The day was exceptionally warm after the chilly winter weather. The hedgerow plants dripped gently. I liked the colours and light on these blackened rose-hips, still somehow looking invitingly fruity.
The path too was covered in blackened leaves, wet and slippery. On the lake, half-a-dozen Goldeneye, a couple of Pochard, a few Teal, some Tufted Duck, a few Mallard. Apart from the ducks, a couple of Cormorants, two young and very white Great Crested Grebes. On the meadows, a Green Woodpecker, flocks of Goldfinches, scattered Redwing and Fieldfare, a flock of Carrion Crows.
The woods of Richmond Park were full of Jackdaws, constantly jostling for whatever position Jackdaws have in their noisy gangs. And the even noisier squawkings and screeches of the Ring-Necked Parakeets, of course, high in the trees or dashing about.
Out on the quieter grassland and bracken, now dry and brown, a Stonechat perched on a prominent lookout, its red breast, white collar and dark head distinctive.
A Kestrel drifted past, tail fanned, its handsome rufous back and dark wingtips characteristic; it turned and powered the other way, flew all across the open space over the anthilly grassland, and rose into a distant tree.
The upper Pen Pond had at least 6 Mandarin Ducks, the males ridiculously decorative, dressed like dandies and constantly showing off, alongside a few Pochard.
The lower Pen Pond had perhaps 30 Gadwall, a dozen Wigeon, a few Tufted Duck, and – best bird by far – a single Snipe that got up from the water’s edge near my feet, called ‘Creech’ once, and zigzagged rapidly off across the water, up and over the trees and the upper pond.
An unexpectedly warm and sunny afternoon in May is an opportunity too good to miss, so I went out with bicycle and binoculars along the river, and spent some time in the Leg of Mutton local nature reserve at Barnes. This is a bit of a secret corner, as it’s not far from the WWT’s London Wetland Centre which is certainly far better known. It’s also quite beautiful in springtime, the paths dressed in Queen Anne’s Lace (cow parsley to you) and the lake resplendently blue with new green borders. From the woods, Blackcaps sang all over; from the reeds, both Reed Warbler and Sedge Warbler sang their cheerful repetitive songs: I had a fine view of a Reed Warbler atop the reeds shown in the photo. A Coot with five cootlings scooted about the end of the lake (to the left); a mother Mallard escorted a neat convoy of ducklings; a few Tufted duck preened; five male Pochard dabbled heads-down; more surprisingly, a pair of Gadwall paddled about on the far side. A Mute Swan sat on a nest amongst the reeds. The flowers were visited by masses of small bees. Apart from the planes overhead, the city felt far away.
House Martin Nests on Chiswick Mall
On the other side of the river (with the help of the handsome green Barnes Bridge) I had a wonderful surprise: House Martins. Four were wheeling and chattering above Chiswick Mall, right by a house decorated with a dozen House Martin nests (many of them visible in the photo), and several in usable condition. This was news to me because the old colony a few hundred yards away was abandoned for whatever reason some years ago. But it is clear that the birds have nested repeatedly in the past few years, and it certainly looks as if they’ll nest again this year. The only small fly in the ointment can be seen on the extreme left of the photo: there is the remains of at least one nest behind some netting, so the birds must have been considered a nuisance on that side of the house, at least. Let us hope that their presence on the front doesn’t trouble anyone, as the colony may well be the only one in Chiswick, and is certainly one of not very many in West London. Being by the river, there are plenty of flies, and the house’s wide eaves with stout supports are ideal for the species.
When a chilly east wind drops and the sky clears to a brilliant blue in February, it is a shame not to drop everything and rush outside to enjoy it. So I found myself down at Wraysbury Lakes, all wrapped up in my winter clothes — but my gloves never left my pockets, and my jacket and pullover were soon unzipped as the temperature climbed to 9.5 C, and in the sun with scarcely a breeze (the planes returned to their usual takeoff towards the west) it felt far warmer than that.
White bracket fungi on fallen Poplar
Some handsome white bracket fungi shone in the sun; they were triangular in section with flattened tops, slightly toothed beneath. Could be a Trametes or Tyromyces perhaps.
On the lake, half a dozen Goldeneye were all that were left of the more ‘special’ ducks; a male joined the party, and a female swam rapidly up to him, bobbing her head; he bobbed back, and threw his head over his back too. Spring is in the air. It looked as if they were already a pair, I’d say.
Also on the lake were some handsome Pochard, mostly asleep, one diving and surfacing, and a Shoveler, preening. A Heron flew slowly over, half a wingspan from the water. A Field Mouse ran right in front of me and down to the waterside by the willows, and obligingly fed in the open for a minute while I watched with binoculars on close focus: the long tail, round ears and quivering ‘whiskers’ (vibrissae) at work.
Away from the lakes, a Rabbit hopped across the path. A Mistle Thrush called harshly; another flew past; a solitary Fieldfare left over from the sizeable flock a week or two ago.
I wandered down to the confluence of the Colne with the Thames; a Kingfisher gave me a good of that always astonishing turquoise bolt of blue lightning, flashing on short triangular wings over the little river. A minute later, it flashed back upstream, as startling as before. A single green sphere of Mistletoe clung to the leafless canopy of a tree behind the industrial estate.
In Scotland, the male of the Red Deer is called simply a Stag, all other male deer (presumably Roe in that country) being known as Bucks. Down here, with Sika and other species about, it may be wise to name the species explicitly. There are signs up warning of the impending cull, so now may be the best time of year to see fine large stags resting quietly, the rut over.
Richmond’s splendid anthills
I was welcomed to the park by a flock of Jackdaws chattering in the trees. Down in the valley, last year’s grass stalks are whitening, the fine big anthills well outlined in the low winter sunlight.
A Stonechat was perched on a slender stalk, level with the tops of the grass; there cannot be much in the way of insect food to catch just now.
Egyptian Geese under the Willows
On the Pen Ponds, there were remarkably few waterfowl of any kind, but the lower pond had half-a-dozen Pochard. the males handsomely rufous-headed, a pair of Wigeon, the male with a conspicuous white wing-bar, and tucked in a corner under the willows a pair of Egyptian Geese, taking to the water and protesting with short dry honks when molested by a dog.
Male Stonechat
Walking back up the hill, a Kestrel hovered briefly, rested in a tree giving a good view of his spotted breast and back. Two herds of Red Deer, one at the base of the hill, one at the top, both with all ages and both sexes together, grazed silently. In the muddiest places, footprints of men, dogs and deer clustered together.
Finally, right at the end of November, autumn is starting to look something like winter. Even now, and even with a light easterly wind, it is mild, almost too warm for any sort of winter coat.
Pochard, here for the winter
But winter flocks of birds have at last arrived: 45 Pochard on the lake, handsome with their reddish heads contrasting with pale grey backs; dozens of Goldfinch in the nearly leafless trees, twittering ceaselessly; a dozen or more Fieldfare in the thorn bushes in the horse field; a few Redwing in another thorn bush.
My first flock of Redwing this winter
The low sun made the dried flowerheads of the Teasels beautiful. A single Pleated Inkcap gleamed among the short grass and muddy hoofprints.
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.
The English seem unemotional … except for their passion for nature
