A Windy Winter Walk

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tune Into A Quiet Winter

In mid December, so the guide books say,  the natural world turns silent. Or at least it did in my younger days in the North East of England. Somerset on the 15th of December was quiet, but not silent. I like this time of year.

It has been nearly two months since I've managed to head out for an afternoon of wildlife watching.  A combination of being busy at work, very enjoyable though that is producing Radio 4's Tweet of the Day, a poorly father and other commitments meant spending time outdoors had dried up completely. However in a moment of wild abandon I headed off to Catcott to spend an hour or two observing nature. 

Rarely these days do I take much equipment with me. I travel light now. Gone are the back breaking rucksacks brimming with scopes and tripod. These days just my trusty Nikon binoculars and (hopefully) enough knowledge to remember the names of that which I observe.

And a mobile phone, such remarkable things. The image above is not perfect, but for me good enough to illustrate winter wildlife. Catcott Lows comprises of seasonally flooded grassland. It is a winter wildfowl spectacle. Wigeon, lapwing, shoveler in good numbers; teal, pintail, snipe, egret, grey heron, mallard. In summer the site is drained leaving a lush grassland often deserted, unless the determined observer, quietly observes. I've heard grasshopper warbler here, watched hobby hunting dragonflies, barn owls drifting by on summer evenings and even on one occasion a mega-drop of passage swallows in their hundreds possibly thousands one spring.

It is in winter however that I visit more frequently especially a quiet area of the reserve rarely used by visitors. An unobtrusive track which vehicles use is a good start, with mixed species in the trees, today enriched by two greater spotted woodpecker plus a smattering of winter thrush. After half a mile an old peat workings track diverges off and is home to roving tit flocks, chaffinch, wren, blackbird as I observed today. Sometimes siskin and redpoll are to be found, goldcrest and rarely firecrest too. Not today though. Today gently unfolded as a quiet walk listening to birds.

In the distance the whistling of wigeon was ever present, with the 'pee-whit' of lapwing providing the lead vocals. But in the trees family parties of long tailed tit noisily foraged the alder. A number of blackbirds tik-tik'ed away at some imaginary intruder, a heron 'franked' his displeasure on being disturbed, a bevvy of wren scolded the air, chaffinch pinked their presence, robins announced the sunset, wood pigeons cooed and members of the crow family noisily flew by calling their species name. There was neither silence nor stillness today.

I had to pinch myself it was mid December, and to be honest the 12oC temperature did not help disprove the illusion of early spring. The only silent encounter, three roe deer resting within tall grass before, having noticed me, pronked away silently to safety, a solitary chiffchaff foraging upon high and a little egret performing leg stretches. Everywhere else the signs, strictly speaking the sounds, of the natural world were evident. 

Gorse was in flower, goose grass, as it is sometimes called was growing strongly, winter gnats were on the wing, even flies buzzed nearby. And today's weak sunshine had warmth. It was a perfect day for a walk, the penultimate day before the sunset times inexplicably lengthen from the 17th. 

The track gradually narrows from a few meters wide at the beginning to at its end just wide enough for one person. In it's latter stages wet woodland flanks its route. I've never seen woodcock here but I'm sure they will be in there. In the same vicinity a Cetti's warbler erupted and a water rail recreated the victims squeal.

In two hours I'd seen many bird species but the remarkable engagement was one of quietly observing. I wasn't walking quickly, two miles in two hour will break no records, however that slower pace allows time to stop and stare. The three roe deer were an illustration of this. It was only by chance while idly scanning the field did I spy three sets of ears, ostensibly looking like those of a brown hare. One deer then raised itself off the ground, stretched, yawned then stared directly at me. Deer do this. We think we're clever, skilfull, stealthy and unobserved. In reality the deer will have seen us from a long way off well before we've seen the deer. However they do have a blind spot. 

I didn't believe the myth that you could walk towards a deer (slowly) until I witnessed it for myself decades ago. The head warden I worked with at Cragside proved this to me. I remained motionless someway off but step by step he walked towards a roe deer head on until he could only have been six feet away. Then the deer saw him and bolted into the woods. The warden told me in his younger days he controlled deer for the Forestry Commission as it was then, that experience taught him the skill of being unobserved but only if directly head on, and due to the position of deer eyes. I've not tried this myself.

I've digressed. This recollection of my afternoon walk seems to have developed into memories and encounters. Simply because I took time to observe, from water droplets on grass stems to a marsh harrier lazily quartering the assembled waterfowl. Not bad skies either.

RHS Rosemoor - Eventually

Way back in 1995 when I found myself living in East Brent in Somerset, my then landlady Mrs Jean Williams, visited what was then the newest Royal Horticultural Society garden Rosemoor in Devon. I remember her returning and knowing of my interest in gardening said I should enjoy it suggesting maybe we could go together regularly and watch the garden, which opened to the public in 1990, develop over time. Sadly none of that suggestion happened and it took me nearly three decades to finally make the hour and a half drive to north Devon and finally visit. It has also taken over a week to write up this visit. A pattern of delay is emerging.

How had it taken me so long to visit? I'm not sure, life just gets in the way, but over the Christmas period despite the weather being so dire the effort was made. To be fair the weather wasn't awful, just perpetually wet, very dark during the day and basically a smorgasbord of grey enveloped the landscape. Each time I ventured outside I seemed to return like a wet rag. Two days before Christmas our walk around Cheddar Reservoir was, well quite wet. Christmas Day saw Julie and I down on the Somerset Levels as has become a little of a Festive tradition now, and we were soaked through. On Boxing Day we simply abandoned another walk before it began as the rain started to fall heavily and never stopped. However on December 29th the forecast for Devon was for heavy blustery rain blowing through quickly overnight followed by sunshine and showers during the day, before more rain would arrive before midnight. A dry window of opportunity then, and I'm so pleased it allowed the visit.

Back in 1995 when Mrs Williams visited RHS Rosemoor the garden was still very much in an on-plan development stage. RHS Rosemoor is still developing, despite the garden and adjacent pastureland being gifted to the Society in 1988 by Lady Anne Berry (1919–2019). This mini estate had been her family home having been bought in 1931 by her father Sir Robert Horace Walpole as a salmon fishing lodge. Its then 8 acres of gardens were of standard Victorian inspiration, lawns, formal flower beds and it was not until her mother installed the stone garden just before World War 2 that any semblance of garden design began to take place. Lady Anne herself is credited as having caught the garden bug in the late 1950's having met the well respected ornithologist and plant collector Collingwood Ingram. He received a moniker 'cherry Ingram' for his knowledge of Japanese cherry trees, he also knew quite a bit about Asian bird species. I digress.

It is 87 miles from home to the garden just outside Great Torrington in north Devon, and as had been expected the rain never stopped on the entire journey, until that is we arrived and the sun came out. Perfect. A sun kissed visit was in prospect to explore the garden for the very first time. We were not disappointed. Julie is a professional horticulturalist so after the obligatory cup of tea and a bacon butty (for research purposes) we split up for a while to explore the garden in our own ways. Of note Julie said when we reconvened was the exceptional labelling of every plant in the garden, a gigantean task given the RHS have expanded the garden to cover 65 acres today. I studied horticulture with the RHS myself thirty years ago as an amateur interest, today however I simply enjoyed the views and took the photographs accompanying this record.

Even in the depths of winter this garden is beautiful with an awful lot to take in, much too much for one visit if truth be told. The long walk above seamlessly splits the formal garden from the visitor centre. There is something magical in a tightly clipped winter structure I feel. Yet buried amongst the formality nuggets of informality, such as the catkins emerging on to the chaotic structure of this corkscrew hazel.

I've lost so much knowledge of plants over the last few years as I now rely on Julie to identify everything for me while we're out and the home garden is her domain. But despite diminishing memory my love for gardens has not weakened and I am increasingly drawn to the feel and atmosphere of a garden, such as the Winter Garden below one of the many rooms within the formal garden, rather than the individual plants therein. 

The climate in this part of Devon is a moist oceanic influenced one, winters are generally mild with summers warm rather than hot, and not as dry as across in eastern England. Perfect conditions to grow some of the more tender species, that Atlantic derived weather influences air quality too. Everywhere there is evidence of how unpolluted the air is with lichen and mosses covering every structure, even the marker signs.

New structures are still being built around the garden, such as the Cob Shelter which provided the perfect frame for a view back towards the Learning Centre which though it was closed on my visit looked fascinating in its own wooden design. Glorious too to see blue skies overhead adding to the bright winter atmosphere.

The rain almost kept off during our visit, a brief squall when we were in the Foliage and Plantsman's Garden didn't dampen our spirits. Even as the light levels dropped the clever planting here flashed colour into the rain.

That squall soon passed and allowed more time to be spent in what for me was the highlight of the formal areas, the Herb, Potager and Cottage Garden. I loved the centrepiece of a simple round pond with child in repose from which the four main quadrants emerged. The winter structure made this garden a delight to visit in December, yet what this garden would look like in spring or summer is intriguing. I feel another visit is a must this year not least as being an RHS member entry is of course free.

Local Devonian craftsmanship is evident everywhere including this easily overlooked Devon Hedge, this one a drystone wall with the traditional chevron design with herb and potager planting on top. A nice touch indeed.

The Cottage garden has a lovely permanent structure, which on the map is shown as simply 'shelter'. It is so much more. I sat there for a while just enjoying the peace and quiet, on this day we visited there were only a handful of other visitors. In the near silence I could hear birdsong easily, great and blue tits, a robin and somewhere behind me a wren. A gloriously restorative moment here.

A sculpture exhibition was taking place, with this cat on a ball taking my eye, albeit with an eyewatering price tag. Not this year I fear. 

It may be midwinter but the signs of spring were pushing through - by the Wisteria Lodge drifts of snowdrops were already in flower and these daffodil 'Rijnveld's Early Sensation' bursting through the grass were a welcome site.

Outside the formal garden the Lake is apparently regularly frequented by otters so the sign said. Not today sadly but the blue skies reflected well the birch planting on the opposite bank, flanked by various cornus species looking as if they were on fire in the weak sunhine.

Further into the less formal areas of the garden, this display of colourful squash in the 'shelter' of the Fruit and Vegetable garden also brought a fiery brightness to the well organised and frankly stunning working part of Rosemoor. I was impressed, not least when I discovered later there are only eight gardeners, plus volunteers. 

Though there may be a lot of hard work to keep this garden looking so stunning, there is a fun element too with their recreation of Mr McGregor's garden from Peter Rabbit to entertain the younger visitors, such as myself.

The second tranche of rain during our visit arrived quickly and was beginning to settle in for a longer spell. We'd been walking for two hours and not really explored more than half of the garden. Chatting to a couple and their friend as we all sheltered from the deluge they let it be known that they come regularly and suggested when the rain eased we head to Upper Woodland Walk to look back onto the whole of Rosemoor from the highest point. Watching the rain fall quite heavily now Julie and I made the decision to abandon any more exploration for the day and plan to complete that walk on our next visit. Which I hope won't be in three decades time, late spring this year, maybe?

The Mock Nightingale In Winter

As I began writing this, the second storm of the week, Storm Eunice, was beating down onto this often windswept part of the Somerset coast. Out the window the only bird visible on the feeders is a male blackcap. With each energetic gust he clings onto the bird feeder as it sways and gyrates in the maelstrom, determined to feed on the fat balls no matter what a named storm throws at him.  How different this day is to Tennyson’s poem, The Progress Of Spring…

“Across my garden! and the thicket stirs, The fountain pulses high in sunnier jets, The blackcap warbles, and the turtle purrs, The starling claps his tiny castanets.”

It is mid-February and therefore a little early in the year to hear such warbles, yet Tennyson’s poem subtly sets the scene. 

In Britain, the blackcap is mostly referred to as a summer migrant. Their arrival from the end of March is heralded by its melodious song, which the poet John Clare called in his sonnet The March Nightingale “a rich and such an early song “.  While Gilbert White wrote on the 19th May 1770  “Black-cap sings sweetly…it is a songster of the first rate… called in Norfolk the mock nightingale".

And that is all well and good, but it’s still winter. While overwintering blackcap in the Mediterranean regions are known to sing outside the breeding season, the male and female blackcap visiting my garden since before Christmas have been very much silent. Come sun, rain, frost or wind the male blackcap has been visible most days, more often than not the only bird on the feeders,  whereas the presence of others - sparrows, starlings, tits and chaffinches - is one of safety in numbers. 

Blackcap are smart looking little birds too. Richard Smythe said of the male blackcap, “The cock-blackcap is a dull grey scrap of a bird with a smart, forward-tilted black cap”.  A scrap of a bird indeed! I’m not sure about that. I think this true warbler is a neat little chap with his sooty black cap and mostly uniform grey body washed with a watercolour tint of raw umber. While the male has been the regular visitor to my garden, his female companion with her chestnut cap has been less frequent. I’ve possibly seen her half as often as him, or more possibly she tends to spend less time at a feeder so I’ve probably just missed her while writing this.

Small numbers of blackcap have long overwintered in England, especially in the milder South West. Records go back to the 19th Century and possibly further, though unrecorded. Yet in the last few decades numbers have increased and reading a 2003 article in the online site Birdguides it notes around 10,000 blackcap now overwinter here, mostly in gardens.

Casting my mind back fifty years or so my interest in natural history, like many of my generation I suspect, was awakened by reading books such as Observer’s Book of Birds, which lists blackcap thus,  “This warbler is a summer visitor [April to October] though like the chiffchaff, it has been known to winter in the South West of England”. Another bedtime reading book back then (under the cover with a torch) was my Collins Pocket Guide To Nests and Eggs, a book singly failing to even mention overwintering blackcap, “…summer visitor, with range of garden warbler, but breeds locally further north in Scotland”. 

I saw my first overwintering blackcap around the turn of the Millennium. The reasons why overwintering numbers have gently climbed are still not fully understood, although climate change, weather patterns and available food are thought to play a part.  That article in Birdguides neatly summarises this, noting that it is the sheer number of blackcap “that now choose to spend the winter here, rather than their usual wintering areas in southern Iberia and North Africa.” Deeper into the article the town of Weston Super Mare, a few miles from me, receives special attention as a wintering blackcap hotspot. Which begs the question, ‘why do blackcap now prefer to spend their winters in Weston-super-Mare rather than the Costa del Sol or Morocco?’ 

Watching what I refer to as ‘my’ blackcaps in the garden on a winter’s day, I could be fooled into thinking these were simply resident birds, summer visitors from last year who for reasons of their own, (like increasing numbers of swallow now overwintering in England), decided it’s far too much effort to fly south for the winter when there’s a smorgasbord of food being laid on in this garden. Well that’s what ornithologists thought for a long time, and they, and I, would be wrong.  These birds, with a few exceptions, are not a resident population but winter migrants.

Back in the 1990s the mystery of why blackcap were flocking to Weston Super Mare (and of course elsewhere) was finally revealed. A Germain scientist, Professor Peter Berthold, and his team captured 40 Blackcap on the Somerset coast during the winters of 1988-1990. These birds were then taken over to his research station in southern Germany where they were observed and held until the following autumn when they began to show ‘migratory restlessness’ (or simply - the birds hop in the direction they want to migrate). Professor Berthold concluded that “in contrast to most of the Blackcaps breeding in southern Germany (which migrate [in winter] in a southwesterly direction towards Iberia and North Africa), the British birds he had captured orientated in the direction of the UK (northwest), meaning that the breeding origins of the UK wintering population were most likely to be in south central Europe”. In other words the blackcap I’ve been watching all winter have probably come from breeding areas of Germany, Poland or the Netherlands. And the birds I saw in the summer are now sunning themselves in North Africa and the Med. 

It must be a tough choice for a blackcap. One morning in October they wake up and ponder life’s big questions; shall I head south to my warm Mediterranean winter quarters? Or head northwest and be storm lashed next to the Bristol Channel? Foregoing to head south, those birds choosing to migrate to Somerset for the winter, are here for a reason. Seemingly part of the reason is food, or correctly, supplementary food we all put out in our gardens.

Studies by the British Trust for Ornithology ( BTO ) suggested that in British gardens the increase in overwintering blackcap coincided with the increased provision of wild bird food in our gardens from around the 1960’s. Not just quantity but quality. I remember as a child pestering my parents to put up feeders, all that was available was dusty floor sweepings of seed from the local farm suppliers or pet shop. Today there is a dazzling array of fat balls, suet treats, seeds of every description, with an estimated 150,000 tonnes of bird food sold annually. That’s a lot of food being regularly made available, providing much needed energy-rich feeding in the lean times over winter. Many resident birds have adapted well, tits, chaffinch and so on and have seen their populations increase as a result. In this regard, it is these birds known as generalists who are able to adapt to changes, feed in gardens, and potentially benefit from increased body condition, energy, survival and maybe come breeding time just be that much fitter. Didn’t Darwin have a theory about that or something? It seems blackcap are one of the bird world’s generalists, after analysis of the BTO’s Garden BirdWatch data found strong evidence that the rate and numbers of occupancy of gardens in winter [by winter migrating blackcap] is directly influenced by both supplementary food provision and temperature. 

One of the fascinating discussions at the moment is with Climate Change, which species will win out. A study by Van Doren et al said “[blackcap] is a migratory songbird thriving in the face of environmental change”. Climate change is making British winters warmer and all this food is providing vital mid-winter energy. Simple? Well maybe. 

I’m returning to my Weston Super Mare question – how do blackcaps in Germany know I’ve a garden overflowing with sunflower hearts? Have they a food miles map? Are the BTO providing fat ball Sat-Nav trackers? Does a lone blackcap find the sunflower hearts, pop over to Freiberg to tell his Germanic lady friend and a week later they’re back? I don’t think there’s a definitive answer here and the detailed mechanisms behind why birds alter inbuilt migratory behaviour is a wide-ranging topic of discussion, but not today. 

However bird migration routes are mostly genetically inherited. It could be argued then that this increasing trend in wintering blackcap in England was one of a slow burn from a few Victorian individuals being simply opportunist to a full on parent-to-offspring inheritance.  However, what is fascinating is that over time these winter migrants from Germany are showing subtle morphological changes. It seems that blackcap wintering in Britain have developed relatively narrower and longer beaks than those wintering in Spain, the assumption being this is a result of needing  beaks to be narrower and longer to simply get into the gaps in the feeders. There’s that ability to adapt and survive again. Additionally further German studies even suggest that over time the British wintering and North African wintering blackcap may develop into separate subspecies, and all because I’ve popped some fat balls into a feeder!

Why the overwintering birds do not stay here to breed and maybe grab an earlier more suitable territory isn’t known fully, though it seems that a tiny number of blackap are truly resident. One study found that only 6 individuals out of over 1000 studied in the UK one winter stayed put. But will this change? Patrick Barkham writing in the Guardian newspaper put forward a theory that with climate change [many species] birds will no longer need to migrate south in the winter. Why burn a lot of energy to find food when there’s food here. It’s an interesting thought as I fill up the sunflower feeder yet again and sit back to watch Mr Blackcap come and have his elevenses.

I’ve really enjoyed watching blackcap on the feeders this winter, and they are selective over which feeder they use too. My blackcap only feed on sunflower hearts and fat balls, rather than seed or other treats, and this ties in with other studies of overwintering blackcap. These studies show that when blackcap arrive for the winter they firstly prefer open farmland and scrub, and only later in the season, or during times of bad weather, will they come into gardens. Watching the male in particular, he has a routine. First seen in the fir tree beyond the garden, he will fly direct to the feeder of choice. Unlike other birds which flit back and forth into cover with each morsel, the blackcap remain at the feeder for a considerable amount of time, often many minutes. Either he is  sure of not being nobbled by the large female sparrowhawk resident in the area, or simply unawares. And because he stays out in the open so long it affords lengthy observation.  One thing I’ve noticed is that he tends to start feeding at one point and slowly move in a circular direction around the feeder until back to where he started.  So familiar has he become with coming to the feeders that on the rare occasions he doesn’t turn up (or I failed to observe him) I feel a real sadness. Where has he gone?

Well maybe they’re all feeding on mistletoe. I’ve noticed over the last decade that nearly every tree around here is now festooned with large verdant pom-poms of this parasitic plant.  Mistletoe does prefer mild moist climates and I do live in the centre of the preferred range for this plant, but especially during winter where once there were bare branches, those trees are now ostensibly evergreen. And I’m not alone. Since the 2000’s there have been suggestions that mistletoe is spreading faster than it used to in Britain, especially so in the less favourable eastern half of the country where previously established mistletoe populations have been slow to spread. Part of this might be due to warmer winters, but blackcap is a major culprit in this spread.

I’ve not tried this myself but apparently sticky mistletoe berries are not easy to eat, most birds avoid them. Another winter visitor, waxwing, will eat mistletoe and of course so will the mistle thrush (and other thrushes). But despite their name, mistle thrush are not great at spreading mistletoe as they swallow the berry whole, the seed of which is excreted about 30 minutes later often dangling below a branch trapped in the sticky excreta. Blackcaps however only swallow the berry skin and pulp, leaving the seed needing to be wiped off its beak on, well you guessed it, a branch, a perfect spot to let it germinate. And of course it’s an ever increasing circle if you think about it, mistletoe is a source of food during winter for blackcap, they help germination success, so more mistletoe means more berries to feed on over winter, fitter blackcap, I could go on.

All I know is that in the next few weeks these overwintering blackcap which have entertained me all winter will head back to their European breeding grounds, to be replaced by their summer-arriving cousins from north Africa, arriving fresh and ready to take up breeding territories with song.

So let’s hear it for the blackcap then. Though it still doesn’t answer my question about why on earth they chose to come to Weston Super Mare? 

Selected Reference : 

S. Vere Benson,  The Observers Book of Birds; Warne London (1972)

R.S.R Fitter and R.A Richardson  Collins Pocket Guide To Nests and Eggs. Collins London (revised ed 1968)

Smythe, Richard  A Sweet Wild Note: What we hear when the birds sing. Elliott & Thompson, London. (2017)

Witherby, H. F, Jourdan, F.C.R, Ticehurst, Norman F. and Tucker, Bernard W (1940) The Handbook Of British Birds, Vol 2. H.F & G Witherby, London (1940)

Fisher, James,  The Shell Bird Book. Ebury Press and Michael Joseph (1966)

Tennyson : The Progress of Spring.  – [fifth stanza] http://www.poetryatlas.com/poetry/poem/348/the-progress-of-spring.html

Flegg, Jim  Oakwatch : a seasonal guide to the natural history in and around the oak tree. Pelham Books (1985)

Charles S Bayne  Exploring England. Collins London (1944)

John Clare’s Poem The March Nightingale “and while the blackcap doth his ears assail” can be found in the book Midsummer Cushion ed. Anne Tibble. Ashington. Carcanet (1978) 

ON-LINE REFERENCES 

Birdguides (2003) : Wintering Blackcaps – Where Do They Come From and Why?

https://www.birdguides.com/articles/wintering-blackcaps-where-do-they-come-from-and-why/

BTO : Why we are seeing more Blackcaps wintering in Britain? 

https://www.bto.org/understanding-birds/species-focus/blackcap

RSPB : Blackcap Mirgation 

https://www.rspb.org.uk/birds-and-wildlife/wildlife-guides/bird-a-z/blackcap/migration/

Smithsonian (2021) : Bird Migration Patterns Are Changing—and Climate Change May Be to Blame

https://www.smithsonianmag.com/smart-news/bird-migration-patterns-are-changing-and-climate-change-may-be-to-blame-180979054/

Van Doren, B.M., Conway, G.J., Phillips, R.J., Evans, G.C., Roberts, G.C.M., Liedvogel, M. and Sheldon, B.C. (2021), Human activity shapes the wintering ecology of a migratory bird. Glob Change Biol, 27: 2715-2727. https://doi.org/10.1111/gcb.15597

Barkham, Patrick. Guardian. 25 Oct 2021 – Migratory Birds May Stop Flying South For The Winter.

https://www.theguardian.com/environment/2021/oct/25/britains-migratory-birds-may-stop-flying-south-for-winter

Oxford study

https://www.ox.ac.uk/news/2021-04-14-bird-feeders-have-reversed-blackcaps-migration-fair-weather-visitors-wintering

Mistletoe website http://mistletoe.org.uk/

The Quiet Woods

Last weekend Julie was at Lydney Park in the Forest of Dene for an Equine Psychotherapy workshop, which apparently from all accounts was fantastic. Anyway I thought as I don't know that area very well, I'll offer to drive Julie there and back each day and that will give me 4 hours a day to amuse myself, with a spot of walking-cum-birdwatching.

Safely dispatched on Saturday I headed off to a place called Tidenham Chase. I've had to look up some facts and figures, but this area of Gloucestershire sandwiched between the River Severn, and Chepstow in Wales was a real gem of a find. It had a real feel of isolation, yet as the crow flies, just 15 miles from Bristol.

Parking the car I headed into the woods which have recorded woodcock, nightjar, crossbills and other classic boreal avians. Today though, and as is oft the case in mid winter woodlands the birdlife was sparse and hard to see.

I didn't mind, the day was sunny, mild (for December) and I was just enjoying the walk, when all of a sudden I came across these free range pigs. This is how pigs should be kept, not indoors. The gentle snuffling and grunts told me they were happy pigs, if a little dirty.

There is something magical about being in a silent wood in mid-winter. There is a heady presence of silence everywhere, mainly as the birds are mostly silent at this time of the year. Yet this silence is just a smoke screen for life carrying as normal, if we just look a little harder, such as these flies, grabbing as much warmth from the suns rays as it is possible to do in mid December.

The views up here across the River Severn to "mainland Gloucestershire" were stunning, and if you are wondering that's Berkley Nuclear Reactor on the distant shoreline.

Tidenham Chase seems to actually be an amalgam of smaller woodland areas. This area, as was most of the Forest of Dene, was a mining region, so there is much evidence of past exploitation of the coal reserves underground. At an adjoining woodland called Parson's Allotments, I stumbled across this monument.

And try as I might I can not find out what this monument is about. The inscription said VP 1837-97 (or was it 1867, it had some damage to it). Was VP the Parson of the woods name? I'd be interested to know more.

I did see some wildlife of course. This buzzard idly flew up from the woodland floor and sat looking at me. Which helped me enormously as while watching the buzzard, I noticed a small number of marsh tits flitting about, 3 or 4, but on looking at one of them, one had a very sooty black head, was this a willow tit? It's so hard to tell them apart without song. The marsh tit's did call, but not this sooty black chap, so I can't be certain but my hunch was 3 marsh and a single willow. Quite possible as around these 4 birds were half a dozen blue and great tit. Mixed tit flocks are a very familiar sight in the winter, although long tailed tits, of which I saw many by the pigs, do not seem to be as sociable.

This active hole was also a nice find, woodpecker possibly, but given the damage to the tree around the hole itself it is more probably being used by grey squirrels as a winter site, but again maybe little owl, other birds, even bats, if abandoned.

And so I wound my way back to the car after a glorious 3 hour ramble in December sunshine; it wasn't spectacular, just a pleasant walk in silence.

Sadly the next day, Sunday, brooded dull and the threat of rain in the air. Again Julie safely installed in her Yurt, I headed inland this time to the area around Nagshead, the RSPB site. To begin with I decided to have a wander about the area before visiting the reserve. I have to admit something here, in that I just headed off without really having a clue where I was. Even carrying a map was pointless as I didn't really know where I'd started from. But that didn't matter I was following old forestry tracks so couldn't really get lost.

This hole intrigued me. Ashamedly I've done the classic faux pas of not scaling this. It was about 4-5mm across and on a sandy substrate. I wonder if it is an oil beetle chamber, or mining bee, though a bit late in the season for them. I asked a few colleagues and they're a bit stumped too. Any ideas out there?

No mistaking this jay. I'm a huge fan of all corvids, and jays just fascinate me. But (my incompetence not their ability) I've never ever managed to get a descent photo of one. They're off faster than I can get the camera ready.

A lot of lichen can be found in the Forset of Dene, such as this fairly common Ramalina spp. The forest semed to be good for lichen, presumably due to the ancientness of the area's woodland, and of course being on the west, slightly damper conditions. The forest's longevity is partly due to it's proximity between Wales and England, so, as with many border areas, they weren't developed. Also the low-impact mining which carried on here needed timber for the mine shafts, so there continued a continuity of tree cover rather than clearance for agriculture. You can read more about ancient woodlands and their epiphytes here.

Plenty of squirrel dreys around here too, sadly not the reds, and another interesting sight of some cracking Stereum spp. fungi on stacked logs, which was good to see being left here in a Forestry Commission plantation.

I finally made it to the RSPB's Nagshead reserve just as the rain began to become more frequent. But I was here and decided for one last push and so tramping again through silent woods, I reached the hide, in excitement of possibly seeing mandarin ducks. Absolutely nothing, not a single bird within 100 yards.

But on the way back a nice collection of sulphur tuft fungi on a tree stump. So again the woods may be silent with birdsong, but if we look, there's a lot to see.

So that was it, two days exploring a part of the UK I'm not at all familiar with. It is very hard work birdwatching in woodlands in mid-winter, I probably saw 20 species in 2 days, including some lovely nuthatch on the Sunday. But that's not the point. It's all about getting out there and looking for other signs of life. There are birds there, but they're silent and often hidden. But look closely and we can see lichen, moss, fungi, as well as signs and tracks. And on this last point I shall end this posting.

The Forest of Dene is well known as being home to reintroduced wild boar. While getting myself completely lost in the forest on Sunday, I stumbled across a wild boar area. Optimistically, I'm sure I heard a single grunt from a distance, but in reality I didn't see a boar. I'd love to and think they're a fantastic addition to the UK countryside. But in the area I stumbled across there were many many signs of very recent activity.

Wild boar slot (quite similar to some deer)

a chewing post, and of course the uprooting they do along wide tracks.

To see these it's best to be out there in the dawn or dusk, so I may just have to ask Julie to go and book herself onto another course in the not too distant future...........!!