An Ill Wind

The smell gave it away, that sickly sweet, rotten fish kind of smell. At first I thought it was simply a stench arising from discarded fisherman’s pots, but no. The source of this particular aroma could be found by looking a little more closely at the beach where amongst the thousands of pebbles were thousands of dead sea creatures; crabs, lobsters, starfish, and various other species of marine life including dogfish and what I took to be mullet or smelt, too decomposed to be sure. Unseeing, wrinkled eyes staring into a sombre grey sky, the wind drying their rotting skins; born to a life of freedom under the limitless sea, dead now and littered along the strandline. Lifeless waste from a cruel sea wracked by strong wind and freezing temperatures.

Sheringham beach a week after the snow storms; the toll of nature’s wrath all too clear. Whilst the news bleated on about us humans stranded in our tin cans or unable to spend our money on unnecessary crap from Tesco, the real effect of the blizzards and gales was felt in the wild world. The world from which we are increasingly detached and disconnected. We have little concept about what survival really means, as long as the TV works, the freezer is stocked and Wi-Fi is running we’re happy. For wild creatures however the struggle to survive means sometimes you don’t win. It’s no computer game, no chance to reboot and start again. In the real world you can die and lay stinking on a cold and lonely beach.

But it is an ill wind that blows no good it is said; the evidence to support this adage was plain to see. The sea dwellers loss was the land dwellers gain. Turnstones, crows and gulls revelled in the bonanza left by a high tide; such easy pickings were not to be squandered. The crabs had already been plundered, their empty shells piled around, but there was flesh still to be found deep within the lobster’s dark blue armour and plenty of other tasty morsels enmeshed within the heaped flotsam. The turnstones were ever busy, probing with their dainty, upturned beaks at every potential snack. They are omnivorous opportunists these arctic breeding waders, equally happy taking live insects and sea lice revealed by their stone turning, nibbling dead flesh or wolfing down chips proffered by well-intentioned humans. They do well here. And of course the ever present gulls will gulp just about anything, tearing holes in the corpses with their ferociously strong beaks. Burly great black-backs were asserting their dominance, muscling their way into any food source discovered by their smaller cousins. Soon there won’t be much left to stink up the sea front.

Further out, on the heaped, bladder wrack encrusted, granite blocks, pecking inconspicuously at unseen particles were three purple sandpipers. These unassuming coast dwellers are constantly picking up tiny morsels from the slippery stone, their black and orange beaks working overtime to find sustenance to carry them through another day. Scurrying away from the effects of the seventh wave they demonstrate their hardiness; there is always plenty of food thrown up by the merciless sea. They are not quite so tolerant of close approach as the turnstones that sometimes dance around your feet, but if you keep still they sometimes come close enough to afford a good look and a half decent photograph.

A treat and a rather more uplifting sight awaited on the drive home, for near Edgefield a barn owl drifted across the road, flew parallel to the car for a few heartbeats before alighting on a road sign. Quick stop in a gateway, three point turn - needless to say it had flown. However the bird hadn’t gone far, it was hunting over the adjacent field. When it bounced away through a gap in the hedge another barn owl appeared behind it, chasing it from its territory. This is excellent news indeed, for despite being unable to hunt for at least three days last week these birds did manage to survive. The fact they were hunting well before dusk probably means they are hungry, but unlike the ruins on the beach, they are at least alive. 

At home, the enforced confinement to the house last week did provide an opportunity to have a good look at the garden birds. A total of 13 species took advantage of the food we put out, with our resident wren the star. This perky individual made short work of the live maggots placed in a flower pot on the patio. On its regular sorties it would select a wriggling maggot, whack its prize a couple of times on a branch kingfisher style before flying off to complete the meal in thick cover. Blackbirds were more forthright, their larger size and bigger appetites satisfied by taking several maggots at a sitting, swallowing them greedily without ceremony. To allow the wren more access and less bullying, a couple of apples and a chunk of unwanted Christmas pud did the job of distracting the blackbirds .......at least most of the time. What was particularly good to see though was a small flock of goldfinches making use of the dried seed heads of the hollyhocks. It is all too easy to cut these down and tidy them away in the autumn, but if left they do provide a useful food source for hungry birds as well as a refuge for various small invertebrates when winter bites. I do sometimes look at my humble estate and think what a mess it is, resolving to ‘sort it out’ when spring arrives. But then I see the birds and other animals making full use of the disorder and content myself with the thought that although not a large area it is certainly to their liking, and that was always the plan. What the heck would I do with a well-managed lawn anyway?

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.

Strumpshaw Fen: A Murmuration

A bright afternoon with billowing white clouds sending smoky tendrils onto a base coat of sapphire blue, had slowly but relentlessly given way to a lowering sky of rain laden grey. The light that was so crisp two hours before was now retreating before the early gloom of dusk, bringing the day to what felt like a premature end. With the pattering of light rain, refreshingly cool, spotting our faces we sought sanctuary in the Hide. Here we could sit in relative comfort and watch the spectacle that was about to unfold. A true wildlife drama, one that would grace any Attenborough programme watched by millions, played out here to an audience of perhaps a dozen. A starling roost: a murmuration.

The dank murk seemed to have triggered an early gathering and by 3.30 there were already several thousand dark shapes, tightly massed, swirling over the reed beds. They twisted and turned as one, each bird reacting instantaneously to the movement of its near neighbours. The flock rippled and morphed; first a solid dark host and seconds later a graceful, rippling pulse. Ever changing; one moment a dark round ball, the next elongated waves; always flowing as a single entity. And then without any obvious cue the whole mass would plummet into the reeds as smoothly and swiftly as water flowing over falls.

But the starlings were not alone. As streams more arrowed across the broad to join their brethren, sharp eyes of sparrowhawks awaited their chance. From the vantage point of a dead tree one of these ace predators scrutinised the new arrivals looking for a way to get an easy supper. It slipped from its perch, stooped low into a channel between the reeds and was lost to view. The assault must have signalled an end for one hapless individual, but the collective can sustain the loss of a singleton. Such is the nature of these birds existence. One moment alive and oblivious to imminent danger, the next a victim of death on wings.

Less capable, but nonetheless persistent assault came in the form of lumbering marsh harriers.  These large, slow raptors, more accustomed to surprising unwary ground based prey, seemed out of their depth when chasing swirls of fast moving objects. They lunged into the reed tops, talons extended, but stood little chance of making contact. Their subsequent laboured pursuits, flapping frantically on their broad long wings, bore no fruit. But surely, with such a throng at their disposal they would eventually strike gold? Not today. The trio chancing their luck soon gave up, finding their own roosting spot deeper into the reeds.

And still they swarmed. Parties of a dozen, of fifty, of two hundred hurtled without pause low over the waving reeds to plunge without ceremony into their depths. And once there they chattered, squeaked and chortled to one another in a fever. The sound of their discourse providing yet another layer of wonder; what were they saying to one another?

If any proof were needed as to why conserving such places as this is necessary, an hour spent at dusk watching the roosting birds would dispel any doubts. It is an oasis, a sanctuary, man managed but essentially left alone for wildlife to flourish. If 15,000 starlings couldn’t roost here then where would they go? If the sparrowhawks and harriers couldn’t fish for supper where would they go? Where too would the ducks and geese, the gulls, the otters, deer and voles go? And where would we go to find peace, to refresh our soul and be lifted by such sights and sounds?

On this day we eventually decided to leave the host in peace. A chill breeze had sprung up and it was time we battened down the hatches and left this place. Left it to the thousands of gossiping starlings, the circling harriers, the jet black crows. We had been fortunate to witness a visual and aural experience to savour, all played out in a Broadland haven a stone’s throw from a large city with its own murmuration of speeding tin cans and scurrying pedestrians each racing home to their own roosting spot for the night.

Strumpshaw Autumn

We’ve been here before. The first thing to happen as I arrived at RSPB Strumpshaw Fen was an encounter with one of the regular photographers. After the customary hellos, the conversation quickly nosedived into the negative; the same old lament that there was ‘nothing about, totally lifeless, didn’t take a single shot’. I’ve heard it so many times, and whilst it’s true that I’ve sometimes wandered around without troubling the camera shutter too much, I’m here to tell you that on this day there was plenty about. Lots of lovely wildlife and landscape to see and enjoy. In fact I didn’t even have to leave my car, for there opposite my parking berth was a blackthorn flush with ripe sloes; sore temptation for any hungry bird. I watched for an hour whilst several blackbirds, a robin, blue tit, great tit and a lovely male blackcap plundered the feast. You see folks, in my world birds don’t have to be rare or seldom encountered to provide interest and entertainment.

Moving on through the wood and along the path to Fen Hide with my friend, we delighted in the antics of a jay that perched brazenly atop the fingerpost, its fine plumage dazzling as it raided oaks for any remaining acorns. A couple of minutes later a trio of bullfinches flew across the path and we slowly, carefully, very quietly, stalked them through hip and haw laden shrubs but, as ever, failed to get a proper prolonged look. A tantalising glimpse of deep red breast, a flash of a white rump, a soft muted piping and they were gone.    

Sitting on a bench overlooking the meadows where the seed heads of reeds danced wildly in the gathering breeze, we watched the rays of the autumnal sun spraying through gathering clouds of multi-hued grey. An ever changing skyscape that surely deserved attention. Between occlusions, the bright sunlight illuminated berries of guelder rose, emphasising their translucence, whilst highlighting a matrix of spider web spun between the stalks.  And all around the reeds sung their soft song of seasons end.

Image courtesy of R Burrough

Image courtesy of R Burrough

Marsh harriers, swirls of corvids, golden leaves of oak, beech and birch. Chattering blue tits, newly arrived fieldfares, a flotilla of monochrome coots, rounded off with cheerful chat and a steaming cup of coffee. All this was there for anyone to enjoy. We did.

Season's End

It seemed such a short time ago that I was tripping lightly along the boardwalk of the Norfolk Wildlife Trust’s unique reserve at Ranworth, heart full of the boundless possibilities of a vibrant spring as I arrived for my first volunteering session of the season. Then the recently cut reeds were only just beginning to regenerate, poking bright green shoots through the boggy ground festooned with yellow splashes of marsh marigold. Fresh buds of willow, sallow and oak were unperceptively but determinedly unfurling, Chiffchaffs sang in the alders, blackcaps warbled from hazel scrub whilst the azure sky of an April morn foretold of a likely busy day ahead.

Scroll forward six months and here I was walking the same trail, wearing the same boots, with the same shade of clear sky overhead. The season had been, as ever, entertaining, fulfilling and varied. Education and enlightenment was dispensed and received, picnics and laughter experienced and relished. But now things had changed. No birdsong accompanied my progress; no colourful spikes of marsh flowers punctured the damp ground, no sense of the impending explosion of growth; of bursting buds, of regeneration. Instead I walked through dampened, bedraggled ranks of  reed; under trees shedding leaves of burnished gold and red, through a world seemingly resigned to the end; the cessation of life. At least for this year. But then I caught the rays of the morning sun shining through reed heads caught dancing in a sudden waft of autumn breeze. The dapping light temporarily blinded me, yet the waltzing shadows lifted my mood. There was life here after all. A blue tit wheezed, goldfinches tinkled, gulls drifted as snowflakes. It was simply a different aspect of the same place; a morphing from one season to another; cause for celebration not melancholy. I walked on with a lighter step.

It was a good day, a steady flow of visitors, lots of children eager to draw the birds they had seen, complete the puzzles, push buttons and spent granddad’s money. Late holiday makers mixed with regular visitors; pilgrims from foreign counties rubbing shoulders with locals. As it should be.

In the late afternoon, as the sun swung in a descending arc westwards, the reflected light on the broad took on a special vibrancy.  A party of visitors dropped in from Scandinavia; Norwegian, Danish and an Englishman that had migrated north. They loved the mood and serenity of this place. We chatted about the birdlife now gathering in impressive numbers on and around the sparkling water, resting, washing, preening, squabbling, as birds do. It struck me that we were, in all probability, looking at foreign immigrants of an avian kind. Little, if anything, had originated in this beloved Norfolk of mine. I explained that the wigeon, teal, shoveler, cormorants and gulls we were watching could quite easily have come from Iceland, Russia, Central Europe or maybe even Norway or Denmark. Perhaps the gulls these people had seen wheeling around their local park or marina were now taking advantage of the peace and sanctuary afforded by a shallow Norfolk waterway. Maybe the ducks they had observed on their Scandinavian lakes were the very same ones now whistling and piping in front of us. Who can say? Similarly the impressive cormorant roost, already boosting at least 1000 birds perching still and sentinel on favoured trees, contained individuals from  France and Holland. A connection was made. We are not separate from these creatures; we share the same earth, move through the same space, rely on the same resources.

As we wound down the centre for our last shift of the year, gulls and yet more cormorants were streaming overhead, sailing into roost. Yes, the screeching terns and swooping swallows may have gone but they have been replaced with another shift, one that is equally interesting, spectacular and vital. The visitor centre may now be closed to the public, but it is simply dozing. Like the Queen wasps, peacock butterflies and bats sheltering within, it will reawaken with the first warm days of spring to commence the cycle of life.

Secrets of the Night

We watched the sun slide smoothly towards the horizon, melting into the far end of the tranquil, unrippled surface of the broad; a golden orb slowly sinking into the mirror like surface of the water. In the stillness that followed its disappearance, peace settled over this water land, broken only by the occasional echoing quacking of mallards, floating silhouettes now, or the fluting melancholy of a robin’s autumnal song. Before long the lower sky became a band of flame, flowing by degrees into darkening shades of dusk, faintly chilly now summer’s grip was loosening. Presently we heard the faint honking of grey-lag geese that gathered momentum as they flew in to spend the night roosting far out of harm’s way; a strategy adopted also by gulls, ducks and heraldic cormorants. The gloaming giving way slowly to the velvet blue of a night filled with faint starlight. But we were not here to just admire the sunset, my colleague and I had some work to do. …..

Ranworth Broad, a Norfolk Wildlife Trust reserve in the heart of the Bure Valley.  I know the place well having been engaged as the official coordinator some years ago. That was a very interesting and fulfilling time, but I’m content now to turn up once a week during the opening season to spend a pleasant few hours watching the wildlife and chatting to holiday makers and other visitors about this special place. It is a vibrant location at times, full of people who are visibly amazed at the panoramic view of the large sheet of water they see as they enter; a legacy from the medieval need to dig for fuel. For children the adventure of visiting somewhere only accessible via a walk through a woodland swamp, reeds swaying above their heads is magical. For adults the delight their children show is reward enough. For all it is unique. 

 …..But there are no holidaymakers here tonight, we have a different purpose;  we are here to trap moths, those members of the night shift seldom encountered in any numbers….. unless you have a moth trap, and luckily we do. Nobody seems quite sure why moths are attracted to light, but attracted they certainly are. Here, away from prying eyes and in no danger of upsetting neighbours, we position the trap on the decking; essentially an open topped wooden box with sloping Perspex inserts that moths can harmlessly slide down once mesmerised by the emissions from the bright mercury vapour lamp. We stay watching the trap until tawny owls send their love songs to one another through the wood, one so close and loud it startles us with its eerie screech. Another answers; a faintly audible trembling hoot from way down the channel towards the river. Insects: mosquitos, flies of all kinds, small beetles, midges by the hundred, swarm around the trap but no moths yet appear. So we turn our attention to the bats that are now flitting all around taking advantage of the myriad flying insects attracted to the light. Our bat detector picks up a wealth of chittering, chattering and buzzing as the bats echo locate their prey. We think they must be Daubenton’s or natterers since they are emitting at between 50-60kHz frequency. We have a more sophisticated device which we will leave overnight and will later show we had an astounding total of nine species of these flying mammals making use of the site.  Our two suspected species, all three pipistrelles, brown long-eared, noctule, serotine and Leisler’s. An indication of the tremendous diversity this jewel of a site supports.

There is method to our madness, we want to record the bats as part of a Norfolk bat Survey operated by the British Trust for Ornithology, and we want to trap the moths to have something mysterious and live to show the visitors the following day. And all of a sudden there is a moth, a large yellow underwing, thrashing around in the bottom of the trap before finding refuge amongst the empty egg cartons placed there. Satisfied that the moths are beginning to emerge we make our way home through the now silent reed swamp, our head torches showing every flower head of hemp agrimony, purple loosestrife and marsh thistle to have feeding insects; it’s not just daytime residents that have a pollination role to play. We even find a few green and black striped swallowtail caterpillars munching their way through milk parsley. We’re confident the trap will produce the goods and this is confirmed when we return the following morning. We have struck gold; brilliantly marked garden tigers, poplar hawkmoths, a drinker, large emerald, pebble hook-tip, carpets, pugs and waves. Enough to keep us busy recording and potting for an hour. Later we enthrall some children with the larger species and amaze most with the diversity of form, colour and camouflage. A successful outcome and one that encourages us to undertake this late vigil for several subsequent weeks until it gets too cold and wet to continue. We will try again next season.