Net Profit

Not so very long ago I listened to the buoyant, uplifting sound of skylarks singing for all their worth above a field of rough grass on the outskirts of Norwich not far from where I live. It lifted my spirits and made me feel happy. The field is no more and the space it occupied covered in concrete and housing a supermarket. The skylarks have gone. Further back in time I used to ramble around an acre or two of rough ground in another part of the city. Here there were birds aplenty, butterflies, small mammals, invertebrates of all kinds taking advantage of the thick tangles of hawthorn and bramble. It’s now a Sainsbury’s supermarket. All the birds, mammals and other wildlife has gone. Between these two sites there still exists a large area of woodland; mixed species of trees, well developed understory, open areas, pools, sunny rides where thousands of species of all kinds of creature and plant thrive. Despite having the designation of a County Wildlife Site it is earmarked for ‘development’ and will soon be bulldozed and covered in concrete, part of which will no doubt be another useless supermarket (haven’t we got enough of the bloody things already?) with its associated exhaust spewing queuing cars. There will be no space for anything wild anymore. Lost forever, and forever is a long, long time.

The need for housing and all the infrastructure people need is a reality. Wherever any of us live was historically once open land. But don’t you think things are ever so slightly out of control? Am I alone in thinking we really have lost the plot and any sense of perspective? Is it really necessary to have an open season on every patch of green space in every village, town and city across our land? Why have we become so disconnected? Does anyone actually care? Well I do and happily it’s been brought home to me recently that an awful lot of other people are beginning to think enough is enough.

Let’s go back to those endearing supermarkets. Bear with me; it’s relevant to our tale. They all extol their virtues as being ethically responsible and environmentally conscious, advertising shamelessly their ‘green’ credentials to entice us to part with our hard earned cash. We all understand it’s nonsense, we play the game because we all need to eat. However, a Tesco store on the outskirts of Norwich overstepped the mark. It decided that wildlife no longer mattered. It determined wildlife got in their way. It judged wildlife to be an inconvenience. It netted an area where swallows nest, citing hygiene as the reason why these small birds were no longer welcome on their premises. The health and safety issue being that the birds had set up home under the eaves of a trolly park and inevitably a few of the trollies received the occasional dollop of poop. And here we enter the minds of 21st century big business in the U.K. Instead of sitting down and thinking of ways in which the birds could be accommodated whilst eliminating the potential for mess (a few pounds, a few screws, placing plywood boards below the nests would do the trick), this worthy corporate giant decided to employ the services of ‘experts’ who considered the best solution would be to jet wash the offending nests off the walls and net the whole area, effectively forcing the birds to seek homes elsewhere. Problem solved....or so they thought. As is generally the case, big business failed to appreciate that ordinary people, caring people like you and I, think differently. We care about the world we live in and see the value of things rather than simple cost. After all how can you measure the value of having beautiful birds, harbingers of our beloved spring, choosing to nest and raise their young on your very doorstep? Birds that have travelled 5,000 miles just to grace you with their very being. Birds that have flown across the entire Sahara, endured near starvation, been on the cusp of dying of thirst, avoided natural predation and the guns of Mediterranean man, endured wind, rain, dust and cold. Birds we all love to see swooping across meadows and twittering on our telegraph wires, weighing about the same as an AA battery. How can we even think they have no value? Well they do have value and the actions of this company incensed so many people that a massive social media campaign has highlighted this abhorrent practice to a worldwide audience. That in itself didn’t seem to have much effect; the threats of a boycott of Tesco stores did the trick. Hit them where it hurts – in the pocket. The store was forced to back down. They have removed the nets ‘temporarily’ whilst a more permanent solution is found. News for you Tesco, I’ve given you a sensible solution - see above. I’ll even pay for the materials if you’re really that hard up thus ensuring those precious trollies of yours remain spotless.

At the NWT Reserve at Ranworth Broad, Swallows are a Major Attraction

Of course a more enlightened company may have thought out of the box and considered that these lovely migrant birds may actually be something they could exploit from a PR perspective, better still could even be a source of revenue. How about putting a web cam up by the nests, beaming the image to screens in their cafe, allowing customers to delight in how green and caring they really are? Those enraptured folk may stay for another cup of coffee, or tell their friends. And here’s a thought, they may even be tempted to buy some bird feed or a nest box making the whole thing pay for itself many times over. Supermarkets are responsible for some outrageous unethical practices: How much useless plastic wrapping? How much unsold food just dumped? How many small local businesses forced to close? How much green land taken up with their stores and car parks? Not an exhaustive list. It’s about time they began to give something back. In this case the real solution was so simple, if only they could have been bothered to care.

Whoop! Whoop!

The Fens: at turn bleak and barren, flat and windswept, open and liberating; perhaps a landscape difficult to love but then it is just a shadow of its former self. Where once was a vast area of wet marsh, reed bed, bog and fen, interspersed with shallow lakes and channels pulsating with life, now is a seemingly featureless expanse of dark peaty soil, farmed and sterile. Surely the drainage of this immense floodplain was the single biggest environmental catastrophe ever to befall these isles of ours? Any thoughts of treating such an ecologically rich area with similar contempt nowadays would court international condemnation and be stopped in its tracks. Hopefully. But it happened and we are left with just a few pockets of traditional Fenland; oases in a sea of ploughed fields that stretch to the horizon and beyond. Just think what it must once have been like; just think what’s been lost.

But things are slowly changing for the better, giving optimism for a brighter future. Little fragments of land are being acquired by people that care and have a vision. That vision is to recreate as much of the old Fenland as possible, stitching it together to once again provide wildlife with a chance to prosper whilst giving people a chance to appreciate what a landscape scale wetland should be. Visiting one such area, the WWT reserve at Welney, over the weekend brought home to me just how important these areas are. The vibrant green recreated meadowlands of Lady Fen that are visible from the Visitor Centre were simply teeming with life. Everywhere you looked there were ducks and geese and waders and crows, flocks of starlings, gulls and marauding raptors. Broad winged lapwings careering about the sky on their courtship dances, freshly moulted brick red godwits feasting before the final leg of their journey north, or maybe thy will stay and breed here, coots chasing one another in territorial spats; things dabbling, diving, quarrelling, courting or feeding. Beyond the sharply delineated reserve boundary: nothing. A few pheasants and rooks and that was your lot. Stark visual proof of how well managed the reserve is, how informed restoration can bring about amazing change and how important it has become now all around is hostile.

The birding experience begins in the car park. I mentioned in a recent post how in such landscapes an isolated line of bushes takes on new meaning, so it is here. The car park hedgerow provides a focal point for many small passerines that relish the cover. Most delightful were the tree sparrows chirping for all their worth and collecting twigs for their nests. Such a rare sight in the wider countryside nowadays so a special bird but one very reluctant to pose for a photograph. House sparrows flaunted themselves shamelessly, tree sparrows kept to deep cover. One popped up for a moment. Click click! Then it was gone.

With menacing clouds of various shades of wet scudding swiftly overhead chased by a relentless sharp nor wester, the various hides formed most welcome shelter. From the comfort of the main observatory thousands of waterfowl could be seen, amongst them a small group of ‘Tundra’ bean geese hunkering down against the wind that howled unabated across the Wash. Further along a drake scaup entertained the few hardy souls that had trudged thither. It came quite close at one point when engaged in a spot of preening, allowing a rare appreciation of its finery. A handsome bird albeit in two-tone, except for the bright golden eye that occasionally shone jewel like when a parting of the clouds allowed bright spring sunshine to flood the scene.

But the star attractions were the whooper swans still present in good numbers grouped together on nearly fields. Seeing them fly in white relief across the deep blue-grey of wide threatening skies, bugling their evocative calls, was a true delight. Later, a convenient pull in allowed quite close observation of these impressive and graceful birds, that is until some local on an off road motor bike decided to race up and down the fields in which they were feeding and resting, sending them skywards towards the sanctuary of the flood. One human, 200 birds displaced. Another reminder of how important unmolested reserves are for our wild creatures. 

Making a Splash

It may only be February, but in the bird world the urge to set up territory and foster a new generation is already strong. Between serving happy customers intent on making the most of another unseasonably mild and sunny day, I spent my shift at RSPB Strumpshaw Fen watching the various water birds on the Broad go about their business of staking a claim to a slice of this wetland oasis.

Grey lag geese were present in good numbers and already paired ready to breed. Most were content to idle about, but some were keen to exert their dominance over any of their kind that ventured too close. The gander would then approach the trespassers with neck stretched out and held low, honking away for all his worth. Both on the water and on the land the threatening performance was enacted mostly without issue, however on a few occasions birds would decide to square up and have a tussle and then the feathers would fly and the water would broil. 

Shoveler too were engaged in a spell of ‘You looking at my bird?’ kind of aggression. Again it was just the drakes that blustered and bluffed their way around the shallows. The females just sat there and watched, talking about nest building and how last year’s ducklings were getting along. They let the men fight it out, shrugged once the skirmish was over and flew off with their mate; victor or otherwise it didn’t seem to matter much. Gadwall joined in the act with drake birds doing their best to give their antagonist a good ducking (sorry). Shelduck do tend to get a touch more feisty with the drakes having a pretty good set too (saw a pair tussling at Tower Hide last week), but all things considered these were relatively tame affairs compared to the real fighting engaged in by the coots.

Yes, the coots were the ones that meant business. Their temperament at this season is akin to an ardent football fan that has just seen his team get a right stuffing ‘Look at me again mate and I’ll have you’ they seem to say. Just outside Reception two pairs of these black balls of fury were periodically disputing the boundary of this year’s breeding zone. A line across the water had been delineated, one that was naturally invisible to me but meant everything to these touchy creatures. Whereas the other water birds would leave the sparring to the men folk, in the world of the coot there is no sexual preferences. Here we have true equality with all partners ready and able to wade in. I watched one bully, possibly male, possibly a member of the fairer (?) sex, take exception to a pair of moorhens and a poor gadwall that in its opinion ventured too close. It would shoot towards this perceived enemy creating an impressive bow wave as it frantically attempted to maim the intruder. Threatened with this undeserved burst of anger, the poor victim would scuttle or fly away in alarm. Being sorted out by one of your own species is one thing, but a coot? Really!

But they reserve their deepest vitriol for members of their own kind. Pairs would face each other beak to beak, wings raised much in the manner of an annoyed swan. They would tentatively prod forward attempting to push the boundary, but such cheek was always met with a determined rebuff. A lot of the time these disputes would end peacefully with one pair turning their puffed up backs to the other pair and swimming back to their side of the broad, but sometimes something happened to cause a fight to break out. Watch out, this could get nasty! With the naked eye all that could really be seen was a violent splashing and flurry of feet and wings. With the aid of a camera with a fast shutter speed the true nature of these bouts can be appreciated. The birds really do get down to some serious rucking, either trying to drown the other or rake him/her with some fearsome claws. And the hen birds get stuck in too, coming to the aid of their partners and whacking the intruder with the avian equivalent of a rolling pin. It makes for dynamic viewing with some of the contortions of the individuals quite startling. Amazingly there seem to be few injuries, even when up to eight birds become involved in a mass brawl. It will all settle down once these initial bouts are over. The birds will build a nest in a territory they consider suitable and large enough to provide for their offspring. But for now in this perhaps false spring, it doesn’t half provide some good entertainment.

Shorties

On this February day we are spoiled by a cloudless sky between dawn and dusk; a sky so pure and blue you feel you can reach out and touch it, running your fingers across its smooth, unbroken vastness; not a puff of condensed vapour to besmirch its clarity. And consequently the sun beat down, warming our heads and our hearts, giving a flirtatious promise of good things ahead. ‘Come play’ she said, ‘Close your eyes and drink in my warmth. Today you must do so, for tomorrow....who knows?’ And as one snapped out of a dream we awaken from winter’s bitter bite, shrug off its numbing grasp, shake ourselves down to realise life is about to burst forth all around. We’ve made it! Stumbled half blind through another fallow season, ready to emerge into one full of joyous energy and rebirth. And today was kind to us. Today made us realise that only by enduring months of cold, wet, dark and grey can we really appreciate warmth, dry, light, and colour. Come with me on a short journey, it won’t take up too much of your time …

Despite the city being graced with crystal clear air, there’s a mist over the marshes; the flatlands of eastern Norfolk that were covered in ancient times by the brooding North Sea. Parts of this area rest below today’s sea level and are ever threatened with flooding from storm surges and spring tides. We’re standing by a gate overlooking a field of rough grass and sedge, a field shrouded in a white veil through which we can dimly make out the ethereal shapes of water deer, dog like in form and very much at home here. Count them - two, four, six, eight - already paired and feasting on the sedges of the damp meadows. Our friend the sun is winning the battle with the curtain of water vapour, burning it off by degrees to reveal more of the panorama. Where a short time ago there was a sheet of haze, there now appears the vague outlines of drainage mills, a clump of stunted trees, lines of fence posts, distant houses, a flint built church and the bare masts of sailing dinghies moored up for the winter. In these lands of sweeping vistas and wide open skies, small inconsequential things take on new meaning. The mills become statuesque; isolated trees and hedges coveted highways, shelter and nest sites; gates and fences assume the role of song post, resting spots, gathering points and lookout. In the still, peaceful air the slightest sound travels a great distance. A barking dog from the village over a mile distant, the faint whistle of a train on tracks laid at least double that distance, and all around the joyous songs of skylarks rising upwards to greet the revealed flawless blue dome of late winter.

9.30am. Why are we standing here you may wonder, why this particular spot?  Rumour has it that this field of rough grasses is a favoured hunting area for short-eared owls: golden plumaged hunters of wide open spaces. They vacate their summer homes of northern moorland to seek sanctuary in this somewhat milder wilderness where they plunder the high density of rodents to sate their appetites. It’s a waiting game, but with luck we may see one. We tarry for an hour, the mist is finally swept away, the temperature rises but still no owl. Two ladies, fellow bird and photography enthusiasts, good company, decide to wander along to the next field to see if they can spot anything. Before long they return to tell us that they have indeed spotted a roosting owl, not 100yards from where we stand. And there it is sitting motionless amidst a clump of sedge grass, cryptic colouration making it all but invisible to the naked eye. With the aid of optics it is possible to see the bird twisting its head this way and that, alert to every sound and movement. After perhaps 30 minutes it shuffles away out of sight, seemingly reluctant to treat us to any form of aerial display. We have to get going, and reluctantly retrace our steps, resolving to return later in the day to see if our luck will change.

3pm: the sun has curved round in its low arc to shine from directly behind us, illuminating the field with a soft golden light. The waiting cast has changed, the ladies from this morning replaced by two chaps that we have seen before but can’t place. We chat, introductions are made and all becomes clear: one is a regular visitor to Strumpshaw and the peregrine watch point; the other a man met just the once over 40 years ago, but somehow the memory stuck. It’s good to share the appreciation of this place with others of like mind. The owls were flying earlier but have now disappeared. No matter, there is always something else to see and admire. A casual scan of the marshes shows a buzzard sitting patiently atop a gatepost, and a short distance away a sparrowhawk doing the same. A marsh Harrier lazily hunts over the reeds and as we track its progress there beneath it is surely something different? Yes, there’s no doubt it’s an owl, a short-earned owl beating its way along the far distant river wall, frustratingly heading away from us and soon lost to view. Nothing for it but to wait patiently and chat about birds and cameras, cameras and birds; tales of successes and laments for the one that got away. Any avian movement attracts attention and another buzzard appears making a direct line to the one idling on the fence. A brief tussle ensues and whilst snapping those antagonists an owl apparently flies into our field and drops down out of sight. Now our waiting has a stronger purpose for we know the birds are near at hand and must surely hunt soon now the light is slowly fading.

The sun wanes, our shadows lengthen. Lines of cormorants snake across the sky, coming from a days fishing in coastal waters and heading for their roost at nearby Ranworth. Hundreds stream overhead, their numbers making dotted letters in the blue. It is getting late and one of our party decides to leave. He retreats ten paces when the owl gets up. Call him back and we watch and snap away at this gorgeous bird as it sweeps to and fro over the meadow before purposefully winging its way out of our sight. A lovely moment, but there was more to come. A second owl flies up from cover and this one spends more time beating a path around the edge of the field, hovering periodically before plunging into the grass after some unseen prey. It doesn’t seem to catch anything and it too eventually retires to seek more profitable hunting grounds. The few minutes of action caught on camera, impressed in the memory, worth every idle second spent scanning the marsh.

It’s now past 4pm and we’re alone. The buzzard flies towards the distant woodland there to roost, trailing a mobbing crow and common gull in its wake. The sun is beginning to set, a slight chill stings the air. And there in the deep honey coloured light the owls return, a pair of them chancing their luck once more with their favoured hunting patch. They don’t come as close as we hope, but the sight of them flying directly towards us with glaring bright yellow eyes will remain etched in our memory. Every detail of their spangled plumage displayed to perfection in the late afternoon light. We watch until it is really too dark to see clearly before making our contented way back to the village with a decided spring in our step. Worth it wouldn’t you say?  

We leave the marshes to the owls and the deer, the hares and the geese. The mist will form overnight to present another eerily veiled dawn, but for now we pause only to admire the sinking red orb reflected in the waters of this magical wetland.

Just Roll With It

Ardent followers of this blog, yes all three of you, may recall a hare-brained scheme I devised a while ago (nearly four years – that surprised me) whereby I aspired to see every bee-eater, roller and kingfisher on this rapidly deteriorating planet. It’s time for an update following a recent trip to Gambia where all three of those families are well represented.

We travelled with Naturetrek and were located at a lodge situated within the Makasutu Forest not far from the capital, Banjul. This lodge is surrounded on the one side by quite dry, open forest and on the other by mangrove swamp with a reasonably wide tidal creek providing access to local villages and The Gambia River itself. The daily routine was to meet at sunrise for tea/coffee/biscuits, go for a walk through the forest or a trip by canoe along the waterway, return for a leisurely breakfast at about 10.30, spend the remainder of the morning and early afternoon at leisure before heading out once again for a walk/canoe trip at around 4.30pm until dusk. Two full day excursions to nearby wildlife rich areas broke up the week and allowed us to experience different habitats and see a bit more of the country. A couple of episodes are worth recording.

The first concerns a visit to the Kartong Refuge where, upon checking in at the observatory, we were told sotto voce that the warden was a Norwich City fan. Really? Well bring it on! I strode to the front of the group and it was a real Livingstone/Stanley moment. For the next five minutes we chatted all things green and yellow whilst the rest of the party looked on bemused. After our Championship catch up (complete of course with a series of put downs to our Suffolk based rivals who for the record languish at the wrong end of the table), we got back to the business of the day with a carrot dangled in the form of blue-cheeked and northern carmine bee-eaters present somewhere behind the coastal dune system. There were many birds on show, too numerous to catalogue, but in the shimmering heat of the rapidly approaching noon we found ourselves on a parched area of sandy dunes just behind the Atlantic pummelled beach. Our native guides fanned out, one eventually calling us over to an area of low scrub whereupon the jewel like birds were hunting flying insects. What a joy - snap, snap, snap! But nothing does justice to the radiant colours of these most enigmatic creatures, effortlessly arrowing across the unbroken intensity of an African sky picking off prey items invisible to the human eye with laser focused precision. Other relevant species on this day were Abyssinian, broad-billed and blue-bellied rollers; all new, all colourful, all delightful. And then back to the lodge where around about 4pm groups of white-throated bee-eaters would gather in the surrounding trees hoping to slake their thirst and indulge in a spot of bathing in the swimming pool. Pied kingfishers would join them, plunge diving into the crystal clear fresh water, a rare resource in this parched land. Oh! for more time to properly set up the camera and watch these beautiful birds go about their business. The stuff of dreams for this soppy idiot who is so easily wooed by the charms of nature.

Northern Carmine Bee-eater

Broad-billed Roller

Blue-bellied Roller

White-throated Bee-eater

Pied Kingfisher

Abyssinian Roller

Later in the week the party took lunch at a restaurant overlooking a freshwater lagoon situated behind a wide beach leading to a hazy, deep cobalt sea. I realised after a short while that once again many birds were using this place as a drinking and bathing zone; lunch forgotten, other group members abandoned, let’s focus on the action. In the hour, maybe less, available I watched yellow-billed kites, Caspian terns, pied kingfishers, broad-billed rollers, blue-cheeked bee-eaters, red-chested swallows, great white egrets, western reef egrets, long-tailed cormorants and a more familiar grey heron utilise the facilities whilst carefully avoiding the liberal sprinkling of crocodiles that were sitting stock still around the perimeter waiting patiently for any hapless fish, bird or English photographer to stray too close. I’m still here and the crocodiles missed a fat meal. How I longed to spend another couple of hours there just pitting my photographic wits against the birds going about their ablutions with sometimes breakneck speed. I do enjoy a challenge.

Caspian Tern

Long-tailed Cormorant

Blue-cheeked Bee-eater

The final memorable episode relates to a canoe trip in the golden light of a fading evening when we espied kingfishers galore. Here was blue-breasted, malachite, pied and shining-blue. Hovering, diving, preening; intimate portraits on the calm of a tidal creek. Ospreys perched on overhanging branches – quite possibly UK bred and ringed – swallow-tailed bee-eaters perched warily in pre-roost tranquillity; goliath and purple herons stalked the shallows whilst Senegal thick-knees hid beneath the mangroves. No intrusive sounds of vehicles, machinery or people; just the gentle rippling as the canoe was paddled through the shallow water. Rounding a bend in the river the lights of the lodge shone bright as the lowering sun set in a canvass of orange glow.

Blue-breasted Kingfisher

Striped Kingfisher

Swallow-tailed Bee-eaters

Tally to date then (there’s an awfully long way to go!)

Bee-eaters 9/24

Rollers 6/12
Kingfishers 17/87

Reality check: It’s not going to happen is it?