April diary

A crow alive with spring made an exuberant display flight above the straight double line of trees that followed the dead tram line. The black shape undulated and doubled back with increasing complexity until twice it tumbled into a casual dive, turning itself upside down, raven like as it flew then vanished behind the double tree line. Robins with their wings drooped and fiery breasts thrust forth stood off in across the path, an exact copy of a situation a few metres before, with many more repetitions along the length of the path. A chiffchaff was fidgety amongst powdery catkins, each 'chiff' producing a twitch, followed shortly by a 'chaff' and another twitch and a puff of pollen. Pigeons careened through low sunlight, the long restless shadows their own rapid wings cast on their bodies exaggerated every movement and they appeared to roll and somersault as they flew to roost.

***

Something had drained the colour from the world. The sky threw its grey into the river and scattered it upon the  pavements. A wagtail, grey in name but lemon in the colourless environment, bounced upriver. Each trough of its sine wave produced a note, propelling it to its next peak. Low tide had fallen slack, a pebble island  revealed. It was occupied by lesser black-backed gulls and three cormorants. One of them tried to dry its wings in the chill damp, half hearted lazy flaps making do in place of any real breeze or sunshine to remove the moisture. Its wings looked very heavy. The receding water left drowned tree limbs visible, looking like they were trying to pull free of the ooze that trapped them. A lone redshank picked underneath one, atypically laid back.

Turning from river, moving to forest, woodpigeons clapped from trees as I passed. Catkins were strewn on the ground beneath each tree that bore them. They looked like some massed gathering of caterpillars come to gaze on the mighty trunk, like people in fields in summer. A jay made a startlingly pink brushstroke on the skies grey canvas. The wood was noisy, a road running alongside and the sharp racket of a strimmer just seemed to provoke the birds into ever louder song. All around, saplings were putting out their first leaves. Those of the horse chestnut drooped from the base as if exhausted from the effort of forcing the bud open. Stopping revealed much: A song thrush first, repetitions loud was then answered by another. Then skulking bullfinches dared to move more, the white on their rump giving away their position. A rabbit dared to rustle the brambles and froze briefly before resuming its meal.

***

At last, over a field, swallows hawked for insects. Their return was the release of a breath I didn't know I had been holding since October. They counterpointed the swooping lapwings in a visual symphony on the wing.

***

The estuary edge is rich in spring. Avocets were fiercely defending their nests, although it hardly seems worth it for the half-hearted scrapes they make. The peeping calls crescendoed into frenzy should ever a swan stray near, fading back, blending with the background of skylark song once the swan was sent on its way. On the bank across the water was a little stint, all but invisible in its diminutive stature unless it moved. Eyes straining at the stint through glass were suddenly blurred as 50 or so black tailed godwit flocked through my view. They swept from left to right, slightly left and then right again before settling. Every change in direction brought a change in the pitch of the sound of wind rushing past their pointed primaries. The noise is one that can sweep you up in it's expression of easy speed and lightness.

Many birds were mating, a few clumsily. Oystercatchers don't seem to know where there long legs should go and the webbed feet of black-headed gulls slip easily on the back of a mate.

Longer legged still than the oystercatchers; godwits and avocets wandered in deep water, the latter occasionally buoyed and swimming tentatively up as their search for food took them to water deeper than the gangly length of their limbs.

Amongst the black headed gulls, hard to discern at first, was a gull with a heavier, redder bill. It's wing tips daubed in black in a subtly different manner. A Mediterranean gull. It was agitated, confused to be among so many that looked similar yet were different, and didn't rest for more than 30 seconds at a time before taking flight. Each time it landed with head held high as if looking for others of it's kind. In this position its bold white eye circle and shelduck red bill were prominent.

A trail of churning water terminated when a little grebe bobbed up. It seemed almost too buoyant for its repeated dives to the bases of the reeds to be possible.

Thirty golden plovers flocked past, tight in formation. Each turn of the flock like a switch being thrown, changing it from a brilliant brown gold glow to satin black and back. Each time such a flock went up was an opportunity for eyes to linger a little longer on the sky, ever hopeful for a glimpse of a merlin or peregrine attracted by the activity. Not this time.

A pair of shovellers flew low over the water, losing height at millimeters to the meter, ever so gently yet somehow at speed introducing themselves to the rippled mirror. The mirror parted as their breasts pushed against it, and arced symmetrically, glittering to each side as it slowed the ducks until they were sitting, regal in the water, observing their subjects.

Towards the sea. Fleshy shoots of sea purslane were pushing between the carpet of white blooming atriplex plants. Low to the ground, the constant breeze across the saltmarsh was no bother to the little flowers. That breeze drowned out almost all else, but the haunting of redshanks. It penetrated clothing and hair and brought the very nature of the coast to the skin, the nose. Turning the wind behind, suddenly all was audible again. A line of some hundred cormorants waited where the sea met the land, dark watchers of the water, arms open in an unaccepted embrace. Shelduck, all in twos, were grazing between the larger clumps of sea purslane that grew closer to the sea. Back towards land. A skylark ceased its song, an event that seems improbable until seen, and started dust bathing ahead of me. It must have been enjoyable, for I was almost upon the bird before it flew. Reaching true land again, saltmarsh plants petered out until there were dandelions, rich yellow with small brown birds scattered between them. They all seemed to turn at once, revealing themselves to be linnets, striking scarlet spilled on their breasts. Less like a bloodstain - such a thought doesn't enter the mind when looking at such convivial little birds - more like a toddler that has tried to tackle too many juicy raspberries and stained its clothes.

March Diary

Buds, noticeable on trees since the middle of February were yet to produce leaves or blooms to adorn branches. Instead, twenty or more woodpigeons bent them down like swollen fruit, the soft rosy blush of breast feathers showing ripeness. Neither hawk nor feline were present to pick this fruit; the woodpigeons slept and ripened in the descending tones of the setting sun.

***

Snatched moments of the wild, twisted, presented themselves from the train. A heron stood in a flooded field, as if bemused by a pipe thrust into the mire, turned its head and followed the course of the tube. The movement was as slow and considered as all a heron does. Maybe they would tangle in their own  disproportionality were they to move with haste. The only time a heron moves with speed is the lightning killing strike. That is a movement to end things. Its finality so complete that it scarcely could have come from so sedate a being, stood after with prey struggling in dagger bill. The pipe ended where it met a pump and other machines and workmen. There were no birds there.

A tiercel peregrine, fiercely dark against red crumbles of abandoned brick inched forward into thrusting wind. In a tube of metal, glass and noise I was inched backward; our paces matched. Had humans eyes to match those of the raptor, we would have locked them. The tiercel broke its un-hover to meet the falcon rounding the derelict. They pushed it below them. Up over, one, the other, again over, again. The pair rose, descended, in synch. Feral pigeons were unconcerned as the peregrines flashed slate then ivory. They were not hunting but revelling. The train inched on.

***

Still bare trees and a lack of hirundines gave the lie to the late summers day that was actually early in spring. Recent arrivals of the season were chiffchaffs. Where there had been none days before, their onomatopoeic utterances now abounded, each quizzical song answered by more questions from a neighbour, contesting territory boundaries. Spindle birch caught in an aged bramble weave caged me in my path. A jay thus overcame it's usual coy demeanour and drew near to examine me, it's intelligent curiosity characteristically corvid.

Through the thin 'tseep'-ing of long-tailed tits, at work gathering spider webs from the birch, an understated 'weoop' let me know a bullfinch watched also. It wasn't difficult to find. Male bullfinches in leafless trees are improbably vivid, like an incongruous gaudy rose bloom.

Goldfinches wittered and squeaked from a stand of pines on the path to the wood proper, beckoning, urging. Inside, a treecreeper deftly scampered along the underside of branches as easily as on top. The small wood was quiet, the steady hum of nearby roads a faded background insignificance. Trees are great hiders of sound, but a few birds know how to cut through: the distant double squawk of a pheasants alarm call or the disproportionately loud, buoyant, trilling song of a territorial wren. A song thrush went up, pigeon-like before me into the branches and drew my eye to a curiously lone jackdaw flying over.

Feathers scattered on the ground suggested a hawks kill. But there was no carcass. In reality, long-tailed tits had built a nest foolishly close to the path. Human hands brutally undid weeks of weaving spider web, camouflage of lichen and a plush lining of carefully gathered feathers. Now the feathers poured from the stricken nest like viscera from a gaping wound in the belly of an animal impaled on the branches.

Rotting beets and piles of straw, neglected in a field provided hunting for a pair of pied wagtails. They flitted and bobbed in interrupted circles, collecting insects the foetid material had attracted.

Fields led to river. A cormorant dove twice, and twice returned with a fat silver fish in its long hooked bill. The scales of the fish matched the silver white of the cormorants breeding plumage about its head. After arduously swallowing the second in a series of violent backward jerks of the head, the bird took belaboured flight downstream. A field to the left produced the antithesis of belaboured flight: lapwing displaying. They uttered curious pee-wits, swooping and ascending and bounded on the wing; effortlessness in avian form. One landed on the bank and looked to a male goldeneye sitting heavy and low in the water. They were alike in their black and white livery and little else.

***

The false summer persisted, and the twittering of goldfinches accompanied a human family basking in a garden near the coast. Jackdaws and gulls bickered over nesting spots atop a red brick warehouse, their calls equally harsh in their belligerence, yet distinct. As the sun descended, the chill air was the truth of the season. The evening movement was led by a blackbird with its rich, emphatic song. Every phrase a blackbird sings is perfectly enunciated, their timings dead. A common song to hear, but worthy of dedicated appreciation.

Recommended reading: The Longshoreman, Richard Shelton

Those who have any sort of affinity for the coast and the sea will find much to identify with in The Longshoreman. I certainly did. In The Longshoreman, Richard Shelton tells the tale of a life spent admiring nature, from a childhood spent dipping into the river Chess, wanting nothing more than to catch a fish to look at, through to a career as a leading sea fisheries scientist, catching fish for a very different purpose.

Shelton the scientist is evident throughout the book, diligently and handily providing the reader with the proper scientific binomials of all the species mentioned (handy, for as he notes himself, the range of common names used for fish can be more than a little confusing). This is not to say the book is filled with scientific language; it is a very accessible read, his explanations of the subjects dealt with are simple and to the point and this means each theme can nestle into the ongoing narrative in an organic way. This narrative is underpinned throughout by a conspicuous love for the wild. Shelton the naturalist, Shelton the academic and Shelton the wildfowler all grow from this thread and are weaved around it in such a way that no one subject is dwelt on any longer than necessary to show fully why it is worth us reading about, which makes the turn of each page a joy. The way these threads interact also gives us repeated glimpses into his childhood. Like many an enthusiast for the natural world, Shelton's fascination with it is born of childhood experiences and his vivid recollections of the thoughts and feelings of a young boy pulling mysterious, gleaming creatures from the Chess makes crystal just how this happens. Wildfowling is perhaps a controversial hobby, but in my mind it is by far one of the most acceptable of the 'country sports' there is and I certainly do not begrudge Shelton the chapters he dedicates to it and it's equipment. Shelton writes about wildfowling as an activity through which one gains a deeper appreciation for ones quarry and it's habitat. His respect for the birds is never in question. Besides, a wildfowl hunt is something few of us will experience and his writing lets the reader go someway to being in a few of these moments.

The people and places encountered by Shelton through his life are varied, interesting and brought to life just as well as his childhood experiences. He is not afraid to provide history or background for either and though this may be the one place that the book is in danger of bogging down, it is never for more than a few sentences. He then bounds on with whatever tale he was telling, the reader better for having the benefit of context. As may be expected for a fisheries scientist, Shelton tells of encounters with a number of fishermen and other maritime folk. A real treat for those who enjoy such tales of the sea and aren't afraid of some of the more 'fruity' language often used by the former crowd in particular! There are a few occasions in the book where Shelton mentions people, places or even creatures he is not so keen on. He always uses an appropriate degree of tact and weaves in a suitable level of homour for many of these occasions, so a little bit of complaint is never dull or difficult to get through. Shelton is really at his best though, when writing about things he loves - a well respected senior academic, the feeling of a ten bore letting loose, the excitement of retrieving a net of fish and especially the places that have brought him these things. It is really these that come through as the lasting 'characters' in book, for each one brings together it's own unique tapestry of the different threads of his life. Of course in a book dealing extensively with fish and fishing, there is no escaping things rather less joyful and Shelton's experience puts him in a very strong position to deliver the necessary cautionary message.

This is a book of science, history, nature and the autobiography of one who has a great appreciation of all three. This alone makes it worth a read, the fact that Shelton writes of them so finely makes it a joy.

Believe it or not... spring is in the air.

It's hard for us to grasp when it's so cold and still dark for much of the day, but by this time every year, the wild world is in full spring mode. It's not very hard to get up for dawn at when the nights are still long and if you do (and go outside of course), it's easy to hear our hardy resident birds that have overwintered giving their best dawn chorus prelude. Of course it pales next to the full splendour of a deciduous woodland at dawn in April, but the birds singing at dawn now are establishing territories before the arrival of the migrants that make the full chorus such an aural spectacle. Some birds, such as raven (Corvus corax) will even start to nest in February, with the result that they will have fledged a brood when most other species are just getting started. It's another smart strategy to avoid competition, for food rather than territory, that is only made available by overwintering.

Another sign of the impending season comes courtesy of the local black-headed gulls (Larus ridibundus), many of which are already changing into their smart breeding livery. The individual below was kind enough to highlight itself by choosing an elevated position to preen.

There are more subtle signs, too. Have a look at the swelling buds on superficially lifeless trees and shrubs...

Very high tide on the Ribble yesterday, with plenty drifting up on it. Every so often the gulls would descend in a frenzy on some patch of water or section of the bank that the river had gently lapped, when they would be joined by redshank, (Tringa totanus) .

I wasn't close enough to determine what the subject of their attentions was, some tasty morsel from further down the estuary no doubt. Perhaps spawning fish: smelt (Osmerus eperlanus) are another early spring breeder, but it is perhaps still a little early for them to be heading up river. Typically smelt use a big tide like yesterdays to augment their somewhat humble swimming abilities in their trek to the breeding grounds. Smelt are a species I've developed quite an interest in of late and they'll no doubt be mentioned or even be the main subject in future posts.

Teal (Anas crecca) were out in the usual large numbers, also using the current to move upstream.

The males look particularly dapper at this time of year.

A male goldeneye (Bucephala clangula) also made rapid progress upstream, stopping to dive every now and then and look over his shoulder as I tried to keep up.

I'm no good on identifying birds to the individual, but I often see a male goldeneye diving near the footbridge, so this could have been him making his way to his foraging grounds. A pic of him for comparison.

Onchidoris bilamellata

A lovely little nudibranch, somewhat unexpectedly on Blackpool sea defenses. Sorry for phone pic, but it was all I had with me yesterday. Back today and it was a bit too grim to get the camera out! But interestingly, there were also some white gelatinous ribbons attached to the walls of a number of the pools. Obviously animal in origin and distinctly 'egg mass looking' - I'm sure we've all had that 'egg mass looking' feeling before right? Just me? Okay. Anyway, the conclusion our little group came to was the coincident appearance of hitherto unseen species at the location along with the unusual structures probably indicates a link (I know, very unscientific!). Any nudibranch life cycle experts out there can help? My friend D bore his camera to the elements and may well have some nicer photos of the animal and suspected eggs.

Having looked the species up on MarLIN, it looks like those white ribbons were indeed most likely to be the eggs of this species. As they feed on the acorn barnacles that encrust much of the sea wall, it's likely that these animals are there much of the time but were just more apparent to our prying eyes as it's spawning time.