To the Arctic

The Saga Pearl II left Dover to the tune of beautiful evening sunshine, calm seas and even a couple of Harbour Porpoise. Its ultimate destination was Svalbard in the Arctic and there were four additional passengers who were highly excited about the prospect of the trip ahead. Since 2007 the marine charity ORCA has been working in association with the cruise company Saga in order to place survey teams onboard trips making their way around the European Atlantic, from the Mediterranean to the high Arctic and Iceland. In this way the charity’s collection of sightings data from various ferry routes from the UK has been complemented in areas where ferries do not regularly venture. In addition the trips are a perfect chance to raise awareness about the charity and the plight of whales and dolphins.

For four days the weather is against us, with windy conditions hampering sightings across the North Sea and when continuing up the Norwegian coast. Then in the morning light from a night where the sun never set, and with the team on deck early for the approach to the Lofoten Islands, that magic shout went up ‘Blow!’ Ahead of the ship a Fin Whale surfaced, its breath catching in a million sparkling droplets before it disappears beneath the waves. A short while later and another whale is sighted on the horizon, its blow hanging in the cold air. But to be totally honest it is the feathered wildlife that steals the show on the approach to the beautiful harbour of Leknes. While we are relieved to have our first large cetacean sightings, we are completely delighted by the reams of Puffins that stream past our bow.

Fin whale surfaces in the morning light near the Lofoten Islands

While the Lofotens are located within the Arctic Circle, the climate here is mild what with the influence of the Gulf Stream. The beaches are almost white, the waters of the harbour a clear blue green and teaming with jellyfish. Around us tall mountain peaks, some still capped with snow, rise and from their tops the majestic White-tailed Eagle soars.

On leaving this little piece of paradise the ship sails in the lea of the Lofoten Islands the ocean is like a mill pond, calm and serene. More Puffins stream by, Arctic and Long-tailed Skua’s chase and harass the Kittiwakes stealing their hard earned food. Balls of fish boil at the surface, disturbing the rippling calm with a silver flash as a Minke Whale surfaces in their midst. Turning the corner of the islands, the ship continues her journey north aiming dead straight for her ultimate destination, Svalbard. With the turn comes the wind, for so long sheltered by the tall mountains the Saga Pearl is now buffeted. She rolls up and down on a moderate swell, white horses dancing in the steely blue waves around her. As with the previous day there will be no sunset tonight but there would come a point where the team would need to go to bed…. It was almost time; the wind was cold in the eyes and the body ached from being continually buffeted. Then amongst the waves, and spray something catches my eye. I look again scanning the deep troughs and peaks with binoculars and something big and dark surfaces in my view. ‘I’ve got Orca!’ the words rip from my dry lips! The sighting is brief but lifts our spirits like only Orca can, and it is with a smile on our faces we retire to bed in anticipation of the next day.

Puffins streaming by

Once again the sun never sets and is still hovering low in the sky the next morning which dawns with much calmer seas and brings a fantastic day of whale watching with nearly 50 encounters. It starts with another four sightings of Orca brushing the horizon, followed by Minke Whales and White-beaked Dolphins. Then mid-morning we cross what seems an invisible line but beneath the gently rolling waves the sea floor had dropped, sloping away to the even darker depths. The way we knew? The whales got bigger! Now we were seeing the tall spouts of Fin Whales, the distinctive sinking surfacing pattern of Sei Whale and the majestic flukes of Sperm Whales the largest of the toothed whales and the inspiration behind Moby Dick. Ahead a magnificent Humpback Whale breaches clear of the water, its body slamming back into the waves with a massive splash; it then lifts its long brilliantly white pectoral fins up and slaps them repeatedly into the ocean. The day draws to an end, still light but none the less sleep beckons, although not before a beautiful Fin Whale surfaces less than 500 m from the ship and just behind it something smaller, a White-beaked Dolphin, an association between two cousins that share the same ancestry but that have taken very different evolutionary path ways. One now huge, with two blow holes and baleen to filter food from gulps of water. One smaller, stockier, one blow hole and teeth for grabbing slippery prey.

Fin Whale and White-beaked Dolphin surface in unison

And so the team retires from deck knowing the next step of the adventure is just a sleep away - The magical island of Spitsbergen.

Swallows in the barn

Warm, golden evening light bathed the paddocks and stables nestled amongst the tall, deep green trees of the forest. The smell of straw, mingled with the warm, musty smell of horses brings back memories of childhood and a horse called Guiness. Dipping and twisting, swooping in low through the open stable doors,a distinctive pointed wing bird appears, turns on a penny and disappears out the same way. With a dark black and blue back, brilliant white belly, deep red chin, streaming tail feathers and constant twittering there is only one bird this could be... Swallows. Back from southern Africa where they will have spent the winter and returned to the same nest sites as the years before. In the rafters of the stable, under the overhang of the door, and on top of the strip lighting perch a number of small nests. They look like they are made of little mud bricks laid one on top of the other and curving into a half cup. 

Swallow nest

Climbing up on a sturdy ladder each nest is checked to assess what stage it is at, or whether there are any eggs or chicks. At the same time a short net is set up covering the opening to the barn. What better additional information to add to a nest record than the identity of the parent birds? 

This year things seem a little quiet. Where we might expect most nests to have eggs or chicks by this time the first few nests are yet to be finished. What the reasons are we can only speculate, but many of these are likely to be second attempts with the first nest having failed. 

Finally in the last stable an active nest is found with five warm, beautiful eggs nestled amongst the soft white feathers and coarse dark horse hair lining the depression behind the mud wall.

Swallow chicks

And in the storage barns in the top field more good news. Climbing up on the old stable door and peering into the dark corner, eight small, dark black eyes stare back. With great care they are removed from the nest and ringed before being settled back into their quiet corner. This time the net that is stretched across the entrance catches both parents, and the set is complete, from egg to chick to adult. 

A Peregrine Falcon

Sitting as near to the precipice as I dare, which believe me is not very near at all with every one of my companions closer to it than me, I am surrounded by the new green fronds of bracken and stinging my bum on nettles. The bank of green bracken intermingled with the golden reddish brown of last years growth slopes away and then disappears, if I stand and peer I can see the drop. To the left and right I can see the steel grey sheer walls of the quarry, meeting deep green grass below before the land drops again to the valley floor where road, river and trees meander through a patchwork of verdant green fields dotted with the white specks of sheep. Behind us rise giant buttresses of hard grey rock, merging with the green and reddish browns of mountain moorland and slipping into loose screes of tumbling rock. The calls of wheatear, willow warbler and pied wagtail fill the blue sky across which white clouds scud. Mingled with this is the near constant bleating of sheep; the higher pitch of young lambs mixed with the deeper call of their mothers.

The beautiful welsh valley

Around me is climbing gear; hat, rope, harness, stakes and caving ladder, but it will not be me heading over that cliff, climbing down that ladder. That feet belongs to Mike, who at 71 is a braver person than me! The gentle breeze rustles tree, bush and bracken as slowly Mike disappears over the edge as John, another inspirational 70 plus, belaying him. Another rope to which is attached a large bird bag is passed down. From the blue skies above comes the cry of the bird whose nest he is approaching. A scalding ‘rehk rehk rehk’ rings out around the quarry and over head. The bird swoops down, pointed wings, slate grey back, pale barred chest, distinctive black hood and moustache. The unmistakable signs of the fastest animal on this planet. The Peregrine Falcon. In free fall flight these birds can reach over 200 mph.

Belaying our climber over the edge

A tug on the rope indicates the bag is ready to be pulled up. Slowly, carefully the load is brought up over the precipice and delivered to the waiting ringer. With great care a single, white fluffy chick, with bright yellow legs and well formed black claws is removed from the bag. It may have a while to go before it will be roaming the skies in search of prey but its legs, talons and sharp bill are already well developed.

Peregrine Falcon chick

As part of John’s ongoing monitoring of the peregrine falcons throughout this welsh valley, this chick is ringed, weighed and measured. As with most nests this year while three eggs were laid, just one chick remains, the focus now of the parents undivided attention.

With great care the chick is replaced back in the bag, lowered back over the cliff and returned to the safety of its nest on a ledge. Mike hauls himself back up the ladder and returns to the safety of solid, level ground. 

To catch a cuckoo

It was a chilly start to the morning. For the first time in a while the temperature reading was 3° and next to the time of 4 am once again it was a bit of an urgggh moment getting up. This time dense mist hung low, the tops of the trees poking out and reaching into a clear sky above, fading from black through midnight blue to pale blue pink as dawn slowly broke.

Arriving at the grassland heath, bounded by forest and farmland, the dawn chorus was in full swing. Skylarks, garden warblers, yellowhammers, even a turtle dove calling from somewhere in the mist beyond. The occasional tall tree and low grassy humps of what were once, many many years ago, stump rows appear out of the mist like ghost ships. Movement ahead reveals the equally ghostly forms of small sheep, the maintenance team of this grassy heath.

The grass is wet, its tops drooping under the weight of water, as we make our way over to where a tree stands alone. Here a large mesh net is set up surrounding the tree and within the centre a speaker placed. The aim? To catch a cuckoo.

With the speaker on the unmistakable call of a cuckoo booms out through the mist, followed by a bubbling sound that many may not recognise but is the call of a female. We have barely retreated, when the responses start and one then two males start calling in response. A little further away and a real female bubbles also. Out of the mist and over our heads a male makes for the tree and the speaker; perching ceremoniously on the top of our pole! The slim grey body, long tail, white chest with barring and pointed wings resembles a small bird of prey. This is of course on purpose. For cuckoo’s do not worry themselves with rearing their chicks, leaving this for other birds like reed warblers and meadow pipits who in return develop ways of recognising the cuckoo and its eggs. What has developed is an evolutionary arms race. While host birds need to keep a watchful eye for cuckoos, they also need to worry about predators like sparrowhawks that rather than parasitizing their nests are looking for a meal. The cuckoo takes advantage. By looking like a sparrowhawk it causes birds to leave the nest area for that little bit longer, giving the female time (all 10 seconds of it) to lay her egg without being mobbed.

Misty morning... spot the cuckoo

As our percher disappears from the top of the pole, a second bird comes swooping overhead and low in towards the tree, finding its path ultimately stopped by our net which with its large mesh holds onto the bird safely.

Cuckoo in the net

And that my friends is how you catch a cuckoo! (Of course you have to have a ringing licence with a mist net and tape lure endorsement). Up close he is stunning, grey-blue, and perfect barring across a pale chest, bright yellow bill and eye.  And for this guy not only is a unique metal ring added to his leg, a satellite tag is strapped on with a specially designed harness. For cuckoos (and this seems to be a recurring theme for our wildlife) are in decline and we have lost over half of our breeding birds in the last 25 years. But the picture is more complicated than that. In some areas cuckoos are doing better than in other areas, in England for example the decline is greater.

What a beautiful bird!

This is where this satellite tagging project run by the BTO, and championed of course by the BBCs Spring Watch, comes into play. Already the data is showing interesting results with the suggestion of different migration routes and the indication that weather conditions across their range have a significant impact on survival.

Where will this cuckoo go? Which route will it take? How will it fair over the next few weeks, during its migration south, overwinter and hopefully on its return? With its satellite tag will have the answers to all of these questions... soon….

An Owl in the Forest

To be honest even for me it was the wrong side of 4 am. Light was seeping through the forest as dawn broke, turning the misty trees various shades of grey. For the first time in a long time I could hear the dawn chorus, a cacophony of birds waking up to a gloomy day threatening on its promise of rain.

The convoy of cars made its way down the dirt track, a thick wall of tall pine trees crowding in on both sides, their tops swaying in a slight breeze. Suddenly the trees fall away, opening up into one of the many clearfell patches within the forest. Tall waving grasses and dense, thick scrub and bramble replace the wall of trees alongside the track. Looking out across the clearfell, rows of stumps line the patch, a tumble of roots and limbs of felled trees. The odd tall tree remains, standing sentry overlooking the neat rows of newly planted pine trees, merely knee high and often overshadowed at this stage by the willowy grasses that are heavily laden with moisture. 

As the convoy slows, something swoops out from the trees, catching the lead driver's eye before a sickening thud is heard from the rear of the van. The group stops and the driver gets out retracing his route. Half expecting to see a pheasant, notorious for their suicidal flights out across roads, there is surprise as he approaches to find, crouched on the ground by the side of the track, a rather stunned looking tawny owl.

Tawny owl ringed in Thetford Forest

Close inspection reveals the bird is absolutely fine if a little stunned the convoy having been moving so slowly. And while this is not the most conventional way to catch owls, we could not miss the opportunity to put a ring on this one. Very few tawny owls are ringed in Thetford Forest (not for the lack of trying). In fact this is the first free flying bird to be ringed by the Thetford Forest Ringing Group, with only chicks in the nest having been ringed before the group formed. There are however many questions about the spatial distribution and productivity of tawny owls in the Forest, and how this relates to other owl species utilising this landscape such as the long-eared owl.

This owl turned out to be a young bird, fledged this year. Tawny’s breed early, with territories established during winter, and the first eggs usually being laid between February and March. Young birds leave the nesting hole after 25 days before they can fly, hanging around on branches near to the nest for another 10 days or so. This bird was well beyond that, being able to fly, even if it was not quite so well coordinated as to avoid big moving vans….

And then with a soft swish of silent wings the owl swooped away from the road and disappeared into the darkness of the maze of tree trunks.

This was not however the reason for getting up at the crack of dawn on a bank holiday weekend…. that was to try and catch a cuckoo, something that will have to wait for another day as the birds remained stubbornly out of the net and the promised rain finally arrived.

Stars in the Garden

It was just a normal spring day in the garden, a small patch of paving surrounded by the developing green of a veggie plot, the blossoms of an apple, pear and ornamental cherry tree and the general bric-a-brac of a busy garden, bins for storage, pots, compost, wheelbarrow…

The sky above is a patchwork of cloud and sun, while a breeze ripples through the leaves of surrounding trees. All around are the sounds of birds, from the general twittering of sparrows, the song of a robin or dunnock, to the recent addition of swifts screaming overhead. But today a trill that sounds like a hoarse buzz carries above them all. The source? Recently fledged starlings begging to their parents for food.

A stunning adult female starling

Sensing an opportunity a small walk in trap is set and baited with suet pellets, a delicious and fat rich source of food for young and adult starlings alike. Retreating it does not take long for the starlings to cotton on, and before long there are not one but three birds hopping around the trap. The adults are beautiful with dark feathers which shimmer iridescent green and purple, with some yellowish spots on the back and under the wings. The males in particular are stunning, but the females too, even after raising a hungry brood, have glossy feathers. The bright yellow bill, that in winter will become dark, has a pale bluish grey base in the males and a paler yellow base in females. In contrast to their sleek and glossy parents the young are a dull brown, not until later will their moult begin and the dark, spotty plumage of winter begin to appear.

Adult male starling (blue base to bill)

Young starling

As the morning progresses there is a steady stream of birds caught in the trap. Most are adults, with the young watching and screeching their encouragement from the sidelines of the garden fence. While this noisy, gregarious and social bird may not be everyone’s favourite visitor their gift for mimicry has attracted the attention of literacy greats like Shakespere and their winter flocks are one of the most incredible wildlife spectacles in the UK. In many countries, like the USA, where they have been released starlings tend to be the bad guys, causing conflict with humans and native species. Sadly in the UK the breeding population has declined by over 80% in the last 25 years. Priorities for this species now lie in understanding more about their movements and winter roosts, to monitor their breeding and build solutions for their conservation into the development of green spaces and agriculture schemes. For urban populations more work is needed to understand the reasons and therefore possible solutions to their decline. 

So when you see a noisy gang of glossy, chattering, starlings descend on your garden, gobble up all your food in one go, don't be so harsh and quick to curse. Be thankful that here, where they are a native part of our landscape, such cheeky, beautiful birds still visit your garden. 

'Oh Happy Whales'

The day started off gloomy, low cloud and drizzle seemed to merge with a rolling, iron grey sea whose waves were crested white. Dawn was slow to break, and came as a seeping flush of grey rather than the spectacular brilliance of gold and orange. The ferry ploughed on regardless, and for hour’s one person stood on deck blinking against the occasional drizzle and buffeted against the seemingly unerring wind. Wrapped up in warm layers, woolly hat (a Granny B special) and hood up, the hours simply slipped by in a blur of waves, rain and spray. Slowly more people joined the watch, and gradually the conditions improved. The white caps melted away leaving just dark waves behind, and while at first the clouds kept a constant cover the drizzle and mizzle disappeared. Finally after four and a bit hours, something breaks the surface. Not too dissimilar to the still constant waves, but different. Staring at the spot intently something again breaks the surface. Dolphin. A second later and the shout goes up from the back of the boat also. More dolphins, riding the wake the giant ferry creates. Leaping clear of the still grey waves the dolphins reveal a bright yellow patch on their flank, a sure sign these are Common Dolphins.

Common Dolphins in Bay of Biscay

As the morning progresses towards lunch wave after wave of groups of Common Dolphin approach the vessel, heading for the bow or passing down the side before surfing the waves of the wake. At the same time conditions improve further, glimpses of blue sky start to appear in cracks in the cloud cover.

The shout of dolphin goes up again! But these are different, larger, darker and slower the group reveals itself as a pod of Long-finned Pilot Whale, surfacing close together and in synchrony, a small calf amongst their ranks.

By lunch the sun is out and the sea is calm although small waves continue to ripple across the now blue water. The whales have appeared. Out on the horizon tall jets of condensed air hang like smoke against the blue of sky and water.

The journey is coming to an end, ahead behind the hazy cloud I know the coastline of Spain and the dramatic edges of the Pyrenees will soon come into view. Around the ferry it looks like nothing has changed, except for the weather. But beneath us the seabed has undergone a dramatic transformation. From the deep dark depths of the abyssal plain, underwater canyons and jagged slopes have risen up, and while the water is still deep these provide the perfect conditions for fish and squid to flourish. And where they flourish so does the most deep diving and elusive group of all whales, the beaked whales. Once again ahead something breaks the now blue and rippling water. But there is no leaping, no song and dance, just up, breathe, and down. Against the shimmering blue the animal is dark, but close inspection reveals a brown body, paler head and a hint of scarring. Again the animal surfaces, closely followed by a second, again it happens quickly. It would be so easy to miss, but to the experienced sea watcher the species is clear, they are Cuvier’s Beaked Whales.

Cuvier's Beaked Whale

With a final fling the day is topped off with an acrobatic group of Striped Dolphin and ice cream in sunny Santander, leaving one very happy albeit tired whale watcher.

Striped Dolphin