Friend or foe

The garden in Wales is bulging with life, the hedgerow bristles with tiny green leaves, dunnocks and house sparrows scurry through its maze of branches. The borders brim with flowers and leaves of every colour. Grasses sway in the gentle breeze. It may have been a slow start but it seems spring really was in full swing. The grass in the fields beyond was thick, lush and green, scattered with brilliant yellow dandelions and delicate white daisies. Swallows dip low over the tops of the flowers and grass catching insects on the wing. The trees, bushes and air were alive with bird song. Close at hand great tit, chaffinch and robin sing from the garden, across the fields the distinctive song of a chiffchaff floats across the sunny sky.

The garden in full bloom, mist nets at the ready!

House sparrows continually flit back and forth from the nest boxes on the side of the house, stopping only briefly to feed their chicks before darting away to find more food. At the other end of the house in another box, a blue tit is snuggled into her nest of moss and feathers, warming her clutch of eggs. The calm before the frenzied storm of feeding nine tiny mouths.

While the number of birds coming to the feeders is a lot lower compared with winter, they still come to find food for themselves and for the hungry mouths of their broods.

Another bird visits the garden for the same reason, although this one may not be as popular due to its choice of dinner. It is a sparrowhawk. With a silent rush of wind and wing the hawk swoops over the fence, springing its attack on the small birds in the garden. Alarm calls replace the bird song. In many cases the sparrowhawk is unsuccessful, perching on a branch surveying the now empty garden with golden eyes, before heading off to search some other haunt. In some cases, of course, it is successful. It may be hard to take, but there is another set of mouths to feed.

A female sparrowhawk takes stock

To catch a sparrowhawk takes a lot of luck, and speed. The bird, so focused on catching dinner, does not usually notice a net, but often bounces out before you can get there, running like a loony down the garden with only one shoe on. Sometimes however the bird sticks long enough for you to get there.

Once you have a sparrowhawk in the hand you can only marvel at its beauty and design. Short, rounded wings and a long square-ended tail, designed for manoeuvring through confined spaces, perfect for chasing small birds through woodlands and gardens. Graceful long legs, that stretch from a tiny body, to grasp its prey with long, sharp talons. Today we caught a male. Small compared to the female, its bluish-grey back and wings only showing the faint reminders of a young bird in the brownish fringes to a few feathers. Its breast is barred with fine orangey-brown streaks. Its orange yellow eye watching your every move. It is simply a stunning bird.

The simply stunning male sparrowhawk

The recovery of sparrowhawk population and its preference for hunting small birds in gardens may not be welcomed by everyone. It is distressing to see a robin, goldfinch or even blackbird killed by a sparrowhawk but to me it is all a part of nature. Just as a blue tit will kill a caterpillar to feed its young, a sparrowhawk must kill a small bird in order to feed its own.

The Peewit

The sun drops over the lakes at the Nunnery Reserve, turning the calm waters the colour of molten larva. Ripples created by the resident ducks and geese spread out in ever increasing circles, rolling gently onto the tree lined banks or melting, disappearing into the smooth surface once more. The banks merge into rough grass, undulating up toward the track and fence marking the boundary of the reserve. Dotted around are dark green prickly gorse bushes, blooming with brilliant yellow flowers. 

The cutest of the cute - a peewit chick

Across the washed out pale blue sky comes a sound reminiscent of a 1980s space game. The sound dips and weaves until the source comes into view. Two lapwing, otherwise known as peewits, chase each other across the sky on rounded wings, twisting, turning and rolling, before one disappears and the other charges off chasing another bird, this time the black shadow of a crow. On the ground another lapwing stands erect, keeping one eye on what is going on above and the other seemingly at the ground around her. Her dark green and purple iridescent back shimmers in contrast to the brilliant white of her belly. The white of her cheeks stands out against the black of her face and neck, and her crest points skywards, although not as smart as her mate who valiantly chases all comers across the sky, she is still a picture to behold.

Beneath her are huddled four chicks, little speckled brown and white balls of fluff on spindly legs. Unlike song birds, waders such as lapwing don’t really build a nest. Their eggs are laid in a small scrape on the ground, whether it be on moorland, estuaries or farmland. Also unlike song birds, wader chicks hatch ‘fully clothed’ so to speak. Covered in down the chicks are able to walk about and feed within a few hours.

All blinged up 

Our chicks will have been hatched on the farmland over the fence, the parents then leading them onto the grassland of the reserve to feed. If you can spot them it is the perfect time to ring them. Despite more growing to be done, not only in size but with proper feathers, their legs don’t grow any fatter meaning you can fit a ring that will last all its adult life on a chick that is a couple of hours old.

The trick is spotting them amongst the tussocks, one warning from mum or dad and they can disappear right before your eyes, their plumage and small size enabling them to blend in with the background. If you can find them, they are the best. The cutest balls of down that one can handle. A privilege that I never grow tired of. No pecking or scratching, just a wee bit wriggly. No wonder I always look stupidly happy when I have these little dudes in my hands. 

Me and my peewit chicks

Redgrave and Lopham Fen

We are up before dawn, which at this time of year is early, too early some might say. A sliver of a crescent moon greets us as we drive east, shining in a velvety black, clear sky that is slowly turning an inky blue. The car park at Redgrave and Lopham Fen National Nature Reserve is, to no one's surprise, empty as we pull in to await the rest of the ringing team. 

As the shadows of the surrounding trees slowly come into focus the dawn chorus begins, the song of robins, blackbirds, song thrush, blackcap and many more break the quiet. 

Dawn light filters across the landscape of pasture, woodland and fen as we drive to the ringing site through gate after gate. Rabbits appear in the low lying mist, their ghostly forms appearing and then disappearing as they scamper across the fields. 

The ringing team at Redgrave & Lopham Fen NNR

The nets are set in the scrub and trees at the edge of a large reed bed, a sea of dun yellow stalks whose tops glow burnt orange as the sun finally breaks the horizon. A barn owl floats across the crests, dipping back and forth on silent wings. 

The stunning sedge warbler

The ringing is good, enough to keep us ticking over, with a catch of warblers only just returned from their wintering quarters. Willow warblers, garden warbler, sedge warbler and whitethroats all fresh from Africa, blackcaps from either northern Africa or southern Europe. 

Equally stunning whitethroat

The morning develops into a warm, bright spring day. The barn owl is replaced by three hobby, also recently returned from their winter travels, circling high over head. 

A bit of variety

The clouds of varying shades of grey chased each other across the sky. The sun played hide and seek with the patches of bright blue in between. April showers swept across the trees, spiky hedges and opaque polytunnels of the farm. Finally things were starting to look green, tiny leaves covered by bare skeletal branches of the hedges, pale pink and white blossoms covered the trees. Bird song filled the air; busily they dart from hedge to grass to tree and back, disappearing into secret corners where their nests are hidden.

Dodging the showers the nets were up, but as always the question was what would we catch? This may always be the question on every ringers mind, but at this time of year for us it’s even more so. Things are in a state of flux, winter migrants are or have left for their breeding grounds, summer birds are returning but not all are back yet. Residents are spreading out through the countryside, setting up and maintaining breeding territories.

Plenty of lesser redpolls still moving through at the farm

The result? Well the star of the winter show, the brambling, seem to have left, but there are still  plenty of redpolls having their last fill before heading north. Plenty of siskins add their green and gold to the feeders, some piling on the fat reserves ready to leave, while others are already into the full swing of breeding. 

Female siskin - some had brood patches
others were piling on fat ready to leave

Female chaffinch, greenfinch, great tit, goldfinch, siskin and robin all show evidence that breeding is underway, the feathers on their breast have been dropped and the skin engorged ready for incubating eggs.

Summer migrants have also made an appearance; swallows recently returned from Africa, dip and dive over the cottage roof, while in the net we catch a female blackcap.

Female blackcap (with her brown cap!)

Added to the mix were nuthatch, coal tit, blue tit and even a female great spotted woodpecker, her all black head setting her apart from the males of the species.

As the horizon darkens ominously, promising more than a light sprinkling, it is time to close up. The nets are safely wrapped up, the kit is tidied and stowed away. As large, heavy rain drops start to patter against the roof of the polytunnel we leave the birds to find shelter for themselves and head home for a well earned bacon and egg sarnie. 

A day in the Bay of Biscay

The deep blue of the Atlantic Ocean stretched to the horizon, mirrored by a blue sky that was a just a shade lighter. The sea rolled, the occasional white cap broke the surface, small dark waves rippled. The ferry steamed ahead, leaving a path of pale turquoise and white water. Once again I am back heading across the Bay of Biscay.

After a quiet morning, with only the occasional adult gannet swooping by, finally comes the shout of dolphins. Common dolphins sweep past the vessel quickly reaching her wake. Surfing through the waves, they start to leap, clearing the waters surface by meters, as exuberant as those onboard watching.

Common dolphins 

Breach!

The wind picks up, more white horses are scattered across the deep blue. Still we stand, still we watch, we wait. Then from the depths… a tall, ephemeral jet of vapour, the telltale sign of a whale, followed by a large, dark, sleek body that slices out of the waves. Not just any whale. A fin whale. The second largest animal on the planet, a few hundred meters from the ferry. Again it surfaces, heading in the opposite direction, before after the third time it is lost from view.

Fin whale!

We resume our watching but it is not long before something else catches our eye. A dark shape beneath the waves… a huge dark shape beneath the waves, but not breaking the surface. This time it is the second largest fish on the planet, a basking shark! As the ship passes, the tip of its dorsal and tail fin breaks the surface, before it is also lost beneath the waves at the stern.

My head turns back to look ahead, and once again I see that ephemeral wisp of a whale blow. But where is the whale? It must be close…then whoosh! not one but two whales, an adult and a juvenile!

Adult and juvenile fin whale

Through the hazy cloud the Spanish coast comes into view, mountains still capped with snow, towering over the rocky coastline. Our whale watching adventure is almost over for the day, but not quite with one final sighting of long-finned pilot whale. They surface close together, a tight-knit group, black bodies gleaming in the sun and topping off yet another brilliant day in the Bay of Biscay.

Wax Lyrical

I am sitting tucked up in my office, eating lunch, reading a book (a very good book I might add) and occasionally gazing out the window watching the world of Great Yarmouth go by. The hazy sun filters through the dust on the window. It’s the holidays and kids are playing outside, their shouts carry across the hazy sky, it could be the middle of summer. Step outside and a bitter, cold easterly wind quickly reminds you it’s not quite here yet. Little generally happens during these lunch breaks, the office slows down, people head off for lunch. Later, once it is warm I will venture more often out to the beach, but for now I am content to watch from the warmth.

Into the quiet of the lunchtime office a colleague bursts, with one word on his lips. Waxwings. Having braved the cold wind for a stroll, he had picked up these superb winter visitors at the end of the road. It’s getting late for them, they will soon be heading back to Scandinavia to breed. Most years less than 100 head over to the UK. In some years when the winter food source fails, hundreds arrive on our shores in search of food, namely berries. In those years, in Eastern areas, find a rowan or hawthorn bush and you have a great chance of finding waxwings.

Waxwings in Great Yarmouth

Leaving the warm we venture out into the haze, the cold wind scouring our exposed faces. It’s worth it. Two minutes down the road, and at the top of a telegraph pole are the plump silhouettes, with distinctive crest of 13 waxwings. So confiding we walk right up to the pole. They sit, preening, the tinkling bell of their contact call rings out, and is echoed back by the mimicking starlings on roof tops. The subtle beauty of the waxwing is now clear to see, its buffish pinkish plumage with striking black bib and mask, not to mention the bright yellow and red in the wings and tail.

A stunning bird

Within a moment or two, a couple lift off from the pole, rapidly followed by the rest; dropping down to a small spindly tree, its thin branches bending under the weight, before they all rush into a low berry laden bush over a low wall. Here they start shovelling berries into their bills, swallowing them whole. A passerby flushes most of the group out, only one or two are brave enough to stay a little longer, before rejoining their companions in the lofty safety of the tree.

It is tempting to stand and watch all day, and I could, I really could. But work calls and it is time to leave them to their banquet. They’ll stay till their satisfied or the bush is completely stripped, and then head off in search of another, until finally they’ll head for home…

A murmuration

The steady thwap and thwump as the fork dug into the deep brown soil rang out over the patchwork of the allotment. Working down the plot the green of grass, dandelions and other small plants gave way to the rich brown of recently turned over soil, ready for the vegetable seeds to be planted. Beyond the fences the parcels of greens, browns and yellows, of polytunnels and vegetable beds, not only provide a place of escape for people, but a haven for wildlife. In the three months we have been digging there have been waxwing feeding on berry bushes amongst the snow and fieldfare, song thrush and various species of gulls flying over. 

The newly dug allotment!

Easter weekend, and despite British 'summer time' having started it still feels like we are in the midst of winter, with the snow only just having melted, and a bitter easterly wind still ravaging the country. Undeterred the birds are in full song, goldcrest, dunnock, song thrush and blackbird all singing from the ivy hedgerow surrounding the allotment. 

Waxwings feeding 

As the sun drops pale yellow and pink streaks stretch across the deepening blue sky. Whirling above the allotment and across this canvas, is one of the best wild displays of nature. A black swirl of starlings, undulates across the darkening sky, moving as one creating shapes and patterns. A murmuration. 

A rush of air and wings as the groups swoops low, before heading up again. When one moves, with lightening quick reactions the rest follows. During the last few moments of dusk this party plays out, before the flock dips one final time, piling into a tree or bush. A reassuring chorus of twittering greets you as you walk past such roosts before finally all goes quiet...and its time to sleep.

A murmuration of starlings over Thetford