Oh my darling Celandine

Without ‘Gardener’s World’ on TV it may seem that all things horticultural are dormant at this time of year until Monty Don revives them all again in spring. However a walk down the road led me to discover three very different flowering plants. The first was the lesser celandine, despite the fact it was just a single flowering and rather tatty individual the intense yellow stood out from the brown and green hedgerow backdrop. The melt water from the ‘mini ice age’ of last week must have re-invigorated it as with the stinking hellebore I found on the banks of the village stream.    

            The stinking hellebore is a fairly rare plant but due to its liking for Wenlock Edge’s calcareous soils it thrives on the edge of our rivers, streams and roads. What the plant doesn’t have in looks - even the flowers are green - it makes up for in interesting facts. All parts are poisonous and if consumed will lead to violent vomiting and delirium; it uses yeasts to colonise the plant and raise its overall temperature in order to make it more attractive to pollinators; and when crushed it releases a foul smell leading to its other name Dungwort.

            Finally on the path up to the village church the snowdrops that were nervously poking through the snow last week, are now all out. The great survivors of any winter, neither snow nor ice nor flooding can prevent them from flowering year in year out, despite their apparent fragility. And as the afternoon sun shone over the great humpback of the Clee and melted the final slushy ice, I thought: ‘Is that the end of winter?’    

Snow on snow

The snow lived up to the hype on Friday, creating misery on the roads as usual. But if you can take the time to enjoy it, the snowy landscape is intensely beautiful. I walked up a traffic free lane, enjoying the muffled peacefulness, admiring the elegant curves of wind sculpted drifts.

After the infamous ‘ice age’ of two years ago which decimated Britain’s birds I was overjoyed to see a huge flock of finches. Just down the road is a small pond, frozen over, naturally, and surrounded by silver birch trees. In these was a mixed flock of goldfinches, greenfinches and siskin. Huddled together for warmth as the flakes continued to fall, they ate catkins and chirped merrily at the sight of me, hands frozen to my binocular and shivering as more snow came down my neck.

Finally, what could be more perfect than budding snowdrops pushing their fragile green stems through the white blanket?

The lonesome pine

Just a walk. The late morning light shone through the hedges, illuminating the emerald, new growth of hemlock, buttercup and celandine, a colour not usually associated with winter. Here and there great and long-tailed tits flew from one holly bush to the other, stocking up on high energy berries like they knew a cold snap was approaching.  The path then opened out into fields with a spectacular view of Shropshire’s highest hill - the Clee - towering above the Corve Dale. To the south-east the woods of the Apley Estate, nestling on the banks of the Severn, were visible, all painted in the cold, blue mist that softens any winter view. We are lucky in Shropshire to have trees in our fields, usually oak, however it was a lonely pine in which I saw my favourite bird, the buzzard, standing sentinel in the upper branches. Just a walk, but it held many of the things that make this part of Shropshire special: hedgerows, buzzards and the Clee. It also let me truly appreciate the view of the Corve Dale, and that’s coming from someone who drives past it twice a day.     

Boxing Day

‘Make do and mend’ as my Yorkshire father likes to say and determined to reduce, reuse, recycle after the excesses of Christmas, I’ve ventured into a spot of DIY. There always seem to be offcuts of wood cluttering up the shed and although ever since school DT projects my construction abilities have been the butt of family jokes, I managed to produce three new nest boxes for different areas of the garden. They might not be perfect or pretty but I’m hoping that won’t put their potential owners off. The fun part was deciding where to put them. One is positioned in a willow on the banks of the pond – there were reed buntings there last spring and I live in hope. Another sits in a hawthorn which is always alive with house sparrows. The last is hidden away in what we grandly call ‘the spinney’ and targets woodland birds.

            Nest boxes are of course just one of the many ways you can encourage wildlife into your garden. Bird baths from old sink bowls, bee houses from bamboo canes and of course, best of all, not doing anything. Leaving an area of your garden, no matter how small, to nature, is often overlooked for more ‘hard engineering’ methods, but it’s a lot easier than sweating over a saw.

Visiting the Canaries

It is a strange feeling to go on a winter’s walk and come back thinking of canaries, but this is what happened on Sunday. Yellowhammers are the closest thing South Shropshire has to canaries and when a small flock bursts out of the hedgerow like dashes of sunlight, they look wonderfully exotic. In the wake of a recent report that many farmland birds are declining due to more intensive agricultural methods, we’re lucky that Shropshire’s fields, which still have many hedges and oak trees, are still a safe haven for these little buntings.

            The Yellowhammer’s plumage is brighter in winter than in summer. They often catch your eye as you drive along country lanes: a splash of yellow in a bare winter hedge. Like with many birds, however, there is a difference between seeing them and watching them. On a winter walk you may see them picking up seeds missed by the farmer. And as they’re incredibly social birds you’re equally likely to see a group. Through binoculars you can pick out their long, black tail and rufous, streaky back as well as their dazzling yellow head as they turn to the late afternoon sun to sing.

Mellow Yellow

Moths. Always intriguing – both for scientists, who know little about their ways, even today, and in popular culture with everyone from Gandalf to Hannibal Lector associated with them. Ever since starting to trap and record them aged ten, I’ve been interested in their beauty but also in their darker qualities which their butterfly cousins lack. They are similar to bats- nocturnal, shy, mysterious-but unlike bats they haven't been reduced to cartoon caricartures. Their markings are less showy and often intricate and subtle. And they are endlessly varied.

            Shropshire is great place to see moths with its range of habitats from the chalky grassland of Wenlock Edge, to the moorland of the Long Mynd and the reed beds of the Severn, but late winter is not the best time to see them on the wing. And yet yesterday, rummaging in the shed, I came across a Large Yellow Underwing, slumbering its way through the winter. It is a big, dull, brown moth, and you may never notice it’s there. But at the first warming rays of spring it flips up its forewing to reveal a hindwing filled with bright yellow, a flash that brings to mind the petal of the daffodil, a Brimstone’s wings or the gentle warmth of a spring day. I left him to sleep, knowing that soon the first spring sunshine will coax his great wings back into life and reveal his secret beauty.

Waxwing Lyrical

A dreary day but a joyous first for our garden - the waxwing. It arrived last week and from its perch in a willow tree ate rosehips and drank greedily from the pond. Nor was it alone - but part of an extremely sociable group of ten. Looking at it gobbling berries, you might think it would struggle to get off the ground but every October it flies hundreds of miles from the breeding grounds in the far east of Europe to its winter feeding grounds in the far west. These birds may have been driven far west to Shropshire due to lack of food further east.

            Once you see a waxwing, they’re unmistakable. Their body is pinkish-brown and rather fat, with a large crest and dashes of red just above the bill. This is contrasted by the jet black of the bill, eyes and the surrounding feathers, and by the wings’ white, black and yellow colouration and the red waxy deposit, which is how the bird gets its name. So if you are lucky enough to see a flock of waxwings feel privileged that they have come a thousand miles to say hello and let them strip down your berry filled bushes. And best of all, if you do see some, chances are that they’ll return to the same spot once again next year – they’ve got a great memory for the best eateries in town.

All isn't quiet on New Year's Day

My New Year wasn’t brought in by fireworks, the popping of corks or Auld Lang Syne, but by the incessant quacking of the mallards on our pond. All this wet weather may have spoiled the traditional White Christmas but there’s no doubt that it’s been great weather for ducks. Usually we struggle to attract them to our pond and in summer a pair of territorial coots keeps them at bay. But this autumn, as the water increased so did the numbers of mallards and last night we had a raucous party of 11 welcoming in 2013.

            Yes, there are rarer birds and more unusual species but part of being a naturalist is the enjoyment of the ordinary as well as the extraordinary and although mallards are common, they’re never boring. ‘Ducks’ are one of the first birds we learn to identify as children but standing chucking mouldy bread in the park doesn’t really give you an insight into their habits. I never knew they were so nocturnal until they started keeping me awake. And winter is the best time to see the males' velvety green head and blue speculum. A great way to get through your January blues is to monitor your local flock for the first brood of ducklings. But be warned - they may end up the same way as Jemima’s, as female ducks seem to be fairly casual mothers.