In mid December, so the guide books say, the natural world turns silent. Or at least it did in my younger days in the North East of England. Somerset on the 15th of December was quiet, but not silent. I like this time of year.
It has been nearly two months since I've managed to head out for an afternoon of wildlife watching. A combination of being busy at work, very enjoyable though that is producing Radio 4's Tweet of the Day, a poorly father and other commitments meant spending time outdoors had dried up completely. However in a moment of wild abandon I headed off to Catcott to spend an hour or two observing nature.
Rarely these days do I take much equipment with me. I travel light now. Gone are the back breaking rucksacks brimming with scopes and tripod. These days just my trusty Nikon binoculars and (hopefully) enough knowledge to remember the names of that which I observe.
And a mobile phone, such remarkable things. The image above is not perfect, but for me good enough to illustrate winter wildlife. Catcott Lows comprises of seasonally flooded grassland. It is a winter wildfowl spectacle. Wigeon, lapwing, shoveler in good numbers; teal, pintail, snipe, egret, grey heron, mallard. In summer the site is drained leaving a lush grassland often deserted, unless the determined observer, quietly observes. I've heard grasshopper warbler here, watched hobby hunting dragonflies, barn owls drifting by on summer evenings and even on one occasion a mega-drop of passage swallows in their hundreds possibly thousands one spring.
It is in winter however that I visit more frequently especially a quiet area of the reserve rarely used by visitors. An unobtrusive track which vehicles use is a good start, with mixed species in the trees, today enriched by two greater spotted woodpecker plus a smattering of winter thrush. After half a mile an old peat workings track diverges off and is home to roving tit flocks, chaffinch, wren, blackbird as I observed today. Sometimes siskin and redpoll are to be found, goldcrest and rarely firecrest too. Not today though. Today gently unfolded as a quiet walk listening to birds.
In the distance the whistling of wigeon was ever present, with the 'pee-whit' of lapwing providing the lead vocals. But in the trees family parties of long tailed tit noisily foraged the alder. A number of blackbirds tik-tik'ed away at some imaginary intruder, a heron 'franked' his displeasure on being disturbed, a bevvy of wren scolded the air, chaffinch pinked their presence, robins announced the sunset, wood pigeons cooed and members of the crow family noisily flew by calling their species name. There was neither silence nor stillness today.
I had to pinch myself it was mid December, and to be honest the 12oC temperature did not help disprove the illusion of early spring. The only silent encounter, three roe deer resting within tall grass before, having noticed me, pronked away silently to safety, a solitary chiffchaff foraging upon high and a little egret performing leg stretches. Everywhere else the signs, strictly speaking the sounds, of the natural world were evident.
Gorse was in flower, goose grass, as it is sometimes called was growing strongly, winter gnats were on the wing, even flies buzzed nearby. And today's weak sunshine had warmth. It was a perfect day for a walk, the penultimate day before the sunset times inexplicably lengthen from the 17th.
The track gradually narrows from a few meters wide at the beginning to at its end just wide enough for one person. In it's latter stages wet woodland flanks its route. I've never seen woodcock here but I'm sure they will be in there. In the same vicinity a Cetti's warbler erupted and a water rail recreated the victims squeal.
In two hours I'd seen many bird species but the remarkable engagement was one of quietly observing. I wasn't walking quickly, two miles in two hour will break no records, however that slower pace allows time to stop and stare. The three roe deer were an illustration of this. It was only by chance while idly scanning the field did I spy three sets of ears, ostensibly looking like those of a brown hare. One deer then raised itself off the ground, stretched, yawned then stared directly at me. Deer do this. We think we're clever, skilfull, stealthy and unobserved. In reality the deer will have seen us from a long way off well before we've seen the deer. However they do have a blind spot.
I didn't believe the myth that you could walk towards a deer (slowly) until I witnessed it for myself decades ago. The head warden I worked with at Cragside proved this to me. I remained motionless someway off but step by step he walked towards a roe deer head on until he could only have been six feet away. Then the deer saw him and bolted into the woods. The warden told me in his younger days he controlled deer for the Forestry Commission as it was then, that experience taught him the skill of being unobserved but only if directly head on, and due to the position of deer eyes. I've not tried this myself.
I've digressed. This recollection of my afternoon walk seems to have developed into memories and encounters. Simply because I took time to observe, from water droplets on grass stems to a marsh harrier lazily quartering the assembled waterfowl. Not bad skies either.
