No man is an island . . . but his garden might be. In May 2020, my garden was the epicentre of the first National Lockdown Garden Birdrace. Its weird to think four summers have passed each with its own character. Re-reading my post race summary I notice as night passed into day we had three male Blackbirds competing for best lead vocals. Their jazz on a warm afternoon is a sound of childhood, with Swifts screaming overhead.
Only four summers have passed. Not a lifetime. Not when my Grandparents were alive. Not way back when. Only four summers. In that time we now have only one Blackbird holding a territory. They raised a chick that fledged last week in a neighbour’s garden. The first time in years a first brood has fledged -thanks to cats and Magpies. Old Joe has passed and as work starts on his house I suspect it maybe the last nest from there. The second nest has just been built in our Holly hedge.
What is it about people? Moving into a new house they rip out a hedge and build a fence. They hard pave and deck the rest of their land. Creating a republic and printing a flag they maximise every cubic metre of ‘their’ space to fill it with air.
Now I am all for ‘air’, it seems to be a good thing, it breaths life into the world. It cant though, breath life into dead things.
There were other birds on my list from the Birdrace day that were special. Osprey -obviously. Coal Tits that went absent without leave but returned the next day. Dunnocks became quite a long standing joke with @Timthefruit; their love triangles and wing flicking was happening in my garden and not his.
That was then. I awoke this morning and realise I am missing their song from my breakfast soundscape. When all else failed somewhere in or around the garden they managed to hatch their eggs, as blue as any summer sky, and young would creep around all summer with their Tinkerbell sounds.
But not it seems this year. My neighbours have stolen my Dunnocks. Or more literally taken the food out of their mouths.
For people of a certain age, when they were sevenish, a surreptitious intervention placed the Observer’s Book of Birds in our once tiny hands. With alternating pages of colour and black and white paintings by Archibald Thorburn it is easy to see why this book was a treasure to capture so many hearts and imaginations. It is worth digging out your copy and seeing the changes. Marsh Harrier wasn’t illustrated being ‘the rarest of the three’. Willow Tit again not illustrated, but enough to give a chance of identification from Marsh Tit. Willow Warblers were ‘abundant’ if only that were still true across East Anglia. White Wagtail get its own black and white entry. But I have never heard anyone exclaim ‘High numbers of TitLark from a VizMig’.
So the Observers Book of Birds did the heavy lifting, and for most that’s where the story ends. I saved my pocket money and bought into the Fredrick Warne and Co Ltd empire delivering wild things to my hands. I bought Butterflies in the summer of 1977 as they fluttered around one large buddleia. I can smell the intoxicating perfume when I open it and look at the Tortoiseshells and Peacocks. How I so wanted to be the one to find a Large Tortoiseshell; my chest nearly exploded when I saw one in Tuscany more than 40 years later. The illustrations are still good enough for most of our UK summers. 75p it cost; 25x the price of a bag of Football Crazy crisps.
Around the same time I splashed out another 75p for ‘Wild Animals’ -mammals with amphibians and reptiles. Water Voles were then frequent where I grew up, a regular sound as they ‘plopped’ into the stream on moonlit walks with our dog. They were my gateway into the secret world of mammals.
I return to it now following a thread that started with an exciting encounter with bats in the Autumn of the first lockdown year. Through more dusk encounters. The purchase of a bat detector to listen to bats, which would have seemed financially impossible to my 10 year old self. It being the equivalent to a mixed bag of 20,000 Black Jacks and Fruit Salads. Then to see bats closer I would throw a tennis ball into the summer sky and watch it pull a bat out of the darkness.
So via a number of podcasts including BatChat, Batability and Mammalwatching.com I have deliberately started to go out looking for mammals. Yes I know I have now said that out loud, but it is capturing the excitement of the less predictable.
I realised in 2022 in our Birdrace/Wingsearch year that just listing, in this high tech. world, does not have the same buzz without the jeopardy of a dip. Building a big list makes you miss and forget what is really going on. So I stumble through the undergrowth looking at scratchings on the ground, half eaten Hazelnuts, and yes bits of poo -but not so close.
Returning to the book, the point of this blog, it too was engrained on me when I look at the photos after so long. I must have devoured these images in the same way a family album fuses to your soul. What my 10 year old self would not have know was I would only see one Coypu and that the South American colonizer would be eradicated by the time I left Norfolk.
It seems improbable that the Roe Deer would have had to be reintroduced to England given it is now easy to see double figures on many evening walks, some up close and personal. Also improbable that Red Squirrel were easy to see; and that Greater White-toothed Shrew would get introduced to NE England.
The biggest change though if the book was to be reprinted would be the bats. The Pipistrelle may still be described as a common bat, but after the discovery of new to science Soprano Pipistrelle in the 1990’s would require a second entry and a better picture.
But it was the ugly looking Barbastelle on page 59 that I really wanted to see. How could I hope to see something the colour of a dark sky at night, especially when the information supplied about its habits required more detail. Their reliance on flakes of bark on ancient trees for roost sites is a significant part of their life.
So I follow the challenges faced by the decent people of Norfolk as the fight the conservative County Council’s belief that a Western Relief Road will solve Norwich’s problems. That the chalk stream and the ecology of the Wensum Valley are disposable. That the protection afforded to a significant percentage of Norfolk’s and hence England’s Barbastelles is something to be traded away.
By 17 I had been through some of this Barbastelle habitat not knowing they were there. To be fair in the 1980s not many would have known the significance of this super colony either. And that is the point. We don’t know what we are losing. We don’t know which piece of this complex ecological jigsaw are the significant ones. We are too arrogant to think we are part of nature.
I don’t want to be like Ash Saunders and mourn the loss of things after they have gone. I may never get back to see Barbastelles where I grew up but I am really pleased to see how strong the fight is to save them.
I continue to explore ‘my’ wood. the footpath that runs through it has become overgrown since Winter. Hogweed continues to attract insects but in amongst the mix are pale pink Bramble flowers. they act as a magnet and for a while the lack of Spring insects subsides, though I know this to be in-the-moment observer bias.
Hoverflies attracted by the flowers attract me. I ignore the solitary bees as ‘too difficult’.
Starting with a female Volucella bombylans (above) in one of its many polymorphic disguises.
Male and female Eristralis pertinax (above). And female E. pertinax and Syrphus torvax.
The visit coincided with an emergence of Comma butterfly -six were in one sunning and feeding in one Bramble bush.
And there are other things too including this Vespa social wasp. Even though I am pleased with this picture I am still not sure what species
I know it to be Monday. My neighbour with his ‘new for the season’ lawn mower is just scalping his lawn. He washes his car on Sunday, so has no time in retirement to do the lawn on the same day.
Above him, two crows head languidly towards the horizon. The sun breaks through the clouds. It has not rained in a month and lawns have barely grown the millimetres he has shaved off. The ground is exposed.
Cars buzz the street. They replace the sound of the insects now being noted for their absence -even here. His daughter, by way of conversation, is named after the first human, looking up to her namesake in a sky with diamonds. I note for effect, you can’t eat diamonds. You also can’t drink the time that has elapsed since we knew this day was coming.
Rooks fly over. They have been reduced to begging outside the supermarket with the ground so hard. Briefly a Swift, searching for the aerial plankton sifts the blue sky. Why today would I comment on such banality?
From a seedling that survived, free-range, on the patio pre-covid, came a handful of tomatoes. Saving some seed back to sow again each of the four Springs that have passed, I now see this variety as my own -it has a name. It is mine and does not belong to the big industry giant that created it; and lobbied Government to stop me selling it as mine.
The flowers began life all confident in yellow against green leaves but, have withered without puckering into a ball. A ball that should change through green to gold as the summer moves across the sky. Four summers I have protected them from the extremes of British weather. They have rewarded me with bowlfuls of fruit enough from seven plants to share. That sense of community -distilled sunshine, we all like free food. Well today I noticed that my tomatoes are not developing fruit. The flowers unpollinated wither and die.
Don’t worry, I am not going to starve. This is a vanity project, not an agricultural endeavour. I thought though, I was safe. My family were safe in the garden that is something of a Ark. A throwback. A relic. We haven’t paved over the front garden for parking. We haven’t used decking to elevate ourselves, or plastic grass to keep our feet clean. But I am no saint -I still drive; and fly; and throw things away before they are ready.
Originally, the garden came with a candyfloss cherry tree out front and an apple tree with hardly any roots out back. Both long gone. They were mine. I didn’t have to ask permission when I chopped the fuckers down. They were in the wrong place. I had no use for them. The neighbours may have noticed as they fell. They didn’t say anything, they were busy with their own projects. Complaints and accusations before the replacements had their wings clipped was the only acknowledgement of our achievements.
Waking one morning with the realisation we had grown an island, I watched frog spawn float in the pond. In a sea of consumerist fencing and patios google earth spied us to be adrift. Bees buzzed, flies flew, and other passing insects called in; Holly Blues reared a Spring brood. Our surplus went out into the world and did six-legged things. But today is different. Today it’s not the same. Yes, there are bees, perhaps even more than last year. Or maybe not, I can’t tell. I was too pre-occupied last year. Either way, they are not going near the yellow flowers, they wither and dry; barren. But that’s Ok I can buy tomatoes at the supermarket.
After last year’s miles spent pursuing a bird list for the year I want to do something different. So I stayed local. I hung out in bits of mainly woodland and just looked. And waited. And looked some more. In doing so I started to see things I had not seen before. Not new species, but things I should have seen if I was not so blinkered to identifying stuff and moving on. So for the first quarter of the year I have seen the following that I consider new.
Marsh Tit and Willow Tit in the same morning.
Sparrowhawk nests -probably up to four from last year in the bare branches of winter. Later feeling the air move across my face as one burst through a hedge close.
Jay whistling as it walked along and under a hedge. Not mimicry as such, but not the harsh indignance.
Exploring a hollow Oak tree inside and out.
Badger hair on a wire fence.
Roe Deer that came down to 4m from me before walking off.
Willow Tit pair feeding in the bush I was sitting under.
Genuine pleasure in having a Robin sit close by in the garden.
Honey bees nesting wild in a Sycamore.
Discovering the challenge of ferns.
Woodcock roding using ‘quizicks’ and no grunts. Til’ then I had assumed they did both together.
Roe deer died of natural causes curled up in a ball -previously shot, RTA or tangled in a barbed-wire fence.
Sky dancing Red Kite -active flight to height then active flight down. A real wow event.
Barn Owl. Standing leaning against a post it didn’t see me and was flying around to 10m then I put my bins down and it got such a shock it looked like it couldn’t believe a person was standing where it was hunting. It then spent the rest of the time hunting well clear of that spot and me.
Noticing then reporting pollution in Causey Burn. Later being transfixed by the blue grey lifeless stream as I searched for anything to prove the stream was alive or had life in it.
Watching a Stoat climb down from a tree. First using Ivy then a fallen branch.
The flow of a river connects across a landscape, many landscapes. It is a simple version of that truth as the downhill flow takes it away from where it was, to where it is; briefly. It touches everything without bias. Each stream and river has many names, yet we do not know the name it calls itself. For many the stream is life, is alive. Not just full of life but it has rights(1) as though it too ‘should be able to sing; to be able to play with the stones, fishes, birds’. in a way we once did.
How did we fall out of touch with this world?
In a world of commodities, everything can be bought and sold. Everything has a price, nothing has value. Anything that is not seen to create profit becomes worthless -profit at any cost. We create more profit by hiding true costs -not cleaning up our shit.
And so, it is with rivers and streams. There is enough written about the way water companies are transferring profits to shareholders. I will leave that to the experts and just narrate an anecdote told to me by one who was there.
A man sits by the edge of a burn. Its waters, crystal clear. At times of rain these waters become swollen and discoloured. Eventually, the levels drop and again runs crystal clear. Odd bubbles are created where water hits the rocks. These are so regular that it is mistaken for normal. He raises not one eyebrow, and the tranquil scene is punctuated by the sound of water flowing. A sound we love and a sound we know can be ‘heard’ by plants. It encourages growth of roots towards them.
After a while he wonders, ‘Why have I not seen a Dipper here on this beck?’ The thought passes. Other signs of life demonstrates a wondrousness and bounty. It is Spring; leaves and flowers break out of their winter coats. Green colours the world.
After some days of sitting in contemplation he concedes the stream is not smiling and joyous. Its shine is clouded by a blueish tinge. There is a weird smell that is likened to the opening of a bathroom door -tinged with a chemical after taste. Again he lets the thought pass. Not his issue. He doesn’t live here. There is enough of interest to last a pleasant hour. The thoughts flow through him, over him and surround him. The sunshine warms him. A stone gatepost stands alone from a wall that no longer exists. Cloaked in moss is it worthy of spiritual adoration like a standing stone, its meaning lost in time.
Does a gatepost have the spiritual significance of a standing stone?
On a foul day when spiritual thoughts are hard to come by he chooses for no good reason, other than to satisfy his own curiosity, to go upstream. The rocks of the rapids in and around the constructed bridges create the familiar and reassuring bubbles and sound. The rocks are green with moss, not speckled with Dipper poo. Even so, it chimes with his brook.
The path winds away from the river and for once he can see a bigger picture. Trees continue to crowd the banks; wild garlic is just emerging; and Great Tits are calling ‘Teacher’. Perhaps asking for help to read the information boards speckling the banks. They describe and celebrate the wildlife of the stream. None of which this bird has witnessed in a while.
What sounds like a waterfall, shows itself beyond a bend. It is a waterfall and from it spouts the froth and bubbles of a bath with a tap on full. It foams and froths like white horses galloping up onto a storm hit beach. The pipe is the outflow of a sewage treatment works and it feels like creeping death has arrived in the woodland.
Cleaned water from the sewage treatment works reacts with the detergent in the stream.
Upstream of the pipe that froths, the stream is equally pallid and lifeless. After a diversion of being offered a tour of the treatment works he heads further upstream. The blue grey water clings to rocks as it pushes aside the streamside grass. The stream is released from the wood and out between arable fields and brown field grassland by the railway.
Against the flow he arrives at the source and pushes his nose into other people’s business. As he peels back the curtain to reveal the company polluting the stream, he realises he has a chance to return the stream back to full health by turning off the polluted dripping tap. As he reaches out to shut off the flow, many more hands are turning the tap the other way. In fact, they want it opened wider. ‘We want cheap goods’ they clamour. ‘We do not want to pay the full cost. We are happy to accept the consequences of pollution’
(1) A rivers rights
Establishes that all rivers shall possess, at minimum, the following fundamental rights:
The right to flow;
The right to perform essential functions within its ecosystem;
The right to be free from pollution;
The right to feed and be fed by sustainable aquifers;
Curlews' Feathers 