron, watch the air brakes flare and listen to the thrust bring reversed with a terrific roar. Sometimes a pilot will show off and allow the plane to cruise along the runway for quite some distance with its nose raised before allowing the front wheel to make contact with the ground - I suppose it’s a question of if you’ve got it flaunt it.

The Jaguar levels out and recedes into the distance along the runway and is soon lost to view. Silence imposes itself over the scene, its return made more poignant by stark contrast with the ear-piercing interruption of a few moments ago. But the loud sounds are the things that I suppose really impress, that and the evocative smell of spent aviation fuel. I love it and I doubt the excitement will ever pale.

There is now a lull in the action, and whilst my young lad contents himself with munching a sandwich I begin to think back to when I first discovered this place in the late summer of 1968. I can still remember the day vividly, the day when we first encountered a real jet, the magnificent, magical and majestic Lightning....

My friend and I, my very best friend the inseparable and unquestioning kind you can only really make as children, had gone fruit picking with my parents. We were unimpressed with this obviously overrated pastime and decided to seek our fortune elsewhere. We chose Coltishall as the honoured destination of the day for no other reason than we had never been there before and were curious as to what it was like. The road sign declared it to be 5 miles away, a distance that meant nothing to our young frames; we were used to walking and took the distance literally in our stride.

 

We eventually arrived at the village which was, and still is, a place of great charm, a well worked mixture of warm red bricked Georgian cottages complete with abundant displays of multi coloured roses and hollyhocks nestled between somewhat larger and more imposing properties of various designs overlooking the tranquil river. More importantly to our youthful frames was the existence of a local store. We pooled our meager resources to purchase a drink and some sugar laden provisions and it was whilst consuming these goodies that we first heard the thunderous roar of a Lightning. We realised that we were close to the famous RAF base where the war time hero Douglas Bader had flown Spitfires and it at once became an irresistible lure. We resolved therewith to follow the red-bordered road signs and get a closer view, if we could, of the powerful monsters that now inhabited the station. 

 

We walked further along the then almost deserted country lanes, all the time the sound of the jets got louder and louder and our expectations proportionately mounted. As we arrived at the western end of the runway where the landing lights straddle the road we stopped and watched for the first time one of these magnificent silver machines come in to land. So loud, so fast, so exciting. This was real fun! We just had to get a closer look.

 

Our years of birds nesting and rambling had rendered us immune to barbed wire fences and their implications. Such symbols of authority, prohibition and possession held no sway with us and we wasted no time in climbing the one such bordering the roadside. It was high summer and I can even now capture the sights and sounds that assaulted us as we swam through a sea of corn. Here we were temporarily side tracked as we paused to admire a beautifully constructed nest of a field mouse we found woven intricately amongst the stems. It was a real adventure, complete abandon; we had no care in the world. 

 

We emerged from the field to be greeted with a sturdier barrier erected by the MoD to stop more sinister intruders than us. Undaunted we walked around the airfield perimeter until we came to a small lane which seemed to lead towards the heart of the base itself. There were no doubt signs warning us not to trespass on MoD property but I cannot recall seeing them, and if they were there we certainly took little account of the legend printed upon them. We had come so far that nothing was going to stop us now. Presently we came to an area close to where the large jets cruised by on their way to take off. We climbed a nearby oak and for the next 30 minutes or so had a great time wedged side by side, safe and secure, in the boughs of the sturdy tree waving to the pilots as they taxied by. One or two waved back which gave us great encouragement and I suppose hastened our inevitable downfall.  

 

There comes a point in every adventure where your luck runs out but on this particular occasion ours didn’t just run out - we gave it a pretty hefty kick out the door!  But we were young and full of exuberance and because of this determined that we would get closer still to these wonderful aircraft. We set out on a stroll across the airbase!  Needless to say we didn’t get far and looking back we were extremely fortunate to only find ourselves explaining our presence on the hallowed ground to a somewhat bemused RAF sergeant whose powerful shouts had brought us shamefaced into his realm. It could have been much, much worse - I have nightmares wondering where we would have ended up if we had not been spotted! Anyway having decided the likelihood of us being communist spies was small the RAF man took pity on us, dumped us in the back us his truck and deposited us at the main entrance (exit in our case) of the air base.  This was a mixed blessing, on the one hand we had escaped the firing squad but on the other we had an extra couple of miles to walk home. On balance we decided we had probably gotten off lightly and resigned to our fate tramped home. 

 

Far from deterring us, this episode only served to spur us on; from that moment we were firmly hooked. Over the next couple of years we made regular excursions to the base discovering various vantage points from which to watch the planes.  Most of these spots ended in a yellow crashgate to which we gave numbers - I think we found three in all, but there may have been more. We recruited a third member to our merry band and made all subsequent trips by employing the advantage afforded by two wheels rather than just two legs - the more expedient method of bicycle. My trusty green racing bike is the epitome of that era for me. It was my first real bike, a metallic green racer, and I knew that it cost my parents a lot of money, more than they could actually afford. It was a truly treasured possession. I’ve still got that bike, it stands forlorn and neglected in the garage, its tyres flat and its paint work a little tarnished. But it is still a good looking machine and I will never let it go.

 

Although our excursions were restricted to school holidays, small things like the seasons bothered us not in the least. We visited the base come rain or shine and I particularly remember one freezing cold crisp mid-winters day when every time a Lightning plummeted to the runway and passed  low overhead we held out our numb hands to gratefully receive a blast of warm air. To think that we were so close that the hot air from the exhaust could temporarily alleviate the numbness brought on by the cold.

 

For a time we lived Lightnings; we watched them, made models of them - whole squadrons adorned our bedroom ceilings - drew pictures of them, took photographs of them and probably bored our friends stupid with our talk of them. But it was good, it was harmless and it gave us a focal point upon which to channel our ever increasing need for mental stimulation and practice our creative talents. 

 

But then it all changed - we “grew up”. There was suddenly a very urgent need to disassociate ourselves with any pastime that could be linked with childhood.  More serious obligations began to impose themselves upon us and in our 16th year of existence we left school and largely went our separate ways. The cycle rides to RAF Coltishall like so many other simple fun filled things ceased and were never resumed. 

 

I think it was shortly after leaving school in 1973 that the Lightnings were replaced by the Jaguars, an event that I recorded as no more than a marginal note against the main text of my life. I was basically too busy making the sometimes painful transition from the boy to the man. Life evolves. I found work, began earning money, became independent, left home, married and ‘settled down’. 

 

After a while the interest in aviation rekindled and I began visiting airshows whenever time allowed. It was whilst enjoying the hospitality of the USAF at Mildenhall  in 1988 that I, and many others, last saw a  Lightning fly. The beasts had been kept in service all that while and to my everlasting shame I had hardly given a moments thought to them for the preceding 15 years. Looking back it seems almost terrifying to think of the way in which one takes things for granted. I didn’t realise at the time that this was the last I would ever see of the old war-horse which had given me so much pleasure and had been such a feature of my life all those years ago. Its subsequent fate - I’ve seen the photos of rusting, vandalised, dismembered hulks - almost makes me sick.  

 

My son was born later that year, he is unlikely ever to see a Lightning fly, he will never feel his stomach throb with the sheer power thrown out from its engines and he will never witness its ability to ascend straight from take off vertically towards the heavens until it is lost from view. A red hot silver bullet fired from a cold war gun. For me one era ended that year and another began.           

 

I am brought out of my trance by the approach of another Jaguar and although in its way it is a worthy aircraft I can’t help thinking it is a poor replacement for the silver beast. As frightening as it is unexpected an unwelcome longing has bubbled slowly to the surface. I feel as though the breath has been knocked out of me. The memories of those now extinct halcyon days of the 1960s are at this point so vivid I could almost touch them. I can recall wild laughter as we cycled along, the wind streaming through my hair, fever pitch excitement as we got closer to the yellow gate, legs pounding the pedals in a desperate attempt to be the first to reach the goal; always a race to see who could reach it first.

My son catching something of my sombre mood, says “Come on dad lets go home”. I help him down from the gate and take his hand in mine. As we walk away I take a look back over my shoulder at the yellow gate, and there for a brief instant I see the image of three young lads sitting astride their bikes propped against the gate laughing and joking together. They turn to look at me and they smile and raise their hands in greeting. I almost raise my hand in response but then see only the yellow gate, it is still there unchanged in 30 years, smiling at me in the sunshine.

 

Bathtime

Picture the scene if you will: me lying in the bath cocooned in the enveloping warmth of a copious volume of soothing H²O, soap suds tickling my nose and the pleasant aroma of some pine scented gunk filling the air. Actually that may be too strong an image for those of you with a sensitive disposition, so you can substitute one of me lying on the sofa if you like. Or perhaps better still don't think of me at all and just read on.

Anyway, as I was on the verge of drifting off I realised I had been subconsciously listening to a robin whose fluting spring song drifted in through the open window. As I tuned in to this charmingly understated serenade, I thought that surely I could hear another bird answering our garden resident from a neighbouring territory. Yes, there it was again. Straining my ears further I'm pretty sure a third was joining the party, underscoring his right to a patch further along our suburban oasis. No doubt there were others out of immediate earshot singing to delineate unseen lines between territories. And further afield again others would be proclaiming their presence; all around for miles in every direction hundreds, nay thousands, of robins would be singing on this early spring afternoon proclaiming rights of ownership to their very own patch of heaven on earth. Radial lines of connectivity formed in my imagination spreading out far and wide, linking all the nations singing robins to the little bird humbly singing a few metres from where I wallowed.

Then a chaffinch chimed in with its short crescendo of cascading notes. And I mused. That chaffinch will now utter its song pretty much non-stop throughout the spring; its collection of sweet notes will be delivered once every few seconds for hours without break until June. Over the coming months therefore, that little bird will sit on favoured perches in our garden uttering his humble tumble hundreds of thousands of times. And every chaffinch in adjacent territories will be doing the same. Note perfect, clear and resonant. Amazing.

I could just make out a song thrush in the distance stridently puncturing the air with confident notes. It was making sure we all got his message by shouting a repertoire of fluty phrases twice or thrice as is the hallmark of the species. I fell to remembering how once in the soft, still twilight of a May evening whilst I was sitting by my pond letting the stresses of the day lift and tease away like early evening mists, a songthrush came down from its lofty singing post to pour forth its beautiful song just a few feet from where I sat. The sound was so pure and so loud that I thought for a few seconds a nightingale had miraculously made its way onto the garden list, but no, it was just a humble song thrush. I sat mesmerised by this wonderful chorister until with the gathering gloom he gave way to the night. That few minutes still ranks as one of the best wildlife experiences of my life simply because it was only me, a younger less weary me, and the bird. No other sound, no other people, just the perfect tune of a songthrush and the sweet scent of honeysuckle.

The more I listened now the more I heard: a dunnock piping forlornly, no doubt from under the privet hedge; a wood pigeon wooing his mate, one of the pair I observed nibbling one another's ear coverts earlier in the day; a collared dove with its short braying flight note that I pictured flying into the ornamental fir where I know a nest is being built; a great tit chattering from somewhere close to the house perhaps inspecting one of the nest boxes amidst the ivy. And lording over all the laughter like cries of lesser black back gulls, chasing each other over the rooftops as they pair up for another season.

There has been great loss and sadness in my life recently, but with the mellow gold of a late afternoon sun slanting through the blinds, the twittering of the birds and the gentle ambience of spring seeping into my soul things, for a time, seem better.

Outfoxed

 

Urban foxes! Love or hate? For or against? A subject that seems to wind people up easier than Donald Trump's hairstyle.

 

For the past 7 years or so I've contributed a regular monthly wildlife article to my parish magazine. During this period I've only twice received formal feedback, on both occasions relating to my mention of urban foxes. In both instances I had the temerity to suggest having foxes in your garden should be regarded as something of a privilege and that people should consider themselves fortunate indeed to have these red coated canines sharing their lives. This upstart attitude to wildlife has not found favour with a certain lady, who on the first occasion wrote a letter to the magazine criticising my cavalier stance and on the second, a couple of weeks ago, telephoned my house to complain in person about my irresponsible remarks. Luckily (for all parties I feel) I was not home at the time and my wife suffered the tirade. She handled the situation with calm and courtesy until the caller referred to her as 'my woman' at which point she unleashed both barrels effectively terminating further discussion. I’ve been on the wrong end of that particular tempest a few times and it would have been fun to have witnessed someone else falling foul of an ill chosen word. It was worth a chuckle nevertheless.

People have opinions on wildlife and I respect that, but why some feel compelled to become so negatively animated over certain subjects perplexes me. 'They're vermin' seemed to be this lady's favoured phrase, but as the missus pointed out they are an indigenous wild animal simply exploiting the opportunities urban habitats offer them. ‘They kill things’ was another allegation but once again it was put to her that so do blue tits, robins and blackbirds which the old gal willfully accepted she liked and fed. Think about that for a second: a blackbird pulling a worm from your lawn, tugging with all its might to separate the poor creature from the soil and then chopping it up into bloody bite sized chunks before carrying it off to its young; the songthrush bashing the brains (and everything else) from a snail; spiders injecting prey with toxins that turn their insides to mush. Horrific? I should say so, but accepted as a part of nature. But the fox hating dwellers amongst us don't see it that way; they see instead a dirty, chicken devouring scapegoat that will steal their babies and spread disease. It is something of a puzzle to me that the very assets that have allowed the human race to plague the globe are despised when attributed to another animal. Foxes are considered sly; by this we mean wily, adaptable and able to thrive in seemingly inhospitable places. Human beings summed up in a sentence. As we have already learned, foxes are considered vermin by some; by which we mean successful, populous and able to kill efficiently. Such a negative term for attributes we cherish in ourselves. Conversely those egg taking, cable chewing, roof felt munching alien grey squirrels are deemed to be cuddly rascals whilst our poor fox is, alas, forever cast as a villain out to deprive us of the ability to share our world with bunnies. It seems to me unfair and illogical but some people are so entrenched in their opinions about such things - foxes, sparrowhawks, otters etc - that no amount of reasoning will sway them.

Whenever I see a fox around my parish, furtively scuttling across the road late at night or occasionally basking in the sunshine at the bottom of the garden, they always strike me as being a touch scrawny, stunted and scruffy. And I think compared to their country cousins they are indeed less well presented. And that's not really surprising when you consider the kind of lifestyle they are forced to lead; scavenging scraps from discarded KFC cartons, raiding bins for slim pickings, perhaps a bit of roadkill here and there. A banquet would be a nice plump wood pigeon but they, despite their clumsiness, are not always easy to catch. And then there are all those dogs and cats and people and cars to dodge. They also have to find somewhere safe to hide up and raise their young. Not easy when so many folk take against them. They really are leading life on the edge and deserve more of our respect. In fact if we put aside the current irresponsible, pathetic assault this environmentally bereft government is making on our badger population, foxes must be our most persecuted mammal; legally hunted, shot, snared and otherwise dispatched for centuries. Yet still these tough survivors are numerous and widespread; testament indeed to their ability to eke out a living against steep odds.

Their penchant for chickens is often cited as a reason for hate, but I have a slightly different take on this. Firstly why the bloody hell would anyone living in a city want or need to keep chickens for any other purpose than a jolly wheeze? And secondly if your coop is raided and you wake up to nothing but a pile of feathers where Hetty once clucked, then clearly you didn't build it well enough in the first place. In this way foxes drive people to better consider the welfare of their charges and provide them with dwellings more fit for purpose. Add in the simple fact that if you have chickens you will attract rats - there is no maybe about that, you will attract rats - tends to militate against anyone being allowed to keep chickens in an urban environment. But then maybe the foxes will provide a welcome service of eating the rats so a tidy balance will be achieved. Honestly folks it is much cheaper to satisfy all your poultry hankerings by a trip to your local butcher.

Personally, I love the way in which foxes have now become an established part of our local fauna and look forward to the day they decide to build a den under the shed. It would be thrilling to have a gang of young foxes gamboling across the lawn during the summer, and if this happens I'll feel bound to write about it in detail in the parish magazine. Man the barricades!

Crow Wars

As I sit typing this I can look out of my study window and watch a carrion crow proclaiming his rights of ownership to a tall, dense Norway spruce straddling the borders of our garden. This ex-Christmas tree was planted decades ago by our then neighbour and is now the tallest tree in the immediate vicinity. The crow is sitting on the topmost sprig straining forward to utter his croaking caw to any rival bird that may be interested. It looks like him and his partner, she who watches serenely from a nearby rooftop, plan to use the tree as a nesting site over the coming months.

This plan seems reasonable enough, if a little daunting for the other avian inhabitants of our patch, except for the irritating fact the magpies don't like it: they have built a nest in the tree before and clearly consider it their own. No sooner has the crow vacated the spot than a magpie has flown in and is nosing around to ensure nothing has been done to usurp him and his pied mistress. I feel there may be trouble brewing.

In fact there may be a three way battle about to erupt because not only have the corvids got to sort out who is king of the castle, but a grey squirrel seems to have taken a shine to the old magpies nest as a potential drey. I've watched her (I guess) plucking grass from the lawn, scurrying away with a mouthful to disappear into the mass of dark green needles pretty much where the magpies have left their untidy ball of sticks. This fluffy tailed rodent sits indignantly chattering on our old cherry tree when the crows are around, flicking said tail in frustrated rage. Something has got to give.

We also have jays screeching around the vicinity although I don't think they have designs on the spruce tree. They seem to prefer the quieter depths of tangled hawthorn and bullace that comprise the understory of our mini-jungle at the bottom of the garden. It sounds grand but it's not a very large area, in fact I'm not sure they actually breed there successfully although I have found half built nests before. 

Lots of predators in such a small plot. You would think the other birds would move out but not a bit of it. The robins, dunnocks, blackbirds and goldfinches are showing signs of settling down. I watched a pair of goldfinches, the flocks of deep winter having now dispersed it seems, inspecting the depths of an ornamental cypress a few days ago where they will probably build their intricately woven nest later in the spring. Blue tits and great tits are now obviously paired and the dawn chorus is slowly gathering momentum. I've even been able to listen to a songthrush stridently staking claim to a nearby territory. What with sparrowhawks, the odd kestrel and the inevitable array of moggies it really is a wonder any birds manage to raise young hereabouts, but they do - albeit at the third attempt in some cases.

So, I'm rather looking forward to seeing how the battle for 73 Blackwell Avenue pans out. And I've just realised that we have a fox who seems intent on digging a hole under our shed a mere 5 metres from the base of the Norway spruce, presumably as a den to raise her cubs. Interesting times ahead.

 

Watch the Birdie

I spent yesterday helping the RSPB with their Big Garden Birdwatch event held in the impressive setting of Norwich Castle. What a delight to be able to contribute to such an uplifting occasion; to see so many enthusiastic volunteers, so many excited children with parents happy that the offspring were getting involved in something so worthwhile and positive.

 

The event, spread over the whole weekend, has been organised by the employees of Strumpshaw Fen. If you read this blog regularly you will know Strumpshaw is a place dear to my heart, so a bonus was being able to chat with friends, both staff and volunteers, who give up so much of their valuable time to make these things work and deliver. Strumpshaw is celebrating its 40^th anniversary as a formal RSPB reserve so it is fitting that they were able to share this milestone with the public and show off what a fabulous place it is and showcase the exceptional wildlife that thrives there.

 
My morning was spent helping to build nest boxes from kits made in the workshops of Norwich Prison. Children love this hands on stuff; revelling in the freedom of being able to smash hell out of a few nails and actually create something they can take home and show grandma.  A few dads got stuck in and after one or two mishaps, (sides on back to front, roof on sideways – been there done that!), proudly presented their work of art which will soon bedeck a garden tree or garage wall and attract a pair of blue tits to call it home. Happily, despite a couple of near misses and one gentle tap from a little girls wildly misaimed strike, my thumbs remain largely in their pristine roundness - and no kids suffered any mishap. Always a relief. And a good number of happy families now have a bird home which has the potential to give them all a lot of pleasant nature watching over the coming years.

The afternoon session involved more whacking with a hammer, this time a non-lethal wooden one, showing children how woodpeckers use trees as sounding posts to mark territory whilst also explaining something of their unique ecology. It was a complete experience with them being able to adorn a woodpecker costume, hammer on a hollowed log for all their worth and learn a little bit about how fascinating nature can be. It was so heartening to see so many families keen to engage and listen. I always find that once the ice is broken people are always quite enthusiastic to tell you about their own sightings and chat about other wild things they have encountered. Deep down we all know wildlife and wild spaces are special and so worth looking after. They just need a forum to express their pleasure at seeing garden foxes, or having bullfinches in their garden, or in this case once having seen a woodpecker up close. The caring spirit is in there, it just needs to be nurtured. What better way to do it than through the eyes of your children.

 

There were of course many other activities on offer, all popular and all attracting lots of happy children keen to learn (we were told over 1300 people had attended during the day). I can't tell you how happy I was to be involved. After reading so much lately about the seemingly never ending tirade of depressing stories concerning wildlife and habitat destruction, to actually contribute to something so inspiring uplifted my spirits. I walked home with a spring in my step. Well done RSPB, it's not only the children that benefit from these sessions, it lifted the soul of this world weary individual as well.

 
 

Something Out of Nothing

The conversation, if such a brief exchange could be termed such, went thus.

Me: ''Morning chaps, lovely day".
One of them: "Yeah, but there's nothing about"

‘Nothing about’. What exactly does that mean? I briefly entertained the notion of nudging them gently into the river, this brace of morose humanity, or perhaps suspending them by their thumbs from the nearest willow, but elected instead to smile lamely and plod on. Birders, especially those obsessed with photographing ‘rarities’ are impossible to please. On such a fine, crisp winter’s day it was a joy to be alive; a blessing to be fit and well enough to get out and embrace the fresh air. Better surely to celebrate the fact that you still have a pulse and are occupying the right side of the grass than lament the absence of that elusive ‘something’ without which the enterprise is deemed a failure?

‘Nothing about’. What did they expect? Herds of wildebeest sweeping majestically across the plain? Krakatoa erupting? A harpy eagle, half eaten monkey clasped in its massive talons, gliding serenely across the glade? Apologies to John Cleese, but honestly! we encountered each other on the trail at Strumpshaw Fen, not in the heart of the Pantanal.

‘Nothing about’. Really? What about the rays of the low winter sun slanting through the backlit trees, casting long, tapering zebra patterns of light through the frosted haze? What about the sight of each twig, each leaf, each burr, catkin and withered berry being encrusted with a layer of spiky frost? Frost, slowly melting in the tepid warmth to form glistening drops of prismatic moisture; refracting rainbow shades in their miniscule thousands.

 

Did they notice the molehill dotted meadow coated in a dusting of white gossamer, fading with depth into the mysteriously mist enshrouded wood? Real Wind in the Willows stuff if ever there was. Were they immune to the heartening sight of gleaming ranks of ice laden reed heads sparkling like a carpet of jewels against the pure blue January sky? Or the sight of a rich chestnut fox nosing around the margins of the broad in its ceaseless quest for life sustaining nourishment?

 

 

There was too the vibrant colours, yellow, blue and azure, of cheeky blue tits scolding me with staccato trills when I interrupted their raids on a cache of seeds. The banshee screech of a water rail so close to me that I involuntarily shuddered in momentary alarm. And then the kestrel; hovering into the scant breeze with motionless head just a few metres above me, surveying the ground beneath for scurrying mice and voles. 

 

 

These things and more I witnessed and rejoiced. Nothing about? Open your eyes.

A Bird in the Bush

 

 

Birds of prey in general but sparrowhawks in particular can invoke strong emotion with the general public. It is not uncommon for outraged citizens to write letters to the local press savaging these essential members of the food web for decimating 'their' songbirds. The fact those very same people concrete their drives, manicure their lawns, spray insecticides liberally about their prized begonias, litter the ground with slug pellets, and keep cats is overlooked. It is this illogical scramble to keep things tidy that deprives 'their' songbirds of feeding, nesting and roosting opportunities, but that inconvenient fact seems not to enter into their consciousness. No matter: despite regular tirades by Mr & Mrs Angry, the hawks, ace predators that they are, seem to be doing relatively well. And they couldn't thrive if they created a situation whereby there were insufficient songbirds upon which to prey.

 

Their very welcome presence in our midst was brought home to me earlier yesterday when walking home from a rare shopping expedition through stinging sleet. There is a short loke I use which gets you off the road for a couple of hundred yards and is lined either side with mature gardens. Half way along here my soggy progress was arrested by a squealing sound emanating from an ivy covered hedge. My first thought was a blackbird struggling (really struggling) to sing, or possibly two birds having some sort of ruckus. My peering into the hedge revealed nothing even though the sound was coming from directly in front of me. Puzzled and not being able to leave without at least some attempt to solve the mystery, I gently tapped the hedge with my boot, this being a well-practiced scientific method I’ve developed to help in these situations. Immediately a female sparrowhawk flushed from the other side of the hedge and perched in an adjacent apple tree eyeing me with indignant frustration: how dare I disturb it at its kill. Shortly it glided away, but I'm sure it returned pretty sharpish once I had resumed my trudge home. But for every successful kill there must be many instances whereby the hawk misses its prey, sometimes no doubt only by the width of an outer primary, but nonetheless the hawk goes hungry.

As an illustration of this point, I'm reasonably certain the bird I encountered yesterday must be the very same one I watched hunting around my own garden a couple of days ago; it's close enough to be situated within the same territory. On that occasion it whipped across my eye line, over the dividing fence and stooped towards another blackbird busying itself with a fallen apple. The flight across the lawn exposed the hawk for a few seconds and the blackbird seeing its nemesis approaching at speed, no doubt thinking the avian equivalent to ‘what the f***’, clucked loudly in alarm and launched itself into the nearest thick bush. Safe for another day. With an almost imperceptible twitch of its wings the hawk changed tack and moved swiftly away to hunt in pastures anew. And this near miss is, I think, the outcome of the majority of such assaults. So as I resumed my limp homeward (I foolishly played football Tuesday and am still suffering the consequences), hunched against the biting north wind, getting splashed by a bloke driving too fast through a puddle and cursing all things white van, I mused over various other encounters I'd witnessed over the years when the assailant was less than successful.

I can recall sitting sipping a refreshing pint in a local pub garden one fine summer’s day when a commotion in a hawthorn made me sit up and take notice. The bush played host to a party of starlings that had become rather animated, changing their pleasant background babbling into voices tinted with alarm. I sauntered over and tellingly, without any of the starlings taking flight, was very shortly peering directly into the piercing bright yellow eyes of a sparrowhawk. We glared at each other for a few seconds before the hawk, dismissing me as nothing other than an encumbrance, recommenced its calculating scrutiny of the starlings. Said starlings had settled down by now and were not at all phased by the close proximity of the predator because they knew they were safe.....as long as they remained were they were (which is why they didn't fly away at my approach). Basically, after its initial fruitless crash into the bush, the hawk was now completely powerless to attack and the birds entered into a kind of standoff, daring each other to blink first. The starlings won, forcng the impotent hawk to eventually admit defeat and slink away. Sparrowhawks are, it seems, quite inept when unable to hunt in synch with their instincts.

As further illustration, I witnessed a more dramatic incident a few years ago at NWT Cley Marshes when a sparrowhawk flipped over a dyke wall and zoomed in on a small group of dunlin. All but one of the waders made their escape leaving that unfortunate member of their kin frozen in fear on the shining ooze. The Sparrowhawk was geared up to catch a bird in flight and now, faced with prospective prey crouching beneath it, seemed quite bemused. It's whirled around in a tight circle but the dunlin failed to flush. I watched amazed as the hawk hovered for a few seconds inches above the small wader, talons dangling, but failing to strike. The balance between risk and reward tipping, it gave up and flew off. After a short while the dunlin picked itself up, fluffed out its feathers and started probing the mud as though nothing had happened. It had escaped death because it was slow to react to the initial attack and unwittingly presented the predator with an unfamiliar situation. Perhaps the hawk was young and inexperienced but the incident was, never the less, very instructive.

When engaged in the hunt with all senses focused, it seems humans can themselves experience very close encounters with birds of prey. Taking the humble sparrowhawk again as an example, my family and I were once staking out a pair of little owls hoping to photograph them as they emerged from their nest site towards dusk. Sitting in the car with the window open, I caught a movement to my right. There arrowing toward me was a sparrowhawk, and when I say arrowing towards me I mean just that; the bird was streaking directly towards my face. Just as I thought it was going to enter the car (what fun that would've been) it braked, arched upwards and landed atop the vehicle. We hardly dared breathe as we listened to it scratch its way across the roof and take up position above the passenger door. A period of frantic whispered ensued:

'What do we do dad?'

'Don't know'

What's it doing dad'

'Don't know'

'How long is it going to stay there dad?'

'Don't know'

'Call yourself a birdwatcher?'

'Don't know'

Events were determined by a hapless blackbird (again) that lazily flew across in front of us singing sweet nothings to itself. The innocent melody turned to panicked alarm as the hawk rocketed after it. We watched the pair chase across the farmyard in fascination, part of me willing the blackbird to escape whilst also really wanting to see a real live kill. In the event the blackbird just made it into a bramble patch and the hawk quickly disappeared.

But perhaps the weirdest of all such pursuits I ever saw was when walking along Holme beach one very windy mid-April day. As I was trudging parallel to the shoreline I heard the tinny screech of a dunlin's alarm call. I turned to see said dunlin suspended in midair with a newly arrived hobby a few yards behind, it too frozen in space. Both birds were flapping frenetically into the strong head wind and neither was getting anywhere. Time slows when these things transpire and although the chase (if it can be termed such) seemed to last some time, in reality it couldn't have been more than a few seconds before the dunlin, being the smaller and lighter bird, began to pull away from the falcon. Sensing its hopeless position the hobby gave up the chase tacked into the wind and swept up and over the dunes in the blink of an eye. Once the game is up it is pointless to waste precious energy reserves.

So, birds of prey do not have it all their own way; their hit rate cannot be better than 1 in 5, maybe less than that. It is a very tough existence with the predator needing to be on top form all of the time if it is to survive. It would better those people that write their ill-informed letters to look at nature with more rounded vision I think; to take a little time to watch nature a tad more closely. Then they would understand that it is not a one way street. All life has its place in our fragile ecosystem, all has a value to itself and to each other, all should be appreciated for its own sake and for the skills it possesses. It never ceases to amaze me that we humans seem to regard predators as undesirables and as somehow interfering with our ordered view of the world. Coming from a species that is surely the world’s most vicious, destructive predator that is quite a bewildering standpoint. Perhaps when we look into the unyielding eyes of the hunter we see our own selves reflected. Perhaps we do not like what we see.

Jeepers Creepers! OR Whistling Down the Wind

Is there any sound more evocative of wild winter landscapes, windswept and worn, than the piercing whistling of wigeon? It is a cheery sound but always conjures images of open spaces; coastal marshes where the calls of curlew vibrate on the still air, estuarine vastness where myriad probing beaks puncture the shining muds, or as today the lush green of valley marshland caressed by a watery January sun.

 

But more of that later. We must first undertake my regular midweek visit to Strumpshaw Fen, on this occasion hoping to connect with a treecreeper; a species that has eluded me and my camera for far too long.

 

I discovered recently that the RSPB do not actually own Strumpshaw fen, in fact the land is leased. The terms of the leasing agreement allows shooting to take place on the reserve a few times during the winter months, which in some ways seems anomalous but in the overall scheme of things is a small price to pay for the pleasure of having such a fantastic resource available to all. In fact I suspect the reason the shoot takes place on the reserve for a short spell is simply to make a statement: you don't own this, we do.

My visit today coincided with one of the shoots and to avoid paying customers being peppered with lead, the path to the river was temporarily closed. That was ok with me because I only really needed to visit the wooded area at the beginning of the trail. A stealthy walk along here produced a good sprinkling of delightful and colourful familiar birds; parties of blue and great tits scolding from tangles of spindle still replete with their ghostly pale berries, chaffinches 'pinking' from blackthorn already with bright white flowers sparsely bedecking otherwise bare sprigs, gold crests flitting around in low brambles searching diligently for tiny morsels and loose groups of blackbirds and redwings feasting on the dense mass of ivy enshrouding many of the mature trees. And then after straining my eyes to look near and far, I caught sight of a small bird steadfastly hopping up a tree trunk, peering into every crack and crevice: a treecreeper at last. I watched this tiny slim-billed character work its way from trunk to trunk, bough to bough willing it within range when I eventually managed to fire off a few hurried snaps. Not easy to get a clean shot with such an energetic bird, but it was fun watching its antics and tracking it as it progressed around the wood. Partial success at least, whetting the appetite for a return visit and perhaps better images.

 

As a complete contrast the regular cock pheasant hopped proudly onto the tree stump where an unofficial cache of seeds and nuts is regularly deposited by photographers. He seemed oblivious to the fact dozens of his kin were at that moment being drilled with shot a few hundred yards deeper into the wood. Just as well I guess. A quote by PG Wodehouse sums it up rather well: “The fascination of shooting as a sport depends almost wholly on whether you are at the right or wrong end of the gun.” In any event I couldn't help but admire his breast plumage glowing as burnished bronze in the low slanting rays of our own life giving orb. Loud, proud and handsome.  To complete the cast a female kestrel glided low through the trees hunting in sparrowhawk fashion before briefly perching close by. It and another are regulars around this area no doubt drawn by the good numbers of smaller birds.

 

 

Speaking of which, the official bird feeding zone next to reception is something of a magnet for visitors nowadays. In keeping with the reserve as a whole you won't find any rarities, but keep still and patient and you will be able to admire a good selection of those more common birds at close quarters. The stars of the show over the past little while has been a pair of nuthatches that raid the peanut pile and fly to nearby ivy clad trees to stash them away. It is great fun to watch these chisel billed acrobats selecting a suitable nook within which to cram a few nuts and seeds. They really are splendid creatures when seen up close and are most dexterous in their feverish endeavour to provide a larder of fat filled treats in lieu of winters chill. An enterprising jay has also cottoned on to the free supply and has become quite bold, adding a kaleidoscope of colour when caught in full sun.

 

 

 

After a chat with young Sean the Autistic Naturalist, a pleasant encounter with a reserve staff member who persuaded me to help out at a forthcoming event (I can never refuse a lady) and a welcome mug of hot chocolate (and an Eccles cake - the diet is unravelling fast), it was time to repair to Buckenham marshes for an encounter with those whistling wigeon.

But where had they gone? On arrival it was clear the shooting party had driven the birds off the fields bordering the track, and it wasn't until I stood atop the river bank that they could be found seeking refuge on the Yare itself. They had clearly not yet worked up the courage to return, although over the next hour or so they did flight in dribs and drabs back to the succulent grass where they feed throughout these short, winter days. When they are engrossed in cropping the grass with their finely serrated bills, they can be approached very closely, almost to within tickling distance at times. Then the gorgeous colouring of the males can be appreciated in all its intricate finery. Cobalt blue beak, deep russet head offset by a crest of mustard yellow, pink hued breast giving way to finely vermiculated patterning on the flanks. Surely one of our finest wildfowl. In spite of the recent interruption to their feasting, numbers appear low this winter. Perhaps the mildness of the season to date has affected their normal movements with more birds choosing to linger further north. There are still plenty here to enjoy though.

 

 

 

A brisk walk to the drainage mill showed seven species of goose, some of highly suspect origins. The pink feet and white-fronts were wild enough and present in good numbers, but the barnacles, Egyptian, Canadas, grey lags and lone snow goose are feral, albeit of long standing. No scope, so don't know whether any bean geese were secreted amongst the throng.

With a marsh harrier silently quartering the fields in the distance, periodically sending groups of lapwing and teal skywards, I walked back to the car, another pleasing visit to the Yare Valley complete. Then as I drove slowly back towards the small train station the shadows of flocks of returning wigeon passed over the track and car bonnet like billowing tendrils of wispy smoke, their whistling penetrating my ear above the purr of the engine and through closed windows. A fitting finale to a day spent on the most magical of wetlands.