Fickle February

After what seems an age of grey, wet, windy, bitterly cold days; days that last a week and weeks that last a month, we arrived at something of an oasis last week, a most pleasant and unseasonal smiley face. Let’s have an emoji 😎. There that’s better. Three days, yes three whole days of unbroken, brilliant sunshine. And what’s more the sun actually had the strength to warm us. Oh, it’s like a sumptuous meal of succulent, melt in your mouth, prime beef after half a year of enforced starvation; an uplifting of the soul after an oppressive spell of enslavement. Overreaction? Nah! There’s nothing like a British winter to make you appreciate even a few minutes of that golden celestial orb. But three whole days folks! Boy have we been spoiled rotten.

Anyway, I was lucky enough to be able to take advantage of this bonanza to bask in the glory of the East Anglian countryside, its wild spaces and its wildlife. Aren’t I lucky? 😁, oh there we go again. So join us as Thursday (15th) saw me strolling around Minsmere and Dunwich with much treasured friends. On this occasion we had the privilege of a close encounter with a 1st winter glaucous gull that patrolled the pebble encrusted beach looking for tasty morsels. It’s not often you can share space with one of these caramel coloured strays so far south, best then to think yourself lucky and just soak it up. Next we sauntered around Dunwich Heath obtaining brief, distant, but nonetheless conclusive views of a couple of Dartford warblers that tazzed away from us on whirring wings. One did sit obligingly atop a sprig of heather enabling us to confirm its identity. Charming little birds.

Gather round, as we sit sipping tea at the coastguard cottages, chatting and jesting, closing our eyes to absorb the warming rays afforded by this late winter respite. And then we have another treat in store, for after our fill of PG Tips we can stroll back to the path through the reed beds, claim our place on the only bench in sight and await the spectacle. It doesn’t disappoint. But fearfully as the sun slowly sets behind us we do wonder if perhaps the birds have forsaken us tonight. It happened at Strumpshaw earlier this winter when somehow 15,000 of this species decided collectively to vacate their roosting spot to a bird. One night thousands chortling and gossiping; the next nothing. How is that possible? Was it going to happen this evening? We shouldn’t worry because as dusk spreads its darkening tendrils across the massed ranks of ochre reeds the first starlings arrive. An advanced party of a dozen or so circling the Fen, but then more, many more, appearing from nowhere to swirl and shift across the paling sky. But this mass is dwarfed by the arrival of a vast cloud of flying dots that arrived from the north to swell the ranks tenfold. This gathering, a fantastic, breath stopping spectacle, smokes around the sky entertaining a crowd of stationary humans for 20 minutes  before piece by piece the throng breaks up to send a cascade of small dark shapes hurtling into the reeds. Thousands of individual birds acting as a collective. Stunning and amazing. Hard to think of a better way to end a day that even as we enjoy a final coffee in the car park still had residual light lingering in the West. Not enough to prevent the stars putting on a show; Orion, Cassiopeia, the Plough and countless thousands of others shine down on us four contended humans. Yes it was a good day.

Friday dawned similarly bright and clear and I headed to Sculthorpe Moor for a walk with another group of dear friends. No sooner had we stepped foot onto the reserve than the mewing of buzzards greeted us. A look skywards revealed three drifting around sparring with one another on the warming air. Hard to believe that these birds were nothing more than an occasional migrant a quarter of a century ago. Now they are to be encountered all over the county but they never fail to impress and inspire; their calls speak of the wild and they are so free; spiraling lazily where they please, sometimes mere specks in the heavens from where their sharp eyes can probably see most of the county laid out below them. Oh to be able to fly!

Sculthorpe has a very user friendly attitude to the visitor experience with lots of strategically sited bird feeding stations along the trails and outside the comfortable hides. Not surprisingly these hot spots attract lots of birds, and lots of birds attract lots of people. But such is the nature of the place that there is room for all and with patience everyone can see just about everything on offer. Manager’s specials today came in the form of shockingly red-breasted bullfinches, chisel billed nuthatches and several brightly red-polled redpolls. In the tower hide the birds come really close, attracted by the tray of seeds and nuts positioned a mere arm’s length from the hide window. To be able to watch the antics of azure capped blue tits, pristine white cheeked great tits, bold pink breasted chaffinches, diminutive coal tits, a perky trio of long-tailed tits together with the aforementioned blood breasted bullfinch so close is a pure delight. Almost making up for the withdrawal of jam roly poly from the menu of our lunch stop pub. Almost.

This Wensum Valley reserve is so good that it deserved a second visit, so we went back the following day to enjoy further close encounters with its inhabitants and to have a proper look at those redpolls. Umm redpolls can be a tricky bunch, but there’s seemingly more than one kind probing their sharp yellow bills into the seed feeders. But are they different species or are they simply different forms of the same species? Who knows? It’s a debate that has divided the birding community for a long time. But it is what it is: the birds don’t care. In any event I’m pretty sure I was looking at the standard lesser redpoll as well as at least one common - hitherto known as ‘mealy’ - redpoll. If you have a mind or a care you can judge for yourselves.

Goldfinch and Siskin

Lesser Redpoll (top) and Common (mealy) Redpoll (bottom) 

Three days of sunshine and the world transforms, birdsong resonates through the woods, snowdrops bloom like a dusting of icing along our road verges and carpet churchyards, hats and gloves stay rooted in coat pockets. We all know it is temporary, we all know it will change, but my goodness it is so welcome. A gentle kiss of spring to remind us that nature is ready to burst forth with all its passion.

The Wanderer of Fields

They are on the move; fieldfares, northern thrushes, now making their way through Norfolk and other eastern counties back to breeding grounds in Scandinavia and beyond. There has been a noticeable buildup of these colourful, nomadic birds on our grazing marshes and arable fields over the past week or two with groups hopping around the sodden ground teasing out worms, beetles and other invertebrates sheltering in clumps of grass or under withered leaves of root crops. But they are wary these creatures, sensitive to every movement and hard to approach. Most now sport smart breeding plumage with their russet, grey and ochre feathering glowing resplendent in the rays of this welcome late winter sun. But stealth is required to get close enough to fully appreciate the richness of their attire; in this respect a car serves well as a mobile hide. Slowly driving along the narrow lanes of the Yare Valley at the weekend I came upon lots of fieldfares standing upright and alert. By slowly creeping along the tracks I managed to get close enough, just once or twice, for a photograph before some clumsy movement or noise sent them chattering into the safety of a hawthorn or looping away to a point further from intrusion.

During clear autumn days these birds herald the approach of winter when their pleasant ‘chack- chack’ calls echo across October and November skies. They flood into the UK when their homegrown rowanberry crops are exhausted and waste little time setting about our hawthorn bushes, gorging themselves on the bright red fruit.  They move through the country and into Ireland as the winter progresses, seeking milder climes when the east wind bites. If hard weather hits the near continent further influxes will occur and it is then that they will enter gardens robbing the resident blackbirds of their precious holly berries and stripping withered apples from leaf- bare trees. Sometimes flocks, emboldened by hunger, will seek sustenance on garden lawns, pecking at fallen fruit or provender put out for other birds. But mainly they are spirits of open country, shunning human habitation and proximity. Strangely that’s not always the case on their breeding grounds where they will happily share public parks and gardens with us Homo sapiens. I’ve seen them hopping around in the middle of Stockholm amidst trams, buses and pedestrians as well as on village greens in Romania where they act just like our own songthrushes and blackbirds, digging for worms with which to feed their hungry young.

I always feel quite humbled to witness bird migration or movement. Most is subtle and goes unnoticed, but these wanderers form visual proof that winter is drawing to a close. Sure there will be periods of freeze; winds, rain, snow and frost have not done with us yet, but the birds are responding to some deep rooted instinct that prompts them to move north, go home to seek territory to foster another generation. For a little while they will tarry on our windswept fields but soon they will depart: I for one will be sorry to see them go.

Life in an Oak

There’s a tree by the church. An Oak, twisted and gnarled, ivy clad and sentinel. It grows by the wall; flint and brick, ancient and lichen encrusted, bowed and bent, ravaged by time. Both wall and tree have seen some sights, seen the passing of ages, the passage of time and man. What tales could they tell us? What stories could they reveal? If only they could speak. Instead they stand there silently through every extreme the seasons can deliver. They have seen some weather this wall and tree, seen deep winter freeze, long summer drought, torrential downpours and balmy autumn days when acorns hang plump and swollen like grapes. They have lived through wars and peace, seen kings and queens throned and deposed, seen man move from rural fidelity to cosmopolitan excess. Yet still they sit there as ever they were. They are entwined, for what came first? Surely the towering wall with a small, vulnerable sapling planted alongside? But now the roles have reversed because the tree is so large it pushes its roots, deep and wide against the walls foundations and threatens to undermine its neighbour of two centuries or more. Man must intervene and he has done so, restructuring the wall in places, rebuilding to accommodate the unrelenting growth of the tree; a tree that still has several centuries of life left to it. It seems there will be many skirmishes to come between these bastions. Both are an integral part of the whole, the essence of the churchyard. Both will find a place to survive and thrive well behind the lifespan of this author and you, the reader. A sobering thought if any were needed.

The tree has dependents; a pair of boldly spotted Mistle Thrushes have chosen it as a winter larder and are busy protecting the wealth of dark ivy berries that drape its girth from other pilfering beaks. I sat in my car beside the tree watching this aggressive duo as they chased away marauding Blackbirds that dared to mount a raid. No usurper was allowed more than a quick stab with a golden bill before one of its larger relatives dived upon it and drove it unceremoniously away into the hazel growth bordering the lane to the broad. Innocent Blue Tits and Robins were sent packing in similar fashion and a Grey Squirrel was left in no doubt as to his welcome; staccato rattles echoed around the otherwise silent churchyard in an expression of distaste and alarm.

After a while a Woodpigeon hopped off the wall to waddle around the trunk of the tree reaching up to peck at any low growing berries. It was joined by three of its brethren that wasted no time gorging themselves as is their habit. No slouches these, for what seems a heavy and clumsy bird they displayed remarkable agility when seeking to strip berries from awkwardly growing sprigs. Spreading wings and tails wide to provide balance, they would dangle upside down and thrust their necks to fullest extent to reach a succulent morsel. And not once did either of the thrushes pay them the least regard.

As I watched with camera poised, fingers numb with cold and an icy chill paling my face, I noticed other birds using the tree. A Nuthatch alighted on a branch, frustratingly out of shot, to tap at a nut it had found. It’s thick chisel bill making short work of the tough shell. A tiny Goldcrest crept amongst the thick glossy coat of ivy searching for insects sheltering therein. A Kestrel, all pointy wings and tail, arrowed over the church tower to perch briefly on the highest branch there to scrutinise the grass beneath for the slightest movement. And then blind panic as pigeons, blackbirds and other smaller birds exploded from the copse nearby, their notes of panic shattering the calm. A Sparrowhawk had scattered them, but remained unseen by me.

If any proof were needed as to the value of Oak and Ivy look no further. This one tree was full of life on an otherwise dead winter’s day. If provides both food and shelter for all manner of wild creatures and I felt privileged to be able to experience some of it for just a couple of hours of my own life. Sometimes it’s good just to sit and watch; the tree and its flint and brick companion will do just that for a long while to come.