All White on the Night

In the course of writing this blog I may have mentioned, once or twice, my love of natural history. I've studied it, I worked with it, and my hobbies are largely based around it. During the course of my studies I've learned more about the eminent men and women who have advanced our understanding of nature in the UK and abroad - academics, scientists, explorers, and the many, many people working in conservation around the globe today. If I told you to name the most influential, who would you go for? David Attenborough? Charles Darwin? How about Gilbert White? Did anyone mention Gilbert White?! Ten gold stars if you did.

Gilbert White is broadly acknowledged to be the UK's first natural historian, discussing ideas like migration and species identification before Darwin was even born. White made observations of the natural world around him, writing his thoughts down and corresponding with others on his musings (the equivalent of a blog!). These letters were published as 'The Natural History of Selborne', detailing his findings in his home village of Selborne in Hampshire (and available free on kindle for anyone bold enough to tackle it!). Selborne still stands, as does the vicarage that White lived in - now converted to a museum in his honour (and, incidentally, also a museum in honour of Captain Lawrence Oates, one of those who made the fateful journey to the South Pole with Scott).

 

White's original manuscript

And so it was to Selborne that I went for a couple of days break, in order to see the place where the great man lived and walked. At his house, his vegetable gardens are still in place and the library is stocked with hundreds of versions of his book from around the world, including the original manuscript. It was pleasing to imagine White sat at his desk, with views out over his gardens into the woods beyond, pondering such questions as whether swallows migrate or spend the winter hibernating in the mud at the bottom of ponds. Whilst that may seem obvious today, global travel had not yet opened up the possibility of finding our migrants in other countries, and there certainly wasn't any sophisticated tracking technology available.

The house and vegetable garden

The village is nestled at the base of Selborne Hill, up which Gilbert and his brother constructed a zig-zag footpath to the top, giving fantastic views of his house and the surrounding area. The autumn colours made the uphill slog well worth it. As I strolled around his gardens a peregrine falcon drifted overhead and circled against white clouds before a few powerful flaps of its wings propelled it from sight. What would Gilbert have thought of the bird? Did he know that this is the world's fastest animal, capable of speeds of 200mph? I doubt it!

The view over Selborne

The fact that we know so much about the world around us today is by no means attributable to Gilbert White, but he was the first observer of ecology to publish his observations in a way that allowed others to examine them further, and from such work comes greater scientific understanding. And for that we should be grateful to Gilbert and a small band of amateur natural history enthusiasts.

Autumnal apple and ladybird in the gardens

Count me in!

I’ve been told that there are only three types of people in this world: those that can count, and those that can’t. For those that can’t, the numbers game can be something of mystery, or even a painful experience. But for those that can (and those that can’t!), numbers form the basis of most of the measurements by which we judge our lives. They represent targets, achievements and goals, they provide a benchmark against which we strive to improve or compete, and mark the passing of time to give context to those achievements.

So it is in conservation and birding. We count birds; whether to determine population trends over time or simply for competition with others or ourselves. We count numbers of individuals, breeding pairs, numbers of species, fledged young, and we do this repeatedly to assess the health or otherwise of a particular habitat or location, and then to see what happens in that place over time.

One particular place where this has been happening lately is the Isles of Scilly. The archipelago is a group of over 100 islands (depending on the tide) located 28 miles off the tip of Cornwall, with a permanent population of around 2,200 people. For the last nine years I have been privileged enough to visit the islands each autumn to lead guided walks for the RSPB on Tresco, one of the five inhabited islands. The purpose of the visit is to raise awareness of the work the RSPB are doing on the islands for wildlife, and success is largely judged on numbers: how many people we meet, how many walks we do, how much money we raise, how many members we make. But these numbers don’t tell the whole story here. Other numbers have started to become more important.

Storm clouds off Bryher

Back in 2013, a partnership project involving five different organisations began, with the aim of improving the productivity of breeding seabirds around the islands. About 20,000 individuals from 14 different species of seabird come to the Isles of Scilly to breed each year, but populations of most of them have been doing badly due to predation of eggs and chicks by rats. The Isles of Scilly Seabird Recovery Project aims to remove rats from St Agnes and Gugh, two of the most important seabird nesting areas, and started doing so in autumn 2013. The 84 inhabitants of the islands all signed letters of support for the proposal, and baiting began. Over just six weeks all signs of rats disappeared, and no rats have been seen since!

A survey tunnel

The knock on impact of this work was seen in 2014, when surveys revealed manx shearwater chicks on St Agnes and Gugh surviving to fledging – 10 of them in fact. And in 2015 there were 28 of them. This may seem like small fry, but this is where numbers come in. Not a single manx shearwater chick had been recorded by anyone on those islands in living memory. None. That’s zero productivity over perhaps 100 years. And now there are at least 28 chicks leaving the islands for a life at sea. Even better, storm petrel chicks have been confirmed in 2015 – the first for many years.

A Manx Shearwater chick

Conservation projects are rarely so successful so quickly, and we can only assess how well they are performing using data – without a baseline we would have nothing to compare to, and without rigorous, consistent survey techniques we would not be able to draw reliable conclusions. The Isles of Scilly Seabird Recovery Project is a fantastic example of what can be achieved through partnership working and community support, and of course an excellent example of how numbers have shown that success. Let’s just hope the surveyors were not among the five out of every four people who have problems with fractions.

Mothtastic!

Somehow it's been months since I posted anything on here. There's a lot of catching up to do! Alas I'm only just recovering from a busy summer of work and weddings, more of which I'm sure will feature in due course. For now I'm mostly treading water, but I've come up for air long enough to write a brief post.

This last few weeks the sun has disappeared all too quickly in the evenings. As a result the floodlights have been a vital ingredient for hockey training, and the bright lights have been attracting insects, and the insects have been attracting bats. For any bat detectorists out there I might suggest spending an evening by the astroturf taking a peek for yourselves.

Last Tuesday, whilst I was supposed to be coaching, I noticed a large moth struggling to get airborne. It was huge, and dropped to the ground on the edge of the pitch, where I managed to locate it. Being an amateur naturalist I have some appreciation of our larger moths, but this didn't look like anything I had encountered before. It had cryptic upper wings designed for camouflage, but beneath them revealed a blue, purple and black set of bands across the underwing. I had a good look at it, but failed to take a photo and thought little more of it.

The following day I tried to look it up. I wondered if it was a hawkmoth, due to it's large size, but most hawkmoths are quite striking and have bold patterns and wing shapes. So I wondered about an underwing, having recently seen a lot of red underwings. This one had the usual camouflage on the top wings but no bright warning colours beneath. When I searched 'underwing' on google I scrolled down until an image burst out at me. I have no copyright to show you the image, but it was exactly as I recalled from the night before.

To my amazement and great satisfaction, it identified the moth as a 'blue underwing'. I have never heard of this before, so I delved further. The blue underwing is also known as Clifden Nonpareil, and it turns out to be something of a superstar in the moth world (lepidopterland?). Many a moth-er (not mother) has Cliften Nonpareil at the top of their wish list, it transpires. This is, in part, due to it's rarity. It is not resident in the UK and so the handful that turn up each year are all immigrants. It is also due to it's uniqueness - almost no British moths have blue on them!

Armed with this information, I began to doubt myself. I asked a naturalist colleague whether there were any similar species that I should look at in case I had misidentified it. His response was 'None whatsoever, la la la la la didn't happen you B*stard', which gave me some indication of it's appeal to those in the know. I contacted the Wiltshire moth recorder, and sheepishly suggested that I might have a probable record of a Cliften Nonpareil, and could he give me his advice. When he replied he said it was 'unmistakably so', and what a fine record it was too. There have, apparently, been a few recent records of them in the county, and in several other counties.

I strongly suggest you all look up this little beauty. It is a truly stunning beast, unlike anything else on the UK moth scene. And you never know when you might just come across one yourself!

P.S. One week later I saw the moth again at training, and this time managed to catch it and take a photo!

Human Nature

I love what I do, largely because I do what I love. I've always enjoyed the great outdoors and been fascinated by wildlife, so I'm very fortunate (or massively skilful) to have a job that allows me to indulge in these passions. And sometimes I can forget what passions they are because it is, after all, still a job. But today I was suddenly struck by a few instances in this last week that remind me of those passions all over again.

Firstly, I had friends to visit with their young children. They are a very active and outdoorsy sort of family, and they encourage and nurture their children's inquisitiveness. We went out for a drive on Salisbury Plain, and stopped in a small area of grassland to go for a walk. We barely made it 50 yards from the truck as the kids were fascinated by literally everything. Each new creepy crawly deserved attention, each new butterfly was followed, and a rabbit hole was the perfect size to poke a brave face into. Young and eager eyes soaked up the novelty of it all, and revelled in it.

Family fun!

Secondly, I camped out on Saturday night with a friend. For one night, the phone was switched off, there was no music except the breeze, and no traffic, no lights and nothing to do except soak up the natural environment around us. At dusk, two foraging badgers, without realising we were stood there silently watching, strolled confidently to within ten paces of us, looked up, sniffed, and pottered off into the bushes. The sun went down and the stars came out, and in the night an owl shrieked and a stone-curlew called eerily to it's mate as it flew overhead: somehow a more intense and meaningful experience for the darkness.

A badger from a previous encounter

Thirdly, I saw a friend of mine, who also works in conservation, post a picture of a mum teaching her daughter about plants in a beautiful meadow. My friend's job is to educate people about grasslands such as this, and yet she spoke passionately about the importance and significance of this moment in the young girl's life. This was not because she was paid for it - she genuinely believed in the power of nature and people.

Picture stolen from my friend

Fourthly (is that a word?!), on a bright evening at the end of a day off, I sat in the garden with my housemate having a beer and enjoying the opportunity to discover what my small patch of back yard held. There were swifts screaming overhead, a blue tit dropped through the tree towards the seed feeders, and then we noticed a huge moth attempting to disguise itself against the fencing. And then a second of the same type. A quick peek in the ID book confirmed it was an eyed hawkmoth - a magnificent beast with bright blue spots on hidden underwings to ward off potential predators. Despite my many years of investigating nature, I can not recall ever having seen one of these before, despite it's apparently common status as a garden species.

Eyed Hawkmoth

Finally, I spoke to two of my colleagues who were working on Sunday at an 'Open Farm Sunday' event, representing the RSPB and the work of the local farmers for members of the public. Both said that on a beautiful sunny day they shared stories and experiences of nature with families, young and old, and had discussions about conservation and current contentious issues. Afterwards they went to a known site for turtle dove and were lucky enough to see one singing. This stunning species has undergone a massive decline in the UK and it is no exaggeration to say that they could go extinct in this country in the coming decade. And so my colleagues were delighted to see this one bird, a genuinely rare sighting these days, at the end of a day filled with people and nature.

The RSPB 'engaging' the public!

And that is the thought that occurred to me late on a Monday evening. All of these things are things that come to me through my passions, and through my job, yet none of them was 'work'. The boundaries of work and life have become so totally blurred that I can not put one down and pick the other up. I'm always 'working' in one sense, because I choose to live my life this way, and because I enjoy it.

The second thing that occurred to me was that all of my natural history highlights this week have been connected to people. Whilst I moan about and deride people as the cause of many environmental problems, they are also the most likely solution, and these cases give me cause for optimism. Yes they were all moments in nature, but they were shared moments, and for that they are all the more memorable.

Time for Action

A few weeks ago I wrote a post about red kites and why their recovery gives me hope in a world where conservation good news stories are few and far between. Working in conservation can be a depressing career when you hear more and more news about another species decline, another precious habitat lost, another stark climate change prediction. It's why I work in the industry:  I value nature and I do what little I can to redress that balance. But I've always tried not to include the bad stuff on the blog. It is supposed to be a light-hearted and irreverent commentary on the mundane and banal features of everyday life. I don't want to depress you, dear reader, nor do I wish to preach at you. Yet lately I have been inundated with so much negativity, ignorance, hypocrisy and sheer incompetence that I feel the time is right to bring it to your attention. I thought twice about doing so, but decided that the issues I am about to outline are only issues until enough people speak out against them. So please read on and decide for yourself whether I am simply letting off steam, or whether either of these issues deserve your attention, and better still your action.

1. The Nature Directives

The Nature Directives are currently under review by a European Commission that is challenging regulation – meaning our most important laws for wildlife are under unprecedented threat.

The Directives provide essential protection to our rarest and most threatened species, and safeguard the best habitats for supporting a diversity of life in the UK and across much of Europe. They drive the fundamental aspects of conservation in the most important places – from managing sites and protecting them from development, to protecting species from human persecution.

Without them, we are simply fighting to stop loss and damage to our most precious wildlife sites. With them, we are able to work with others to restore nature – to create a world richer in nature.

The Directives aren’t perfect, but if we’re to restore nature in the UK and across Europe, we need them, and we need to focus on better implementation so they can achieve their full potential. Opening up the Directives in a political context that will almost certainly see them weakened would set us back years. This would be a disaster for wildlife, and for all the conscientious businesses that have learnt to follow the Directives and work in harmony with nature. Revised laws would mean a period of great uncertainty for businesses that would cost them time and money.

That's why we need a massive demonstration of public support for the Directives during the European Commission’s public consultation on the future of the Directives. The more people act, the easier it will be to convince EU leaders that the general public really care about nature and won't tolerate a weakening of its protection. To find out more, including how you can take action to defend the directives, click here. 

 

2. Raptor Persecution

 

This is an issue that has been going on for many years, and whilst I've been aware of it I've never really had any personal involvement. I am now very fortunate that a small part of my job involves working with a rare and wonderful bird of prey, the Montagu Harrier. This species is only just clinging on in the UK, with a population of less that ten pairs. Despite this, it receives much less coverage than it's relative the Hen Harrier, largely because of issues of illegal persecution. Research has shown that there is enough habitat to support about 300 pairs of hen harriers in England, and yet there are only one or two, largely due to illegal persecution.

 

Recently the RSPB came under fire from an organisation called 'You forgot the birds'. It appears that their mission is to deflect attention away from the issue of illegal raptor persecution by undermining the RSPB and the work we do. A few weeks ago news emerged that three male hen harriers had disappeared from their last English stronghold in the Forest of Bowland. It is highly unusual for a breeding bird to simply abandon eggs, and with three birds involved it seems likely that foul play is involved - so likely in fact that the police have launched an investigation. Yet 'You forgot the birds' decided that this was an RSPB witch-hunt, and launched another attack on the organisation. Apart from displaying an astounding level of ecological ignorance, it also suggests that the RSPB has a poor track record in delivering successful bird conservation - an offensive and woefully inaccurate assertion. The response from the RSPB can be seen here. Since I work for the RSPB I am obviously biased and emotionally involved, so I urge you to read the article for yourself.

 

Equally, this one is well worth a read, as it presents yet another ignorant and unfounded perspective on ecology. Yes there is a debate to be had, but one based on fact and evidence, as outlined in this reply to the article. What concerns me most is that these people, apparently in the name of journalism, are given a platform to deliver these attacks. And that by having that platform, the real issue is ignored or forgotten.

 

Whilst there is a lot of coverage of the issues surrounding hen harriers, the montagu harrier is less well known. Last year we were lucky enough to get funding to attach satellite transmitters to UK montagu harriers. These tags give us a huge insight into habitat choice, foraging areas and migration routes. Yet one of the birds did not even make it as far as migration, having disappeared on a shooting estate in Norfolk. The transmitter stopped transmitting, which means it was somehow destroyed. Make of that what you will, but as there are now even fewer montagu harrier in the UK than last year, the species is on a knife-edge. We will be fitting more satellite tags this year, but the sad truth of the matter is that they may show us more about raptor persecution than they do about migration or distribution. 

 

If you want to find out more, including how you can support the campaign to stop illegal persecution, click here.

 

So I'm sorry for the seriousness of this post, but my work over the last few weeks has involved meeting local police to discuss wildlife crime, discussions with colleagues about the likelihood of local harriers being killed, news reports of persecution from other areas, and internal briefings on how much damage would be caused by a weakened set of directives from the EU.

 

This stuff matters, and if I can play a small part in spreading the word, responding to the critics and gaining support for nature and nature conservation then I make no apology for that. If it matters to you too, please spread the word, take action, and encourage others to do so as well.

 

 

 

K is for Kite

I had a moment recently that neatly encapsulated the reasons why I do what I do. I was on a train, and during the two hour journey I spent the vast majority of the time engrossed in my kindle. And yes, I was reading a book about birds. Well, about loss and solitude and the comfort found in birds. Anyhow, I glanced up for a few seconds at one point and saw a red kite floating over Woking. For those of you familiar with red kites, and I hope that is many of you now, this sight may not be unfamiliar (at least the bird, if not the location!).

It dawned on me that this single bird in that moment represents the culmination of many years worth of conservation effort. When I was starting out on my birding trajectory, aged about eight or so, this species was on the brink of extinction in the UK. No kites bred in England, and just 20 or so pairs clung on in a part of west Wales. As a young birder heading to west Wales on a family holiday, this was the main target on my overly optimistic wish list of birds for the trip. On our last morning, despite the rain lashing down, a single kite rose up above the skyline and danced across it for just long enough for Dad to stop the car and for the whole family to experience it together. It only lasted a few seconds but in that brief time I think even the less geeky members of my immediate family shared something that we all knew was special.

Since then, concerted efforts in many locations have seen kites returned to much of the rest of the UK, with reintroduction programmes across the country. One of the earliest was in the Chilterns, and kites have now firmly established themselves in that area. Anyone who drives along the M40 will likely see a dozen or more in just a few junctions. And I hope everyone who does shares in the enjoyment of watching such an acrobatic bird twisting and turning it's way through the skies with it's massive frame and it's rudder tail.

Much as my first encounter with a red kite was brief but memorable, this latest sighting brings to mind all of the work done in the intervening period to establish this species back across our countryside. The fact that I could spot this bird when barely paying attention, above a reasonably large urban area, without making any effort at all, shows what successful conservation work can look like.

Bird Cruising

There are many times in life when I wish I was in any way cool or trendy. But I am in fact a geek, and rarely does it hit home as much as when I go bird cruising. When people ask me how I'm spending my weekend, the reply 'bird cruising' leaves many people dumbfounded. It shouldn't do, as it is pretty much exactly as it sounds, but folks who don't know about my passion for birds assume it means something completely different, give me a knowing nod, and wish me luck. This weekend I went bird cruising in Plymouth.

The stunning Tamar Bridge backdrop to the river

An ex-colleague and good friend of mine, Bruce, runs a series of boat trips up the River Tamar each winter, with his better half Chris. When I lived in Cornwall, my job was to wear something with an RSPB logo on it, wave at the crowd when I was introduced, and then freeze my extremities off for three hours whilst we travelled up and down the river. In theory I should be spotting birds to help Bruce with his commentary, but with so many avid spotters on board this rarely happens. Or if I do see something, I ask someone more qualified than me to determine it's identity. In practice my role is really to furnish Chris with the latest gossip to keep her entertained, and to ask Bruce unfairly complex bird-related questions to make sure he is on the ball (he never could pronounce the Latin name for Oystercatcher - a hilarious joke amongst us bird geeks!).

The Oystercatcher - Haematopus ostralegus

As a visitor returning for a one-time only tour of duty, I was delighted to find out that the early forecasts of snow and strong winds turned out to be relatively inaccurate, with stunning clear skies overhead. However, the plunging temperatures did necessitate a lengthy discussion about how many layers would be needed, and no matter how many were taken they were still not enough. The river is obviously quite an exposed place to be, and the boat lacks obvious opportunities for warming up through any form of rigorous exercise on board.

The River Tamar on a slightly warmer and calmer day!

The boat we usually use was in dry dock for repairs, and the replacement lacked the same capacity. This could have been beneficial if we had adopted the survival strategy of emperor penguins, rotating to the sides periodically to have our turn on the cold edge. Sadly this does not lend itself to suitable bird watching conditions, as people tend to want to see the birds that are spotted, which means a clear line of sight for binoculars to be pointed through. The new boat also had different technical arrangements to the old one, which meant the first ten minutes was spent fiddling with microphones in an attempt to make Bruce audible. First there was feedback, then there was nothing, then the volume was too low and finally the sound would inexplicably cut out part way through a sentence. It was like listening to an Eminem song on the radio with the explicit lyrics blanked out. This had a pretty disastrous effect, as sentences would end just as they got interesting: 'the bird on the left is a...' or 'curlews will mostly be eating...'. Hardly a cliff-hanger ending, I admit, but inconvenient nonetheless. The problem was eventually resolved with the use of a cable, which restricted Bruce's movements to a small area of the top deck like a bulldog on a chain. 

Leading ornithologist and part-time Madonna impersonator, Bruce Taggart

Once this was resolved we hit a steady stream of birds and associated commentary. We saw curlews attended by crows, learnt the difference between stabber and snipper oystercatcher foraging techniques, and were accompanied for at least half an hour by our own personal common gull (which is, incidentally, the least common type of gull in the area). A rare duck had been spotted in the area lately, and we had to double check every duck that we passed to be certain not to miss out. The main highlights of the cruise are the avocets and spoonbills.

The surprisingly uncommon Common Gull

Avocets are the beautiful and elegant black and white waders with an upturned bill that feature on the RSPB logo. The fact that avocets returned to breed in the UK is largely thanks to Hitler. To counter the threat of invasion from German forces on our Eastern seaboard, vulnerable areas of low lying coastal land were flooded. The resulting habitat, along with little disturbance during the war years, provided ideal conditions for the birds. Although they don't breed in the south-west, our rivers and estuaries provide suitably mild winter feeding grounds for them, and there can be a couple of hundred found around the Tamar Estuary each winter, usually in several flocks. After an hour or so heading up the Tamar, we still hadn't found any avocets in the areas we usually see them, and were starting to get concerned when an eagle-eyed spotter, another RSPB colleague Stuart, located about 200 in a flock at the river's edge. Conveniently by this point in the river the edge was very close to the boat as the channel narrowed, and we had fantastic views of the flock moving along the edge and also circling around the boat and landing back on the mud.

Avocet flypast

The spoonbills are usually found on the River Lynher, a tributary of the Tamar which we also navigate our way up. Spoonbills are imaginatively named birds, having as they do a spoon shaped bill. They have only recently started breeding in the UK, and relatively few birds are found in the country - the Lynher is one of the best places to see them. They are the size of herons, and bright white, so it would be easy to assume that this makes them stand out. Sadly not. When feeding along the shore they blend neatly into the reflective water and mud surface. We often encounter them roosting on rat island at the mouth of the Tamar. As we approached the island, the gathered band of spotters (what is the collective noun for a group of birdwatchers; a flock? A geekdom? A twitch?!) started poking their eyes onto telescopes and jostling for position in an attempt to be the first to locate a spoonbill. But none were to be seen on the island. Fearing failure (and these trips never fail to turn up a spoonbill!) we started up river, only to hear the call that the birds had cunningly tucked themselves onto the back of the island, on the shallow side where the boat could not go. They had also tucked their spoons (at least the size of a wooden spoon) under their wings and gone to sleep, which leaves 100 or so eager birdwatchers staring at three white immobile blobs.

Spoonbills in happier, more active times

Although we were slightly disappointed not to see them wing in wing attempting to conga around rat island, thus is the way of things in nature. You can never be certain what you will or won't see, and most of us who enjoy bird watching will have as many and more failures as successes. Doing guided tours and commentaries can be a frustrating experience when you don't want people to leave disappointed, but there were many other species to be seen, and Bruce's knowledge of the wildlife and history of the area kept the commentary going throughout, as well as his 'show and tell' highlights - the lugworms, ragworms and hydrobia snails that he brings along in Tupperware containers like the remnants of a bad takeaway. We saw mergansers, grebes, godwits, shelduck, and a personal best four foxes, all of which I picked out in fields bordering the river. These stunning russet creatures shone in the winter light, although Bruce was convinced that one was a rusty oil barrel. Then again he has previously been convinced that a plastic bag was a little egret. So often the way when wildlife watching.

Great-crested Grebe in winter plumage

With the cruise at an end we tried to recover some form of circulation and promptly headed off for a carvery. This has long been a tradition of the cruises, with plates piled high with steaming vegetables and thick cuts of meat, smothered in gravy. One of my previous colleagues, a larger than life character who, for the purposed of the blog, I shall call Roland Digby, was famous for his appetite and ability to load up his plate to an alarming degree (he once told me that the tactic was to use some of the sticky veg like grouting, using their natural adhesive qualities to stick other items to the plate). At this point I pity the poor birds that have to forage all day for a few worms and snails to keep themselves alive in freezing conditions, whilst we tuck into a prepared meal in the comfort of a warm room with fine company and a pint of Tribute to boot. A thoroughly satisfying way to round off a great trip.

At the time of writing, there were still a few spaces available on a Tamar cruise on Tuesday 17th Feb. For more information click here.

Winter Fowl

As I sit at my computer staring out at the assortment of Christmas cards that have kindly been dispatched to my humble abode, I am struck, as ever, by the sheer volume of avian content that lies therein. Obviously people who know me know my interest in birds, and are, coincidentally, the people most likely to send me a Christmas card. But even so, a staggering number of the designs feature an array of wildlife, real or fictional, in wintery settings for my viewing pleasure.

Of the 23 cards that have wound their way into my house, there are 14 robins featured, 12 reindeer, six Santas, three penguins, two doves, one owl, one fox and one puffin, and one unidentified bird that looks like a dove but must be a partridge since it is depicted in a pear tree. This all reminds me of an article I wrote, some years ago, for a community website in Cornwall, and which I now reproduce below, describing some of our festive avian associations. Enjoy!

The Robin

As a seven year old child I fell into the classic trap of identifying the robin as a winter species. I was at a field meeting for the Young Ornithologists Club (the YOC – not an organisation to reel in members with its uber-trendy nomenclature! Thankfully the youth branch of the RSPB has been revamped since then). We were asked whether the robin was a summer or winter bird, and eager to impress my new found fellow young ornithologists, I leapt forth with the answer that it was, of course, a winter bird. How did I know? Because I had seen one (I can only assume the same one) on every Christmas card, present, wrapping and advert under the ever shortening sun. And yet a moment’s conscious thought would have reminded me that this is a species that we see in summer too. The robin is possibly a victim of a highly successful marketing strategy. It certainly has had religious connections for hundreds of years, and it is one of the few species to remain territorial all year round, so will sing in winter more than many species do. However, it was likely introduced to cards to symbolise postal workers delivering at Christmas time – the red breast closely matching the uniform of our native ‘posties’, and the original cards containing images of the robin actually carrying the mail. Over time the association with Pat was lost, but the robin continued on its wintery way to become our national bird. Not so much victim as victor.

 

A Robin proving me right

 

The Partridge and associated friends

I will assume here that you are all well versed (and perhaps rehearsed) in the art of Christmas songs. In one particularly popular ditty, a whole menagerie of birds, people and inanimate objects are lumped together in descending numerical order, culminating in a partridge (and a pear tree, for the benefit of those who claim the RSPB only cares about birds!). This seems most unlikely to me, since partridges are generally ground dwelling birds, and I have never seen one in a tree at all. Currently, it is becoming increasingly difficult to see the grey, or ‘English’ partridge at all, as the population continues to decline.

Grey 'English' Partridge

 

The red-legged, or ‘French’ partridge is our bird’s continental cousin, and has become the more common of the two in many places. It is unclear which of the two species the song refers to. Turtle doves are similarly scarce in the UK. This species has long been associated with marital tenderness, though I do not know whether that is a reason for its inclusion in the song. A combination of habitat loss and hunting on migration has reduced the population of turtle doves in the UK to less than a quarter of what it was 30 years ago. Turtle doves are summer migrants, so they will all have fled the encroaching winter long before Christmas arrives. White doves (though not our native turtle doves) feature on many cards as symbols of peace, with obvious religious connotations. Swans often feature as a representation of love. The image of two swan necks bent into a heart shape adorns many cards, particularly those produced for Valentine’s Day. For geese the association may be more practical. It is likely that a number of game birds, both wild and domestic (and we can throw the French hens into this category), will feature on our Christmas menus as usual this year. In some cases they will be stuffed inside each other to create a Russian doll effect, with up to ten species crammed together. Though they do not feature in the song, and are neither wild nor native to our shores, it would be wrong to deliver a Christmas sermon without at least mentioning the turkey! Another bird-related line from the song concentrates on four ‘calling birds’. One argument suggests that these are blackbirds, as it could derive from an original term ‘collie’, which means black and comes from an old word for coal. It is to this species, and it’s nearest and dearest, that we turn next. 

Blackbirds - male on left!

Blackbirds and other Thrushes

These are birds which have a genuine association with winter. Although we have a resident population of blackbirds, song and mistle thrush in the UK, their numbers are swelled by other birds flying south to winter in our milder climate. With these come redwing and fieldfare, which are only present here in the winter. The redwing is similar to a song thrush, but with a red flash under the wing and a more prominent eye stripe. The fieldfare is a larger bird, with blues and greys coating its back, but still maintaining some of the spotted chest we see on other thrushes. Both of these species will come to gardens in search of food, and have a particular fondness for apples and berries. They can be seen currently stripping berries from our hedgerows.

The Penguin

For a UK birdwatcher, Christmas is by far the best time to see a penguin. As a southern hemispheric family, penguins are not accustomed to arriving on our shores in considerable numbers. But an association between penguins and cold conditions has left them the dubious honour of featuring in our Christmas thoughts (though I’m yet to find a recipe that includes one!). It is worth remembering that our winter will actually be their summer, and I would be interested to find out whether penguins grace the covers of Australian Christmas cards. The majestic emperor penguins will be huddled together, braving the elements in a bid to raise their single chicks. Incidentally, it would be a fair assumption that the fascinating but treacle-coated film ‘March of the Penguins’ will be part of our TV schedules over Christmas.

A marching penguin

 

Scilly Season

It's been a while since I posted anything on here. Largely due to me being away from all forms of telecommunication on the stunning Isles of Scilly. If you haven't been, I strongly recommend it. For the last eight years I have been lucky enough to travel out there on 'business' each autumn for a week. The RSPB does a series of guided walks on Tresco each September, and I'm part of the squad that is hand-picked to provide members of the public with a unique and unforgettable insight to wildlife around the archipelago. Or so I hope!

Bryher and Tresco

A couple of years ago, the Isles of Scilly Seabird Project began. The aim of this work was to remove rats from St Agnes and Gugh. These islands (actually one island at low tide!) contain large numbers of breeding seabirds, including manx shearwater. Although manxies have been recorded on the islands each year, no chicks have fledged in living memory, because of the impact of the rats on eggs and chicks. So the removal of rats is critical to the survival of the species on these islands.

The 'Bar' connecting St Agnes and Gugh

Last winter, experts from New Zealand were flown in to begin the eradication, assisted by a merry band of volunteers. They began baiting rats and monitoring the population, and by Christmas there were no more signs of rats. This summer, more volunteers have been monitoring the shearwater burrows, and finally ten chicks have been recorded at about fledging age. Instant success!

Manx Shearwater

This is the story I get to tell visitors to the islands. Working in conservation can be quite depressing, with stories of declines, and recoveries taking a very long time. Here we have a fantastic example of what can be achieved when people work together. I get to natter with members of the public about this and other conservation issues, pointing out a few birds and other wildlife along the way, based at the beautiful Abbey Gardens on Tresco. And after eight years on the team, we've got the trip planning sussed.

Tresco Abbey Gardens

The best way to reach the islands, for me, is the Scillonion ferry. It can be a little choppy, and some people are not good on boats, as evidenced on both trips this year (both flat!) when one ill passenger managed to be sick overboard on the top deck, coating many of their fellow passengers on the deck below! But it's a great chance to spot wildlife, with seabirds, seals, sunfish, dolphins and whales all on the potential menu.

Common Dolphin

The boat docks at St Mary's, the largest of the islands, from where you can access the other 'off islands' by inter-island boat. Four other islands are inhabited: St Agnes, St Martins, Tresco and Bryher. Each has a different feel and atmosphere. St Agnes is isolated, St Martin's has picturesque wide sandy beaches, Tresco is manicured, and Bryher is wild and rugged. It is to Bryher that we head first, armed with camping gear. Bryher is our base for the week, despite working on Tresco. This means we have the best commute in the world, setting off from our home on the camp site, down to the quay to get the school boat across to Tresco, then walking up past the shop to pick up large quantities of bread and cheese for lunch, along the great pool and into the hides spotting rare birds, before passing the Abbey and on to our working base at the Abbey Gardens.

Rugged Bryher

Before we get to work we may have seen Lapland bunting, ortolan bunting, spotted crake, little stint, green sandpiper, curlew sandpiper, spotted redshank, spotted flycatcher, whinchat, redstart, and wryneck. Look them up! The wryneck is something that I see every year on the islands, and don't see anywhere else. It's a migrant woodpecker, and has a bizarre habit of twisting it's neck around and flicking it's tongue out. It does this when it feels threatened, to mimic a snake and ward off predators. The Latin name for this species is Jynx torquilla. The 'torquilla' part means 'little twister' in respect to this behaviour. The Jynx part originates in Greek mythology. Iynx was a Greek goddess who used a wyneck love-charm to make Zeus fall in love with Io. When Hera, Zeus' official consort, found out, she transformed Iynx into a wryneck as punishment. This is where we get the word 'Jinx' from - a curse or spell cast.

Lapland Bunting

Even from our base we can now see red squirrels, stick insects, and golden pheasants - all introduced to the island by man, just as the rats made it there by ship and shipwreck. We spend the day doing guided walks, turning round one every hour, and I can hear myself saying the same thing over and over again. Then it's back across the island for the last boat back to Bryher, a spot more birding and then a camp meal together. Having spent all day on our feet and smiling like a synchronised swimmer it's time to cook up a feast from fresh veg and whatever goodies we brought in the food hamper. Huge piles of pasta, curry and chilli adorn our plates each evening, all cooked al fresco over a small stove while watching the sun set over the Atlantic. And then to the pub.

Golden Pheasant

The Fraggle Rock Bar on Bryher is where we spend our evenings, indulging in a pint or two of local ale and running through the day's sightings, chatting with residents and tourists alike, and partaking of the odd game of bananagrams or a geeky bird-related quiz. It also does a killer fish and chips. Many a fine evening has been had here: a perfect end to a busy and tiring day, before staggering back to the camp site under the immense beauty of the milky way, and crawling back into the tent and passing out.

2014 Team!

In Groundhog Day style, we do this all over again, on repeat, for the full week, before final packing up our bags and returning to the mainland. It's quite a shock going back into the 'real' world from somewhere where the time of the tide is the most important time, where emails, internet and news are inaccessible, and where you can forget about all your cares, worries and responsibilities. If you ever need a true break from the busy world, this is the place.

Scilly Sunset

When you gotta go...

I was merrily strolling along the pavement lately when I noticed a neat geometric pattern on the tarmac. It was along the low walls at the front of the houses, and lasted for ten feet or so with systematic regularity. I stopped to ponder its origin. It appeared to be made from water, as though someone carrying a water bottle had made a continuous line by squirting it as they went. But there were no gaps or pauses in the line, and the repetitiveness of the pattern suggested something more organised. It reminded me slightly of that wonderful preserve of children's summer holidays - Spirograph. People of a certain age will have shared many a dull day spirographing away to their heart's content, becoming only mildly frustrated when the clips came loose and the pattern was ruined. Anyhow, the evidence suggested a trail of water, somehow with a regularity to it, that lasted for just a handful of seconds, and I couldn't help but wonder whether some poor dog had tried to relieve itself in the time-honoured fashion, only to be hauled along by an impatient owner, spraying concentric circles of urine as it went. A four-legged beast such as this walks with a regular gait, and no doubt the poor hound was forced to trot along behind its master, simultaneously manufacturing the greatest show of territoriality ever seen in the animal kingdom; something of which Tracey Emin would be proud. This revelation led me to wonder whether other canines in the locality were left in awe of this particular pooch, or gave it a wide birth. Surely the artist in question is top dog in my neighbourhood.

Better results for the Spanish

I attended a meeting lately about a particular bird of conservation concern to see what could be done to protect it. This bird has been the subject of several studies in Europe, so the particular experts were flown in to the conference to attend. The world authority appears to be a Spanish lady, who told us all about her work on the species over the last 30 years or so. She gave a very scientific talk in a language that was not her first. Yet she spoke clearly and fluently, even using phrases like ‘all was not rosy’ during the 30-40 minutes she was talking. Indeed she spoke better than most of the gathered English experts. And since she is Spanish, she spoke very quickly, which means her brain must be working even faster to decide what it wants to say, translate it, and deliver it. What a very impressive woman!

A Big Night Out

Friday Night: The end of a long week. A chance to unwind, let your hair down and catch up with some mates. Many favour the nocturnal lure of bars and clubs, the pumping beats and free-flowing alcohol, the staggering home clutching on for dear life to your kebab and what's left of your dignity. While there's certainly a time and place for that, this Friday I opted for something a little different.


Peppered Moth

 

Cinnabar Moth

 

I went camping. Not the rugged sort of tramping where you hike 26 miles into remote territory surviving on nothing but a cereal bar and lucozade tablets. Instead a genteel, easy-going sort of thing where we drove our tents, chairs and table into a field and pitched up. We brought food, camping stoves, some beers and cider, seats and a table, and of course marshmallows, all in the hopes of spending a little time chatting and relaxing in peaceful surroundings, and indulging in a little night-time wildlife extravaganza.


Scorched Wing Moth

 

Burnished Brass Moth 

In the last light of day we spotted red kites drifting lazily overhead, a woodpecker flying back and forth, the swifts screaming past. As darkness fell we could hear the eerie call of the stone-curlew and plaintive lapwing dialogue in the adjacent field. As we walked for an hour in the dark there was unidentified shrieking, scuffling and scratching from the undergrowth near by. In the night I heard footsteps of small animals and arose to a bright morning filled with birdsong: skylarks announcing the new day, yellowhammer rattling atop the nearest hedge, and whitethroat scratching along the scrub behind the tent. The moth trap had worked wonders, with a huge array of sizes and shapes, colours and contrasts. Some moths were plain, others patterned, some furry and others holding delicate antennae out before them. A few rogue spiders and a large beetle infested with mites had joined them. A small blue butterfly flew past, briefly distracting us from the myriad moth collection, and whites and brimstone were on the wing too.

White Ermine Moth

 

Buff Ermine Moth



All of this was there to see without any effort, hiding in plain site. The accessibility of nature and the sheer diversity of life that passes us by when we don't stop to look is astonishing. Yes a moth trap is useful, and a tent and a field, but spend a night outside anywhere and see what happens. We rely so much on our eyes but the night takes that from us, leaving our other senses heightened and adrenaline pumping harder than any beat could induce. Take a walk without a torch and let your eyes grow accustomed. Sit and listen to the sounds close at hand. Delve into the undergrowth for all the mini-beasts that would ordinarily pass you by.

Small Elephant Hawkmoth

 

Buff-Tip Moth

Whether with friends of family, or even on your own, the experience of sleeping out among nature is open to all of us, and now is a great time to do it. The RSPB is organising a 'Big Wild Sleep Out' with events across the country. But even without that, get out in your garden for the night and see what you can find. You will experience something new, something different, and get a huge buzz from it without waking up with a headache next to a half-eaten burger.