Swifts - well I think that's finally it....

 

Well I think that's definitely it. 2017 will go down in my memory as the summer of swifts. For you see we have had them nesting for the first time in the roof space of our house. On August 11th I heard the last screaming's of three around the house and on August 16th after not seeing a swift for a few days a solitary swift could be observed feeding over the garden amongst the chit chattering house martins. Since then, nothing.

 

For a few years now there have always been swifts around the house in summer. Screaming by but I always thought their nests were elsewhere. In early June however I found myself being attacked from all sides in the garden. So low and fast were these avian bullets travelling that I could easily hear their flup-flup-flup wing beats as they scudded by. Then as if an illusion (or one too many ciders) one flew in only 8 feet above the ground before rising like a jet fighter under the ridge tile and gone, out of sight, silence. 

 

Swifts usually arrive here on May 3rd, this year however it was lunchtime on May 4th. I keep a keen eye and ear open for their return around May Day and so it was that as I looked up from my pasty that anchor shape scudded across the sky. Then to my amazement few minutes later my first scream...from a swift I may add, not me. Unusual as they normally only scream around the nest site but I guess these African travellers were joys joyous on their return to Somerset.

 

Over the intervening four months I've learnt much about swifts (and realised for such a common bird I knew little). They go in for banging, not in some death metal stupor, but aerial stalling, used as anti predation defence. I learnt that kestrels are their main predator in Europe, as they sit and wait for the swifts to arrive at the nest. Clumsy of foot, the swift is at its most vulnerable as it lands before waddling into the hole or cavity where it's most rudimentary nest is housed. I saw no kestrel predation in Somerset, but did witness the resident sparrowhawk repeatedly flying off to the nest with fledgling house martins. But that's for another day, swiftly moving on then...

 

What I witnessed in Somerset was swift routine. Around mid summer I could set my watch to them. Between 6am and 10am they'd leave the roof and circle endlessly around the house, flying not more than half a mile away. My house is close by the neighbours (also with nests I discovered) with a 10 feet gap. I'd stand at the bedroom window before work and watch the swifts fly in like fighter bombers one after another at eye level. Then seemingly about to hit the window they'd sharply veer left and scream through the gap between the houses and away.

 

 

 

 

 

In the evening likewise. During the day the swifts disappeared, presumably to forage over the farmland or head up high into the air for a spot of sleep. Then at 8 pm sharp they'd be back screaming around and around the house in ever decreasing circles. The highest count was 17, so not a huge colony. Around 9pm they'd begin to do their low level practice runs. Over the shrubs of next door, swoop down over our lawn and then swish up onto the gable end of the house. For half an hour I could stand on the lawn and repeatedly have swifts pass just feet above me on these reconnaissance missions. Each time they'd stall in flight as they grabbed onto the wall, only for a second later to drop like a stone, pick up speed and fly back the way they came, this time though only 3 or 4 feet above ground in the opposite direction.

 

It became a magical evening each day to witness this.  But then the finale (and I'd read this happens), two swifts would come in together, just half a body apart. Research estimates they fly together only 0.25 seconds apart. As in the dummy runs before, the leading swift would come into the gable end, stall  (the banging)  and cling to the wall, for then a millisecond later its partner stalled but this time up and into the roof. A few noisy chattering's from the pair before the first bird then dropped off the wall and away. This happened between 9.30pm and 9.35pm for over 2 weeks. Astonishing repetition and presumably why in Europe the kestrel has worked out how to obtain a light supper before bed.

 

Most times when the bird had entered the roof, its mate would fly by one more time screaming (often accompanied by screams form within the roof) before I'd watch it fly off and up into the clouds. As both sexes share the natal duties, I have absolutely no idea which was male, or female.

 

This all went on for around a month until one evening in late July I came home from work and ventured outdoors. What a commotion from roof tile 5 as I'd christened it. Swifts were agitatedly flying back and forth, screaming encouragement and then silence, they'd be back, silence before then more screaming. But then a wing tip appeared from under the tile, then a bit of body, a foot, a wriggle and a squeeze, all the while the adults flying noisily overhead. Before like a stone the bird dropped out of the roof, gathered speed and flew off to be joined by screaming birds. I watched it's progress as it joined three others, the now four swifts flying in very close formation in a direct line. A family group almost touching wing tips as they flew in a tight group, higher and higher out of sight. I'd witnessed a fledge and stood there in the now silent garden, mesmerised. I can't put into words how exciting that was to witness a swift take its first wing beats, on wings that will never stop beating for three years or so. Astonishing.

 

 

While writing this I've been glancing out of the window over the fields (the aesthete in me says it was to gather thoughts by gazing into the distance in a melancholy. The naturalist in me says it was just to try and glimpse a swift one more time in 2017). But no. House martins and swallows a plenty, a noisy carrion crow and the ever present sparrows hoovering up seed like its going out of fashion, but no swifts. There are still reports of the odd swift locally, but in late August they'll be well on their way to Africa. As it should be.

 

Adieu then until next May my lovelies, it's been a blast.

 

....with the last word going to Richard Jefferies, from his book Field and Hedgerow,

 

"Dark specks beneath the white summer clouds, the swifts, the black albatross of our skies, moved on their unwearied wings"

 

The fingers of Autumn

That feeling of the strength of the summer imperceptibly starting to wane comes stealthily every year through the back door of long late summer days. 

First it is the subtle arrival of an earlier sunset from Mid August. August is for me more a moment of changing seasons than a main fixture in the school holiday rota. For many and I count myself amongst them the first week in August is akin to the warmest and longest of summer days, yet, by its end August feels decidedly autumnal, cool evenings, a creeping damp air and much shorter days. I've just looked up some facts to near where I live. On the 1st of August there was 15 hours and 19 minutes of day length, and of course much longer twilight. The sun rose at 05.37 and set at 20.57. As someone who spends time outdoors I can remember only a few weeks ago looking at the sun setting over Wales at 9pm. By the end of the month, there will be just 13 hours and 33 minutes of day length, close to a 2 hour difference. By then the sun will set before 8pm and not rise until 6.30am. 

Why am I saying this? Well today was the first morning I have risen and it was dark enough to need a light. Admittedly it was a cloudy start to the day, but not until near 6am did it feel as though the day had begun. I know this as I was sat in the garden. Unable to get back to sleep, I made myself a cup of tea and headed onto the patio. Time, 5.30. All was still without. Overnight we had had heavy rain and through the gloom jewels of rain were across many of the leaves and flowers hard by. There was a glorious earthy aroma around me, mixed with wood smoke, from where I know not. Most noticeably however was the absolute lack of wind. It has been like this for a couple of days. Nothing stirred either, it was as if all sound had been switched off by some unseen hand. 

Not long however the call of a wren erupted from the undergrowth closely followed by a robin. The robin I'm used to who has been calling his territorial scone for about a week now, a song that will continue into mid-winter. The difference in August however is that just a few minutes later the soft chittering of house martins was overhead and mixed beautifully with the robin song. At first I could not see where this was coming from, but then high high up in the sky a half dozen dark spots zig zagged around the sky in crazy circles. The day was waking. 

The time around dawn is possibly the best time to be outdoors. From a near silent landscape, no matter the season, the landscapes offers subtle changes in sound and motion minute by minute as dawn breaks. Today was no exception as by 6.30 I'd been privileged to be under the flightpath of around 100 jak-a-jack jackdaws off to forage somewhere to the south, herring gulls coming inland from their roost to the west, and alongside a few other species such as blue and great tit, the comic circus of house sparrows cascading out of the eves and creating both a deafening din and a cartwheeling mass of brown splodges across the garden. I love these birds which have chosen to live alongside us in the roof space. Regularly we have 50 by the feeders and today it was no exception. They were everywhere and as I have often observed the males were gently feeding juveniles, who with gaping mouth and shimmering wings were attended most dutifully by dad with a soft morsel of worm, bug or grain. 

I've been to many locations around Britain looking at wildlife but an hour or so in the garden matches many a trip to far flung areas. Despite the lack of sun drenched warmth there was still a feeling of summer joy listening to the martin’s overhead, but the autumn season was much in evidence, waiting in the wings. Aside from that scent of earth, the hedge behind the garden is now covered in red berries. Above my head a few gnats jostled for space but other than a single buff tailed bumblebee no other insects came into view. Turning a little too cold in the morning maybe and many will have finished their sexual phase thus larva are hidden from view awaiting their entrance in the years to come. I don’t mind autumn creeping through the back door, but as the day length shortens, I shall miss the long summer nights with screaming swifts around the house, those screams ended on July 23^rd this year. May the 4^th and they’ll be back.   

June and the Midsummer Solstice

For many the summer solstice is seen as a time to celebrate the arrival of the longest day.

Certainly as I arrived at Avebury Stone Circle in Wiltshire on the evening of June the 20th, I realised a lot of people wanted to celebrate the setting of the midsummer sun. Planning is everything and on that warm June evening, my planning had been what many would describe as, deplorable. After a dummy run for anywhere to park up and walk back to the stones, followed by another vain return route attempt to circumnavigate every blocked parking space or route we would normally use to visit Avebury, all attempts to celebrate with the thousands of people there were abandoned, we headed for the Pewsey Downs.

This was going to be a busy weekend and so it proved. Having woken in Somerset, we had a full morning planned to clip six, yes 6 box parterre of a client of Julie’s. In Wiltshire.

And not just a part of Wiltshire say near to Bath, but a part of Wiltshire less than a gnats crotchet from the Berkshire border; turn right before Hungerford, shimmy back and we’d be there. In fact very close to where Julie lived until a year ago.

Duly arriving at 10.30 am we set to. Shears flashing like egg whisks across the Buxus hedging we toiled for a goodly while. I found myself facing the man’s hedge, sizeable mushrooms of greenery and a hedge around a small patio, the steps to which were flanked with yew – also to be trimmed into submission. Julie meanwhile remained at the front shaping the 12 inch high parterre box hedging containing a cornucopia of mauves and pale pastel plants, literally dripping with buzzywussies.

Noises off alerted me to the grounds man who seeing me (for the first time) struggling with my shears suggested I use the strimmer. I’ll go and fetch it, returning in a few minutes later with a leviathan 24 inch petrol hedge trimmer. Man’s tools for man’s work I thought.

 

Man's tools for man's work!

After an hour wielding that beast over all of the garden, I felt more mouse than man. It did a splendid job but boy they are heavy – and noisy. Common sense, something I’m not entirely sure I have, would have suggested ear defenders and maybe a shoulder harness. But no, this man from the north strode on manfully sweating buckets, smoke billowing from the exhaust, all the while adding to Wiltshire composting mountain without a care in the world.

Julie has earlier booked us to have lunch with friends of hers at 2pm. These lovely people were once gardening clients, but now she is considered their 5th daughter as they looked after her when Julie was going through a rough patch a few years ago. This meant that at 1.30pm a portly gentleman could be seen stripping, less Poldark, more needing the dark to remove a box flagellated shirt for his pristine luncheon attire.

Crayfish salad pushed across the larynx it was time for a nap, and just 4pm. Overnight accommodation was at friends of Julie's who own an equestrian business with a B&B room. It seems odd staying just a mile from where Julie used to live, but it is lovely there. And now is a base to pootle about back in Wiltshire. A nap was had prostrate on the lawn listening to swallows and martins swooshing by.

Which brought me to being up on the Pewsey Downs to celebrate the Solstice. It is lovely up there. We walked up to Adams Grave Long Barrow, a steeply enjoyable climb to 262 m above level sea. And what a view, back down the vale of Pewsey and along the chalk ridge towards the Giants Grave above the hamlet of Oare to the east.

 

Knapp Hill from walk up to Adams Grave

 

Knapp Hill and the Vale of Pewsey

The wind was howling up here, with low clouds scudding across the sun and sky. Dramatic, brooding and just what we needed for the Solstice. A handful of people and being at one with nature. We were surrounded by skylark, some just singing while perched onto the grass, due to the wind. The wind up there dominated our time watching the sun set. I asked Julie to cup her hands round her ears and listen to the wind pulsating across the tall grass producing a sound like a rapier being flashed through the air. Slash, slash slash silence, slash, silence, whoosh, slash... It's a sound that will stay with me for a long time, man and the elements in an audible harmony.

 

Remembering the rapier grasses

 

View from Adam's Grave

 

Giant's Grave hill bathed in the last of the sunlight

All too soon we retraced our steps back down the hill, past the skylarks still singing and at the car park watched a mêlée of young bullocks being very frisky in the field. Perfect.

 

As the sun sets over the Pewsey Vale

Sunday; after waking at 4.20am to see the sun rise over the farm (and take a wobbly record shot to boot), we mosied back along the M4 to meet up with friends in Thornbury near Bristol. Another super luncheon was partaken of followed by a walk along the 'small' Avon river near Tortworth. I had been duped into visiting Tortworth with the promise of a strawberry cream tea. Plus our original plan was to haul ourselves up May Hill, an activity curtailed by one of the party injuring a foot the week before. 

Nonetheless, what I enjoyed was a lovely walk along a river, including a minor detour to visit the 800+ year old Tortworth chestnut, before for a few moments just being able to sit by the river and watch the world go by, marvel at the sunlight on the water, listen to the breeze through the trees, lose myself in the day and the year very slowly moving, taking hours to complete minutes, much like it used to do as a began exploring the natural world as a child, when a whole day seemed a lifetime in length.

A juvenile dipper piping up the river ended that weekend wonderfully, that and sitting watching a Vulcan bomber fly by almost to the minute of the Solstice at 5.30pm. These long June days are so special, we must embrace every moment we have to enjoy them, for soon the days will shorten, mists and mellow fruitfulness are knocking at the door. The Wheel of the Year that is so important to me.

The twilight of a summer sun

I guess the embryonic development of this post began in high summer, although for many years I have watched the phenomenon of sunsets and developing twilight from my house with never ending fascination.

Back in mid June I was up in Northumberland for work. After a busy day on the Farne Islands I took 3 colleagues up to Lindisfarne, to show them the Cradle of Christianity (or as they all thought culture ended at the Watford Gap - the Cradle of Culture). They were bowled over by the fantastic scenery of the Northumberland coast and the island itself. But after a rather terrific supper at the Manor House Hotel, we had to drive back to Bamburgh. The time, 20.45 hours.

As we drove down to the causeway, the view above literally stopped us in our tracks. And so the seeds of this post were sown. What is it about sunsets in particular which ignite something both artistic but also primeval in us all? We'll all happily watch a sunset develop for hours, while exploding into explosive irritation at being forced to stand in a queue for 1 minute. Is it that timelessness which makes sunsets so all absorbing to the viewer? Or maybe something else related to our hectic modern life. As you read this, I wonder what it is you yourself gain from watching a sunset?

Holy Island 20.55 hours

Two emotions ripple through me. Firstly I love the developing colours and cloud combinations a sunset brings to a sky. That ever changing kaleidoscope of colours often associated with vanishing clouds as the energy in the atmosphere subsides with the diminishing rays of the sun. but secondly it is that calm end of a day feeling that I love. The day draws to a close, I muse on the waking hours just passed and think ahead to the new day dawning. On many occasions I've sat in the garden with a nourishing glass of wine watching a sunset develop and fade, only to realise it was dark, so full of empty thought I'd been for that hour or so.

Budle Bay 21.15 hours

And so it was on that June evening with my work colleagues. We could have stood there for hours watching the sun set, but an early start the following day brought us back to earth, until that is we drove past Budle Bay, between Bamburgh and the A1. Yet again we were literally stopped in our tracks by the two images here.

Looking at these photographs in early September, I can recall every detail of this view. It also makes me realise that now, sunset is about 7.45pm. In Northumberland in mid June it was 21.45pm. Celestial motion stops for no man.

By the time the above and next two photographs below were taken on Bamburgh beach, it was well after 10pm. The colours intensified with the passing minutes. In all it had taken us nearly 2 hours to drive the 20 or so miles back to Bamburgh. The four of us were reluctant to head back to the hotel, and even at 11.30pm I looked out of the bedroom window and an orange glow still emanated from the north. I do miss the long day length Northumbrian summers.

So what is a sunset? Well I'm sure most of you know, but in essence as a ray of white sunlight travels through the atmosphere to be viewed by us, some of the spectrum of colours are scattered by particulates in the atmosphere. Blues and greens being of shorter wavelength than other colours scatter quite strongly and are in effect removed further from the visible light spectrum than say the warmer red colours. Along comes a sunset when the distance the white lite has to travel to your eye is longer than at mid day. The short wavelength blues and greens are scattered almost completely, leaving the warmer long wavelength warmer hues to dominate the sky. This warm red light is then further dissipated by clouds (which also have additional atmospheric effects) and dust particles allowing the intensity of the light to, well, intensify. It is these latter dust particles which generally make sunsets more dramatic and longer lasting than sunrises, as usually more dust is in the atmosphere in the evening than in the morning. and of course once the sun sets, what we are viewing then technically becomes a twilight.

Back to my sunset images from this summer.

I'm not sure whether it has been the unseasonal nature of this summer's weather but I feel I have witnessed some dramatic skies after what appeared to be inauspicious days.

From the house. July 1st 20.39 hrs

I've mentioned before that my house looks west towards the Black Mountains of Wales. To get to the horizon, in the middle distance is the estuarine Bristol Channel. Ever since moving down to Somerset, I've been aware of sunsets of staggering magnitude and proportions, often after a wet day. The light intensity in this part of the world is very strong, with the prevailing wind straight off the Atlantic. However the Channel itself is muddy in colour, I've often wondered therefore whether this brown sea adds something to the atmospheric colouration. After all the sea does reflect blue light back to the atmosphere, making the sky blue, or at least that's what my grandmother told me!!

From the house. 17th August 19.39hrs

Being on the west, sunrises of note are few and far between, however sometimes just before sunrise produces fantastic cloud formations for a few minutes, until like a magician with an illusionary trick, the clouds dissipate and the sun rises again.

It is as I've said, sunrises which fascinate me. and so the following photographs have all been taken from my house in the last month. I've added the date and time just for interest.

20th August 19.11 hours

20th August 19.12 hours

20th August 19.30 hours

20th August 19.37 hours

The next two photographs illustrate what is a regular occurrence here. This was August 26th. It had rained all day, not just any old rain, but a torrential downpour, which finally ended about 6.30 in the evening. I was in the office working away when all of a sudden a shaft of bright light illuminated the room, such brilliance after a wet, dark and quite frankly depressing August day.

26th August 19.41 hours

As often happened after a wet day, just before sunset the clouds seem to lift up from the horizon, just enough for the sun to almost say, well that's your lot for today, see you tomorrow. Which in turn provides some dramatic and as in this case Apocalyptic skies.

26th August 19.42 hours

This final raft of sunsets have been taken this week. I'm on holiday and this week at home with my parents visiting me. After a hard day chatting and catching up, what better way to relax than watch a sunset develop over the Bristol Channel.

30th August 18.55 hours

30th August 19.16 hours

30th August 19.19 hours

1st September 18.13 hours

1st September 18.43 hours

And so as we head into autumn and then winter we will of course experience more sunsets, but I do feel the summer of 2011 has been an exceptional sunset year, for me at least.

~~~~ POSTSCRIPT ~~~~~

As if to prove my point in the above post, this afternoon it began to rain, torrential rain (why I came indoors to blog). But just now at 19.45 the clouds parted near the horizon as they often do in bad weather and this was the view out the back of the house just a few minutes ago, yet it was still raining on the house. Another magical sunset on a wet evening in September. So I'll let the photograph I've just taken below end the post..............

4th September 19.45 hours

The Native Returns..... part 2

This is what it's all about. The Boy Reiver had another of his flying visits to Northumberland this weekend, to recharge the batteries. Not many would say an 800 mile drive in the UK over 3 days would recharge the batteries, but I love the travelling. The final destination doesn't really matter, it's being on the move which fizzles the excitement in me. Mind you Cornwall last weekend, London next, the boy does travel a bit. I may need to buy a new car soon!

 

So why am I standing in my pyjamas and looking at a view? Well dear reader this is Borders most favouritist view in Northumberland. There are more spectacular ones, there are more dramatic ones, but this view remind me of childhood, messing about in rivers, bird nesting and being a little scamp in the Coquet Valley. Somewhere in that view is a tree with my name carved on it. Tut tut. I've taken many photos from here over the years, and when the dark moods envelope me in Somerset, half an hour looking at this view in a photo, while munching on a sweetmeat get the humour restored.

 

But this is a wildlife blog. So here's a Wheatear sunning himself on a rock in the upper Coquet Valley. I also spotted a Whinchat, not a million miles from here, which gets my year total to 150. Below are Swallows, who seemed to be ominously preparing to fly further south, presumably somewhere near Darlington.

 

 

But I must have some views of the Upper Coquet Valley. Those from Northumberland will know what I mean, but there's nothing like it, photographs never do it real justice, but it was hot, sunny, not a breath of wind, so Border Reiver whipped off his socks and went for a paddle in the River Coquet watching the fish and looking at aquatic insects. I was in heaven, mind you, fish lept onto the bank, the homes of the Caddis Fly laval cases collapsed and the Environment Agency put out a pollution alert, purely because my feet were in the clean water of the Coquet.

 

Haymaking was in full swing on the steep slopes of the valley

 

 

And sheep were well, being just sheep really. In the hot weather they were panting a bit, mind you so was I.

 

 

But as I write this in Somerset, House Martins flying overhead, let me leave you with the view from Barrow Scar back down the valley towards Alwinton. Anyone going to the border shepherds show in October? See you there for a ham and pease pudding stottie in the tin shed, a warm pint from the Rose and Crown and watch the Rothbury Highland Pipe Band bring up colours.... cracking stuff. There's nowhere like it

 

Flaming June ?!?!!?!?

Someone told me recently this was a) June and b) summer. Looking out of the lounge window just now, and having a day off, I'm tempted to say "Global Warming Doesn't Exist". Mind you the weird and largely sensationalist press we have in the UK have painted global warming as clear blue skies, hot weather and drought. It will be in some places of the World, but in the Northern Hemisphere as the atmosphere warms, the amount of available energy will rise leading to very energised low pressure weather systems, sadly therefore more wet, windy and cool summers. Nice winters though!!!

Even the wildlife has come indoors. The lady (females have bristly tibia - she needs Immac) on the left is a very common long-legged fly, Poecilobothrus nobilitatus. I have a lot of these on the pond, they're fascinating to watch as they rest on vegetation and use their white wing tips to attract a mate, by flicking their wings and doing a little dance. This one however was indoors drying off, as was the Carpet Moth on the right. Not entirely sure which one these moths it is, they're very variable, hot money is on the Common Carpet Moth, but if anyone knows different let me know please.

So as the weather is dreadful, I abandoned my planned bird watch and gardening day. Instead a bit of spring cleaning of photos on the computer. And in a flagrant plagiarism moment, from an idea by Hedgewitch, herewith some photos of Ross Sands area of Northumberland, September 2006. We walked the whole length from Budle Bay in a gale, a warm gale, and returned to hear that Richard Hammond of Top Gear had had a serious crash. So what were you doing that day? Gannets were diving out to sea, not a cloud in the sky and we had the beach to ourselves........ apart from an old crotchety sea dog that is. Ruins the view!!

I found this Mermaid though which added something to the scenery. And in case you are wondering the fleece ear defenders were de rigour that season. I think she threw that shell at me later on? And who can blame her.

And if you're interested have a peek here, the top photo of that day's posting is a largish painting (3' x 2' acrylic on canvas) I gave my Father for his 75th Birthday, the whole reason we were up there in September 2006. A reminder of when they used to walk the dog along the beach. Thelma said she'd like to visit the place I'd painted...... and I'm glad we did. Who needs the Caribbean? Mind you the photo's don't show the sand travelling at speed along the beach, it just gets everywhere, and possibly explains the lack of people?

PS: don't tell anyone where this is, they may visit and there would be a crowd on the beach :-)