Monthly Archives: February 2014

Conservation, Wetlands, Wildlife

Slimbridge, home of Peter Scott’s original ‘Severn Wildfowl Trust’

Flamingoes at Slimbridge

I had the good luck to be able to visit Slimbridge this week with a friend. Back in 1946, Peter Scott founded the ‘Severn Wildfowl Trust’, setting up an observatory to study the White-fronted Geese and the Bewick’s Swans, and to help save other wildfowl from extinction. The geese and swans happily remain on the reserve today; there were 20 Whitefronts, as well as a hundred or more Barnacle Geese out on the marsh, not to mention plenty of Greylags and Canada Geese in the bright sunshine on the scrape.  And as the sun sank in the western sky, the collection Flamingos glowed in the warm light – no need for Photoshop tricks there.

The star of the show, though, was one of the European Cranes, tall and elegant with its tail ‘bustle’ like an late Victorian lady’s; incongruously, it was also wearing a radio transmitter and three coloured rings, such has been the excitement at the raising of these rare British birds from the egg, and allowing them to fly off as wild birds – only for one or two to pay a return visit. Meanwhile, a genuinely wild flock of cranes has established itself in Norfolk, so Britain once again has this beautiful and distinctive species breeding in its wetlands. The number of places, even near London, with ‘crane’ in their names is striking – Cranfield, Cranbrook, Cranford to name a few. I once imagined this was simply a confusion or word-shift, the bird having been a grey heron all along: but no, cranes were once common, as were wetlands and damp flowery meadows. Let’s hope they will be again.

Conservation, Wildlife

What are we conserving?

Kings Cross Development looms over Camley Street's new Viewpoint
Kings Cross Development looms over Camley Street’s new Viewpoint

Everyone in the packed council chamber turned to look at the chairman of the planning committee. The members had voted 6-6: a tie. “As chair with the casting vote, I am voting for the development.” There was stunned silence. The developers said nothing. We objectors took a deep breath and said nothing. Gunnersbury Triangle Nature Reserve would never be the same again.

London Wildlife Trust’s other central London reserve at Camley Street is also changing. A 10 storey block has cut off the view. Were all our reserves being trashed? Were we fighting for nothing? 30 years ago a passionate campaign saved the Gunnersbury Triangle from becoming four industrial units. Miraculously, with a huge input of volunteer effort, it became a wet woodland with little meadows, grassy banks, leafy paths, a handy pond for school pond-dipping. Now it’s surrounded by 4, 6, 8-storey buildings. The latest one at Colonial Drive is right up against the reserve boundary — at the top of a ten-foot bank. The quiet meadow and scrubby corner where the whitethroats nested will be illuminated 24 hours a day by stray lamps from a wall of flats. “I’m desperately saddened at the insensitive nature of the development — it robs local people of the sense of countryside,” says long- time campaigner and Gunnersbury Triangle committee member Jan Hewlett.

Certainly, the reserves will feel different. But Camley Street has a new ‘Viewpoint’, an architect-designed floating open-air classroom. It will be beautiful to sit and learn on the canal, in the little watery oasis in the midst of the busy city. At Gunnersbury Triangle, too, the blackcaps and thrushes will delight our hearts in springtime. School groups will still lie down on the boardwalk we built and enjoy catching newts, dragonfly larvae and ramshorn pond snails.

Our reserves must change with our great city. They do not feel like forgotten corners of countryside any more. They are little oases, islands in a sea of noise and pollution and traffic. They are special exactly because they are right in the heart of our vibrant capital city.

Wildlife

Flood

The forecast offers a brief ridge of high pressure in between wind, rain and distant storms. I take my gumboots and drive down to the lakes to enjoy the unlikely burst of sunshine. Sure enough, the sky clears, the temperature plummets, and I quickly put on fleece and windproof jacket. On the main lake are three Goldeneye, the males handsome as they surface between dives. Other than them, there are few birds on the water: more come when the wind is colder and drier, from the north or east, bringing winter ducks from icy Scandinavia or further afield. A few Great-crested Grebes, some Tufted Duck more or less complete the waterfowl, barring a stray Cormorant, a Mallard or two, a lone Moorhen.

The bushes are more interesting, as a party of Long-tailed Tits, unconcerned by human presence, flutters along one after another; the light is good enough to make out their slight pinkish tinge as they dangle upside down for a few moments before drifting onwards. From a tangle on the lake’s edge comes the loud Chwit-i-pit-i-pit, Chwit-i-pit-i-pit of a Cetti’s Warbler. It sounds grand and splendid but the Cetti’s are resident and while not exactly common, are not unlikely where there are bits of wetland. But the main and most obvious concern is the path, which has disappeared under a foot of water: the river is pouring across the grass, down the path, and across into the lake, which is higher than I’ve ever seen it. I take a stick and probe carefully: gumboots are all very well, but vanishing into a hole isn’t the best move when there’s a brisk wind over chilly water and very slippery mud. About a hundred yards are flooded in all, some of it probably too deep for boots, but I skirt the edge, only ankle-deep.

Around the corner, the water is halfway up the Private Fishing sign, and another section of path is under water. I reluctantly leave the path and scramble through the bushes on what has become a small hilly causeway. Re-emerging into the sunshine, I am observed curiously by a rabbit and a squirrel. Since the wind is now in my face, they cannot catch my scent, but watch as I very slowly raise my binoculars. They are still, but alert and watchful; eventually they wander off. A Buzzard flies down the wind, hardly needing a wingbeat in the brisk airstream. The horse field is like something out of the First World War, pocked with holes, rutted with tracks, slimy with mud and dung; the farmer has installed an oddly clean new fence, all shiny wire and white wooden poles, so I am obliged to take a detour through the worst of the Flanders mud to the ugly new galvanised steel gate. Still, it is a delight to be outside in the open air and sunshine, to see what nature is up to now.

I realise I am not particularly birdwatching, nor just walking for exercise, though I’m happy to do both: I’m just staying in touch with the natural world, and feel – what? If it were food, it would be starved: I would be feeling sad and starved of the flow of nature, of the seasons, without it. Walking in flood and mud, in the breeze and sunshine, I am simply myself, with whatever nature has to offer today. If that’s pretty primroses, that’s lovely; if it’s slimy deepening mud in an exceptionally wet winter, that’s fine too. Is it Climate Change? I’ve no idea, but I’ve certainly never seen a winter like this before.