Chasing Dartford Warblers

 

I believe every naturalist must have a modicum of madness running through their veins. If like me you began in short trousers simply observing what is close to home, before too long you now find yourself wearing long trousers venturing far and wide indulging in a sheer obsession. If this strikes a chord then you'll understand what follows. 

While half an hours drive from home, I now consider the Quantock Hills (or Natural Landscape to give it its new and now correct title) one of my local patches. Visiting two or three times a month throughout the year I've got to know this special landscape well. There is however, to be truthful, an awful lot more to learn about this magical area. 

Last summer at around midnight I met a chap out walking his dog. I'd been watching nightjars with my wife and we were just thinking of heading home, when this chap emerged out of the darkness with his labrador. He was from nearby Williton.  We chatted about the nightjar routes, he mentioned where the males lek, which valleys they move between at different times of the night and then just casually threw into the conversation, "come earlier in the day and you can watch the Dartford warblers just over there before heading off to view the nightjar at dusk." With those words he and his dog disappeared into the night, leaving me in a thoughtful mood.

I'd wandered this landscape for years but had never seen a Dartford warbler, and to confirm my ignorance had not realised they were here. I'd seen Dartford warblers many times in Dorset, but never here. A mental note was lodged in my mind and returning to the car we drove home.

Moving the story on by a few months, having retired in March this year I have what can be described as a need to focus on regular activity to maintain my identity and self worth. In other words I've a lot of time to fill so don't waste it. As any lifelong naturalist will tell you, we rarely do.

The sun was up, I had an empty day, and recalling the area pointed out to me last summer, what better then than popping to the Quantocks and look for a Dartford warbler. 

This was at the end of March. On that first visit I saw, absolutely nothing. Plenty of other birds, skylark were everywhere, linnet, wren, meadow pipit, and stonechats and dunnock seemingly performing on every gorse bush. Which proved a problem. These latter two species while not sounding or looking like a Dartford warbler, were providing me with a lot of distant activity to check as they flitted between gorse bushes or sang a sub song which made me think "What's that?" After three hours walking nearly five miles in ever decreasing circles I gave up. It had been a brilliant day, but one tinged with an empty feeling.

The following week I returned. In the mean times some internet research had revealed that after suffering a bit in the 2010, 2011 winters and the Beast from the East in 2018, the recent mild winters have bolstered the population to 68 pairs in 2024. Given the Quantocks only covers about 100 square kilometres, they'll be easy to find. Won't they? On this second visit I headed to a more mature stand of gorse I'd seen the previous week thinking it looked a likely habitat. The sun was hidden, and the wind was up, both added to the sense of isolation up there, a feeling heightened as after spending nearly four hours on the hill I saw no-one. I didn't see a Dartford warbler either. This was proving difficult. Actually this exemplifies what a lot of nature watching is like, hard slog if you don't have local up-to-date knowledge. But in many ways that's half the fun, the quest.

By now the sun was emerging so I sat for a while on a fallen tree with a mug of tea from my flask. My mind cannoned thoughts across its now retiree neurological network. I know the Dartford warblers are here, the habitat is right, the landscape is perfect, the other indicator species, stonechat, linnet even wren are here in good numbers, but no Dartford warblers. Plan B - and an option I don't normally use. I came home and scoured social media. One account I have followed for a long while popped up "my best ever Dartford warbler image last weekend on the Quantocks". In one of the replies to that posting a specific location was mentioned. I knew exactly where it was. If you read this, thank you Carl Bovis.

Three days later I found myself on the hills again, this time with my secret weapon, Mrs Wessex Reiver, who is very good at spotting things. We tramped up hill and down dale, criss-crossing this area mentioned in the Instagram post. A malady and depression was beginning to grip me when Mrs Wessex Reiver shouted, "Is that it?" Bingo! A dark miniature lollipop sped away from me in an undulating flight and into a dense stand of gorse. No mistaking that outline, no mistaking that flight. And then it called. 

Collins Bird Guide describes the call as 'distinctive' - a drawn out harsh chaihhrr sometimes with an extra note chaihhrr-chr. Which is tremendous. I agree it is distinctive but has for me the quality of someone quickly scratching their fingernails down a chalkboard whilst dancing a tango. Once my ear hears it I remember it, but to attempt to describe the call is fraught with interpretation misdemeanours especially alongside the aforementioned stonechat song, linnet song and now the whitethroat are also back. The calling ceased and that was it. However I'd seen one for all of two seconds, thanks to Mrs Wessex Reiver, who while chatting to a local on the way back, had it confirmed to both of us we were in the right place, but they were flighty at the moment. 

My fourth visit occurred three days later. The sun was up and a strong wind was carrying sound across the landscape. In those intervening three days many trees had greened up and hawthorn blossom was beginning to bud up. Once again I was up here on my own in my own world. Two kestrel flew along a ridge, a pair of buzzard spiralled in the wind. Everywhere stonechat and wren called and I heard the rustling of dry grass. It seemed to be coming from just meters away from me, until I realised on the other side of a combe a large herd of red deer were slowly moving through last years vegetation. Mostly hinds and young there were a couple of young stags, one with an antler missing making his head lopsided. It made for a magical sight and I counted over thirty while watching them head down the combe and over onto the next hill. So engrossed was I that I'd forgotten about the Dartford warblers.

Eventually the deer disappeared and I resumed by quest and only moments into walking along a ridge path I heard what I'd come to see. Initially I couldn't locate it until it flew off into the distance before perching on a mature gorse. Through the binoculars I had the most glorious view, for at least two seconds before it flew back and down over the ridge. I could hear it calling but to see it was impossible. I was in the right place yet again. 

Yesterday I had my fifth, and in many ways, my most successful day. Mrs Wessex Reiver was with me but went for a walk, leaving me to my birdwatching.  In all I spent eight hours on the hill, and saw some amazing wildlife as I sat for hours observing. Merlin and peregrine hunting over the moor, my first cuckoo of the year. Two common lizards fighting next to me. The whitethroats had now arrived in numbers, their calls were everywhere. Skylark, stonechat, linnet, meadow pipit, wren and dunnock. A red kite drifted over, still a fairly uncommon sight in Somerset. And three Dartford warblers.

One Dartford warbler flew right in front of me, perched then disappeared over the hill. In another location a pair flew between gorse and out of sight, only their calling revealing they were still in the area. I did a little mental arithmetic, with the three today and those seen earlier in the month I'd seen five individuals, possibly six. However none of them stayed still long enough to allow for an image.

I'll leave you then with a terrible photograph of a whitethroat, in the same habitat the Dartford warblers were. I wonder if I'll ever photograph a Dartford warbler?  Does it matter if I never do? Probably not, but in this world of social media imagery, a picture counts for more than a thousand words. More likes of course.

It seems the chap Mrs Wessex Reiver chatted to a couple of days ago was correct in his summation "they're flighty - best to come when they're feeding the young then you'll have a reference point to observe where the nest is". Sound words of advice there. I'll be back. But will they be here to see?

The Spring Equinox Rooks

 In a non scientific way I have counted the rook nests in the village for a number of years now. In previous years my count took place in late February or early March, after which a couple more nests invariably appeared. This year I delayed my count slightly and waited until the spring equinox, not just because it was the warmest day so far in 2025, but also the first day of my retirement. Until this moment I'd been too busy finishing my career, and work, at the BBC.

The afternoon was warm. The thermometer in the greenhouse nudged 40oC, outside it was around half this, not bad for the 20th of March. With little wind and visually perfect blue skies I set off walking the half mile or so to the village to make my count.

First the site I refer to as the bend in the lane. This is interesting. In previous years there have been one or two nests in the far right tree. This year there are nine spreading across all four trees, themselves around a quarter of a mile from the main rookery. Why the expansion here I can't say, but I hope this is a sign of a healthy population expanding their territory.  

Walking further towards the village, the two core trees as I like to think of them, on the left have, as in previous years, hosted the bulk of the nests in the village, nineteen in total this year in the main tree and five in an adjacent one. The trees to the left (and below) at Cypress Farm, have increased nest numbers too, with nine this year, quite interesting to see poplars being used.

I spent a little time near to and under the main core trees. I've mentioned this before but it never ceases to surprise me that they nest over the lane, now covered with sticks. They're safe in the trees of course but this is a busy commuter short cut from Weston Super Mare to a major road, plus a busy agricultural area with thunderous tractors passing through. Not a quiet spot then but as it is host every year to the core rookery structures, they must like this spot.

Not far from the core area, three nests have appeared in what I can loosely term a new site by the holiday cottages, only a sticks-throw from the core. Three nests here, but room for more.

That's a good total then, 9 on the bend, 9 at Cypress Farm, 19 plus 5 in the two core trees and 3 at the holiday cottage = 45 if my sums are correct. That's two more nests than in 2024. 

Not a bad way to spend the first day of my retirement, messing about in warm sunshine watching the behaviour of rooks in the village.

Bicknoller in 1883

 In June 1883* the writer Richard Jefferies visited Somerset. There is a little confusion as to why he visited Somerset during the long days of summer given the main work published the following year was a book on red deer, with unsurprisingly the title of Red Deer. This now classic study of deer was a detailed natural history of the landscape red deer roamed over with meticulously researched methods of hunting and the movement and ecology of red deer. Which is why visiting in the summer is a little confusing given the deer hunting season happens during the winter months. To gather the information needed for his book Jefferies spent a few days in Exford with the master of the Devon and Somerset Staghounds Arthur Heal. 

I don't wish to go into more detail about the book, as there are better sources than me. You can read more of Jefferies 'Somerset Adventure' and a synopsis of the book via the Richard Jefferies Society Website. Beginning on page 54 of the Societies' Journal Number 39 – 2024

 link here

https://www.richardjefferiessociety.org/p/the-richard-jefferies-society-journal.html

My visit to the Quantock Hills this week was to begin researching locations for a maybe fanciful idea of mine of producing a Jefferies in Somerset self guided tour. He covered a large area during the 19 days he spent here, he must have never stopped. But for my visit I began, where else, at the beginning of Jefferies visit, the hamlet of Bicknoller. 

My visit coincided with a cool but beautifully sunny January day, in stark contrast with Jefferies summer visit in 1883. On my visit snowdrops were in flower along with early daffodils in St George's churchyard. It really is a peaceful place today, blackbird and great tits were calling in the neighbourhood, but in 1883 it might have been a lot noisier. We forget that when these rural communities were all about farming, a lot of the villagers would have been abroad walking to or working in the fields. Horses pulling carts would be trundling through the lanes, cattle and sheep on the hillsides, tradespeople delivering produce, even poachers at night. The rural landscape is relatively empty today but that is a recent change.

I know Bicknoller only to drive through as it is close to where we come to watch nightjars on a summers evening (no evidence Jefferies saw nightjar here, though I'd be surprised if he didn't do so). This however was the first time I'd explored the hamlet, or maybe it is a small village as it has a pub and a shop? First I walked through the churchyard, and was greeted as I entered through the gate with a riot of spring flowers, quite early considering it is only January. Rooks and jackdaw were noisily prospecting for nest sites above me as I wandered through the gravestones, not looking for anything in particular just something I like to do.

Oddly having bought a pamphlet in the church it failed to say how old it was. The historical record stated that it was a manorial chapel during the reign of Henry 3rd which at some point thereafter became a church. It must be older than that however as the yew tree hard by is reputed to be 1000 years old.

Exiting the churchyard through a gate commemorating Queen Victoria I found a little remembrance area with a few seats. From here, a flask of coffee and my copy of Red Deer by my side, I could observe the toing and froing of Church Lane. Which I have to admit was limited. Two dog walkers, a car and a post van in half an hour. Where was everyone? But I'd particularly come to see Lock's Farm, as it was in 1883. Jefferies stayed for a few days with a Mrs Thorne who leased the farmhouse and was joined by the painter J.W. North. It is not known if Jefferies knew North before visiting but as a result of this visit they became good friends. On this visit I sat quietly looking at what is now a residential house I could imagine Jefferies wandering up and down the lane making notes in his field notebook, chatting to North and hopefully enjoying the clean crisp air of West Somerset. It is known that Jefferies walked up onto the hills behind the house as he mentions Crowcombe and Will's Neck both are nearby and he was a keen walker, though by now he'd become ill with tuberculosis. His arrival at Bicknoller was after alighting from the train at Stogumber. My next destination.

Once part of the Great Western Railway Stogumber is now part of a heritage line, the West Somerset Railway. No trains are running in January but on my arrival I spent a very agreeable half an hour chatting to some of the volunteers there undertaking winter maintenance. Stogumber is around two miles from Bicknoller and how Jefferies got from the station to there is not known. Possibly he walked, possibly he was collected by a horse and cart? We don't know but I like to imagine he walked along the narrow lanes with their tall hedges enjoying a very different landscape to the one he'd left in Sussex just a few hours before.

In 1883 this building would have been the ticket office, now serving as an information point and kitchen (I was informed cream teas are a must in the summer and a new kitchen is planned for 2026). Jefferies would have seen this building, no doubt handing his ticket into the platform attendant as he left. Tangible reminders that although we're nearly 150 year after his visit, the landscape still contained clues and real connections to the past. Did North meet him at the station, pleasant introductions proceeding a friendly walk to his lodgings? All pure conjecture of course.

After a few days in Bicknoller Jefferies headed over to Exmoor staying at Exford. He also visited a number of other places including Dunster, Watchet, Minehead, Horner Wood, Holincote and Porlock  where he stayed in the Anchor Inn. Those destinations are for my next visits here. Today however I said my goodbyes to Stogumber and drove up to Crowcombe Gate where the sunshine was strong and the sense of peace exhilarating. 

* some sources quote 1882, but later research confirmed 1883.

On line version of Red Deer

https://archive.org/details/reddeera00jeffuoft

Embargoed Beavers

 I'm not sure where to begin with this. Maybe a photograph of me out birdwatching one day will provide enough impetus for everyone to run in horror and move onto the most important part of the story. Beavers!!

For reasons that become apparent I can't say where all this action took place, and of course is still taking place. However now the news has been released from Natural England onto Social Media I can say this is somewhere on the vast Somerset Levels 'Super' Reserve. That's all you're getting I'm afraid. But for over a week now I've kept the news to myself. After-all wildlife comes before Social-Media.

It all began between Christmas and New Year. I was idly out birdwatching with no real plan and then it was while having a break for a coffee from my flask that something strange on an island just ahead of me caught my eye. Branches at the water line were nibbled, and then scanning this island through my binoculars I noticed a couple of trees showing distinct 'Beaver Engineering'. Really? There are no beavers in this part of Somerset, the nearest known established population miles away on the River Frome and a smaller population on the River Brue. I looked again. There was no doubt about it, freshly nibbled branches at the waters edge and those two trees showing a lot of gnawing, with one leaning at a rakish angle. Back home I emailed Natural England.

A flurry of e-mails then took up much of the next few days until on Friday evening when I received a telephone call from the Senior Reserves Manager (Somerset) for Natural England. We chatted and the conversation ended with an invite 'could I meet him and someone from Somerset Wildlife Trust at the site at 1pm the following day, Saturday?' 

I only need one invite.

It transpired that the report I'd put in was not the first they'd had, it was the second but the first from a member of the public. A few days before my report a volunteer for Natural England out doing survey work had alerted the team and they'd put trail cameras up. On the day I was invited back to the site the plan was to look for other evidence and also check the cameras for any activity for the first time.

At the allotted time I was scooped up in a vehicle and after a short drive myself and Phil from Natural England and Lucy from Somerset Wildlife trust set off into wet woodland well off the public path. Evidence of beaver activity wasn't that hard to miss, with the nibbling of bark a sign they're relaxed enough to be feeding at the site. What I wasn't ready for was the sight that greeted me where the trail cameras had been placed.

Oh my! That oak tree has received some engineering. And that is interesting, it seemed as we wandered about looking for evidence that these beavers are preferentially targeting oak, specifically mature oaks that have been here since this was peat cutting territory. An ecological conundrum then. These oak are hugely valuable to the diversity of species found here, however if the beaver fell them, great for the beavers less great for the other species. It's a minor point but one I found fascinating. As was the amount of engineering which had gone on in a short time, maybe a week to 10 days?

I put my binoculars at one tree just to show the scale, and height, of this activity. On their hind legs beavers can reach almost a meter high, they are after all the second largest rodent on the planet. But it is only when you see this in reality that you realise what they can do, and how extensive the gnawing is. Ultimately this engineering is very beneficial to a habitat. Very few mature trees are clear felled. Many fall with a living hinge to re-grow horizontally as it were, the trunk providing new and different habitats for many species. Mice and mustelids such as stoats and weasels love these aquatic bridges for example, allowing safe and dry crossing across water. Birds like owls or sparrowhawks perch here and plan their next strike, likewise kingfisher using these as a perfect perch to drop into the water below. Increased shadow and cover provided by the felled trees brings with it safe refuge for fish and other aquatic species, which then brings in otter who both feed and rest up in these shady areas. All in all having beavers in a habitat is good.

The three of us spent a lot of time discussion where these beavers have come from. Quickly dismissed was a legal introduction, they happen elsewhere under strict licence, and definitely not here. An illegal re-introduction? That is a possibility but this was also discounted as where they are is not easy to get to by vehicle and would someone carry beavers over a large distance. What seems more likely is a natural expansion, and arrival. I was informed that a few miles away is a fishing lake and for a year or so there has been evidence of beaver living there. But being a private business there's not been a lot of information about their activity. Potentially however they could be the source of these animals. The same individuals or possibly young moving territories. The jury is out. What seems almost certain is the arrival of beaver here is a natural process of territorial expansion rather than human-assisted.

I spent around an hour at the site with Phil and Lucy. The more we looked for evidence the more we found. I particularly like the image below showing the effect of the two huge gnawing teeth beavers have, somehow shows the power of these animals. What we did not find was any evidence of lodges or dams, and that's not to be unexpected. If these are new arrivals, as they are it will take a while for their exploration activity to become structured into holding territories and sustained habitat. There was one loose structure that looked interesting, I'll keep an eye on that.

And that's where we left it, a discussion as to whether I'd be interested in both keeping an eye on this site and looking elsewhere for evidence under Natural England supervision. I've said yes, but at the moment I've not had time to go back there. It is all however very exciting.

A few hours later while once I was back home I received an email from Phil. He'd gone through the Trail-Cam footage and there without a shadow of a doubt a beaver gnawing the very same oak tree in the image above on December 30th. That said, the Trail-Cam only confirms what was plainly evident on the ground, the beavers are back here on the Somerset Levels after hundreds of years.

A Windy Winter Walk

It wasn't a named storm which has become the modern fashion, yet as I stepped into the woodland the wind surrounding me was what could well be described as briskly wild. And cold too. Yet the wind was the reason for a winter walk.

It seems like a very long time since the sun had shone, though in reality it had been only a week. The blustery conditions today made restless the weather. Bright sunshine yes but buffeting gusts similar to those experienced in the drying winds of early March, those winds herald the approaching Spring. Perfect weather for a winter walk in woodland, an engaging experience with the frisson of a blustery day to stimulate the senses. 

On a windy day there is a point where when approaching and then entering a woodland the sound changes. Exposed in the open countryside before stepping foot between the trees everything is being orchestrated, birds fly quicky surfing the air, or are hunkered down waiting for calmer conditions. Gusts radiate across water rippling its surface with dramatic often random shapes. Individual trees and shrubs sway and flex alarmingly with each passing gust. Gusts which caresses the skin, which detecting the cold air stimulates action. Such wild days are not ones for idly wandering about outside, these are days with purpose, with energy. There is a distinctive sound too. 

The now bare branches allow the wind to pirouette through unhindered and in doing so there is a low roar across the landscape, reminiscent to the sound of a wild sea terminating it's force on the shore. That sounds is omnipresent, inescapable yet produced by an invisible energy we have no control over. But listen; as you cross from outside to within the woodland the trees not only envelopes you, but ameliorates the sound. Those audible changes are subtle but also discrete and noticeable with each step we take into the wood.

All too soon that constant white noise quietens in the background, until when, even after only a few strides into a wood, that surrounding noise is hushed, to be replaced by focussed specific discernable sounds. An ominous creak here, a sharp clash there, urgent clattering overhead  as the tree canopy collides and sways high up and into one another. The strongest gusts still penetrate the wood at ground level, maybe half heartedly flicking dead leaves along the floor, however that aerial energy is sapped, reduced to no more than a gentle breeze. And that brings a calmness. Once deep within that transition into the inner wood there is a different sensual experience to enjoy, a feeling of solitude, of heightened senses, of inside.

Deep into the wood the near silence and calm air heightened what bird call there is at this time of the year. A mixed species of tits acrobatically forage through the higher branches chattering noisily communicating as they rove by. Blue tit, great tit and long tailed tit work as one through the branches. Down below robin, wren and blackbird forage in the quiet still air or fly low and quickly between the undergrowth. A scolding repetitive  call reveals a wren and it's displeasure of your intrusion into its world, Out on the wetter areas by the lake tufted duck and gadwall find a sheltered area, while nearby a blue tit makes quick work of a bullrush seed head. Nimbly gripping the stem it pulls away tufts which drift away in the breeze like confetti. Turning, a movement on an oak trunk reveals a treecreeper quietly but with purpose looking for food amongst the bark. All the while overhead the seeping call of redwing seem to accompany the breeze, yet the birds themselves are rarely visible if we look for them, they have called and now elsewhere.

In a quiet corner four bullfinch forage without sound amongst the young willow stems. Two pairs, the males resplendent in their red and black plumage are stunning but the female is worth a second glance. Their subtle coordination of browns and blacks offering suitable camouflage against the winter trees. Then a commotion overhead quickly reminds me of activity outside the wood. A flock of jackdaw wheel and flutter overhead, maybe a hundred birds, more even, noisily calling to each other viewed high above the swaying canopy, before swooping down at speed and out of sight, pre roost activity. That edgy movement reminding us that while enveloped by calm conditions within the wood, without, the wind continues unabated.

Woodland restricts our vision too. Our eyes turn in from the horizon to more intimate signs near by. The bark of mature birch is fissured and cracked with verdant moss wrapping the trunk. These short lived colonising trees are vital to a woodland ecosystem. Recent storms have felled a few. They lie horizontal waiting fungi and deadwood invertebrates to recycle once living components. A sign that while we may think of woods as permanent never changing features in the landscape, in reality they are in a constant state of renewal. Trees grow from seed, they mature, they grow old and then, possibly during a winter storm they die and fall back to earth, decomposing, their life-time of nutrients allowing the next generation to flourish.

All too soon during these short mid-winter days the light begins to fade. Not yet three o'clock and a half light predominates deep inside the wood. That half light enhanced the sense of solitude within a winter woodland. A feeling of intruding, as if nature is in stasis and we should leave it to its mid-winter slumber.  

But it is not. Look down, even in mid December new growth is already emerging. Fresh green arum tips are poking through leaf litter, herb robert and other umbelliferous plants (now renamed but umbelliferous to me) are emerging. A patch of nettle pokes up between its own mini forest of last season's dried stems. Higher up honeysuckle shows new leaves unfurling and willow buds are swelling, not long before catkins unfurl. Insects are scarce but not absent, a ground beetle scuttles by as if to confirm their presence.

Suddenly the cronk of a raven signals the walk is nearing its completion. It's been almost two hours, time seems to move at a different pace within a winter wood.  Soon the confines of the calm inner environment will give way to rejoining the buffeting wind outside. Emerging from the wood the cold wind jolts us back into reality. A strong gust momentarily checks our progress. We're back outdoors again, back in the wider world where horizons become distant. We're once again walking with purpose against the elemental force, the noise is intensifying. The contrast is remarkable. Those prescious quiet moments spent walking within the wood quickly become a memory, until the next time of course, when the wind blows and restless, we feel drawn outside once again.

Tune Into A Quiet Winter

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.

Birding Return

 

It is such a strange sensation returning to blogging, and indeed strange returning to nature watching after a near half year away. Mid-May was my last blog post, since then a combination of booking too many events during the summer, writing my daily blog (now ended), becoming membership secretary of the Richard Jefferies Society, joining the John Moore Society after being invited to be a guest at their AGM and unplanned hospital fiddling's by surgeons, somehow the summer passed me by without a single day out watching wildlife. And then like busses, this weekend I partook in two days back-to-back outdoors. Steart Marshes on Saturday and WWT Slimbridge Sunday.

I have something of a love-hate relationship with Steart Marshes. Every time I've visited I've seen maybe 5 or 6 species of bird, mostly dark specks miles away on the mud of the Bristol Channel. This reserve is best at high tide, therefore on Saturday I found myself there just before a very high 4.7m tide. That brought the birds in, but they are still an awfully long way away from the various viewing platforms dotted about.  Not that I was complaining as Saturday was warm and sunny after a night of torrential rain. 

Starlings are now beginning to gather with small murmurations taking place as I walked about. Good numbers of gulls, lapwing and mixed corvid flocks much in evidence too. I could hear redshank somewhere but never really saw them, small flocks of meadow pipit and linnet too. Overhead a solitary skylark sang, which was welcome for mid October.  In total I walked about 5km, the most I've walked for months and it felt good to be out again watching the numerous dragonflies buzzing around me.

To be honest I had planned to do a morning sitting still and watching, but on this perfect autumnal day, walking continuously was the end result of my endeavours. I even abandoned thoughts of sitting watching the River Parrett from a welcoming bench half way through the ramble. The river was full, that was a high tide indeed.

Once again the rain came overnight Saturday and it hammered down, as it seems to do every two days at the moment. Sunday dawned dry but everything was dripping wet. I was on a pre-planned visit to Slimbridge with my ex-NHU radio friends. We'd arranged to go to Bredon Hill to look for ring ouzel, however the forecast was for Storm Ashley to barrel herself across the countryside today - Bredon is not known for offering any shelter so we rearranged to visit Slimbridge (the café, facilities and watertight hides a bonus at our advanced time of life). I got to Slimbridge at about 9.30am and, though overcast, it was very pleasant, not least as a flock of redwing seep-seep'd across the car-park. I've been hearing them for about a fortnight at home. 

My friends arrived half an hour later (I'd not seen the email saying 10am start) and we set off. I'm assuming the media attention for Storm Ashley meant that the fear of Armageddon conspired to keep everyone away - Slimbridge was gloriously quiet all day.  Birding wise it was excellent as always, 50+ snipe just metres away from the Rushy hide, where good numbers of black tailed godwit, pintail, mallard, redshank, coot, moorhen, teal, wigeon, greylag and Canada geese were enriched by a passing marsh harrier, lapwing and starling. It is still a little early for the winter swans, mid November is when the Bewick's return.

We then wandered up to the Estuary Tower where high tide at 11am was bringing everything up onto the fields, including Storm Ashley. We'd only been there about ten minutes when I noticed Wales disappearing behind advancing rain. At that point we were on the open viewing platform at the very top and had been having superb views of three spotted redshank. Within five minutes the rain began, joined at the hip by very strong gusty winds. A squally front was on it's way through - so squally that the fire alarms in the Estuary hide were triggered, not once but twice. We hunkered down and sat it out, it was like being inside a huge washing machine, it's a long time since I've seen such violent rain bursts, the hide windows were dribbling onto the floor which soon became quite wet. But then as quickly as it arrived, the rain front left and the sun came out, remaining with us until 5pm when I left. 

Slimbridge never disappoints despite being a focal point reserve. The captive areas, such as the avocet-ruff-redshank combination above are fascinating and great for allowing families to get close to birds. But it is the wild areas which bring in a lot of interesting passage migrants, we even found a greenshank, in amongst some redshank. Actually that was one of the highlights of the day, in one single view, redshank, spotted redshank and greenshank next to each other. Another highlight being a fence hosting 30+ rooks, one perched on every post facing the wind and sitting it out.  We were told that a curlew sandpiper was out on the estuary somewhere, we never did try to find it, but did see the Ross hybrid Snow goose which has been about for a while.

All in all though it was a very good day and a very good weekend being out again. I was tired though by the end of the day at Slimbridge.  I've been used to comfy chairs, afternoon naps and tartan slippers for too long this year. But it felt good to be getting buffeted out there, sun blasted or pummelled by rain. It must have good as it had the affect of inspiring me to write again after all these months. As my consultant said to me over the summer, sadly you are now medically classed as a geriatric, things will happen to you. Well that may be the case, but it's good to be alive, even if I continue to struggle to get my socks on in the morning.