Tag Archives: Cetti’s Warbler

Conservation, Natural History, Nature Reserves, Wetlands

Demoiselles and Warblers beautiful at Wraysbury Lakes

Banded Demoiselle Female with Half-Open Wings
Banded Demoiselle Female with Half-Open Wings

I had a beautiful, peaceful, sunny summer walk down at Wraysbury Lakes. Away from the roar of the traffic and the enormous queues brought on by roadworks and summer weekend commuting, I was surrounded by fluttering, glittering, shimmering Banded Demoiselle males, and on the vegetation also the gloriously iridescent green females, their clear green wings like fine lace dress trimmings to accompany their dazzling emerald-jewelled and enamelled bodies.

Common Blue damselfly pair in cop
Common Blue damselfly pair in cop

As well, Common Blue damselflies basked in the sun; a few pairs in cop carried out their incredibly complicated sex act, all claspers (male tail to female neck, female tail to male belly with its spermatophore and secondary sexual organs, forming the startling ‘heart’ or ‘wheel’, in which the pair can, at a pinch, fly like synchronised swimmers.

At first I thought there were no warblers about, but gradually little bursts of song punctuated the afternoon, and by the end I had heard six warbler species, and good binocular views of three of them (Garden Warbler, Whitethroat and Willow Warbler).

There were some handsome Ichneumons about, but perhaps the insect I was most surprised to see was a Small Tortoiseshell butterfly. When I was a boy these were so common as to be unremarkable – as were House Sparrows, Starlings and Yellowhammers. It is almost a shock to discover that seeing just one is now a rare treat: more nostalgic than pleasurable, perhaps.  Much work needs to be done on landscape-scale and farmland conservation to bring back our common butterflies.

 

Wildlife

Ian Alexander’s Amazing Audio Guide to British Warblers

Today I noted down in my nature diary “Sedge – Cetti’s – Blackcap – Chiffchaff – Whitethroat.” I didn’t see any of them: but I’m sure all of them were there, because I heard them unambiguously.

If you think that would be a nice thing to do, but utterly impossible for you, being a city-dweller with cloth ears, let me reassure you: it’s really not difficult. Have you ever been in a noisy party where someone suddenly said your name? You picked out the sound right away, and looked straight at where it came from, didn’t you. In other words, your hearing, and the auditory processing part of your brain, is perfectly adapted to picking out sound signatures from a jumble of other stuff  – engineers call it noise, and who are we to disagree  – without even thinking about it. It’s a wonderful ability, and it has obvious survival value.

So, to warblers. A lot of small, inconspicuous LBBs (yeah, little brown birds) that mainly lurk about deep inside bushes: but with one sharply distinguishing feature – you guessed it, their song. Each species takes good care to avoid hybridising with other species, probably producing uselessly infertile offspring, by announcing its identity to all and sundry. Males tell other males to push off; and they tell females where they are, what species they are, and (so I’m told) how wonderfully fit they are, just by singing in what the females judge is the right way.

So what is the right way? How, in other words, do these warblers sound? Ok, I lied about the audio, there’s no tape or what have you here. But, in simple words, here’s how to tell them apart.

Let’s start with the easiest one. The Chiffchaff just says his name, over and over and over again. Chiff-chaff-chiff-chaff-chiff-chaff… It’s a fairly high, lisping sort of song on, yes, exactly two notes. If you’re a registered European you may prefer to call it Zilp-zalp-zilp-zalp-zilp-zalp…. — it’s the same thing. The call is pretty loud and clear; if you know the Great Tit’s insistent Teacher-Teacher-Teacher call from park or garden, well, it’s not as harsh as that. The Chiffchaff can be heard almost anywhere there are a good number of trees and bushes; there are plenty in parks and by the river.

The warbler that looks almost exactly like the Chiffchaff is the Willow Warbler. It doesn’t frequent willows. It seems to be getting scarcer, and it likes more secluded bushy areas than the Chiffchaff. The song is a unique series of descending phrases, lisping from high to low like a pianist carefully practising his scales every morning: swieeuo(high)-swieeuo-swieeuo-swieeuo-swieeuo-swieeuo(low). It never varies.

The Blackcap is one of the commonest of our warblers. It sings from any reasonably thick patch of bushes: you need a pretty large garden to get Blackcaps, but they’re in every park and reserve. It’s a bit tricky to describe the Blackcap’s song, because he always improvises, like a jazz musician doing a gig. However, he is a bit of an opera meister, a tenor constantly worrying about his voice. So he goes like this:  Ahem. La, la. Do re mi fa. Ahem. Hrrm. La la la. Ah, let me see. Yes. Aaaaaa–La Dolce Vita — Voce di Tenore – si – Aaaaaa!  In short, the Blackcap starts rather hesitantly, stumbles a bit, warms up, sings a few fine fluty notes — and stops abruptly.  Another way of putting it is the traditional “Blackcap’s brief”, but he’s not always quite that short.

The singer you might confuse with the Blackcap is the Garden Warbler. He’s distinctly less common, and requires more green space, but you have a good chance of hearing him in May. The Garden Warbler’s song is immediately recognisable as rather good. Even if you don’t bother with classical music much, you can at once hear that this is someone with a well-trained voice, perfectly modulated, even, rich, rapid, full of notes, expressive. I don’t want to spoil this by saying that the voice doesn’t do terribly much, but it’s true: the Garden Warbler’s song is always somewhat of a piece. It can go on for quite a while, sometimes tens of seconds without a break (excellent breath control), but there are no sudden leaps, no sharp highs or lows, no discordant notes. It’s Radio 3 not trying too hard in between major concerts.

Quite the opposite is the Sedge Warbler. I can give you a pretty sharp clue as to where you’ll find him singing: in a patch of reeds, certainly near water. He doesn’t need much room: at the Wetland Centre, one sings from a tiny reedbed right in front of a hide, and it’s amusing to watch people trying to locate him even as he sings his heart out. The Sedge Warbler’s song is REALLY discordant. Think modern classical and then some. Schoenberg and Cage rolled into one. Charr-charr-charr (so far so good) SQUEAK Chirp Weeaaiourgh – SQUEAK SQUEAK SQUEAK chirp chirp charr-charr-charr- getting used to this – charr-charr-charr SQUEAK hic! SQUAWK SQUNK got you there charr-charr-charr… and so on for ages. I promise you’ll recognise him straight away.

If we’re into scratchy, the Whitethroat is the start. He’s a beautiful bird and if you’re quiet and come out early before the hordes you’re quite likely to see him atop a tall thorn bush, singing at the top of his voice. He prefers rather isolated bushes in patches of scruffy scrubland. He is reddish brown with a conspicuous fluffy white throat, like an elegant eighteenth-century Mr Darcy with a tailcoat and a white silk neckerchief. Unfortunately for the romantic appearance, Mr D really can’t sing too well, nor for very long. Squeaky-squawky-scritch-scratch. Scrape. Scritchy-scratchy.  Honestly, that’s about it. Occasionally if you’re very lucky you get a little bit of tune, but mostly there aren’t many musical notes in it at all.

OK, the Cetti’s. He isn’t nearly as Italian as his name; in fact, you can find him in reedbeds and beside lakes pretty much all year. He is a real skulker, so I hardly need to describe him, other than to say he sings from quite low down in thick waterside bushes. If you see him at all, it will be a quick glimpse of a medium-dark brown bird with a rounded tail, vanishing into a bush. To compensate, he has a REALLY LOUD song with the pattern Witchipitipit, Witchipitipit. Well, that’s the polite phonetic version. If I remember rightly, it was Simon Barnes in his magnificently naughty How to be a bad birdwatcher (Short Books, 2004; Amazon.com Amazon.co.uk) who voiced the Cetti’s as Me! Cetti’s! If you don’t like it, you can Fuck Off! You’ll definitely recognise him when you hear him, or he’ll nut you one. And once you know his song, you’ll be surprised how widespread he is.

I could do the Lesser Whitethroat for you too, and the Reed Warbler, but I expect you’ve had quite enough for one go. But feel free to ask me if you’re curious.

Natural History, Nature Reserves

Sand Martins and Sandpipers

The recent East winds and warmer weather have brought plenty of spring migrants to southern Britain. Today at the London Wetland Centre a twitch was in full swing at the Peacock Tower, the object of the lovers’ attention being a Common Sandpiper peacefully browsing along the muddy shore, happily unaware of the excitement it was causing. The breeding Redshanks, too, stalked about the shallows probing for food; the Lapwings as always alert, chasing off Carrion Crows and anything else that might have been interpreted as threatening. Around the paths, three or four early Sand Martin arrivals wheel and swoop like the small brown swallows that they are; their nest-cliff is still empty.

Around the reserve, quite a few Brimstone and Small White butterflies, and an Orange Tip gave movement and colour. I heard the first Sedge Warbler of the year, and despite being right next to the willow bush from which a Cetti’s Warbler was giving out its explosively phrased song, I couldn’t see the songster. A Blackcap however could be glimpsed behind the Sheltered Lagoon, chattering its alarm call.  A Song Thrush sang at intervals, and a Dabchick gave its beautiful trill and some small squeaks from the Lagoon, in between spending a lot of time under water.

Back at home, a queen Wasp was nosing about some Ivy-Leaved Toadflax, and a red Mason Bee dug for earth in a seedbed, flying off with a little load for her nest.

Natural History, Nature Reserves

A Six Warbler Walk… First of the Year

A high pressure zone is bringing bright and mainly sunny weather to Britain, but as it’s not overhead it is also bringing quite a cold breeze. Down at Wraysbury Lakes, all the winter ducks have left, with just Tufted, Mallard and a pair of Gadwall remaining. Two Great Crested Grebes wandered around each other, not quite getting into a courtship dance.

Things were more exciting on the birdsong front. Blackcaps and Chiffchaffs sang sweetly all over. A Cetti’s sang very loud, very close by the lakeside as always, first in front … I stalked up very quietly … and then behind me. Invisible, the skulker. In the thicker scrub, several Whitethroats sang their scratchy short song, the first this year; and at least three Willow Warblers sang their descending scales, also the first of the year. And, briefly, one Garden Warbler gave me a burst of his even, musical tunefulness. There’s often a Sedge Warbler near the river but not apparently today. More song came from the Robins, a Song Thrush, and a Chaffinch or two.

Overhead, a Grey Heron circled upwards towards a Boeing 747-400 and did its best to resemble a soaring stork or crane, quite impressive really with broad, downcurved wings rather like one of those air-filled kites made only of light cloth.

St George's Mushroom
St George’s Mushroom

A small patch of St George’s Mushrooms nestled among the Potentilla leaves by the path; it’s about the only edible mushroom at this time of year, but I don’t pick them, both for conservation reasons and because I’m not keen on their rather mealy taste.

The first Speckled Wood butterflies of the year are in evidence; they are fiercely territorial already, chasing off numerous Peacock butterflies. A few Green-Veined Whites settled, frail and shy, on the thicker herbs.

Ground Ivy
Ground Ivy

Great patches, almost carpets of Ground Ivy, which sounds a lowly herb, but looks glorious among the low-cropped grass, shining in the sunshine. It’s in the Labiate or Mint family, and has pretty rather short toothed leaves, purple-tinged, with attractive blue lipped flowers that are really quite orchid-like if you ignore their long tubes.

Nature Reserves, Wetlands, Wildlife

Summer, Spring, Winter … in a day

Large Cumulus at Wraysbury
Large Cumulus at Wraysbury

We had summer already. Yes, in March.  It was baking hot for two weeks, then it ended as suddenly as it began. Then we had spring: the grass started to grow; the gooseberry bush is covered in its fresh green dress; the cherry trees in the streets are glowing with white and pink blossom; now the plum tree too is following with its delicate white flowers.

I grabbed my binoculars and went down to Wraysbury Lakes to see if any warblers had arrived. Even from the road I could hear a Chiffchaff singing; there were at least 10 singing around the lake, so plenty of migrant birds must have arrived to join any hardy overwinterers in the springtime. A Cetti’s Warbler, too, sang its loud brief song from the waterside. But no other warblers, yet; the chorus included a Song Thrush as well as the usual small birds, Great Tits making an odd rasping noise today (nothing like the typical ticha-ticha-ticha call), Robins, Dunnocks, Wrens, a Blackbird.

On the water, I had a surprise: there were two female Goldeneye still present, and a handsome male not far from them. Their biological clocks are still on the ‘Winter’ setting, clearly; their far northern breeding grounds guaranteed to be bitterly cold, devoid of food so early in the year. And near them, two pairs of Pochard, the handsomely rufous-headed males gleaming in the bright sunshine.

A loud splashing alerted me to the presence of an aggressive Mute Swan, its neck folded back, its wings raised threateningly; it had flown a short distance to warn off a rival male, which did its best to appear unconcerned. They both swam very fast, repeating the flying off a short distance  (the rival) and noisily giving chase (the threatener) three times. Eventually the rival decided he had saved face enough, and flew off a hundred metres or so, leaving most of the lake to the victor.

I turned to walk on, and out of the blue sky came a minute’s hail, the grains about 5 mm across, pattering cleanly on to the ground. The wind freshened to force 4 from the southwest, feeling wintry on my ears; presumably up at Cumulus cloud level, the wind was strong enough to carry the hail some distance sideways from where it had formed.

Natural History, Nature Reserves

Drown that Dabchick

On a glittering, beautiful spring day I visit the London Wetland Centre. Even out in the street the magnolias and cherries are dazzling, splendid in full flower. Inside, the blackthorns are covered head to foot in soft, pure white blossom, like costume drama heroines in broderie anglaise.

Every species seems to be celebrating springtime. The parakeets race overhead in pairs. My first red mason bee of the year perches on the welcome signboard. Redshanks stilt-walk about in the shallow water, probing in the mud with their long beaks. A reed bunting, handsome with black and white head markings, sings from atop a bush. A greylag goose flaps his wings, vigorously chases off a Canada goose, several times; then both start courting their females. Cetti’s warblers sing, very close and really loud. A little troop of long-tailed tits flit between trees. A greater spotted woodpecker drums rapidly on a tree trunk. Little clouds of midges enjoy the warm sunshine. A pair of shelduck snooze like holidaymakers on an island; a large cormorant with fine large white thigh patches and grey head and neck stretches out his wings in the species’ classic Christ-on-the-cross pose: renaissance painters used the cormorant for its symbolism. The first chiffchaff of the year warbles out its simple happy song.

But all is not sweetness and light. In the flooded reedbed, a tremendous amount of splashing, struggling and trilling disturbs the peace. A coot seems to have decided to try to drown a dabchick, a little grebe. Perhaps it is too close to the coot’s nest. Whatever the reason, the dabchick keeps on vanishing underwater and popping up nearby, squealing loudly, as the coot splashes about aggressively. If the coot really hopes to drown the bright little waterbird, it is disappointed: the dabchick is as buoyant as a cork, bobbing instantly to the surface and definitely alive.  Spring has sprung.