During Wind And Rain - Watching Butterflies

To badly paraphrase that well known lepidopterist Jane Austen “It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a Northern man in possession of a good guide book, must be in want of a butterfly.”

I read somewhere that the reason butterfly watching was so popular in the Victorian era was partly due to the lazy hot days of summer when the well clad gentleman in linen knickerbockers (or occasionally a lady in fetching taffeta) would roam the sweet vernal grass meadows near the homestead, swishing a butterfly net with abandon while dreaming of cricket, and a return home on the Penny Farthing to an afternoon tea on the terrace, maybe with the vicar. How things have changed.

July 2023 has arrived. I look out of the window. Strong winds and grey skies with rain so heavy you could launch a boat in the resulting flood. Not ideal weather for butterfly watching then? Well, yes it is, in some ways it is perfect. 

Hodder's Combe - where the sunlit butterflies begin

As I am that Northern man of Austen's  my target butterfly for this July has been the silver washed fritillary. Before dear reader you continue with this narrative I may as well confess to having failed spectacularly to see a single silver washed fritillary all year. Stop now if your only interest is polarised in Argynnis paphia. You will read no account here of this parfumier valentino of the woodland glade. However if I may entice you further, could a white admiral and maybe a large skipper pique your interest to continue?

I drove down the M5 in Somerset, en-route to Hodder's Combe in the Quantocks. The rain was so heavy that even on the fastest setting the deluge came down quicker than the windscreen wipers could wipe the rain away. Driving half blind we crawled along a flooded motorway where, as I passed by Sedgemoor Services at steady 30mph, I thought to myself "why on earth am I doing this?" The simple answer was the weather forecast suggested rain until noon followed by glorious sunshine for the rest of the day. Given butterflies have to feed and tend to fly only when it is sunny, my thought was they'll rest up in this rain but as soon as the sun emerges they'll be on the wing. I was right, and the butterflies came in good numbers.

Comma : Can you see me?

After a three quarters of an hour walk up the Combe, during which the rain finally stopped though it remained cloudy, I was now in position. I waited no longer than five minutes, not another living soul about, it was so peaceful. The sun emerged from behind the clouds and the butterflies began flying all around me. First the meadow browns who appeared as if by magic, ten maybe twenty of them flying haphazardly with their weak flappy flight. Followed then by a number of large white strongly flying in a purposeful way and then half a dozen comma, again out on the wing enjoying the sun. As the sun intensified out came half a dozen red admiral and gatekeeper, a trio of large skipper and a single common blue flitted and flapped between all this activity heading towards a large mound of bramble. I followed and noted this large bramble patch was a meeting place for the species. As happens when watching butterflies if the sun disappeared even for a short while all the activity would end and those butterflies I'd been watching seconds earlier would simply disappear as if by silent command. When the sun returned, this activity would resume. I became absorbed by this, a special moment to be in and amongst all this activity and behaviour by insects just getting on with their life while simply ignoring my presence. A wistful thought that if I were not there they'd be doing this activity anyway. The World revolves.

I did make an interesting observation though, the role bracken (Pteridium) played in all of this emergence and disappearance. Bracken is much maligned for its invasive and tick laden properties. My observations however showed how beneficial brackens' open domed growth habit is to butterflies, to species who would not normally be associated with this fern. Many individuals landed on the highest sunniest bracken fronds and rested, wings open, stationary, simultaneously warming up and drying out before heading off and out of sight. Every species I saw there on that visit used bracken as a resting site to a greater or lesser extent, often resting there with motionless wings for minutes at a time. There is a risk to all this of course as while they are so conspicuous butterflies are more visible to predation but the benefit of being out in the open while adjacent to dense vegetation they could quickly disappear into must outweigh the risk.  In all I spent two hours here exploring what this place had to offer. Sadly the silver washed fritillary did not show though they are here and I'd recently read that brown hairstreak have been discovered here. I'll leave these species for the next time, it was after 4pm now, activity was tailing off, time I headed home.

Comma

Gatekeeper

Normal meadow brown above and a dark form male with sex bands visible below

Female large white. A little like woodpigeons which because they are common and deemed a pest are very much overlooked, though both bird and butterfly I think are stunning.

Large skipper

Red admiral above and below.

Female small white on a nettle above and on herb robert below.

That was during the week and so following my failure to see silver washed fritillary on the following Saturday I headed into the woodland area of Shapwick Heath NNR after recent reports of silver washed fritillary flying. 

This time I was taking a real punt given the weather had turned decidedly autumnal in feel, cool, torrential rain showers but now accompanied by 40-50 mph gusting winds. This weather was so out of season the Saturday Market in the nearby city of Wells, where I'd gone to first thing, had  been cancelled. Undeterred my revised plan was to venture into the most sheltered rides of the oak woodland at Shapwick and just observe what if anything appeared as and when the frequent rain showers were replaced with sunshine. 

Shapwick Heath NNR - white admiral country.

I could not have had a better afternoon. In a similar way to Hodder's Combe if the sun disappeared then the butterflies disappeared. But, when the sun did emerge the rides erupted with life. Not just butterflies but tens or even hundreds of dragonflies and damselflies, hover flies and a myriad of insects I couldn't identify. I could identify unfortunately the hundreds of mosquitoes that also flew in the sunshine, I was covered in them and their bites. A real downside here, not pleasant at all and I still bear the scars.

While frequently distracted by other insects I kept focussed on butterflies whose abundance was enhanced by energetic activity by the many species now on the wing in the strong sunlight, before it all fell quiet again as the rain returned as it often did. I was getting used to this weather related cycle. 

A very obliging brimstone which despite its bright colour blended beautifully into these oak leaves.

A beautiful but pestilent deer-fly Chrysops spp. but not sure of the exact species.

Beautifully marked gatekeeper underside (above) and a different but equally lovely gatekeeper upper wings (below). The gatekeepers were everywhere, more plentiful than meadow brown.

Peacocks were everywhere too, such oddly out of place markings in the English countryside, almost tropical in looks.

Ruddy Darter (first thought common darter but I dismissed this or maybe it is)

This southern hawker clung motionless to this honeysuckle branch for fifteen minutes or more. At first I thought it might have been dead but then on my last visit it wasn't there. There were a lot of hawker species about, a few did that spectacular thing of flying right up very close to my face and then after hovering for a while looking at me, decided I wasn't any threat - nor prey - and buzzed off.  Fascinating behaviour and I'd love to know what they see and are observing.

I'm not seeing many speckled woods at the moment. This one was one of the few found resting on a fern.

Now we're getting to the white admirals. In this cooler weather they were flying really well but unsurprisingly a slower flight and much less fidgety than when I'd last seen them a couple of weeks earlier. I'm not sure whether it was just the weather but they were also much lower down perching around head height or gliding for short distances low along the track which is a behaviour many lepidopterists look for. The image below was more typical on this visit, horizontally straight wings on a bramble looking inconspicuous. Despite the quite wild wind in the high canopy down at ground level it was almost motionless. I'd made the correct choice to come here today, the butterflies were within easy sight and once again I had the site all to myself due presumably to the weather. During one of the more prolonged wet spells I stood quietly listening to the pitter-patter of raindrops. It's a sound I've loved since childhood.

All in all what these two visits to observe butterflies in poor weather has taught me is don't remain indoors bemoaning the inclement summer, head out and see what happens. I'd do that when winter birdwatching, so why not in the summer?  Would I have noticed the butterfly species using bracken as a sunning and drying perch if the weather had not been so changeable? Would the eruption of species simultaneously timing their flights with the sun's emergence have been witnessed if I'd stayed at home? I suspect not and it made for a fantastic immersive experience on both occasions. But I'll leave you with this female blackbird.

I was walking along a boardwalk back to my car when this female appeared. I stopped and she stopped then, after checking me over, she ignored me and hopped a few feet at a time towards me. I stood motionless watching her for what seemed an age. Then when she was around 12 feet from me she dived into the trackside and speared the fattest slug I've seen for a while, a slug much too heavy for her to fly away with.  Transfixed I watched her kill and repeatedly peck the slug for some time until having eaten a large part of it she finally managed to lift the slug remains and fly off, albeit under some difficulty. Whereto she went I have no idea as the torrential rain returned as she flew off, so I the happy wildlife watcher of these two days simply shrugged, pulled my coat a little tighter around me and walked off accompanied by the roar of thousands of raindrops crashing against leaves in the tree canopy. I was alone with my thoughts surrounded by nature at its finest.

Saluting the White Admiral

I nearly didn't head off to go butterfly watching. After spending a whole day birdwatching at Slimbridge on the previous day I had planned for a leisurely Sunday to reflect,  recover and watch a little cricket.

However the one thing that is a certainty is that nature happens when nature wants it to happen. And so it is with butterflies. They are on the wing when they want to be on the wing not when I am at leisure to observe them. Following a leisurely morning then I roused myself, got into the car and arrived at Shapwick Heath just before 2pm. My quest today the white admiral (Limenitis camilla) butterfly. 

I visit the Avalon Marshes regularly although oddly I've not been down there for a few months. However eighteen months or so ago I took part in a Butterfly Conservation training day here. It was a chance conversation during that with one of the leaders in which she said Shapwick has a good colony of white admirals. White admirals are not common in Somerset as this is the western edge of their British range and so having never seen one before I made a mental note to return later that summer and fulfil that wish. Family and work commitments prevented my visiting last year and as I have weekends planned through to mid August this year, despite my desiring a quiet Sunday at home, I had just this one day available to visit the area in the hope of seeing white admiral on the wing before they stop flying.

From that conversation last year I had a vague idea where they could be found and my target search was therefore to be within this known area, slowly searching open sunny tracks where honeysuckle and bramble are plentiful - the former for egg laying and the caterpillar stages and the latter for the adults to feed. I set off and after nearly an hour of scanning every bramble and honeysuckle I could see nothing. I did find plenty of other interesting invertebrates to divert me but no white admiral. I had to stay focussed. I did though have time on my side as I'd been informed last year that here the white admiral is most active mid to late afternoon, though that is dependent on strong sunshine. Previous surveys had happened in the morning and for a long while it wasn't recorded until that is, as the story went, a butterfly surveyor was out just for a walk one late afternoon an spotted one

Having drawn a blank, I eventually came to a cross-path and while deliberating which way to go I saw a red admiral on some bramble flowers and then a comma. Not what I was looking for but nice nonetheless. I stopped to take some photographs. It was while taking these I noticed a large white butterfly being chased by something which looked sooty grey. Despite never having seen a white admiral before I knew this was it, though I couldn't be sure from this one sighting alone. They both flew very fast and it was the briefest of moments before they spiralled high up into the tree canopy and out of sight. I then spent a good while scanning the trees with my binoculars to no avail, it was nowhere to be seen. But success at last, I was in the right place at least. 

I stood scanning the brambles and trees for another ten minutes, nothing happened. By now the various bitey things had found me and the mosquitoes were really starting to have a good nibble. I was about to move off when a large white butterfly flew low left to right being chased by, yes, my first ever confirmed white admiral. I got a good look at it this time as it spiralled around the large white  before as in the previous sighting they disappeared off into the canopy. I have to say I didn't know white admirals were so aggressive or flew so fast, quite a contrast to the red admiral and comma quietly feeding on the brambles, I'd forgotten about them.

Once more I scanned the trees for activity - nothing. Had I imagined this? Well of course not, but two brief glimpses in twenty or more minutes was a little frustrating, exciting and frustrating in equal measure. Two visitors walked by asking what I was looking for and we had a chat but while we did the admiral didn't appear. Eventually (possibly thinking I'd made all this up) they left and I stood for another fifteen minutes being devoured by mosquitoes while absolutely nothing happened. I did note however on both times I'd briefly seen the admiral the sun had come out, it was one of those days of light cloud and sunshine.  Time to move on, I turned left onto a wide pathway.

As I'm trying to increase my knowledge of butterflies this year I'd read up a little before coming out. White admiral prefer sheltered sunny glades and trackways. They need bramble and honeysuckle as mentioned but also tall trees as they are used for resting away from predators, and presumably a good vantage point to watch me down below while inwardly laughing at my failed endeavours. I scanned yet more bramble. Even though this is early July many of the flowers had gone over with new fruit developing. I'm assuming this prolonged dry spell has brought forward flowering. Using my binoculars I looked down the ride, up into the trees, back where I'd come; nothing.

I'd been looking for over an hour and a half and by now I was beginning to think of moving somewhere else when at that moment the sun came out and right on cue a large white flew into vision, followed by, yes indeed a sooty grey looking butterfly in hot pursuit - but this time after chasing the large white away the white admiral flew in a wide circle before landing on some honeysuckle in front of me. I grabbed a quick photo before I then spent some time observing it with my binoculars. What a stunning butterfly and my first ever proper view, looking quite chocolate brown at this angle. They are also big, as big as the books say - and why wouldn't they be? Luckily this individual remained in view for a minute or so allowing me time to really take it in. Then as quickly it had arrived it was off, leaving me to inwardly digest what I'd seen.

I'd have been perfectly happy with this. Yes a brief view but I'd managed to achieve what I had set out to do. Yet there was more to come. 

The ride I was now on looked pretty nondescript, to our eyes at least, but obviously for a white admiral it is perfect. As I loitered hoping for another sighting a party of four visitors ambled towards me, it turned out they were on holiday from Scotland.  The two ladies wandered off but their menfolk were chatty and wanted to know what I was doing. I showed them the image I'd just taken and they were quite impressed, even more so when as we chatted a white admiral made a lovely 5 second loop-the-loop flypast right next to us, almost as if it was saying 'Ahhahh you're not looking now so I'm going to show off, bye'. 

By now the clouds were breaking a little more and the sunny spells were longer and more frequent. The two men ambled off and I was on my own again thinking of the behaviour I'd witnessed so far. There was a distinct pattern - the sun comes out - a few moments later a large white appears - and not every time but regularly the large white is then pursued by a white admiral and the whole performance ends with a flight into the trees and the admiral disappears. I'd now seen this charade a number of times. On one occasion when flying into the canopy twenty feet above me the white admiral settled on a leaf in full view. I managed to get some lovely views of this individual through the binoculars, and a handful of clear images, not bad considering  I was a good 30-40 feet away looking up. The markings are stunning. 

What I struggled to comprehend though was how many individual butterflies I had actually seen. I was now on my third area where I'd seen a white admiral flying, but was it the same one? I guess not as it was a few minutes walk between each of them. But they do fly over a large area.  

Eventually this individual in the tree was buzzed by a dragonfly and off it went. I wandered off further down the track and through my binoculars could see a white admiral low on a bramble. It took me a minute or so to get there just as it flew off and yes, into the tree canopy. Was this the same one as I'd just seen in the tree? I really don't know, though my inward thought is I'd seen possibly four individuals over five sites (one site was close to another therefore it is likely to be the same individual) during my time there.

I'd been here well over two hours and my poor arms were peppered with mosquito bites. Time to call it a day. Retracing my route I was stopped in my tracks by yet another white admiral happily feeding on a bramble in yet another area. I'd looked at this area a few times already, each time however nothing was showing. But now around 4pm the heat really was building, the sun was strong, and this lovely condition individual was very obliging.

I could have watched it for hours, fascinated too that a meadow brown which was feeding next to it. Not a threat then compared to the large white? I need to read up why white admiral and large white have these territorial scraps. Do white admirals squabble with other species? Does size play a part?

It really was time to go but this wasn't the last of it. Retracing my steps along the Sweet Track I'd been walking for ten minutes and had almost reached the end when a white admiral flew past me and landed only an arms length away on a bramble, giving me yet another wonderful view and this stunning image. That conversation eighteen months ago was spot on - mid to late afternoon is the best time for views in this part of the world. I'm also really getting into this butterfly watching, not least as I can have a lie in, saunter out after lunch and be rewarded in warm weather with stunning natural history encounters like this.

Before Dawn On the First Day Of Spring

They flew out of the darkness, resembling ghostly wraiths high above my head. In that strange half light it was difficult to remain unmoved as seven great white egrets gently drifted away from their night-time roost and headed off to begin the day a new.

It was with a level of madness not seen in me for a while but having woken at just after 4am, with a half- baked notion to go and see the starlings lift off from their night-roost, I tumbled out of bed and made a cup of tea. A drive down the M5 then a pootle across the Somerset Levels and by 05:45 I had arrived at Shapwick NNR, part of the mighty Avalon Marshes complex. My aim, if it could be thought of as an aim, was both to see starlings erupt en-masse from their night roost, and to hear bitterns booming, which they're now doing with daily regularity at dawn.

The creation of this pre-sunrise endeavour actually began the afternoon before. I had a notion to write a blog post based on watching starlings come into roost in the evening, on the final day of Winter, return  in the morning and revel in their morning flight on the first day of Spring. That was the plan in my head. In reality it was somewhat different. Although I'd seen thousands of starlings foraging the previous afternoon from the car window, I didn't manage to work out exactly where they roosted. Coupled with a biting wind scudding across the flat landscape of the Somerset Levels I lost the will to hang about at dusk. Standing on the bridge over the picturesquely named South Drain, the lack of starlings overhead did not dampen my spirits. I knew the massed starling flocks had moved from the RSPB's Ham Wall to Shapwick NNR in recent weeks, and knowing Shapwick intimately, I decided to just to turn up in the morning and there they'd be noisily awaiting my arrival. What could possibly go wrong.

Well almost everything!

Starling  behave differently in cloudy weather than with clear skies. Today heavy cloud made the hour or so before sunrise very dark. It really was very dark but once my eyes had adjusted there was just about enough light to see without the need for a torch. I began to walk along the track, once the bed for the Somerset and Dorset Joint Railway, and even in the near pitch darkness this arrow-straight track would not be that difficult to follow. I'd brought a hand-held sound recorder with me too, as I hypothesised this would be a recce for the parabolic kit if the bitterns boomed well. They may have been booming, however in the middle distance the chug chug chug chug of diesel pump amply reminded me that the Somerset Levels today is entirely man-made and managed. That said, above the steadily rising amplification of the chug chug chug chug a tawny owl hooted the end of the nightshift on the reserve. It was about 6am now and the merest slit of pre-dawn was visible. And below that a tiny pinprick of light. I'd hoped I'd have the reserve all to myself, but no. As I walked that tiny pin-prick of light grew closer, and bobbled about a bit not unlike a firefly, until in the darkness a lady jogger sped past with a jolly "Morning". I thought I had a slight madness about me coming birdwatching at night, but to go jogging before dawn?

It was only after the lady jogger had passed and my eyes re-adjusted again I saw another light in the distance. It's like Grand Central Station on the reserve, maybe that chug chug chug chug is the ghost of the steam engines which plied peat away from this landscape. I drew closer, this light was a fishermen combination who had with them what can only be described as a sports-stadium grade light dangling between them. Momentarily blinded as we passed, I have no idea how many there were of them but being English I bade them Good Morning. I received one in reply. I had filled in twenty minutes so far and my tally was, diesel water pump, a jogger, some fishermen and a tawny owl at some distance. It was going well then! But at least the light was gathering.

Suddenly I realised I was on my own. The din from the diesel water pump was receding and to my left a song thrush was giving it large somewhere in the woods. The water rail then started, followed by Cetti's warbler. All unseen of course but the reserve was throwing the duvet off the reedbed and waking up. Whistling from wigeon to my right caught my ear, followed closely by an eruption of jackdaw from a reedbed. In the race to take a picture in the half light I forgot to remember how dark it was. My camera did its best with me trying to follow the flock as it flew away, today though was to develop into a series of less than perfect images, which in some way I quite like as they tell of the moment. 

Back to the jackdaws. Had they roosted in the reedbed they erupted from, or were they mid-flight and simply flopped down for while? I didn't count them at the time but from the image there are about 100 individuals. Something niggled at me, although it looks lighter in the image below it really was dark and I can't envisage which woodland they'd have come from well before sunrise and why they would then settle in reeds, even temporarily. Most intriguing, had my eyes deceived me? I've not come across jackdaw roosting anywhere other than in trees or woodland before, and a quick look online didn't disprove this fact. But then I question why not. Reedbeds are a potentially safe environment, it is why starling roost here (though a good number get eaten by bittern, foxes and otters during the night). Are jackdaws, a very adaptable crow, adapting too?

Not long after the jackdaws passed by then a gaggle of Canada geese also provided an opportunity for a  less-than-perfect image. Still no starlings, but at least three bitterns were booming at some distance, which is an amazing thought for this bird that has come back from the brink. When numbers of bittern were at their lowest ebb, for years I tried and failed to hear a bittern in East Anglia. They became my bogie bird. I even spent an entire holiday in the early 1990's at the Cley Marshes in Norfolk failing to hear a bittern despite the warden telling me they were being heard daily and recommending what time to visit to guarantee (to not hear one). Nowadays on the Somerset Levels it is almost impossible not to hear a bittern in the springtime, a remarkable turnabout of fortunes. But still no starlings.

Watching starling leave the roost site should be easy. They remain where they arrived the evening before and before leaving in the morning the noise becomes astonishing as they fidget and jostle with neighbours awaiting that invisible command to go... which once issued means the entire flock rises as one. That said, this morning despite regular listening at reedbeds I heard absolutely nothing.  What was fantastic were the egrets flying from their roost. Both little and great white flew overhead  resembling ghostly wraiths inspecting the wetland underworld. Quite unearthly seeing these huge members of the heron family slowly flap and glide above me, their ghostly white plumage under-lit and in contrast with the dark sky. I still get a thrill seeing these egrets, as a boy they were rarer than hens teeth (or starlings).

By now it was heading towards sunrise and I'd been wandering about for over an hour. I'd obviously missed the starlings or they'd gone another way. Maybe then if I headed to Noah's Hide I might see something else and not be too disappointed. A call of nature first, I am of that age. Whilst carrying out my needs I heard a roaring sound behind me, like a wave crashing on a pebbly beach but in a continuous way. I looked up and there they were, thousands upon thousands of starling flying low and fast above the trees under which I stood. Wave after wave passed by making the already grey sky darken considerably. And that noise, it is astonishing. Quickly grabbing my camera I failed to record anything other than a number of abysmal record images. It was par for the course today, I'd come into woodland just as they'd passed overhead, restricting my view entirely. Given the direction they were coming from I must have passed their roost site half an hour earlier, presumably when they were still reasonably quiet, or masked by the chug chug chug chug. But good view or bad, it was all very exciting and I looked at my phone, 06.49hrs. Now I know.

I have to say my images of the passing starlings are worthy of an award. I'm not sure what that award will be but I'll accept the award now and have my speech already prepared. The last of the starling flock passed over about 3 minutes after it began. There were a couple of short breaks but otherwise three minutes of starling flying overhead at speed. Numbers must have been close 100,000 if not more. Remarkable as we're now at the very end of the winter roosting season, which was one of the reasons I found myself here today in an attempt to grab a last look before they disperse to their breeding areas.

My quest was won. I'd heard bitterns, and although I'd not seen them lift out the reeds as one organic flock, I'd seen massed flocks of starlings. I sat in Noah's Hide reflecting on my morning with a cup of flask tea, it then struck me it was only ten past seven. I'd seen so much and experienced so much in only an hour and a half (and before many people were out and about) from arriving in pitch black night-time to now a half light just after daybreak. And it wasn't over yet. As I sat in the hide a great spotted woodpecker was drumming madly close by. Behind me the woodland birds were in audible competition with their wetland cousins. I switched on the recorder and if you wish to hear a 7 minute roughly edited recording, here it is from my SoundCloud site -  CLICK HERE

What a wonderful start to spring, bitterns booming, woodpecker drumming, and a cacophony of avian sound surrounding me. I'd finished my flask and thought it's time to head home, but before that a quick look out of the hide close by, the 70 Acre Hide. 

Normally there's very little to see from here as it looks out over a vast reedbed. Not today though. I'd just packed my camera away into my rucksack when a bittern flew over the reeds to my left. I had a good view with the binoculars, however as I'd come to expect today, no camera meant no image. It was a spectacular view too for a good 10 seconds or so. Note to self, "leave camera primed just in case".

The walk back to the car was just as eventful. The woodland over the opposite side of the South Drain was alive with birdsong, so much song it was virtually impossible to differentiate each species. On the ground a number of finches were feeding and a jay spent time out in the open flicking through a recently dug area. A large flock of redwing then caught my eye, surely they'll not be here much longer. I heard an unfamiliar call like chattering schoolchildren wearing wooden clogs, one redwing was singing which while not unknown isn't that common in the UK, but then I realised that soundscape of chattering was other redwing. Spring is here, serenaded by a winter thrush, and having been on the go for the best part of three hours, it was only 8.20am.

Avalon Marshes Complex - A winter's walk.

It has been 6 months or so since my last blog post. Back then, in June, it was a scorching hot sunny day and I was to be found looking for large blue butterflies at a mid-Somerset location. It's not that since then I've been stuck indoors, but life has taken a strange turn and sped up considerably. The winter is here and it was high time to re-connect with my blog, posting what is the simplest of an image-driven walk.

We've reached mid January 2022 and I've taken a few days off to have a late Festive break having worked over Christmas. To be honest this morning's walk was simply that, a walk, a chance to get out into the countryside, some exercise and to spend what turned out to be over five hours tramping across the magnificent Avalon Marshes complex, with my wife.   Birdlife was abundant but not exceptional, so much better then to just let the images do the talking. Here we go then... the walk began at Canada Drive on the Shapwick Complex.

Here in Somerset we've had week upon week of dull grey days but this morning a really heavy frost was revealed by clear blue skies and a burst of strong sunshine. The sunshine was actually quite warm, not least as there was not a breath of wind. Underfoot however the distinct crunch of frozen ground broke the silence even after the surface frost had melted. Winter is such a wonderful time to walk, the views open out, there's a chill in the air, and what bird song there is travels far, which today was predominantly from blue and great tits, the latter with their 'teacher teacher' calls, and a number of ravens, cronking their dominance of the airways above me.

Evidence of spring, while still some way off, was emerging, with iris and arum starting to push through the leaf litter.

In this strong light some sublime images were to be had if only we stop and take time to look more intently, such as this back-lit fern on a rhyne edge. Just gorgeous.

I love bare winter trees, and this oak shows why. I tried to take some photographs of long tailed tits flitting through the branches, which became a wasted endeavour, but the realisation this tree is in itself beautiful from underneath wasn't.

Further up the Canada Drive, the strong low sunlight created these wonderful regimented shadow-lines, created from the fence line and trees on the left.  The closer we look the better the connection with nature can be.

Eventually I made it to the Canada Hide itself. This hide is brand new, replacing the one that sank into the peat and became unsafe. It is one of my favourite parts of Shapwick, simply because it is somewhere the hoards of visitors rarely come to. And today I was pretty much on my own, Julie having gone off for a longer walk, and only one other person to be seen for about for 20 minutes. Perfect.

And once inside, with some really swish sash windows to open, the view was what can only be described as 'blue'. A deep calming blue.

There was birdlife there, just a long way off, mute swans, coot, tufted duck, shoveller, gadwall and cormorants the most abundant.

Walking back from the hide a distinct mist drifted across the path highlighted by the sunshine, almost smoky in appearance it added wonderfully to the sense of isolation as I walked.

The joy of light on a mossy log - just as simple as that. 

Further on this track lies the Hawk And Owl Trust reserve, which is where Julie had walked to. I didn't follow, simply spending some time here listening to a great spotted woodpecker calling kik-kik as it flew through the branches. A couple passed me and we had a little chat, they'd heard 'drumming' over at the Westhay Reserve earlier in the morning. I had my hopes raised, however in all the time I was out I never heard any drumming.... spring isn't far away though if woodpecker drumming is being heard.

This reflection in the wet woodland really was that blue - magical, and opposite this decaying trunk had been well peppered with woodpecker holes.

The colours of this ivy just appealed to me.

Retracing my steps I then plunged into the Shapwick Nature Reserve. This image sums up what I love about this site. It's a fairly new path, one of many now connecting the numerous reserves. It feels wonderfully isolated, but the large pipe along the floor reminds any traveller that this entire Complex is man made and man managed. Without the pumping and water management to maintain wildlife, it would drain and be simply wet meadow and woodland, or simply dry out and revert to agricultural land. 

Most of the birds I wanted to photograph were so far away that even for my camera's 200 x lens, most images were just blurred dots. This coot at the Decoy Pool however got close enough to provide a half decent image. Coots are cool.

The view from the Decoy Hide over to Glastonbury Tor never changes winter or summer, different birds of course each season, and dragonflies a-plenty in the summer, but basically it is a time capsule landscape and I never tire of it. Otters are regular here, but never when I visit. One day maybe.

Great crested grebes were around, but still too early for their lovely courtship dance. No booming bitterns either today.

Towards dusk in the final half an hour before sunset we stopped at the Westhay Reserve. Many people visit Ham Wall about 3 miles away for the starling murmurations. This year however the starlings have kept everyone on their toes and have split into three groups regularly... roosting at Ham Wall, Shapwick and Westhay. But not today, not at Westhay, and that didn't matter. The light as the sun set and lit the reeds was compensation enough for me.

4.25pm and the sun was almost down..... and.... if I turned 180 degrees.....

... the Wolf Moon, the first full moon of the year was just rising to the east.

I mentioned this at the top of this post. It is simply, sometimes, the act of being outside that provides the great joy we all attempt to gain from a connected experience outdoors. Today I wasn't interested in finding rare birds, or seeing as many different species as possible, but simply enjoyed walking around, observing and enjoying this quite wonderful, and man made landscape. Humans can create beauty, if they only think about what's needed to reverse some of the ills of civilisation. Rewilding these industrial landscapes from exhausted peat workings, and in doing so creating one of the biggest wetlands in the UK, needs celebrating, mostly as I sit on a log and do absolutely nothing.