Freezing Weather

We seem to have escaped the worst of the snow, in fact we’ve hardly had any. There was an hour or so of heavy-ish snow fall the other day, it was enough to turn everything white-at-a-distance, and since then the freezing temperatures and daily frost have maintained this wintry landscape, without causing too much disruption.

I remember going to Sweden in April some years ago and being told that in the previous month they’d had temperatures of -30°c. That sort of cold was unimaginable then, but after this winter…well, I still can’t imagine it, but checking the thermometer at 9am to find a temperature of -9°c is a cold the like of which I don’t recall experiencing. For the average low lying areas of England, I seem to remember anything like –3 or –4 seeming more or less impossibly cold. So, in summary, it’s very cold. A short walk in the pasture field towards the young woodland just south of Oakham presents plenty of birds, carefully searching hedgerows for food. Lots of chaffinches. Blue and great tits also. Chittering gold finches higher in the trees. Clacking fieldfares over head, a looping green woodpecker making its way from tree to tree. Plenty of black headed gulls, that seem to have boundless drive to wheel around and cry at each other. Carrion crows and wood pigeons over fly in pairs. Ponds with broken surfaces show ice inches thick, white frost clings to every twig and stem of the long grass.

In the back garden the feeders are busy. Reed buntings make their first appearance of the winter. Tree and house sparrows take turns on the perches and throng on the ground. The garden birds are naturally twitchy and flighty, but in this weather economy is also important. Economy of movement, flying only when necessary to make the most of the carefully foraged food. I know they can’t help it but it’s frustrating to see blackbirds and robins waste so much of their energy, chasing and threatening others of their species. They can’t know there will be a plentiful supply of food in this garden throughout the winter.

One pair of robins seem a little half-hearted in their aggression. One makes a brief fly at the other, skimming over its head before landing some 12 inches away. They then sit, puffed up balls of feathers, facing each other out, before one flies a few feet away to continue feeding and the other remains in place. Maybe something has been resolved, maybe they are both just hoping the other will go away.

The freeze continues and is set to continue for days more. Many small birds will die. Apparently this year was a good breeding season for many species. It’s looking like they’ll need another one next year.

Reed buntings taking seed from the tray.

First Snow

The biting cold seems to radiate upwards from the snow-covered ground. An inch or two of white has altered the green-brown of yesterday. House sparrows queue for the feeder, perching on the tops of the spikes and thorns that make up the hedge along the bottom of the garden. As they wait they take advantage of the weak early morning sun, providing little but precious warmth.

Throughout the day, in small groups and singly, dunnocks, goldfinches, blue tits, blackbirds, a robin, wood pigeons and magpies visit, taking from feeders and sifting through the snow to find grains of seed. At one point a mass of 40 starlings congregates on the ground, in the trees and at the feeders.

Towards the end of day, with fading light a soft chattering in a hawthorn two doors away. Silhouetted against the clear darkening blue-yellow sky the mass of black branches host a flock of small birds, three quarter size ping-pong balls with long tail feathers. They flit, hesitantly, ebb and flow gradually reaching our feeder. Until at one point there are eight long tailed tits arranged on the fatball cage, tails sticking out at all angles, like carelessly placed Christmas tree decorations, some upside down. In the half-light their soft colours and markings are still visible. Bright white stripe above the tiny beak, concentrated faces finding a final evening feed.

Standing in the garden I edge away slowly, slip on the snow breaking my fall with my left hand and a wrist bend, of  the sort that lets you know it will hurt later. The birds take no notice and continue their meal, before moving on once more along the hedge row, little by little until all (too flighty to count 10, 12 maybe?) are gone.

Sheep that have never looked so glad of their coats continue to graze, heads down, pulling at blades of grass showing through the snow. Feeding the pre-occupation of everything that lives outside, more so in this freezing weather.

As I go to bed at 11 next door’s security light illuminates a patch of the pasture field that lies beyond the gardens, through the window I see a movement, snatch up the binoculars just in time to see a fox move off, head down, intent, searching for something to eat.

Sunglasses

A bright autumn day. Sunlight streaming through the trees, illuminating turning leaves green, yellow, red, orange and brown. Clear, crystal blue skies provide a splendid backdrop for the full colour spectacle that the best of this season brings. And yet so many people choose to mute the experience with sunglasses. Odd.

A Glimpse of Winter. (Water, Weather, Waders and Wildfowl)

Where one season ends and another begins can be a matter of much debate, September can be the beginning of autumn and another year it can be late summer. Seasons can blur, switch around for a few days, not like a cold day in midsummer, but a day in the transition between seasons when the incoming takes a grip over everything for a day before letting its predecessor back in for a while. Sunday 24 October had much of winter about it. It couldn’t tear all of the leaves from the trees, but it put a hard frost on the ground, a layer of ice on the bird bath and brought bright blue skies with face-numbing cold.

Having bought another 20kg sack of bird seed, we stopped off at Eyebrook Reservoir. It’s always important to take the scope to Eyebrook, many of the birds congregate beyond the reliable reach of binoculars. A scan around revealed a winter view. Winter wildfowl; wigeon and pintail, the former adding their short, urgent whistling to the cold landscape. Among the usual strung out mass of mute swans, a family group of 5 whoopers, 2 adult, 3 juvenile swam and huddled. Arrived safe from Iceland.

On the mudflats growing numbers of lapwings and, I noticed a number of golden plover. Another sign of winter. When the two species took to the air, the plovers flew faster, higher, with more purpose and tighter choreography. Not a huge number, a very rough estimate being somewhere around 100 or so. Lapwing and golden plover flying together, provides one of those spectacles created by massed flocks, best viewed by unaided eyes, even when, as today the numbers are not huge. The lapwings gently swirl on bouncing wings set against the green and bare red clay fields climbing behind the reservoir. Taking to the air, loosely together, breaking into smaller flocks, turning from black to winking white as they change direction, they numbered a few hundred. As one group shows black another turns and changes appearance. The groups cross paths and hold a rough shape only. As if each has its place, but they don’t concern themselves with being overly regimented, before gradually the loose association breaks down into a wandering mêlée of gently meandering black and white birds. The comparatively small number of plover fly in one group, sprinting through the sky with sudden twists not dissimilar to a flock of pre-roost starlings, becoming slightly strung out, at one point heading off to the other end of reservoir, before returning to mix with the lapwings. And having taken off maybe not quite as one, they decide it’s safe to land and glide in to resume their communal feeding.

 

By Tuesday, rain had set in, a grey, heavy autumn day. But winter has shown its hand, a taste of the life it brings together, as birds flock to see out the cold together.

Little Things

I’m ill. Messing up job interviews, not going to work, drinking tea instead of coffee type of ill. And on the TV they were saying that this weekend will be a good one for bird watching with the autumn migration in full swing. I won’t be going anywhere.
But from in here, there are still things, little things, to see and to comfort me that I’m not totally missing out. Eight in the morning, starlings fly over the houses gathering in their feeding flocks. Among one such flock is a smaller bird, finch size, keeping up, before breaking away, presumably on realising that it’s joined the wrong group. A small number of starlings continue to use and argue over the hole in our storm porch (I like the name ‘storm porch’, I wish other parts of the house could have names that promised such excitement). As one of the small developing flocks passes over, a starling on the gutter dips then flies off to join the others, the sudden change from hopping and squabbling to direct flight indicating this starling has more important things to do. A flight that seems to recognise the promise of a new day, this it what it has been waiting for.

And in the back garden things are starting to happen as well. Fifteen species this week, and they’re all welcome. Yes, even the almost universally derided woodpigeons. Their small patches of colour shimmer in the light. And the demonised magpie. Imagine how people would marvel at its proud posture, its exquisite shape and markings if it weren’t so common. The starlings bicker at the fat balls, robins, goldfinches and blue tits bring colour. Delicately shaded collared doves open their wings to show their palate of greys in flight. Then there’s the joy of discovery, scanning among 40 odd house sparrows in a feeding frenzy to find that are two of their number are in fact tree sparrows. Tree sparrows don’t get pushed around. Even when so outnumbered they seem to get plenty of feeding perch time. The house sparrows wait their turn, only occasionally and usually unsuccessfully trying to oust these close relatives. And at night I have heard disembodied contact calls of incoming redwings.
From time to time all the birds on the hedge drop down among the thin twigs, as if a network of trap-doors has been simultaneously opened. Sometimes the birds have misidentified something large and harmless as a threat, sometimes a dark shape that is certainly sparrowhawk banks and beats its brief passage through the garden, trying its luck along the hedgerow.
Small things, brief glimpses, but all things that make being indoors not so bad, as  long as I’m near a window.
 
This blog post was brought to you by Vicks Vaporub.

Clipsham Yew Tree Avenue

I’ve visited the yew trees at Clipsham a few times now, in sun, snow and today in early autumn’s sunshine and showers. The avenue contains around 150 topiaried yew trees, apparently dating back about 200 years. The avenue and surrounding woodland is managed by the Forestry Commission, but Clipsham Hall, now separated from its former drive is visible from the end of the avenue. It’s now the HQ of a local quarrying company, but I like to look at the mature tree parkland, with its grazing sheep and the hall behind. When there aren’t many people around I can imagine that I live here, enjoying a simple, privileged life, in a less complicated world, maybe a hedonistic Bertie Wooster character. I love this type of English stately home parkland, with the glimpse into history it gives, an opportunity to relax into escapism.

As I stood at the end of the avenue the rain set it, shelter found under the broad leaved trees at that stand behind the yews on either side. The sheep also headed for cover, but in a half hearted way, many of them not reaching the trees before the sudden shower stopped, and they carried on grazing, instantly forgetting the purpose that had caused them to move.

Walking back along the avenue I came across a footpath I hadn’t noticed before. Having walked past several fairy rings, I wondered briefly if I had stumbled through some portal to an alternative world, but then dimly recalled that I had seen the path before, but ignored it as it had a ‘no entry’ sign barring the way, presumably due to forestry works. Anyway, the path was now open. On either side woods, pine and deciduous but held at a distance by a broad margin of brambles, shrubs, various low vegetation. This afforded a good view of the clearing sky. The combination of conditions and pine woods reminded me of warm Autumn visits to Scotland. I knew this place was much smaller, but it’s a nice feeling on a Sunday afternoon to be transported momentarily to walking in a vast Scottish landscape. The verges either side of the path seemed to be stuffed full of unseen twittering wrens. Six fallow deer ran across the path 50 yards ahead, the last one with a flourish of a springed four-footed jump over a small ditch, and the the short procession disappeared, the movement of wild animals such a marked contrast to the aimless wanderings of sheep.

Being close to home I resolve that this is a good place for regular visits, seeming to hold a good store of woodland life, somewhere to watch the seasons change.

Sherwood Pines Forest Park

Crowded car park, bikes hurtling and bouncing past, families and stag parties attached to zip wires, half way up trees. Welcome to Sherwood Pines Forest Park. We do have to accept, in England, that much of what we know as the countryside bears the strong imprint of human hands, and this is very much the case in this Forestry Commission managed area of Sherwood Forest. But while it’s possible to debate how natural this forest is, there is no doubting that the Park is a large chunk of wooded area and so worth surely worth a look.

Actually I don’t mind all of the noise of the visitors’ centre/café hub of park. Firstly it demonstrates that contrary to endless news reports, we’re not totally a nation of obese console gamers. It’s good to see people enjoying being outdoors, and while many of them are going too fast to see much of it, I can understand the thrill of careering downhill over ruts and roots, only being able to guess at the sharpness of the bend ahead. Secondly, the aforementioned bustle, with its clicking of wheels and gears and children’s excited screams, serve to accentuate the calm when you find a less populated footpath, slightly further into the forest.
And when your ears have retuned to the quieter surroundings, you realise that the wood is far from silent as birdsong and call filters through the branches. There’s the rasping and croaking of various corvids, the laughter of green woodpeckers and plenty of other industrious seeping of tits and finches, twittering of wrens. A glance up to the top of the tall pines reveals frequent passages of small mixed flocks of foraging birds. For all the management and cropping that goes on in Forestry Commission land, the wildlife is there, making the most of this resource.
Among the sound-absorbing pines there are also stands of native broad leaved trees, patches of rich smelling bracken and even a few small areas of heath land, complete with purple heather. I found these areas particularly pleasing. Like Hertford Heath in Hertfordshire, discovering a patch of local(ish) heath is a small and unexpected treasure.
It’s early September, some parts of the forest are starting to carry the fungal smell of decay, reminding you of the cycles of life within the wood. There are still splashes of wild flower colour, the odd red campion flower holding on, a few blooms of foxgloves now outnumbered by their brown, dead siblings. The sunlight that filters through the trees is hazy and diluted, there’s some still warmth, the season’s are in transition, the deciduous trees preparing for their show of autumn colours.
Going to a busy forest park doesn’t feel like going to the true countryside. Following, or trying to follow the white way markers isn’t the same as looking at the OS map and choosing your route.  But the wildlife here isn’t concerned with how manmade their habitat might be, and this park is large enough to afford pockets of tranquillity, expanses of beauty and plenty of room to breathe.

It’s Important To Make Time For Hobbies

I know that there are several planes that have been named after birds or other airborne creatures. It stands to reason really, having flight in common. Harriers for example or the Tiger Moth. Actually I couldn’t think of any others, but I’ve always imagined there are lots. A bit of research turned up The Sopwith Snipe, a not very fierce sounding WWI biplane. But watching a hobby in flight it seemed some nimble jet fighter should have been named after this highly-skilled bird of prey.
I watched it above Rutland Water on a brief sortie, it flew across my field of vision, left to right, with purposeful, strong wing beats, and gradually gained height, on a determined mission. It was some distance away by the time it had reached its desired altitude and I had to follow it carefully with my binoculars, a black silhouette against white and pale grey clouds. It was out on its own and then, I saw it among smaller dots, hirundines, in this case, sand martins. It seemed to select one perhaps at random, but once it set its sights it darted with an impressive turn of speed, somewhere between a fighter plane and a guided missile. The brief aerial encounter resembled a dog fight with both birds deftly performing aerobatics, the hobby in pursuit, the martin desperate for escape. The duel was brief, there must have been something in the martin’s agility that told the hobby it was not going to be successful this time, maybe it had been spotted too early and the element of surprise was lost. The raptor recognised that there was no point in wasting energy and turned and glided with hunched shoulders and outstretched wings, on an even descending trajectory as if approaching a landing strip, and drifted out of sight amongst a stand of trees.
The whole episode lasted probably a minute, maybe 30 seconds more, but put me in awe of these spectacular birds that choose some of the most challenging prey, a battle for survival that continues through the winter as both hunter and quarry migrate from Europe to Africa. More commonly I have seen the hobby sweeping across bodies of water, catching dragonflies in its talons and lifting them to its beak, to be eaten mid-flight. The purpose and the execution of the hunt was almost militaristic and even if on this occasion it was unsuccessful, a bird with such aerial confidence is a formidable threat to the insects and birds it seeks out.

Autumn

It was a few years ago when I first noticed that mid-August change in the air. Walking out into the sun of a new day, sensing something different, a cooling, a loss of intensity; the air that envelops strokes your skin and tells you that autumn is on its way. The first time I felt it, I was upset, I felt cheated out of my summer, shocked, that this feeling I’d recognised in September or October had intruded into August. I’ve since learnt that this first prick of season’s change isn’t always final. Summer can rally and return, but you know it’s only a temporary interlude by then.


For a couple of years I resented that change, failing to note exactly when it took place but recognising it as always premature. That’s because I’d always assumed that summer was my favourite season. Everyone loves sunshine and warmth after all. But what is summer? Does it not always bring disappointment? We have such high expectations of the season, and when skies darken and rain falls, we curse the weather, asking when the summer will come back, failing to understand that this is it. Autumn can bring warmth without summer’s ferocity and crystal skies that are freshened by the cool air. But when it rains and it’s cold, it’s what we expect of the season, we aren’t disappointed and the glorious, rust coloured leaves on blue skied days bringing on fruit and bonfires are prizes to be cherished when they occur. Dark, misty evenings drip with atmosphere shrouding lives in mystery. Far better to welcome the over achieving autumn than constantly lament the failure of summer.

Now it seems it has happened again, an unremarkable and at times dismal August has given way to a relaxed, inviting September. Welcome, then, to autumn.