North East Garden Wildlife

I've been spending a few days up in the North East as my father has been in hospital. What with hospital visiting and working full time the days have simply been a blur. No sooner have they dawned over the North Sea then the sun is setting over Newcastle, sun which at this time of the year is as strong and warm as we'd have in August. However in the few gaps of my rushing about like a headless chiff-chaff I've been doing some wildlife window watching.

My parents garden has always been good for wildlife. In the thirty plus years they've lived here no chemicals have ever been applied. Before that the two spinster sisters who lived here had let the garden revert for decades, and when my parents moved in it was impossible to get to the bottom of the garden. My parents have never liked a tidy conventional garden anyway - it is mainly trees, shrubs and borders which now are semi-wild as my father rarely goes into the garden now. The wildlife flourishes here, and with the garden being two hundred years old I'd like to think it has matured gently over time into a little mini nature reserve. As far as I'm aware nothing unique makes this 30m by 90m garden its home, but that doesn't distract from the joy I get observing what goes on outside while at the kitchen sink.

Take these jackdaws for example. This pair are now nesting in one of the disused chimneys. I sat in the garden one evening watching them fly in and out of the hole in the side of the chimney, while making a mental note to ignore this property decay. Each time they arrived at the chimney, one, which convention would suggest the male, (but I'm not sure as females also tail wag) would sit on the chimney pot, wagging it's tail as a sign of communication, while the other popped into the void to be followed by the first bird, but only briefly.  Then they'd both fly out sit on the chimney in the glorious evening sun and repeat this behaviour a number of times. The nest presumably is built and eggs inside, it is impossible to tell, though I'd have though the female would be nest sitting if that was the case. This pair may simply be late prospecting after all, with the tail wagging all part of a ploy to speculate in this real estate. But they are fun to have around.

I'd put a new bird feeder up as the old one had been trashed by the grey squirrel which has it's drey in the ivy covered rowan tree nearby.  I know these mammals are despised but I like them and this individual is as fit as a lop. I watched it last night sitting high on the pub roof next door. Suddenly it leapt into the large holly tree which dominates this garden. A distance of 3 maybe 4 meters, a crash into the branches and then a scampering up and along the branches out into an acer, then a jump into the rowan and disappeared. Brave little chap, no fear then of launching itself into the prickly holly tree. 

That holly tree itself is a micro habitat - we've long speculated how old it is. I'd suggest close on a hundred years as the trunk is about a meter in circumference, all gnarled and covered in those nodules older holly is known for. Over the years a magpie has nested in there, blackbirds and pigeons have foraged on the berries and it is also a place to watch holly blue butterflies. I can't remember the exact year I first saw holly blue in the garden but at that time they were spreading north and on reporting it to the local recorder, it was only the second or third record in this area. Most days this week half a dozen have be seen flying about in the sun. Along with a lot of bees and flies. Down at the lower end of the garden is a hawthorn which has been consumed by ivy, it looks like a huge green mushroom now. Stand there in the warm sun and the sound of hundreds of insects is evident from a gentle hum. Later in the year this will be a butterfly magnate. Oddly though while I've been here, aside from the holly blue,  I've seen no other butterflies or moths. That's probably observer error rather than lack of species. 

Next to the hawthorn is an ancient pear tree which is now in blossom. In the past I've seen bullfinch here, but not for many years since houses were built on the fields behind the house. It is a favourite spot though for the wood pigeon and often I've seen a sparrowhawk sitting here waiting to ambush, though not this week. One evening though I watched a blackbird nest building near by. Arriving at regular intervals with leaves or twigs it popped into the ivy and while I couldn't see exactly what was going on, the shuddering and juddering of the ivy gave the game away. A most enjoyable observation, which went on for at least half an hour as I sat in the evening sun with my mug of tea. I did think though at the time that while a good safe location concealed from most predators, the resident squirrel may have other ideas. 

However a lack of species was not my issue at 4.30am mid week. I'd had a restless night, thinking of this and that, so having woken I thought time for a cup of tea. Before heading downstairs and although quite dark still, I heard birdsong. I popped into the back bedroom where there are windows that open to almost the floor. As I opened them and sat on the window ledge the birdsong of a Tyneside conurbation dawn chorus hit me. The predominant bird was a blackbird, and as I listened there were at least three dotted about. But also in this soundscape, at least one song thrush, carrion crow, jackdaw, blue and great tit, and I'm sure a greenfinch, a smattering of house sparrows and a coal tit which are resident in the garden. A dominant wren added to the chorus as did a dunnock and later some passing herring gulls. No summer migrants yet. Dawn is getting earlier now and the soft apricot glow to the east added to the sense of peace and quiet after my restless night.

Yesterday however there was very little peace and quiet. The garden is home territory to a pair of collared doves with presumably a nest nearby. They sit for hours on the garden chairs cooing gently. But they are aggressive too. 

I'd discovered a handful of early Roman era crumpets lurking in the freezer, so having a sort out I threw them onto the lawn for the birds. First down the jackdaws. That was fascinating. I'm not sure crumpets are a staple diet of these birds, but immediately one hopped over and having quickly looked at it stood on it, before beginning to pull and peck at the crumpet - and of course standing on the crumpet meant it didn't move, clever. The jackdaw then moved around in a circular motion taking small bites on each pass. That was until the collared doves began attacking the innocent corvid. A bit of a tussle took place before the harrying doves chased the jackdaw away. All was calm, for a while at least. 

Half an hour later I heard a raucous commotion and looking out a carrion crow was in the garden eyeing up one of the crumpets. It was a matter of a few seconds before I saw the doves fly at the crow in a territorial attitude. Unlike the jackdaw the much bigger carrion crow was having none of this and before I realised it had either hit the dove with it's feet or its bill, but whatever had happened there was a flurry of dove feathers billowing in the air, with the dove flying off to look a little non-pulsed on the pub roof. Meanwhile its mate sat in the acer tree in an attitude of, I'm not going near that big lad. Calm restored once more the carrion crow picked up the whole crumpet in its bill and flew off, leaving a carpet of downy feathers as the only evidence of a battle.

Later in the evening this was repeated, but now with rook. Three rook dropped into the garden, with a similar number perched nearby. In came the doves cooing and flapping wildly. One rook perched on a chair was repeatedly dive bombed, a risky business for the dove given that a rook's bill is more like a pickaxe. The rook still perched on the chair but with its neck stretched upwards parred and stabbed at the repeatedly passing dove. Meanwhile the other two rook were making tidy progress with the crumpets. Eventually all three rook, presumably fed up with the collared dove, flew off while being chased by the doves who were still dive bombing the rooks as they flew away. The doves soon returned and sat on the table looking all innocent and delicate, cooing softly. 

Innocent and delicate, I don't think so. I know what goes on, I've observed all of this out of the kitchen window this week. So after all that, I think it's time for a bacon sandwich for breakfast.

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.

On Sociable Birds

To mis-quote Jane Austin "It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single crow in possession of a good feeding area, must be in want of a flock."  

I've been watching birds feeding this week. 

As the rooks fly off, the carrion crow remains

A superior position of not working this week means time and leisure to observe wildlife without the spectre of timescales looming over the horizon. My horizon most mornings has been the field beyond the house. This year maize has been grown in these 60 acres to feed cattle on the farm nearby. That farm is a haven for birds due to it's semi derelict buildings and overwintering cattle by the River Banwell. This week however I have been observing the antics of a mixed corvid flock taking advantage of spilt corn following the harvest of this wind pollinated fodder crop.

Before this, last week on holiday in Bredwardine in Herefordshire, I spent a lot of time watching a pair of buzzards feeding on the hillside at the back of the holiday cottage. When I say a lot of time, over 3 hours. 

Buzzards feeding in Herefordshire

It was Julie my wife who first spotted a single buzzard as it lazily flew off its fence perch to grab something in the field. Soon this paler bird was joined by a bigger and much darker bird.  Buzzards like most raptors do exhibit sexual dimorphism, or strictly speaking reverse sexual size dimorphism, whereby the female is larger than the male. However this is not that marked in buzzards and so in field situations I can only guess the darker bird was the female of a pair. What was more interesting was their feeding behaviour. 

Male and female pair? Maybe!

Buzzards feed on an eclectic list of prey items from lagomorphs to birds, amphibians, rodents and carrion with insects and earthworms making up just a small but important percentage of their diet. An interesting study from 1993 revealed rabbits make up the bulk of a buzzard diet. Yet these two birds were feeding on worms and beetles. For all birds, diet composition changes with the passing seasons and weather. I remember years ago passing a field near Yeovil in Somerset containing 20-30 buzzards, all feeding on earthworms and invertebrates. I never saw them there again.

As with my Yeovil encounter, in Herefordshire the day before had been very wet indeed,  presumably pushing the worms up to the surface. As the pair sat motionless on posts, every ten minutes or so one would float down to the ground pick up a worm, or insect too small to identify, eat it, and return to the post. This cycle of patient observation, followed by brief feeding repeated itself all afternoon until dusk. There can not be much nutrition in a worm, compared to say a vole, so their patience may have been out of necessity, rather than choice. That I don't know, for I stopped watching them after over three hours, but popping out as the last rays of sunshine filtered across the field, they were still there patiently watching and waiting. That buzzard pair, other than being together, were not co-operating in any specific feeding behaviour. Corvids however do. 

Bredwardine pre roost

The cottage boasted a summerhouse in the garden which afforded superb views up the Knoll which allowed me to sit in comfort observing the buzzards. A more noticeable event on first arriving at the cottage was the noisy mixed flock of jackdaw and rook. Each evening they did the same thing to form pre-roost groups, illustrating the sociability of these black birds. In Mark Cocker's Crow Country he talks about the [roost] "... one a shared stillness, the other a chaos of flight and noise. They pitch each individual bird towards the collective heart"  It is a good description. Each evening at 5.30pm I'd hear the jackdaws first. Jak jak jak as they flew in over the cottage, three would land on the chimney, no more, no less. Soon the flying jacks would be joined by the craa craaa craa of the rooks as they formed a sizeable mixed species aerial display overhead. I never found out exactly where they went to roost each night, but their pre-roost antics, two species as one, were as regular as clockwork. Both species will roost together, during the day, rooks and jackdaws forage together for a very simple reason. Rooks have pickaxe bills ideally suited to digging deep into soil. Jackdaws having much smaller, slender bills, follow in the rooks wake and pick up the pieces. Some studies suggest rooks leave a proportion of their finds for the jackdaws and in return as jackdaws are more observant, the rooks gain additional security when out in exposed fields digging away.

Back home, this corvid sociability has taken itself to a new high in my knowledge, something I've not observed before. In the picture below, three species of corvid are on the wires overlooking the now harvested maize field, rook and jackdaw, but also carrion crow. Older books will tell you that a carrion crow is not a social bird. But over recent years my own observations are that while they are isolated and solitary in the breeding season, come autumn I see all three species in fields. Carrion crows are superb at security as they are ever watchful of threat and almost impossible to get close to. They will feed with rooks in the winter and out the back of the house I witnessed a repeated bit of behaviour I'd not witnessed.

Rook and jackdaw on wires, with single carrion crow fourth from left

Much like the buzzards, this mixed corvid flock which numbered about 50 or more sat for a while on the wires. At a given moment, four or 5 birds, normally rooks would fly down to the field, frustratingly out of sight due to the hedge. In most cases a 10 second gap would occur. Jackdaws then followed with the remaining rooks in a maelstrom of activity, leaving (usually but not always) a carrion crow or two on the wires. The latter always seemed to be the last to fly down, either out of timidity joining this multitudinous flock of noise. Or as I like to think, the crows are the flock sentries keeping an eye out for predators, until when the whole flock is settled on the field, they too can flop down and join them to feed. In reverse or if disturbed, the rooks would fly up first, jackdaws next and bringing up the rear, the carrion crows.

I've witnessed this many times over the week. Always in the morning and by eleven o'clock all three species have flown off elsewhere to feed. All in all it has been a fascinating week observing common species but taking time to really watch what is happening.  I still have a number of question in my head as to what is going on, time then to head off and observe this all over again.

Wildlife watching is often frustrating - honest!

You watch the telly. Sir David Attenborough is inches from a stunning wildlife spectacle, or conversing with a gorilla in a shrubbery. Wildlife watching is so easy isn't it? Well, actually no, after close to 50 years watching wildlife I have had many more frustrations than successes. But of course the successes are, well real successes. Those programmes like Blue Planet take 3 to 4 years to make and many hours of sitting twiddling thumbs waiting for two minutes of  action. And in my world of watching wildlife its the same. Take my jackdaws.

 

 

I call them my jackdaws but of course they are free flying corvids. Each morning at the moment , around 7.30am they fly low, below roof height, and true past the back of my house as about one hundred birds leave the night time roost and head off to the fields for breakfast. Normally I'm getting ready for work, and see them just feet from the kitchen window, jak-jacking as they pass. Thus this morning being Saturday a pint of tea in one hand, camera in the other, I found myself in a drizzly garden. Poised to take a photograph of the black missiles passing over. Thirty photographs later, this is the best!!!!

 

Today not only did they fly across in dribs and drabs of a few birds rather than the massed fly past, they also flew in front of the house or higher up and towards the sea. (Wouldn't you if I was out and about). As I only really have seconds to get ready before they are in view, I had the camera set up and ready. However because they didn't come in the planned flight path I made the cardinal mistake of hand holding the camera, on a dull drizzly day, before sunrise. The result as you can see was spectacular.

 

So there you go. Watching wildlife is a hit and miss process. Some days you win, some days like today you lose. But that's not the point, as the saying goes, the "destination is about the journey". I remember in the 1980's training up people in otter surveying and a long conversation with a lovely chap who had come on a training day I was running only to at the end complain we'd not seen an otter all day, so what's the point of this? Despite seeing an otter slide, otter spraints and being surrounded by fabulous wildlife along the River Coquet, he just didn't get it. He didn't get that seeing signs are just as important as the animal itself. It takes all sorts, I often wonder if he still looks for otters.

 

So the moral of the story is as I explained to a very new to the job National Trust warden, "come to a spot where you think there is wildlife, sit down, and watch, every day and eventually the wildlife will come to you, and how you want it". Or take an expert that has done much of the leg work beforehand of course.

 

Such as seen recently on TV my friend and superb naturalist John Walters and his long tailed tits night roost which took three years to find, but that's for another day.... maybe a posting about the potter wasps John took me to see. Magic.

Hunting corvids

They make it look easy on the television but I know from bitter experience it may take weeks of planning to arrive at a location and see a specific species or wildlife event. It doesn't happen easily and without those thousands of people on the ground daily cataloguing what is happening in the countryside, the events we witness on programmes like Winterwatch would never happen.

 

I realised  a year or so back that having travelled across the UK looking at wildlife, that which frequents my local area is a bit of a mystery to me. One I am rectifying, with the hook for this being my beloved corvids.

 

 

Every morning and every evening a flotilla of jackdaws and later rooks pass over the house heading north-ish. I know rooks nest in the village but somewhere there is a super roost of jackdaws and rooks. Thus I found myself at 4pm yesterday poised like a gazelle to follow the flock as they flew over. Poised like a gazelle I may have been; but all was anticipation and anti-climax. Though watching wildlife is never an anti-climax.

 

I haven't counted the nests this year but around 40 rook pairs nest around the village hall and church. As I arrived there were many of these settled in the sunshine on top of the trees by the village hall.  Soon though they departed to another tree nearer the church. No jackdaws yet. 

 

Corvid watching is often a fruitless business as although many are site specific they can move from area to area depending on food availability in the surrounding farmland. Not knowing where the roost is, unless they came over I had no idea where to look.  Nevertheless I watched a few carrion crows in a sheep field and a buzzard at rest. It was while looking at the buzzard that I heard the familiar jak jak of a jackdaw flock passing overhead. Except they were about 2 miles away and flying in off the sea, and not past where they usually fly.

 

Well that was disappointing. Watching them through my binoculars they headed in a straight line towards what I thought was towards Clevedon but on checking the map more towards Yatton a few miles away. There is a super-roost nearer Bristol so my only thought was they're heading there. Definitely more leg work needed on the ground to discover more. 

 

We get little owls around here too so after abandoning any chance of finding a roost site I went off looking for owl. Nothing, but a nice woodpigeon roost, blackbirds in full tik tik call - I did wonder if there was an owl nearby but couldn't see anything, and when almost dark 4 roe deer.

 

So no corvid roost, and no owls but do you know that doesn't matter at all. Just spending two hours in the local area discovering little pockets of activity was a winner to me. Where the jackdaws go is a mystery, and as I discovered today they flew over at 3pm a whole hour or more earlier than normal due to the heavy rain presumably.

 

All food for thought for another day.

Lone Wildlife Watching

Old ex railway carrages at Whitton were wonderful for swallows nests in my childhood, 30 odd years later still standing...just.

At lunch we were discussing possible ideas for NHU inserts to the ONE Show. And in the middle of this a topic came up, which has been flexing my braincells for a while: Namely, watching wildlife on one's own. I've never worried about wandering hill and dale on my own.

As a child, I used to leave the house before breakfast and return when it was dark. During the week, wandering the fields at the back of our house in West Boldon, sometimes collecting eggs on the way - tut tut. Or at weekends down on the Coquet watching the huge trout which was always there under Lady's Bridge, trudging over the Simonsides looking for Ring Ousels (yes even then I looked for them), looking at Swallow nests in the old railway huts at Whitton, or best of all going to the Thrum and watching the Dippers while carving my name in the rocks. Actually it was while down there I met a old man, who lived on the Cragside Estate at Pethfoot Lodge well before it became part of the National Trust. No idea who he was, but he fed birds from his hands, and I used to watch him in awe, as they pecked away. I never had the nerve to do it myself. A splendid introduction to wildlife, and what a childhood.

So it came as a surprise to me many years ago when people used to say to me when leading walks or surveys, this is lovely, I always feel worried about wandering in the countryside on my own, it's so nice to go with someone who knows where to go. Lately, a few women have said the same to me when we've chatted at Sand Bay. It's a sad state of affairs when people, not just women feel worried about going out on their own to watch wildlife. Absolutely nothing wrong of group activity, but I just feel so priveledged to have had the opportunity to be wild and free, at a time when no one worried where I was from dawn to dusk.