Summertime...and the living is easy

On the hottest day of the year so far, I take a stroll where both the parched landscape of summer and the greenery of spring sit side by side. On Windmill Hill, above the carpet of trefoil, speedwell, buttercups and clover, small heath butterflies dance restlessly. Wild strawberry flowers twinkle through the grass and a startled rabbit bounds away from me. I take a path diagonally down through warped trunks, onto the old railway.

            On the track I realise how dry it’s been. The earth is like concrete, although ferns, wild garlic and minute willow saplings have managed to penetrate it. I see flashes of wings - a dunnock darting in front of me with a caterpillar; a wren cocking her head on a low branch. The shade becomes dappled, then dark, so I can now only hear the birds. A jay cackles as I try to spot it amongst the trees. Only the blackbirds reveal themselves, skittering across the path in their search for food.

            Back out in the sunshine I marvel at the swallows’ aerial acrobatics as they wheel around their roostings in some old, unconverted barns. I head down an arrow straight track, through clouds of cow’s parsley. The foliage is abuzz with life: soldier beetles, red tailed bumble bees, lesser spotted crane flies, and the metallic tick of click beetles. A small tortoiseshell darts past my ear; a speckled wood brushes the hedge top.

            In the next field there’s a beautifully clear stream. Along its banks, ragged robin and dog daisies make the most of the water, along with the midges which feed the swooping swallows. A brimstone butterfly flashes yellow. Summer.

Where kestrels dare

There’s a gliding club on the Long Mynd but the true masters of the airspace above the Shropshire Hills are the kestrels. Atop the highest peak in Shropshire-Abdon Burf on the Brown Clee - I think I have the greatest view in the county. From the Clent Hills to Cader Idris, from the wilds of the Mynd to the urban skyline of Birmingham, I can see for 70 miles in every direction. I stand admiring it until a silhouette skirts the ground before me - a kestrel. Head into the wind it hovers, glides, swoops and soars, covering the slopes in a blink of an eye or hanging motionless, for an eternity defying the wind. On a hilltop you see kestrels as you rarely do from lower ground, at eye level, or even from above.

            The kestrel drops beyond the slope and I walk back. The top of the Clee is more of a plateau than a peak encompassing ponds, bogs and marshes. A reed bunting perches in a reed bed, its call non existent over the howling wind. Wagtails dart on the grass between the most powerful of gusts and crows walk rather than fly. A wheatear hops onto some quarried rocks-the Brown Clee was once heavily quarried and the scars, such as the ruined stone crushing plant, are still visible. Although there is an abundance of birds and a variety of them, they hug the ground: the wind is too strong for them, not one flies where the kestrels dare.       

Spotted! - flycatcher

For all my time living at this house I’ve marvelled at the airborne agility of the swallows, however this year those ‘red arrows’ may have a dog fight on their hands...

            For several days I have seen a bird from the window but have dismissed it as ‘just another warbler’- brown colouration, fairly small -  and I’ve never got close enough to identify it properly. Yesterday an opportunity arose, as it perched  conveniently on the car aerial. Bird book in hand, I watched for ten minutes and worked my way through each warbler, discarding them in turn. It was only when I turned the page onto flycatchers that I saw a photo jump out at me.

            A spotted flycatcher. At close range you can see the streaks on its head and breast that seems less pure than most warblers. And this bird was more captivating than the warblers, rather than hiding in trees or reed beds this was out in the open and its large black eyes were constantly turning, tilting and taking in the surroundings. Sure enough I was shown why it gets its name. Whereas the swallows dart around in constant flight the flycatcher is like a guided missile, from its perch - the aerial -  it locked onto some prey, darted off and returned in a single swift movement. Sadly the spotted flycatcher is declining - between 1980 and 2005 numbers fell by 79% - so I’m very privileged to see such a bird at such close quarters. The real moral of this story, however, is never make assumptions. Nature is full of surprises and is constantly out to trick us: if I had lazily assumed and called the flycatcher ‘just another warbler’, I may have never spotted the spotted flycatcher

Swallow that!

I’m reminded of Blue Planet – a swirling mass of mackerel whipped into a ‘bait ball’ by speeding tuna - as I watch the fifty or so swallows wheeling, circling and diving over the pond. At around 2:00 pm - even in the most terrible of conditions – they gather, swooping and skimming the water, in their hunt for the newly hatched flying insects.

            It is those insects I went in search of today. Faintly inspired by Springwatch I went pond dipping, something, rather like rock pooling, guaranteed to bring out the kid in everyone. With every net load you get a new trophic level – the entire pond pecking order from hydra and bloodworms to water fleas and great diving beetle nymphs. If you never break the surface of a pond, you never really see this diverse and hugely important ecosystem. And by temporarily transferring them to a plastic container, you get to witness their interactions firsthand. It is the nymphs that interest me the most, though. From the strangely familiar, large eyed and long tailed damselfly nymphs to the transparent body of the phantom midge larvae. It is these animals that link the pond to the sky - providing vital roles in both ecosystems.

Bluebell Beauty

An annual pilgrimage to Helmeth Hill, some fabulous spring woods. Before I even get there the track takes me through a mass of flowers – stitchwort, vetch, red campion, soapwort. Soft foxglove leaves and unfurling bracken fronds bring future promise.  Knarled hazels and alders mark the damp ground, and marsh marigolds tumble down the path of a stream. Delicate wood sorrels colonise the moss of fallen trunks; there’s a wiff of wild garlic on the wind; my pace is measured by the drumming of a woodpecker.

            Once inside the wood, birdsong takes over, drowning out the woodpecker, the lambs, even the ravens on the hills. The path rises steeply and I take it slowly: there’s so much to see. It’s mainly ash and coppiced hazel, open enough to allow the anemones, bluebells, violets, sorrel and garlic to flourish: a tapestry of blues, pinks, white and green. Mossy trunks and decaying stumps have their own beauty, many home to bracket fungi. Honeysuckle scrambles over others. Hollies add a dark, wintery note.

            Later, the oaks take over. It’s more enclosed here, the steep slopes so densely awash with bluebells that little else has a chance. Today is dull, but even so they radiate light. In sunshine, the iridescent combination of violet blue and emerald spring green is dazzling. I’ve waited longer than ever this year. Now I simply stand, and enjoy.

The Water Margin

There, I hear it again, the tap, tap, tapping. What is it, I ask myself, as I scan the nearby bank of the pond. The tapping continues and my ears home in on a clump of last year’s hogweed – just dishevelled remains after the snow crushed it like matchsticks. Tap, tap, tap and my eyes focus on a single wasp, its mandibles chomping away at the stem. I would rather have seen a bee getting material for a nest, but the buzz of a wasp is surprisingly comforting after the recent heavy rain and biting wind. I move further round the pond, fish fry are topping on the surface and I catch a fleeting glimpse of our very own Loch Ness Monster - the ghost carp. On the opposite bank I see bubbles on the surface: they must have come from a tench feeding off the bottom of the pond. All the while frogs are calling - since April their croaks have been like cicadas in Crete - just as loud, normal and annoying!

            The serenity is shattered: the fish dive as I here the ominous call of a heron. It lands on its chosen peg on the far side of the pond and then wades in - an expert fisherman. I watch it for 10 minutes before it decides to cast in, its snakelike neck striking the water and then getting a frog. Then, expertly balancing the prize in its bill, it throws it down its neck. I stand up and make my way back home. The heron sees me and flies away, but it’ll be back. The fish begin to top, the frog chorus returns and still – tap, tap, tap.....    

Let's go spy a kite

For years, I’ve looked forward to my sporadic journeys down the M40 for one reason only: kites. As the motorway cuts dramatically through the chalk near Stokenchurch, you can always see large numbers of them swooping overhead. On holidays in France, too, I’ve marvelled at them riding the currents of the gorges. But, despite living a stone's throw from a wood know as Kite’s Nest Plantation, I’ve never seen one at home. Last week I looked out the window, hardly registering the bird of prey, and looked again: ‘That’s a buzzard, I tell myself, no, a goshawk...a peregrine.’ It was none of the usual suspects. The red kite flew out of the sun like a spitfire pilot, its wide wings effortlessly gliding, soaring, turning. It was only when it turned to make for home that the distinct fan tail gave away its true identity. Now I’m waiting to see it again.....