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?     

Cor Blast Bor Thass Cold!

Sitting in a hide at Sculthorpe Moor I was taken with an uncontrollable fit of shivering. Numb with the bitter cold of a January morning in a damp woodland sprinkled with last night’s snow and without a breath of a breeze. My boots tapping on the wooden floor planks gave the great spotted woodpecker drumming on a nearby dead tree a run for his money. The reason for the endurance of such discomfort is simple; I’ve determined this year to see as many bird species as I can without resorting to haring around the county in search of rarities. I’ve made a mental list of 30 or so winter specialties that I aim to stumble upon before the end of March. It’s no big deal, just a bit of personal fun really, but the inestimable value is that it will get me out to places that I would otherwise neglect. In short it will simply get me off my backside and out. With this worthy aim in mind I thought Sculthorpe would be a good place to connect with a few winter finches and in this respect it didn’t disappoint. Bullfinches are regular here; it would actually be difficult not to spot one at the many feeding stations dotted around this excellent reserve. Bullfinch was pretty much the first bird I saw in fact. Bullfinch was the first bird that brought a smile. But not the only one for pecking around under this particular set of feeders was a rather splendid brambling, always a lovely bird to see and they are just beginning to dress up for spring.

A gentle stroll along the frost encrusted, sun spangled boardwalk brought forth charming long tailed tits buzzing in the alders with a large party of siskins above. Nuthatches fluted, buzzards mewed, woodpeckers drummed whilst my toes gradually froze. Reaching the hide where the aforementioned fit of shaking took hold, I sat alone just me and the birds on this still and beautifully sunlit day. I thought I should start walking again before I pulled a muscle or the hide began to fall apart, but a small bird flew onto the feeders and arrested my attention. A redpoll. All my thoughts focused on this tiny little finch and amazingly the shaking stopped instantly. Redpolls would have that effect because you really need to concentrate in order to determine which species you’re dealing with. This particular specimen seemed quite small and brown with a buff coloured wing bar so was almost certainly a lesser redpoll. Not new for the year but lovely to see. After a couple of minutes another small finch joined it and instantly I could notice a difference. Frosty plumage, bigger, chunkier, longer wing projection, little tufts of feathers on the thigh area. Could it be a common (mealy) redpoll? I reckoned it was. A male coming into bright spring plumage. I find these birds so tricky but it’s on my list now despite some angst later when I consulted reference works. Go with your gut Baz and a few years under your belt.

After leaving Sculthorpe and with some time to spare before having to get home I thought I would simply find a few north Norfolk country lanes to drive slowly along to see what I could find. I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed the following hour, meandering gently eastwards with barely a car passing by. Wildlife rewards were plenty; a pair of courting buzzards perched in a roadside tree, a kestrel peering down at me illuminated by the soft, warm light of a waning afternoon, a brown hare that darted across my path followed a few minutes later by a lovely barn owl that I followed for some distance as it buoyantly bounced above the roadside verge hoping to find a hapless rodent. And then the jewel in the crown, a red kite that circled above me for 5 minutes whilst I snapped away to my heart’s content. That was quite something with which to end the day.

The following morning (31^st) found most of Norfolk enshrouded in thick, freezing fog. What to do? Stay in and crawl up the wall or chance to the fact that the contrary coast would almost certainly be clear? Fortune favours the brave and the coast won the day. Good move, for on reaching Holt the skies cleared revealing a different world, bright blue skies and a piercingly bright sun. Nothing for it but to see if another couple of gaps in the list could be filled by walking the beach at Cley in search of the glaucous gull that has been hanging around for a couple of weeks. But first a flurry of delightful snow buntings probing for seeds amongst the shingle ridge, much wider now than it was when I worked here a few years ago. If it wasn’t for the labours of the USAF who sadly needed to salvage the helicopter that crashed here and bulldozed a parking area for their vehicles it wouldn’t now be possible to park your car at Coastguards. Coastguards what Coastguards? Indeed, that building and most other things here succumbed to the mighty force of the storm surge of 2013. It is truly a dynamic stretch of coast. There are positives; the increased area of shingle has created more nesting habitats for shorebirds and it was on this area adjacent to east Bank that the gull was feasting on the carcass of a seal. A bit gruesome to watch this light biscuit hued bird acting very much like a vulture of the African savannah, plunging its bill deep into the carcass to gorge on the rancid meat therein. The bloodied base to its beak told the tale. After a while it flew off to rest, wash and preen on a nearby pool. Flyover pintail was a bonus bird here.

Next and final stop as it turned out was at Holkham. Out of the car, look up, another red kite. Looks like these majestic raptors have well and truly arrived. The main object of the visit to this rather wonderful spot was to try and catch up with a party of shorelarks in residence for the winter. They were there, probing quietly amongst the saltmarsh plants, keeping a low profile as ever they do. What truly anomalous larks though; sandy brown – so far so good – and then Bang! Bright yellow and black face masks. Superb! And good to see the reserve has roped off a section of the marsh so these increasingly scarce birds can enjoy a spell of peace and quiet. With rock pipit, common scoter and a sizeable flock of linnets also being ticked as the setting sun shone low and golden, it was time to trudge back to the car and drive inland to be enshrouded once more in the thick, freezing tendrils of the January gloom.