Sika Deer, Dorset 2011

Canada Warbler, Spring 2011

Crows

I’ve come to love the call of Carrion Crows. Even though they rarely visit the garden, I hear them every day, often from inside the comfort of our cottage. Maybe their wild sounds remind me of bitterly cold winter days in North American woods, where the evocative call of crows seems to define the space and is usually the only sound, but perhaps it’s something more basic. My childhood was spent on remote northern hill; I can’t honestly say I remember crows, but they must have been imprinted deep into my mind.

I live surrounded by them; Jackdaws, Magpies, Rooks and Carrion Crows are part of my everyday life and a Jay often pops into the garden. I usually hear the odd Raven overhead each day and I need only go down to the cliffs to find Choughs. But crows are at their best on winter evenings, when great noisy flocks of Rooks and Jackdaws gather over our village in pre-roosting gatherings to perform spectacular aerial displays. They eventually drift away in the same general direction just as it gets dark. I don’t know exactly where they finally roost, they may end up together, but I’ve always assumed that the Rooks go one way and the Jackdaws another.

Winter Solstice

Dusk on the winter solstice is when darkness finally looses its battle with light. I quite like the shortest day, it brings hope of a new beginning and I know that in a couple of weeks, signs of spring will start to appear. Even though it’s cold, I already notice the first tiny shoots of snowdrops breaking through in the hedgerows. They won’t flower for at least a month yet, but just seeing them is enough to lift the spirit. In a sheltered corner of the garden, a clump of bluebells is already an inch or so high. They’re not real, just hyacinths planted out and reverting to their original form.

I like to see what time it gets dark on the shortest day. It’s just after 4 o’clock and as the light fades, there’s an eerie glow to the garden lighting up the goldfinches on the ground under the feeders. Gradually the light dims, the wind drops and all becomes still; the birds disappear and little moves. A robin sneaks in for a last morsel and a blackbird crosses the murk to roost in the hedge at the bottom of the garden. I peer through the window looking for life and catch sight of a coal tit nipping in to take a sunflower seed. At 4.15 it’s all over and by 4.30 I can just about make out the feeders. Darkness falls by 4.45 and my welcome light clicks on to illuminate the willow tree, but reminds me that I should think again about this needless use of carbon.

It’s amazing how the evenings appear to lengthen after the turn of the year. Each day is longer by about two minutes, but I always feel that there’s a speeding up of lighter nights in late January. Best of all is when the sun shines and prolongs these tediously short winter days.

Wildlife Carols

A little light snow begins to fall as my train nears London, not much, but enough to change the landscape. A leaden-grey sky merges with dead-looking trees, a few with white-covered branches. Some fields between Reading and Paddington have a little dusting, making Canada geese glow in the reflected light. Straight furrows are painted white and exotic looking male Pheasants seem unperturbed by the rushing alien monster only yards away. In the city the snow vanishes, but the bitter cold chills to the bone. It was better to be on the train.

From King’s Cross on the East Coast line, like magic the whiteness reappears, but now its frost. Welwyn Garden City speaks of Sir John Betjeman; the rhythm of the train reminds me of his nostalgic lines, his wicked smile and his wonderful statue at St Pancras Station. We plough on past flat, damp, green fields, where the white stuff has not visited. There’s little evidence of wildlife save for crows and hundreds of Woodpigeons and Starlings lining the monotonous telephone wires. A few nervous-looking deer venture out from the shelter of an occasional wood to raid winter crops. I know there’s other life out there, but we’re moving too fast. A hovering Kestrel is gone in the blink of an eye and silver birches, with dark brunet branches become all the rage. Winter willows and poplars punctuate the hedge-free landscape of over-improved fields; it’s so different from the diversity of Wales.

I arrive in time for the annual Christmas carol service for the Wildlife Trusts in a mediaeval sandstone village church. The second reading is ‘Christmas’ by John Betjeman; it brings a great lump to my throat and fills my whole being with pride.

The holly in the windy hedge

And round the Manor House the yew

Will soon be stripped to deck the ledge,

The altar, font and arch and pew,

So that the villagers can say

'The church looks nice' on Christmas Day

Kings of the Cliffs

It’s not long now to the shortest day and Ravens are already stirring on the cliffs. They mate for life and nest early. I know they’re thinking about it; croaking males repeatedly flip over in flight showing off flying skills and keeping more or less to the same stretch of cliff. Soon sticks will be carried in to refurbish last season’s nests and before the winter’s end they’ll probably have eggs.

I can go to several spots on the coast confident that I’ll find them. Nesting sites are possibly centuries old and never seem to vary. Each pair is known by its location and in strong wind, I walk west along the cliff path to look at my local pair. Prevailing westerly winds and heavy rains have flattened the bracken and few small birds stir. I dip down to the warmer rocky shore. The tide rules life down here and in winter I can always guarantee to find Rock Pipits eking out a living from the flotsam and splash zone.

The Ravens are busy, their wild croaks never far away. As I near the nesting ledge, I find them sitting peacefully on the grassy slope above the substantial remains of this year’s nest. Only when this close do I appreciate the difference in size with the diminutive Jackdaws. A pair of Choughs flies east, glinting in the feeble sunlight, they too dwarfed by the bulky Ravens. Man is the only enemy of Ravens and here on the remote cliffs they’re kings of all they survey.

The Script of Stones

Even though it's nearly mid December and there’s a cold wind blowing from the north, it’s sheltered in my secret place overlooking Hunts Bay. I sit, high up, back to the cliffs overlooking the Bay, the raging sea below dotted with pools of light shooting through ever changing clouds. Only the locals know this little shelf and I’ve never been disturbed here. It’s the place where the poet Vernon Watkins would sit and write with his friend and colleague Dylan Thomas. Vernon lived in a house on the cliff; his son still lives there.

There’s a small stone plaque set into the face of the cliff bearing a couple of Vernon’s most famous lines:

I have been taught the script of stones

and I know the tongue of the waves

These magical words define the mood of this beautiful place and give the Bay a very special feel.

The view from here is spectacular. Lundy Island drifts in and out of view behind distant clouds. Limestone outcrops protrude from thick gorse, some still yellow, but a great headland dominates the shore, where Oystercatchers and Grey Herons search for crabs in the mat of seaweed and myriads of rock pools. At this time of year wildlife is scarce, but a pair of glorious Stonechats and a Robin more than make up for the winter browns of the dying bracken.