Yes, a shepherd in London. Mid-March is lambing time, and she was out with her Land-Rover on the wide grassy banks of the reservoirs at Wraysbury, just beyond the end of the runways at Heathrow, checking that the new lambs were healthy. The ewe looks as though she’d like a rest, unsurprisingly. The grassy banks are quite steep, and mowing them would be costly and dangerous; how enlightened of Thames Water to use sheep instead. Genuinely “green”.
Also on the walk, several Brimstone butterflies, and a couple of Peacock butterflies (presumably overwintered in a hollow tree or some such place). Near the sheep were two Buzzards and a Red Kite, on the lookout for some carrion, I won’t mention what they were hoping to find. Also about was an early Chiffchaff singing its simple song (its name, over and over), a Cetti’s Warbler, and a Song Thrush. And a flock of Goldfinches finishing up the last of last year’s seeds in a big patch of thistles, burdocks, and teasels.
Volunteers (not me this time) cutting and burning scrub that was invading the Chalk Grassland at Aston Rowant. They made a lovely snipping and clipping noise, very gentle, with a background crackle of burning, as the smell of woodsmoke floated across the reserve.
Ravens, several in aerobatic pairs, wheeled overhead, as did a Buzzard and quite a few Red Kites.
The Witches Broom Hornbeam tree – the brooms are not Mistletoe but shock growths of the tree itself, caused by a bacterium, fungus, or virusBryony Fruits and handsomely spiralling stems of this climbing plantChalk Grassland is perfect for a picnic – smooth and dry to sit on, and there’s usually a lovely view. Ideally comfortable – unless you sit on a low-growing Sit-Upon Thistle!
A Bullfinch wheezed its odd “Deu” call from a hawthorn bush as we had our picnic.
The local Sheep have made a comfortable hollow to keep out of the wind while they’re lying down to digest a bellyful of grass (and why shouldn’t they, it must be tough). The result is a neat geological section through the thin soil, called a Rendzina, down to the solid white Chalk only a few inches beneath the turf. The topmost layer of soil is relatively rich in humus (organic matter); then it turns into a mixture of eroded chalk bits and poorer soil; and then it’s Chalk. The soil successively deepens as it goes down the valley, becoming a richer Brown Earth at the bottom; the chain of soils from thinnest, driest Rendzina at the top to thickest, moistest Brown Earth at the bottom is called a Catena (Latin for chain).Sulphur Tuft in attractive “troops” all over and around a mossy tree-trunk, which it is helping to decomposeThe “Egg” of the Stinkhorn fungus, which rejoices under the name Phallus impudicus (“The Rude Phallus”) – the gelatinous “Egg” turns into a long roughly cylindrical, er, stalk, with a brown, wrinkled, stinking, bell-shaped, er, top which crumbles into masses of spores; flies, attracted by the stink, come and disperse the spores. As they say, there are lots of ways to make a living …
Wind or not, a sunny winter’s day is too good to miss, so I wrapped up warm and squelched through the mud around Wraysbury Lakes. In the car park, a Grey Wagtail hawked for insect life. Among the few ducks on the lakes were some Goldeneye, one of the winter specialities of the area. The Great Crested Grebes had most of the water to themselves, looking predatory with their sharp spear-beaks.
On the meadow, four Stock Doves got up – an under-recorded species if ever there was one, as people take them for feral or wood pigeons. A Green Woodpecker gave its ringing Plue-Plue-Plue call, really loudly: spring is on the way, honest! The Jackdaws wheeled and dived in the strong wind, totally at home. A Buzzard soared with barely a wingbeat, turning on well-rounded wings with fanned tail. Towards the end, the bushes thrummed with twittering Goldfinches.
But the best thing wasn’t a bird at all, but the Mistletoe hanging from a bare beech branch. Let’s hope it spreads.
Unloading wheelbarrows from roof of Land-Rover at Fray’s Farm, one of London Wildlife Trust’s numerous reserves on the western edge of London. All we needed to do was to find the logs!
We fanned out across the reserve looking for log-piles. On the way, I found this beautiful Oak in full autumnal splendour, as well as a buzzard, a red kite, and a common darter dragonfly (not bad for mid-November), and a brief glimpse of a roe deer. Jules found a handsome Carabid ground beetle.
Anna and Netty loading the spoils. The logs were covered in lichens and the ones which had lain a year or two with elegant curtain crust fungi as well.
Well, I had two delightful surprises on my Wraysbury walk today. The first, as you can see, was a Cardinal Beetle, by no means a common sight any more, and unlike many claimed sightings, seems to be the actual species. I say seems to be, because the antennae were not especially toothy: the detail below shows that the end segments were certainly well toothed, the rest not. So either this was an individual with a slightly aberrant pattern, or it was a closely related species.
Cardinal Beetle – detail of antenna, well toothed at least at the end
The other thing was the warblers. There have been hardly any Chiffchaffs around in the reserve, but today I heard about six of them. They struggled to be heard above a background of Blackcaps with varied songs; and in some spots, a barrage of Garden Warblers as well (mixed with a bit of Blackbird, Robin, Chaffinch, Robin, and Wren). And, just once, the second delightful surprise: a Lesser Whitethroat, with its distinctive trill. So it was a Four Warbler Walk. I listened out carefully for Sedge Warbler, Cetti’s Warbler, and Willow Warbler but there weren’t any singing – the Cetti’s were surely lurking nearby.
Overhead, apart from the planes, were a Buzzard, gently mobbed by a Carrion Crow, later joined by a circling Sparrowhawk.
The brambles and herbs (from nettles to Comfrey) were being used as perches by a mass of Banded Demoiselles, both the blue males with their glorious dark blue wing-patches, and the more subdued green females. They were joined by a few Common Blue Damselflies, the first of the year for me, as the demoiselles were.
Kestrel hovering over Wraysbury, under a wintry sky
Winter showed her wizened hand today. The bright sunshine of the morning quickly gave way to cloud under a chilly northerly wind. Zipping up my coat, I wondered if I’d see anything worth remarking, and plodded up the path in the flat light. I looked left at the river Colne, and a plump Water Vole splash-dived among some juicy Iris leaves that I guess it had been cutting. Once a common enough sighting, it’s now something very special.
The main lake was almost devoid of birds, a distant swan, a few black-headed gulls and a coot or two more or less summing it up, a dull day (apart from the vole). I rounded a bend and came face to face with a very fresh-faced, brightly-coloured fox. It stared at me for a glorious second, then turned tail and fled. Given the long narrow neck of land between the river and the lake, it must have run quite a way to escape.
Fungal mycelium in newly-fallen Willow trunk
Not much further, a riverside willow had fallen on to an ancient hawthorn, forming a striking arch. The broken trunk was quite hollow, only a couple of inches of the newest wood remaining as a thin fragile tube. These large trees grow rapidly to a considerable size — and suddenly fall. The wood is soft, and it seems that saprophytic fungi (or perhaps parasitic) can speedily destroy it. This tree was layered with a dry papery sheet of whitish mycelium, presumably whatever species it was that rotted the trunk hollow.
A dark brown Buzzard, almost without markings, floated broad-winged just above the small lakeside trees, almost close enough to touch.
Beside me, the lake suddenly exploded into a mass of pattering feet on water, as a dozen Gadwall rushed to take off. Perhaps these newly-arrived birds are from the frozen north, unused to the slightest human disturbance.
The end of the lake held a score of Tufted Duck, their numbers too increasing rapidly now, again presumably from colder lands to the north or east.
At the steel bridge, a Bullfinch repeated its insistent call, Deu, Deu. And over the grassy meadow, a Kestrel floated silently, hovered, drifted effortlessly upwind to hover again.
Prime Garden Warbler Habitat at Watlington Hill, with Gorse, Blackthorn and Wild Cherry in bloom
The weather forecast said fine and warm, getting warmer each day. The chalk downs called, so I popped out to Watlington Hill to enjoy the spring sunshine and the birdsong. I wasn’t disappointed: I’ve never SEEN so many Garden Warblers, and I mean seen. Their full, rich warble came from every patch of scrub, sometimes two or three singing at once, and the still mainly leafless trees (the buds just broken) make them visible for once. In binoculars, they are almost evenly soft mouse-brown all over, slightly paler below for countershading, with the merest hint of a little half-collar of pale grey. Sylvia borin has been called “Sylvia boring” by birders, and it’s a good mnemonic, if not much of a joke. They don’t have the Whitethroat’s white throat or patterned tertials; they don’t have the Blackcap’s black cap, or even the Chiffchaff’s eyestripe. All negative descriptions: but their song is both lovely and readily recognisable.
Also singing were Chiffchaff and Blackcap, both in numbers; Blackbird, Mistle Thrush (conspicuously perched atop their respective trees, and calling loudly and ringingly to each other); Dunnock, Great Tit, Blue Tit, Robin, Chaffinch, Wren. From the woods, Jays screeched; a Pheasant called in the distance; a few Swallows caught flies overhead; Buzzard, Stock Dove, Wood Pigeon, Magpie, Jackdaw, and Carrion Crow were about.
The hill is on the west-facing scarp of the chalk (Cretaceous, obviously) of the Chilterns, dropping down to the Oxford Clay plain which stretches away to Didcot and Oxford in the haze. The chalk grass is closely cropped by rabbits, but constantly invaded by hawthorn, blackthorn, whitebeam and bramble scrub.
Dog Lichen, Peltigera canina, in chalk grassland, with rabbit dropping for scale
I was pleased to see some patches of the Dog Lichen in the low turf.
The shadow of a Red Kite passed over the grass, and I looked up. A pair of the long-winged, fork-tailed raptors drifted over the hill, swivelling their tails, their bodies perfectly streamlined and front-weighted like gliders.
Brimstone female
As it warmed up, a Brimstone butterfly appeared, perching on the ground to absorb some heat from the sun. It is one of the most leaf-like of our butterflies, which would suggest camouflage: but they are conspicuous even with closed wings. Perhaps birds see them differently from us.
“Cast ne’er a clout till May be out”, runs an old proverb. I guess it means, don’t trust the appearance of spring and sunshine in March or April: I recall two other spring proverbs, “March winds, April showers”, and “One Swallow doesn’t make a Summer”. In other words, spring arrives in fits and starts.
Well, it felt almost like spring at Wraysbury Lakes, with bursts of bright sunshine. A rather bold Cormorant investigated the fish in the river from a low perch. Many Willows have fallen and been cut down: they grow very rapidly, soon become hollow or outgrow their roots in the soft ground, and snap in a storm or topple — across the path, or into the water.
A Cetti’s Warbler gave me a single burst of its loud song from a waterside bush: as usual it was invisible.
Three or four Chiffchaffs chorused uncertainly. There were no other warblers to be heard. Perhaps I’ll get a Six Warbler Walk in a few weeks’ time. The early songsters remain the Song Thrush, the Great Tit and of course that 12-month, 24-hour standby, the Robin.
A Magpie chattered on the woodland edge of Horse Hill: a big brown Buzzard flapped slowly away from the annoyance to perch in a tree.
Gamekeeper Allen Lambert has been sentenced to 10 weeks of imprisonment, suspended for a year, for intentionally poisoning 10 buzzards and one sparrowhawk with pesticide. The judge commented, unarguably, that the offences had crossed the custody threshold. That a gamekeeper old enough to know much better – Lambert is 65 – should do such a thing is pretty shocking. That the law should do so little given what the RSPB called “truly dreadful” and the worst bird of prey poisoning case it had ever seen in England, is disappointing in the extreme. If this isn’t enough to see a perpetrator behind bars, then what is? For of course, nobody is going to imagine that these were the first raptors that Lambert ever poisoned.
The owner of Lambert’s workplace, the famous Stody Estate in Norfolk is Charles MacNicol. We don’t know what he knew of what his gamekeeper of long standing was up to, nor what orders may have been given. What we do know is that MacNicol “wouldn’t tell BBC News whether he knew, or whether he condemned the killings.” Why not? If MacNicol was innocent, why didn’t he just say straight out that he thought the killings of protected birds of prey shocking and illegal, and that the Stody Estate would not condone them? Why not? It would have cost MacNicol nothing. His head-down-and-keep-shtum response immediately suggests his attitude to be entirely reprehensible, and leaves open the question of his knowledge, involvement in and responsibility for the actions taken.
In Scotland, the law on wildlife crime was changed by the Wildlife and Natural Environment (Scotland) Bill in 2011. This introduced ‘Vicarious Liability’ for Scottish landowners: in other words, they are automatically assumed to be responsible for criminal activities like poisoning wild birds on their land. This excellent piece of legislation makes wildlife crime clear-cut. If they knew or gave orders, they are liable. If they didn’t know, they should have, and they are still liable. The result? Wildlife crime in Scotland has suddenly and rapidly fallen from 10 poisoning incidents (killing 16 birds of prey) in 2011 to just 3 (killing 3 birds of prey) in 2012.
But in England, a country that loves nature, landowners aren’t liable for crimes committed by their gamekeepers. If a landowner were to buy some pesticides for lawful pest control, and give a quiet nod and a wink to a gamekeeper to poison off some buzzards and sparrowhawks, the landowner is more or less immune from prosecution. The RSPB wants England to have a similar law to Scotland’s. It’s about time we had one.
Yet another astonishingly warm day, not exactly Indian Summer now with a cloudy start, but too hot for more than a t-shirt by midday. The Wraysbury Lakes were quiet, the winter ducks represented only by a few shoveler and a couple of gadwall. The most impressive waterbirds were the cormorants roosting on the dead branches of a large willow.
Muntjac footprint and pellets
On the path I found a single muntjac deer footprint, with its tiny pellets. A few goldfinches twittered in the bushes, and a linnet. A buzzard circled over the hills in the distance.
The English seem unemotional … except for their passion for nature
