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Monday, 3 May 2021

Why do We Watch Wildlife?

 Why do we watch wildlife? 

It is a question I've occasionally asked myself, often when the rain is dribbling down my neck, or I'm being buffeted by gales. What does observing something represent to the observer?

Take the above image, a carrion crow regurgitated pellet. Last autumn it was a wet and blustery day. As I idly looked out of the window a carrion crow landed on the wall. Unseen I watched this crow hop back and forth along the wall, bill wide open as if singing without a sound. Then its head began to lunge to and fro as if invisible strings were pulling it, before a dramatic convulsion and out popped this pellet onto the wall. After the crow had gone I collected it and while the pellet contained nothing more than cereal husk, those few moments of observing what for the bird was a commonplace experience, was for me fascinating. 

The great mountaineer, naturalist and conservationist John Muir is often mis-quoted as saying "When one tugs at a single thing in nature, he finds it attached to the rest of the world". Which seems like the embryonic seed of our current mindfulness generation. However what he actually said in his 1911 book My First Summer in the Sierra, was " When we try to pick out anything by itself, we find it hitched to everything else in the universe." Which is a slightly wider remit of thought.

John Muir was writing about the summer he spent in 1869 in a new country. The Scotsman was newly arrived in America. He became a shepherd for a while in the California's Sierra Nevada Mountains and kept a diary, detailing everything he saw in that New World, which for him was a new world to observe. Notes from a diary matured as one of his most popular books.

I mention this as his words and those of many others have philosophised that in order to be a wildlife observer we need to retain that childlike fascination with the natural world. Although John Muir arrived in America as a man in his third decade, what he saw was new, he had to write it down. But he kept writing it down, and the best of the natural history writers keep writing it down. Even though a blackbird may have been seen in the same spot every day for weeks, today the nature observer sees it anew, and looks.

The germ of this conception manifested itself recently. In the last two weeks I have visited the Holford area of the Quantocks three times. Once by myself to reconnaissance possible sites and then with specific ideas in mind. My actual target was a tiny magpie coloured bird newly in from Africa, the pied flycatcher. Once a bogey bird of mine, last year I caught a brief glimpse, a first for me. This year I was throwing caution to the wind and going for the full Swarovski binoculars stereo vision with audio. Ficedula hypoleuca did not disappoint.

On all three occasions I've seen and heard the male bird holding territory. On my last visit on May 2nd, I spent a few minutes watching a male chase a female around an old gnarled tree. Like darting macro moths these small birds weaved and bobbed through the branches of the ancient oak woods,  accompanied by a chip chip chip call from the female bird once she'd alighted momentarily on a branch. 

However although my target species was the pied flycatcher, everything else in these Somerset combes fascinated me. Some species I can recognise, most are an amnesia of lost knowledge. Lower down the Combe song thrush were plentiful. Mostly hidden from view their repeating song punched through the crisp air, loud, clear and amazingly far reaching. Willow warblers were everywhere, but on the last visit so too their relative the wood warbler. I watched a wood warbler singing. The text books say it sounds like a spinning coin on a marble slab. Maybe for some, for me it is simply a descending expulsion of ever decreasing notes, different to the willow warblers descending scale, but could be confused with a wren. 

It was while watching the warblers a wren flew onto a holly branch just feet from me. I have seen thousands of wrens in my lifetime but this one fascinated me. Watch closely and as they sing, their whole body vibrates like a diminutive oscillating muffin. How they produce that penetrating sound is breath-taking (Biology bit : their vocal organ has a resonating chamber that utilises nearly all the air held in their lungs and can produce two notes simultaneously) but the physics of sound waves does not do justice to the joy of observing a familiar bird going bananas on its territory. So there I was, wood warbler, willow warbler, and wren all giving it some wellie in their territories in a small part of this wood.  For me watching that wren was the highlight. The warblers are wonderful, but often skulking in trees and let's be honest, they all look pretty much identical. But Troglodytes troglodytes forgoes it's cave name origin and stood loud and proud in the sunshine for all to see.

As did the cuckoo. Not one but a number of individual birds. I'd not heard a cuckoo this season, so the calls from several males in one landscape made the heart-bursting climb out of the magnificently named Slaughterhouse Combe worthwhile.  As we got lost a bit walking the myriad of paths of Lower Hare Knap hill, in the distance cuckoos began flying between the stunted holly trees dotted along the boundary between the oak woods and the moorland. Every year it startles me how big cuckoos are,  see a sparrowhawk, see a cuckoo. But actually cuckoo are ever so slightly longer, yet their distinctive posture, like an avian fairy on the Christmas tree, gives them away. Well the male at least.  Watched a pair dart back and forth between two hollies. The female cuckoo has that staccato bubbling call that I find hard to describe, it's like a barrel full of pixies singing the chorus of Bohemian Rhapsody while juggling. A remarkable sound I've not heard for nearly 10 years. They carried on with their ritual, if they saw me observing them they didn't care.

And that is possibly where the joy of nature-watching comes in. We are the intruder, to the world and daily existence of the species we see. It's not mindfulness for the species. It's not forest bathing for the birds, it is simple ecology. The habitat is there, nature will fill the niche, procreate and survive. And that I think is where the real emotions come from if I ask that question again "Why do we watch wildlife? "

As a child we absorb information and experience like a sponge. Everything is new and to be explored. As adults this childlike state already mentioned is often masked or dulled by the tedium of adult everyday life. The best nature writers revert to a childhood state. They observe, they note and they are fascinated by what is happening before them as if it is the first time they have ever seen that happen. They don't analyse what it means to them, the human observer, the best writers simply report species ecology at work.

I have enjoyed so much my three visits to the Quantocks. Even though I had a camera with me, I took very few photographs. Not the wren, not the wood warbler, not the cuckoo. For me it was the simple act of observing and remembering in my mind what happened that brought be joy. That's me. Others will disagree, good images or artwork are important to them, but for me I was happy to sit back and observe then walk away.

A friend asked this morning for some information on where I'd been with some pointers. So I produced the overlay below. Doing that took me back, I was there and I observed.... If you go down to the woods today, I hope you enjoy the experience as much as me, though I've forgotten to mention the lesser spotted woodpecker. Ahh well............."When we try to pick out anything by itself, we find it hitched to everything else in the universe." Thanks Google Earth for the image - the all seeing eye of the modern world.

Sunday, 14 February 2021

Inside A Ring Of Peewits.

"It is not spring yet. Spring is being dreamed, and the dream is more wonderful and more blessed than ever was spring.
A Flock of Peewits by Denys Watkins-Pitchford

Spring may be knocking on the door, but in recent days, as a result of a dominant high pressure system over Scandinavia, blistering easterly winds have buffeted Britain from the Continent. Add to this sub zero temperatures (Braemar in Scotland nudged minus 23oC) and, despite snowdrops peaking through the ground, a late blast of winter weather has enveloped the country. Most of the country has had a covering of snow, but here in Somerset despite the odd flurry we've remained snow free, the skies predominantly blue and the countryside bathed in sunshine. 

Working at home this week I've spent a lot of time looking out of the window while having the obligatory screen breaks. I've had a lot of birds come to the feeders, the colder weather always increases usage. A great spotted woodpecker was a highlight, but I love seeing the boisterous sparrows and starlings fighting over the fat balls. The resident great tits are looking fantastic in their fresh olive-blue plumage, seeing them next to blue tits on the same feeder, the size difference is obvious. I also have a resident male blackbird with no tail, which I've imaginatively called stumpy.  It is his garden and the interloper males are given short shrift if they dare to enter, post skirmish he'll tik-tik away on the shed roof in an avian triumph.

It's not just the garden where activity this week has increased. From the house I can look over two miles of small grassland fields to the National Trust's Sand Point and then the Bristol Channel beyond. Skeins of geese often use the Bristol Channel as a land-map, mute swans too, and in late afternoon gulls fly past going to roost on Flat Holm island. But it was while casually scanning this area with my binoculars  I noticed three sizeable flocks of lapwing wheeling over the Point. Each flock was maybe one to 2 hundred in number. After a few minutes the flocks merged and dropped out of sight. We're lucky here as lapwings in winter are quite numerous. A drive north up the M5 from Weston super Mare guarantees sightings of lapwings in the adjacent fields, and only a few miles away the Somerset Levels are a favoured location. But those birds seen over towards Woodspring Priory were in greater numbers than I'd seen for a long time. 

From home it is about a 2 mile walk to where I'd seen the flock, which seemed much longer in the biting wind whipping across the flat sea-blown fields around here. Only field hedges curtail these blasts which, as anyone who has stood motionless birdwatching in winter knows, I was inordinately thankful for.  At first I could not locate the lapwings. I counted about 30 mute swans, many many rooks, carrion crows and jackdaws in the fields and a solitary song thrush. Then rounding a corner I heard the first pee-wit call disappearing in the breeze, along with the birds. I'd spooked them unknowingly.


I wasn't unduly worried as lapwing are what I call a fidgety bird.  Individuals and groups will nervously fly up and down to the same spot while foraging or resting, sometimes the whole flock takes off for no reason only to return a few minutes later as if nothing had happened. But this flock was different.


Field guides will tell you that lapwing and golden plover flocks are common in winter. I've seen these many times. This flock though was something I haven't witnessed before, a mixed starling and lapwing flock. That may sound unremarkable, but what I seemed to have stumbled on was a co-operation flock. Despite the wind making it hard to focus the binoculars, I hunkered down to watch them drop back into the field.  What I observed was possibly a wonderful example of intraspecific anti-predator behaviour. Time and time again I observed the lapwings encircling the starling flock while they foraged on the grass. Not just in one field but a number around me. In the field nearest me there were maybe 200 starlings and 50 or so lapwing.  The flock would move as one organic force, lapwings leading at the front, with sentries posted to each side and the rear. And within this ring of peewits the entire flock of starlings moved as one with and at the same speed as the peewits as they foraged. The lapwings were foraging too, but at least half of them at any one time were alert, fidgety and calling what was wonderfully described by Charles Bayne "tcher-willooch-weet'. 
 
Then, and I observed this regularly, something unseen would spook the lapwings. The leading half a dozen to a dozen  would fly up in their lazy flap flap way, noisily calling. As they rose, behind them the entire starling flock alighted as one with them, the remaining lapwings following the starling chase. Being faster fliers, quickly after taking off the massed starling flock would fly past the lapwings in a fast moving murmuration, hedge hopping inches from the hedge top into a safer field, leaving the lapwings to bring up the rear as they flapped and glided back down to join them.  Once in the field previous positions would regroup. Starlings inner, lapwings outside, foraging would begin once more, with the leading edge of the feeding mass being the advance party of lapwing walking and foraging in a planned direction, followed by the starlings en-masse, with the lapwing sentries keeping watch. Time and again I'd observe lapwings take to the air, followed by the starlings and then the remaining lapwings. Not once did I see the starlings rise up first followed by the lapwings, always the lapwings first. It was beginning to get dark by the time I'd observed maybe a dozen take off and landings, and I was cold, with a walk back to warmth ahead of me. 

The following day I went back to the fields this time with a camera. If anything the wind was stronger than the day before, and that maybe accounted for the lower numbers of birds of each species in the fields, but they were there once more repeating that co-operation behaviour of lapwing sentries and starling feeders. In the course of an hour or so watching, not once, save for a lone buzzard, did I spot a sparrow hawk or other predator. The roller coaster flights of lapwings up, starlings up, starlings down, lapwings down seemingly caused by reason's unseen.  On this second visit the only difference to the lapwing behaviour was that lapwings from a field behind me flew back and forth to the fields containing foraging starlings and lapwings. Whether this was additional reinforcements or simply wandering about I didn't know. That field behind me also contained a large corvid flock, I counted over 30 carrion crow.

What I had witnessed intrigued me. Is this a common occurrence, this lapwing starling co-operation, or simply two species cooperating in winter during a cold spell. A search on the internet failed to come up with an answer, even going through research papers into interspecific flocking behaviour in winter. I decided to head into my library and spent a few hours reading through my natural history books.

What struck me in reading through these books was how often peewits or green plover as lapwings were known of old were mentioned, but how scant those references were of detailed information. It made me realise that many of these naturalists writing 50 or more years ago tuned into the beloved sound and flight of the lapwing, but it seemed that as peewits were more numerous than today these observers seemed not to register any behaviours. Hudson, Jefferies, BB, Moore, and Drabble all note the liquidity of the lapwings call, or the flap flap flight, but though only a limited selection of my own books, that was about it. 

Even that most poetic of naturalists Edward Thomas failed to provide what I'd wished for. Thomas, finding his life as a journalist unfulfilled, set out on an 8 day bicycle journey in the pursuit of self discovery and rejuvenation. Riding from Clapham in London to The Quantocks in Somerset around the Easter period between the 21st and 28th of March 1913. His book In Pursuit of Spring does reference peewits, but in passing while on Salisbury Plain 

"Next to the dead the most numerous things on the Plain are sheep, rooks, peewits and larks. The lark is most constant here  ....the pewit is equally characteristic. His Winter and twilight cry expresses for most men both the sadness and the wildness of these solitude"

Interestingly for me Richard Jefferies writing nearly 150 years ago in Wild Life In A Southern County questions why birds 'pack' as he calls it 

".. the packing of birds is very interesting, and no thoroughly satisfactory explanation of it, that I am aware of, has ever been discovered

He then goes on to discuss other species and of the peewit says " Peewits or lapwings not only pack in the winter, but may almost be said to pass the nesting time together" he goes on to discuss the lapwings avoidance behaviour by the nest in spring, but adds a beautiful description of the lapwing flight: 

"Then you have a good opportunity of observing the peculiar motion of their wings, which seem to strike simply downwards, and not also backwards, as in other birds; it is a quick jerking movement, the wing giving the impression of pausing for a tenth of a second at the finish of the stroke before it is lifted again"  

A lovely observance of the flight but not what I was after. I'd drawn a blank. The closest I got to answering my question and a naturalist describing their observance of lapwing behaviour was found in Sir John Craster's book Naturalist in Northumberland.

"[February 28th]... many more peewits are, this morning, going through their courtship antics, and I stand for some time watching and enjoying this very embodiment of the spirit of spring".... 

He later describes at length watching over 200 lapwing 'whiffle' in from the sky to join a few on the ground.

Maybe it is just my books, my limited knowledge, but I have found this whole process fascinating and it is why after over 50 years of observing wildlife there is still so much more for me to learn. Not least that the old term for lapwing can be spelt either pewit or peewit... I've gone for the latter except in quotes, after all it is the sound of a magical bird flap stop flapping the wing. 

I've not been to those fields for a couple of days but hopefully on my next visit the lapwing and starlings remain, and I'll continue to observe their antics. It certainly makes sense to combine forces, and observant eyes, to avoid predators during these winter months. Natural territorial hostility replaced by the need to simply survive. No doubt in a few weeks the lapwings will disperse, some flying a long way off. The starlings too, many back to Europe. The memory of this chance behavioural encounter  will stay with me a long while yet.

As an aside in the evening I asked Julie my wife if she would do a quick sketch of a lapwing to help illustrate my memory of this. An hour later I have the best Valentine's present a man could have.... It is not spring yet, but Spring is most definitely being dreamed.



References 

Bayne, Charles S. (1944). Exploring England. Collins, London

Thomas, Edward (2002). In Pursuit of Spring (first published 1914), Laurel. 

Jefferies, Richard (2011). Wild Life In A Southern County (first published 1879). Toller

Craster, John, Sir (1969). Naturalist In Northumberland

Quote "It is not spring yet" 

Thomas, Edward (2009). The South Country (first published 1909), Toller

Lapwing illustration by Denis Watkins-Pitchford from;

Warren, C. Henry (1940). England Is A Village, illustrated by Denis Watkins-Pitchford. Eyre and Spottiswood


Sunday, 22 November 2020

Carrion Crow, Regurgitated.


This morning there was a lone carrion crow in the garden. Nothing unusual about that, though to be truthful although carrion crows are common around here, as elsewhere, rarely does one come into the garden and perch on the fence. 

Julie my wife alerted me to its presence surveying the garden.  It was one of those autumnal days when everything is sodden. Not quite freezing overnight but a heavy dew covered every available surface as the mist began dispersing with the strengthening sun. Earlier I'd seen the flash of a male sparrowhawk over the garden, though I was preoccupied in other things to concentrate on garden activity. The carrion crow however grabbed my attention, crows being an interest to me. I readily forget how large these corvids are when seen close too. Much like herring gulls when in the garden, who seem to fill it with their wingspan, this crow dominated the fence. That heavy black bill directing the observant deep set eyes to survey the scene, a crow seemingly at rest. 

Though highly intelligent carrion crows (Corvus corone) are the most wary of the corvids in my experience, never letting me get close to them. This year a pair successfully raised two (possibly three, but I'm unsure) young in the trees about 100m away. Squabbling magpies mobbing the crows each time they flew into the tree alerted me to the nest back in the spring. That squabbling was to continue all summer and well into September. The adult crows used the large fir tree in our garden as respite from this bickering it seemed, but they never came into the garden. Either one or both would sit on the top most branches preening and generally observing the world, before suffering the magpies wrath as they returned to the nest. Interestingly a pair of magpies had a nest in the fir tree this year, tit for tat maybe?

Whether the bird I observed preening its wing was one of the same adults I'm unsure, though logic decrees it would be and in its territory.  After a few minutes watching this crow it hopped off the fence and down onto the gravel. There on the path it flicked over a few stones before flying up onto the shed roof. Slipping and sliding down the shed roof, the crow then hopped onto the back wall and stood for a while. A perfect poised motionless corvid. I was tempted to get my camera but knew it would have disappeared before I returned. I therefore watched. 

It was while simply observing I saw the crow open it's bill and almost as if silently craa-ing, shook it's head while keeping its bill wide open. Again the bill opened, this time turning its head in the opposite direction. It then hopped slightly to the left and opened its bill once more, this time a pellet fell out of the crow onto the wall. I've known for years that crows regurgitate pellets but I've never seen this actually happen (nor have I been absolutely sure I've found one in the countryside). It is well known that birds of prey, especially owls regurgitate indigestible food remains, but a number of other bird species regurgitate too including herons, and dabbling ducks. And also crows; thanks to the work a century ago by Sven August Heintz a Swedish biologist. Post pellet regurgitating I read a paper reviewing his work [Green et al 2019].

In this recent article by Green et al they review the work of Heintz in the context of contemporary science and ornithology. A century ago Heintz suggested at least eleven corvid species were key seed dispersal species both through cache, hoarding, faecal droppings and pellet regurgitations. One of the species confirmed as doing this was the hooded crow (Corvus cornix), which in 1917 was then considered the same species as the carrion crow, with the former just more plentiful in numbers in Sweden.   

Heintz stated that "It is well-known that some members of the crow family (Corvidae) are important for seed dispersal either via frugivory (e.g., when feeding on berries) or by scatter hoarding (e.g., of nuts).....corvids are partly granivorous and have long had a reputation for causing damage to cereal crops"

[Heintz] "... carried out germination experiments of the contents of regurgitated pellets and excrements from Magpie and Hooded Crow. Most germination trials were carried out in early spring, of seeds that had been collected the preceding autumn or winter. Although many seeds germinated within a few weeks, trials were run throughout summer and autumn..... in total Heintze identified 157 plant taxa from 42 families which were dispersed by corvids by endozoochory (dispersal via ingestion)

Heintz concluded It appears that within these zoogeographic areas [the Holarctic and the Neoboreal] corvids are the most important seed dispersers among all landbirds.” 

All of the above I gleaned from reading Green et al after watching the crow on my garden wall. Which after regurgitating its pellet flew off, allowing me to collect it (image above).

At the time of writing I have not dissected the pellet though on external examination it is packed with what will be indigestible seed husks and what look like acorn remains. Which was interesting in itself, as the literature suggests most regurgitations occur when crows feed on beetles and other invertebrates with tough carapace or wings. A quick search on the internet drew a blank for grain derived pellets. Could it be that seed based pellets are less obvious as they fall apart and are dispersed by wind more readily?  More investigation needed I feel, although given corvids are very granivorous during harvests and in autumn, it is not surprising really what this pellet contains.

That simple act of watching a carrion crow in the morning opened me up to the work of Heintz which until today I'd not known about. I'm not alone it seems. A quick scan through indexes in various books I have on crows fail to mention Heintz, seemingly Green et al are correct in their own conclusion that the work of that Swedish scientist a century ago has largely been forgotten, but it stands the test of time and is as pertinent today as in 1917. 

Reference :

Green, Andy J, Elmberg, Johan and Lovas-Kiss, Ádám (2019). Beyond Scatter-Hoarding and Frugivory: European Corvids as Overlooked Vectors for a Broad Range of Plants. Front. Ecol. Evol. | https://doi.org/10.3389/fevo.2019.00133

Sunday, 15 November 2020

November has a sound; silence


Is there a sound to November? Or do I mean the month of November has its own sounds? I'm not sure as for me the dominant sound in November is silence. The dominant feeling stillness. On reflection November has a sound that no other month has. It is hard to explain but then on one day I realise that November has arrived. 

In his book The Quiet Fields, the writer BB describes this beautifully in his entry for November 2nd. He begins: [page 175] 

"The sudden arrival of true winter has taken me unawares. It seems only yesterday that the sun shone with warmth enough to tempt a late tortoiseshell to the fading Michaelmas daisies...." 

 He continues [p177] 

" Standing on the lawn this early evening - watching the last sad yellow leaves of the birches drift down to the dark sepia brown of the pond, I had a sudden surge of excitement that winter is almost here again - maybe it was an almost animal awareness hard to explain.... "

This still silent sound of the eleventh month appears as if by osmosis. A time when autumn has almost forgotten why it exists. Is winter here yet? Not quite, but I've lost interest and need to slow down. The sound of silence is accompanied by stillness which provides the release of an emotional connection in me at this time of the year. It's an emotion I love so much. 

Even in late October, although the days are short, the sun may still shine strong and warm, the last of the summer migrant birds are heading south, too soon yet for their winter replacements. In October the remnants of summer bounty cling on in the hedgerow larder, keeping harsh winter at bay much as lichen does on the lee of an exposed mountain wall. Then, on a single day, a day no official diary will note, the feeling changes. November is still autumn yet it cloaks this season of mellow fruitfulness with a quiet veil of wintertide.

As BB himself did 40 years ago I found myself, just a few days ago, standing in the garden at dusk. The silence alerted me to the suggestion of stillness. In reality it was already there, it waited patiently for me to notice it. The countryside felt suddenly expanded, opened out, my hearing became distant, as if the ambiance of silence was coming from somewhere unseen in the far distance. Of course partly this is a lack of foliage in November. October storms have laid bare many trees, the air has less to resit its passing than in high summer when the rustle of leaves dominates. But there was not a breath in the air, not a bird song, nothing, just November's presence. 

Moments earlier a weak yellow sun falling towards the horizon shone beneath steel grey clouds which had dominated the sky all day. For a minute or so, just beyond the garden, the yellow leaves of a field maple were illuminated into a fire-glow of colour. But what a colour! As only witnessed in November pale buttermilk hues, with the intensity of a watercolour wash, lit every branch, before, as if by the flick of a switch, the sun fell to earth. The sky itself now took centre stage, creating its own emulsion of orange and indigo; the countryside equivalent of following the harmonious suggestions of an artists colour wheel. Larger trees were now silhouetted, contrasting with the vibrancy beyond. Slowly that hue faded as dusk advanced, indigo deepened and I observed all was quiet, all was still, all was very November. 

A few days later, a number of starlings are chattering on the roof. Not the urgent banter of spring when all efforts focus towards raising a successful brood or two. In November their toil is over, simply the relaxed contact calls of adults and offspring,  like a gaggle of gossiping farmers in the auction mart weighing up cattle. Wheezes, shwees, sqwarks, high pitched rapid fire rattling chat, responding replies, all cascade from the rooftop. They nest and roost in the eves of the house and though I can't see them, there may be half a dozen birds. Starlings chatter and bicker all year of course, but in November their constant communication throws me back to winters in Newcastle, a time when thousands of starlings would come in to roost high above the Christmas shoppers below in Northumberland Street. As a child I would listen to this deafening chorus in amazement, a sound way  higher than the passing traffic, not knowing I was witnessing something which no longer occurs. Today town roosts are a thing of the past as health and safety took over the cleansing of the streets via the netting of the rooves.

Winter has always been my birdwatching season. Maybe that is it, my November moment, my own animal awareness triggered possibly with the first seep seep of redwing flying unseen overhead in a starlit sky, their calls heralding the glory days of winter wildlife watching to come. 

A few days ago with the bedroom window open I listened to a pair of tawny owls somewhere beyond the garden. It was 1.30am, pitch black of course except for the bright moonshine of a waning moon. These two males were twoo-hooting their resolve to claim and hold a territory. Possibly two young males eager to stake their claim (tawny owls can lay their first eggs in February).  One was much closer, maybe they had negotiated their patch and delighted in confirming their prize. Whatever the reason this went on for a good half an hour, in-between times absolute silence in the still and surprisingly mild night air. In spring a little owl calls in the same field, summer too, but I have never heard them in autumn. Whereas tawny owls only tend to be heard in autumn and winter - owl dynamics at play.  While listening to their contact chat minutes passed and I was lulled off to sleep, only later to be woken before daybreak by a robin.

There's nothing unusual in that, robins are early singers, well before dawn, often starting in July, so by November they've got into their stride and most mornings perform their duty as dawn-herald. This particular morning was different. Maybe the moonlight, maybe the mildness of the dawn,  or maybe just because I'd not noticed before, a hesitant dawn chorus seemed to briefly occur. As I listened to the robin, the tik tik of a blackbird, maybe two could also be heard, a tuneless mallard flew somewhere in the night sky, a wren erupted into song in the hedge boundary. Herring gulls and lesser black back gulls flew noisily from their roost in the Bristol Channel islands. Inevitably a carrion crow barked its morning command and was replied to by a grey heron. I often hear grey herons at night as they move about the landscape, avoiding potential predators, sometimes I think it is a vixen if I'm half asleep.

It was by now a half light which in turn disturbed a dunnock whose contact calling somewhere beyond the garden added to this false dawn chorus. It was a mild morning, there was a stillness, sound travels farther in the leafless countryside. 

By the time the sparrows in the eves began chattering it was almost light. They are lazy in my book, nearly always the last to emerge to feed, like teenagers after a late night. I looked at my watch, 06.50am, and as I did so a redwing overshot the house. In twenty minutes ten birds could be heard calling at different times. As dawn choruses go it was paltry, obviously, but the sound of awakening avian species, chatting and communicating before the foraging day ahead was a pleasing start to a November day. 

As it became lighter, the daily flotilla of around 100 jackdaws passed over, noisily jak-a-jak-ing in their pairs or trios as they flew by. It amazes me how regular those jackdaws are, I can almost set my watch to their passing each day, heading south in the morning, and returning north in the evening at roughly 5 minutes earlier or later than the week before. Some days they fly so low over the garden, I'm above them if looking out of an upstairs window, today though they were high, noisily keeping the young birds in line. 

That hesitant dawn chorus is not the true November sound. What is are the myriad of contact calls as late afternoon merges into dusk. That is a favourite time of mine, to sit quietly and reflect on what is happening. Go for a walk across any farmland, ramble through a deciduous woodland, or sit on a hill at dusk and I can guarantee pheasants will call somewhere. There is something primeval in that pheasant call, especially if heard from a great distance. In the right habitat, blackbirds set up a continuous tik tik, or sep sep as they jostle and fidget before sleep. Robins of course who never seem able to sleep add to the melee, and wrens too. I recently watched the silhouette of a wren at dusk. Its diminutive plumpness shook with the effort of its song. Against a sunset sky this sound which has permeated down the centuries, spoke more to me of November stillness than I could imagine. But then it was off, into the hedge across the lane and out of sight, though not out of earshot.

I could suggest the November silence is also about corvids, rooks, carrion crow and increasingly ravens calling in the distant soundscape, their caws and chatter from an unseen stubble field, is of the season. If you are lucky on that wander, jays cackle alongside fieldfares high in the trees. It may be just here in Somerset, but I feel the once wary jay is becoming bold. I now see them flying over motorways with crops stuffed with acorns or in Bristol streets where they have always been a familiar sight and of course in the silent woods as they noisily fly away from you.  

It is the lack of other ambient sounds which heightens these and all bird calls. By November most insects have done their best, the woods and farmlands fall silent of their buzzing and stridulating. Summer migrants have left, taking with them their chattering and exotic song. Trees have mostly lost their leaves, hushing the gentle rustle of air through their branches. The ground is soft, footfall across grassland is mostly silent, the dry rustle of early autumn a faded echo. Sounds travel far, scent too in the all too still landscape.

At dusk there is that scent of November which is not replicated at other times of the year. Air inversions move moist aroma upwards from the still warm soil with the lightness of touches. It's a rich mix of earth-bound mycorrhizal, associations with dampness and the thousands of microorganisms decomposing the plentiful biomass of summer in readiness for the growth year ahead. There is nothing like it, especially if mixed with wood smoke from an unseen dwelling. That for me is November. To sit outdoors on a calm late autumn evening simply absorbing nature's bounty. Not every evening will have a robin sing, but I know it is there. Likewise the starling, sparrow and tawny owl. They'll be watching me, I am blind to them, and I simply watch the mist from my mug of tea, evaporating, spiraling upwards to oblivion, ever so quietly.

I began with a quote from The Quiet Fields by BB. At the end of his entry for November 2nd he references two giants of nature writing, W.H.Hudson and Richard Jefferies within the context and reflections on the changing seasons. 

[p178] "Certainly Richard Jefferies felt it, and Hudson also who was less of a dreamer than Jefferies, but with the same keen perception and with more literary skill"

BB's view is that to connect with this primitive 'outdoor' feeling, sudden and swiftly passing can only be felt by your true countryman - your sportsman - naturalist. That is the nub of all connection with nature, that connection, that primitive outdoor feeling none of us who feel it can really explain, it is simply primeval. Jefferies, Hudson and BB all came from that era of shooting game to becoming naturalists. It is a lost world to modern naturalists. Yet for centuries, longer maybe, people have listened to November's silence, watched the sun set and connected with the landscape and wildlife around them. It is thanks to BB and all those writers throughout history, who captured those long forgotten moments in November, that we the future reader can connect across time. As ever their writing stirs the soul into stillness, reflection and November.

Reference:

BB (1981) The Quiet Fields, illustrated by D.J Watkins-Pitchford. Michael Joseph. London 

Monday, 26 October 2020

Missed Opportunities

Sometimes a single thought inspires me to write, today that thought is simply lost or missed opportunities.

Out of the office window, I have this view. The camera, or at least my mobile phone camera never captures the intensity of colour. This purple beech tree looks stunning in the late October sunshine. As I watched the tree, individual leaves were falling to earth in the gentle breeze. Raucous jays frequent this tree regularly, their feathers perfectly reflecting this trees' leaves of many colours throughout the season.  It struck me that as I set off from home this morning, those leaves were on that tree, high, aloft, out of reach. Now as I dwell upon the view, they are shed, their work is done for this year. If I could only follow each leaf down I could pick it up as it landed, reflect in it's form, one single human contact in its short life. 

 

Observation struck me that I don't think I've ever seen a leaf detach itself from a tree. Countless are the times I've seen leaves blowing in the wind from the direction of a single tree, but never that absolute moment when the Rubicon is crossed, the attached detaches and is free, opportunities thereafter are limited much like a mayfly flying free for a brief moment in time. 

With this in mind I spied a single leaf, on one of the highest branches. Fluttering flag-like in the breeze I observed for five or so minutes. It clung on to its branch, waving its resilience to changing atmospheric pressure. Inevitably work intervened, however when I returned to my observation just half an hour later, the leaf had gone. I'd missed that opportunity, that final sealing of the abscission layer, and the ejection of the leaf by its parent plant. And my wish to see it fall.  Somehow this felt like a metaphor for life, look away however briefly, and you will miss those opportunities presented to your field of vision. 

I wonder how many leaves this tree will shed in the next 8 hours while I watch it? There is a steady confetti of movement. Three more in the time it took me to write that last sentence. I'm looking intently, the lower branches still thick with foliage gently sway in the gusty breeze. Suddenly there is a crackle of sound, branches oscillate to the gust, a dozen single leaves now fire off into the air like cadmium orange mayflies. Pirouetting almost as if the joy of freedom is too much, their hue is reflected against the intense blue sky, they dance higher before Earth's gravity inevitably draws them down, down out of sight, down to terra firma

It is a childlike fascination watching this performance. Simple yet memorizing; equally as I gaze upwards I see new buds, short dagger shapes clinging firmly to the rapidly defoliating branch. In six months they too will be allowed to unfurl in their moment of glory. It will be May, they will bring a burst of fresh citrus green before darkening to that rich burgundy tone. The winter to come, now being ushered in by the breeze, will be over. The falling of the leaves is therefore not the end, simply the beginning of the next cycle in the natural world.

Sunday, 4 October 2020

The condensed moisture of the atmosphere falling visibly in separate drops.


The Oxford English Dictionary describes rain thus : Noun : 

The condensed moisture of the atmosphere falling visibly in separate drops.

Drill into the scientific literature and rain, rainfall and related meteorological phenomenon are all caught up with the water recycling on Earth that sustains life. 

Or, as I did this October morning upon opening the curtains, the temptation is to close them again and return to the land of slumber, with an improving book. That though is missing the joy of rain. Sunshine lifts the spirits to many; for me rainfall energises. Why? I do not have the inclination to work that out, maybe a deep seated childhood memory, but for me rain and strong winds that often accompany these low pressure Autumnal systems simply energise something deep within, to be creative.

As I write this, the constant chatter of hundreds of raindrops drum out a pattern on the window, a constant musical accompaniment to my muse. For many damp weather brings to them the shadow of melancholy. I am the opposite, hot sunshine robs me of energy, creative energy. And while I do enjoy a summers day sunbathing by the coast, some of my best creative moments have been during tempestuous conditions outside. Whether they be paintings or writing, there is a wrapped up cosiness to rain that chisels inwards into my soul. It is sound. Those many raindrops providing the comforting jazz beat tenor, a rhythm, a beat, a swing to focus my dancing fingers over the keyboard. Wind driven rain blows a faster tempo to the rhythm, quiet moments times of reflective introspection. 

This commentary arose while standing in the kitchen watching Julie planting bulbs in the greenhouse. Waiting for the kettle to boil, that mundane suburbia activity of life support, I watched the raindrops dribble down the glass, reflecting on the scene. Imagery can never recreate this scene in its whole, the frailty of summer scenes being ruled by the relentless weather of change. Wind buffeted in many directions. Raindrops thrown against the pane one moment, silence the next in readiness for the following tumult of precipitative energy. So enraptured became I that I forgot to make my coffee.  This giver of life, a simple dual combination of hydrogen and oxygen elements, brings also the process of recycling. Without rain, all life would stop, birth, life and death, death followed by decomposition in the afterlife, rebirth and reflection.


Thomas Hardy had an almost obsession with this cycle and recycle of life during and after death. Take for example his marvellous poem An Autumn Rain-Scene;  

There trudges one to a merry-making
With sturdy swing,
On whom the rain comes down.

To fetch the saving medicament
Is another bent,
On whom the rain comes down.

One slowly drives his herd to the stall
Ere ill befall,
On whom the rain comes down.

This bears his missives of life and death
With quickening breath,
On whom the rain comes down.

One watches for signals of wreck or war
From the hill afar,
On whom the rain comes down.

No care if he gain a shelter or none,
Unhired moves on,
On whom the rain comes down.

And another knows nought of its chilling fall
Upon him aat all,
On whom the rain comes down.

On the surface here is an observer watching country folk about their business caught up in the machinations of the lead character, rain. Drill down under the surface and Hardy is here covering a lot of ground which creates walks of life. Merrymaking, medicament (medication or sickness), vigour, poverty and wealth, not forgetting melancholy and Hardy's favourite theme death. The poem ends with "knows nought of it's chilling fall". The poem is, for want of a better explanation, a scene from the grave. The six characters are dead and the rain allows the possibly recently deceased observer to assess his, or her own mortality, this day when - knows naught of its [rain] chilling fall.

Hardy repeatedly uses rain as a metaphor for melancholy and death, angst and lost love. It seems logical then that he too was inspired by this atmospheric precipitation falling to earth. I recall reading that triage of unrequited love Far From the Madding Crowd for the first time and being struck by a sub-scene which is one of the pivotal scenes to the novel. Bathsheba's servant Fanny Robin is buried in a paupers grave, however her erstwhile lover Francis Troy erects a gravestone, which overnight is destroyed by rainfall from the church gargoyle pouring onto it. Troy exits left, Bathsheba repairs the grave her ex lover erected for his former lover and diverts the gargoyle. Which love is it, Bathsheba for Troy, Troy for Fanny, Bathsheba for a wronged event the dismissal of Fanny, or just love based on doing the right thing. Powerful imagery the result of raindrops, lots of them.

Currently being repeated on Radio 4 is a factual-arts series called A British History of Weather, with the subtitle "During Wind and Rain". I have been involved with getting this repeat back on air through a little bit of fettling as we'd call it; the subtitle of this 2016 ten part series came from Hardy's own poem of the same name:  

They sing their dearest songs—
He, she, all of them—yea,
Treble and tenor and bass,
And one to play;
With the candles mooning each face ...
Ah, no; the years O!
How the sick leaves reel down in throngs!

They clear the creeping moss—
Elders and juniors—aye,
Making the pathways neat
And the garden gay;
And they build a shady seat…
Ah, no; the years, the years;
See the white storm-birds wing across!

They are blithely breakfasting all—
Men and maidens—yea,
Under the summer tree,
With a glimpse of the bay,
While pet fowl come to the knee…
Ah, no; the years O!
And the rotten rose is ript from the wall.

They change to a high new house,
He, she, all of them—aye,
Clocks and carpets and chairs
On the lawn all day,
And brightest things that are theirs…
Ah, no; the years, the years;
Down their carved names the rain-drop ploughs.

Again we are in the mind of the observer, casting his or her mind back to a happy family. The final stanza is the catalyst to look back, remember those people whose names are inscribed on the gravestones in the graveyard. For that moment in time those who have departed are back with us, flesh and blood, alive and close enough to touch. Much as many of us do today with old family photographs.

Hardy was inspired by many things, with rain used as a metaphor throughout his work. To a much lesser extent rain allows my inner creative, albeit at a village craft tent level, to Hardy's Premier League National Treasure. I've not written for this blog since July, writers block or just laziness broken this weekend by Storm Alex and its thrashing tail of rainfall. That deluge of condensed moisture has recharged my little grey cells and the fingertips skip across the keyboard. The power of rain is amongst us all, I only hope the sun doesn't shine too soon, though when it does we may get a rainbow moment; rain is needed for this too.

Here goes.

There was a young man called Fred,
Through rain and puddles he tread
Wet through he was
Emigrated to Oz
In sunshine he now lays dead.

Saturday, 11 July 2020

Allsop's Haggerdown Hill

From its summit on a clear day one can see all the way from Dartmoor sixty miles to the west around to the Isle of Wight sixty miles to the east.  In Thomas Hardy’s novel The Trumpet-Major Eggardon Hill is called ‘Haggerdon’.


And it is somewhere I have been visiting since the summer of 1982.

I've loved this part of West Dorset ever since as a teenager coming on a two week holiday to Toller Porcorum, with my parents. Before then we'd oft holidayed in Bournemouth (including the infamous hot summer of 1976). Despite the 350 mile 8 hour drive from our North East home my parents loved Dorset, but always gravitated towards the east, land of furze heath, sea stacks and long sandy beaches. Why we ended up at Toller Porcorum that year I know not. Though I'm pleased we did. Something clicked. If memory serves me down the years, I recall spending much of the holiday lying in the bath of this holiday cottage reading Far From the Madding Crowd. The huge windows were wide open, not a breath of wind, my view a heat shimmering steep hill hard by the hamlet. Birds sang, swallows swooped and as many a romantic teenager before I enveloped myself in a sepia mist of that imagined artistic self lost in a bedrock chalk landscape.  

Which is interesting as these days I take many sepia photographs such as this one of the view down to Maiden Newton with Eggardon on the far right horizon.


That holiday as a teenager was remarkable for a single moment. Most people have pivotal moments in life, moments which change life and direction forever. Mine was asking my father if I could go for a drive (I'd recently passed my driving test) on the last evening before we trudged back to the north. In the passionate musing of a smitten teenager, I dreaded going back. 

It was mid July, warm, the sun setting slowly, allowing a golden hue to caress the fields and I just drove out of Toller Porcorum with no specific plan in mind. I headed east, not west. Coming back to the cottage I found myself on the Roman road climbing steeply out of Winterbourne Abbas. Vivid remain the memory of excitement, this straight, but crooked, Roman road was bathed in late evening summer light. Tall grasses brushed by the car as I sped along, windows down, I was free, enjoying that freedom teenage boys love when being away from parents. And then I came to a crossroad. In front of me was a single lane track, curiosity bore down on my decision where to go. Ahead. 


Only on writing this piece have I discovered this lane is called King's Lane. For decades it simply was the track on Eggardon Hill, a track with a view which took my breath away on that summers evening.  I stopped the car, got out and stood memorised. Silence, a meandering lane grass growing up through the middle, a hill fort to my left and precipitously to my right a steep steep drop into what I now know is Powerstock Common and beyond. Northumberland had huge skies and empty landscapes, but nothing like this. Of course I was not the first to discover it.


For the last few years of his life, the late great countryside writer Kenneth Allsop lived under the shadow of this "arrowhead plateau" as he called it. It was to become the backbone to this Yorkshire-man's life, as it has become to me. It draws me towards it by unseen threads, once pulled taut resistance is impossible.  

A decade before I discovered this Wessex Height, Allsop in his book In the Country elegantly summed up what Eggardon, or Haggerdown as he called it, meant to him;  I understand fully - it would be futile to add to his words, 


"This rooftop of turfed limestone is a place for kestrels and orchids, for butterflies like flecks of the sky itself, the chalkhill blue and the Adonis blue, they waver among the scabious and harebells, vast angels against the miniaturized woods and barns on the unfolding tracts below"

Allsop continues..

 " On this last great limb, a domination of wind, cloud and turf, there is a sense of pure form and power of rock-formation which I have felt nowhere else. Ahead the vale of clay dissolves into the Devon border"


One of the absolute joys of moving to Somerset in the early 1990's was being able to visit Eggardon as a day tripper. Before my move south, living in the North East of England and despite the distance, I had visited and re-visited this rooftop of turfed limestone every year, sometimes more than once. During a mad moment when I was feeling especially low, I spent a solitary hour on the Hill, after the 16 hour round trip. Youth was on my side for the energy needed to stay awake that long. Luckily I can now head down there as and when the pull of the threads draws me in. As it did this week, only 6 weeks after my last visit. The two days could be no different.


On my visit in May, Dorset was (as indeed was most of England) in the midst of the sunniest and driest spring for decades. On that day the land was parched, 30 degree heat bore down on these turfed ramparts making the day stifling for the few specks of sky I observed fluttering along it's flanks. 



My visit six weeks later reversed the mood. Rain bearing clouds scudded across the vanishing clay lands. Uncoordinated raindrops threatened to, but failed to, materialise into more organised downpours. And the wind blew. It was exactly why I walked along the track. The energy remained from a dilapidated tropical storm which had barrelled over the Atlantic this week. Low pressure squalls added to the feeling of isolation. I had the Hill to myself, just how I like it, though I never feel alone here. I'm always aware that many feet have trod this way since Eggardon's hill-fort was created around 50BC. Each and every owner of those passing feet leaves a presence, unseen, though still felt today.


I'd come to take photographs. Eggardon is almost impossible to either paint or photograph and do it justice.  The landscape is simply huge, omni-directional and never-ending.  I took many many more than are visible here, they will provide reference for the winter months, for I will conquer this image on canvas.  


  Until then I'll leave the last words to Kenneth Allop.


"As ever the gigantic hulk of Haggerdown filled the sky...........to earn the right to love a place you have to learn about it bit by bit. Dear Wessex - 'that wondrous world of sap and leaves' of Hardy"


Reference:

Allsop, Kenneth. (1972). In the Country. Hamish Hamilton