Deer Diary

Between the catkins and silver birch trees I see it. An eye, a face and then it melts away I continue to wait on the gate as intently as the buzzard above me. Probably a dog I think, but then I see it again, its warm brown coat clearly visible in the morning sun. An eye, a face then the body and I realise my dog has transformed into a deer. Anyone who regularly travels through Farley Dingle will have seen deer: a warning road sign, a brief glimpse through the trees, or a heart stopping flash as they cross the path of the car. But this is different: eye to eye and personal. We all have that subconscious Bambi-born love of deer, but I’m not thinking ‘cute’, I’m looking at something big and wild, and wonderful because of it.  I move closer for a better look but no sooner have I taken a few steps than the deer vanishes into the undergrowth, the shaking catkins and bent grass the only sign that it was there.

Homer Odyssey

Braving a gale, I took the Homer Head walk the other day. At first there’s little to see - a field at first appearing bare but filled with the tentative beginnings of a crop – or hear - great tits’ familiar calls are just audible above the booming wind.

Then the great spine of the Wrekin rises up dark and menacing under a blackened sky.

                It’s the woods that steal the show, though. By all definitions they’re ‘species rich’ with blackthorn, hawthorn, hazel, oak, holly, pine. Gnarled beauties worthy of Tolkien’s ‘Ents’, a great lightning-struck beech, ivy filled ash perfect for roosting birds, and yew that have refused to fall onto Homer since before Homer was built. I’m rewarded by the glimpse of a deer, so slight and silent that I almost doubt my eyes as it disappears back into the trees with a single effortless leap.

                Beyond, a stunning view shows why the Shropshire Hills are an AONB. The prehistoric coral sea of Wenlock Edge guards the Celtic hill fort of Caer Caradoc, and, in the foreground, the month-old Buildwas flooding and island-like villages Harley, Sheinton and Cressage. A 180 degree panorama showing 20 million years.

Bits, bobs and buzzards

Firstly, a bird box update. After constructing them during the Christmas holidays I didn’t know what to expect. They did provide a welcome, temporary shelter for some wrens during the recent cold snap. And so far the blue tits seem to be taking a great interest in them, perching on the threshold, going in and out. Fingers crossed for more drama over the forthcoming weeks.

            Now plants. Last year the drive was covered in tiny self set primrose plants. Using a fork in autumn, I painstakingly put them into a seed tray and despite the snow and ice around 50 have survived. Last weekend I began to plant them out into the spinney where they’ll hopefully flourish. On a good year we have great, pale buttery mounds erupting through the ivy groundcover there, and by adding more I’m just giving nature a helping hand. Primroses and cowslips seem to like my heavy clay soil and both of them are favourite spring flowers. Whilst on my hands and knees I looked up to see the return of the waxwings – a bonus which I hadn’t thought I'd see again this winter.

            Finally – and this is breaking news as I write - the pine plantation opposite me is alive with buzzards that are being mobbed by crows and crows that are being mobbed back by buzzards. As dramatic as a First World War dogfight and every bit as noisy. Never mind the Rolling Stones, Boomtown Rats or Fleetwood Mac, birds are the great comeback artists. Every winter no matter how harsh, bitter or persistent the pigeons return to coo, the ravens to cackle and buzzards to mew.  And the great thing is that their concerts are free!

Who's afraid of the big, bad coot.

The start of February. Gone is the oppressive slate coloured sky of January ready to cover us in blanket of snow, and in its place a vast blue mass that seems to have lifted itself and our spirits. Calm, gentle, but shattered by the croaking, honking and hooting of the coot. We often think of these as kind, family birds, slightly comical with their oversized feet, but how we’ve misread them.

            The winter pond has been the home of the mallards, almost twice the size and weight of the coot, but come spring, David seems to scare Goliath into submission. When a coot wants the pond, it gets the pond: even if the ducks are forced onto the grass, over the hedge or down the road, they’ll be kicked off sooner or later. And my, can coots kick! Their gargantuan feet allow them to power through the water, getting nest material or food for hungry chicks. And those feet are weapons as well: they keep most rivals at bay and I’ve even watched them drown mallard chicks by forcing them underwater.

            From February, when they arrive, to October, when they leave, the coots rule to roost. Nature is all about interactions between organisms- a specie, a pair, a family, an ecosystem, a biome. These interactions can be productive or destructive, as in the case of the coot and mallard, but both types are interesting and worth a look at.