Newly-emerged Sawfly stretching its still-curled wings
A miniature drama unfurled in my garden this morning, little streaks of orange and black sparkling in the sun as they chose places to land and sun themselves. They seemed to be newly-emerged, as they immediately stretched out their wings on landing: and if you look closely, you can see that the wings are not fully deployed, but are still soft and need to be puffed out quickly before they harden. If so, it’s remarkable that these little flies can take to the air in that condition.
Emmanuelle Béart in La Belle Noiseuse
La Belle Noiseuse, the beautiful nuisance, roughly. Not the female sculptor in Jacques Rivette‘s 1991 film, starring Emmanuelle Béart, but a small sawfly. It’s a glorious little insect, shining in the sunlight, its deep orange-ochre abdomen contrasting with its black thorax and head, its legs elegantly banded black on orange, giving it a slightly waspish look in flight. (Indeed, it is presumably a Batesian mimic of wasps, benefiting by looking as if it might sting.)
Newly-emerged Sawfly detail
But its nuisance value does not lie in stinging, but in its caterpillar-like larvae, which devour the leaves of gooseberries and can defoliate whole bushes.
Macrophya (Symphyta) mating on Hogweed: one of two mating pairs, and many individuals around in the warm sunshine this afternoon. Mating lasts for less than a minute, so the photographer has to be lucky and quickSmall bee pollinating Hogweed (flying between flowers)Tiny speckled beetle pollinating HogweedRose Chafer on HogweedOedemera nobilis on HogweedStrangalia maculata longhorn beetle on HogweedMarvellously slender long-tailed Ichneumon, on Hogweed of course (just look at that ovipositor!)
OK, and to end, one insect NOT on Hogweed, the Small China-Mark Moth, on a Reed. It and many others of its species were fluttering about the pond, where they mate and lay eggs in waterside vegetation. I was really pleased to get the camera so close to this attractive little insect.
Stair Hole, Lulworth. Soft Wealden Sands (foreground) overlie crumpled Liassic clays and marls (left) which in turn overlie hard Jurassic rocks of Purbeck and Portland limestone (dark rocks, centre). (Click to enlarge)
It was a cloudless morning, perfect for a walk around Thursley Common to look for dragonflies, other insects, birds, and bog flowers too.
The bog pools were surrounded by Marsh Orchids in lovely purple bloom.
A few lizards, one with a regrowing tail, sunned themselves on the boardwalks.
Masses of Black-Tailed Skimmers chased aggressively about the pools, along with a few blue damselflies and some Black Darters. Some Large Red Damselflies warmed up on the heather, well away from the pools.
Lizard regrowing tail
A Curlew called (or is it sang?) its beautiful, melancholic mating cry, flying high, slowly, and holding out its wings in a distinctive curve: something like a small heron, but with its incredible long downcurved bill, and tail feathers spread showily. It’s a rare delight, not least because Thursley is the only place Curlews breed for many miles around.
Stonechats on dead tree
Stonechats sang their brief grating song from conspicuous viewpoints all over the common, sometimes in little family groups.
A Tree Pipit gave a fine display of its song flight from a tall tree.
On a lake filled with Yellow Water-Lilies at the edge of the common, gigantic Carp lurked and splashed at the surface, and Downy Emeralds chased, seeming club-tailed.
Downy Emerald (I only got this distant reflection)
A Green Tiger Beetle whirred on to the path – a very strange flight jizz, but easily recognized once close enough.
Green Tiger BeetleScorpion Fly
Perhaps the most tantalizingly lovely insect of the day, however, was this Beautiful Demoiselle, shining iridescent Lapis Lazuli blue against the delicate pale green of a birch sprig.
The screech and clatter of the Piccadilly line train filled my ears as we rattled, mercifully quickly, deep below the city centre in London’s fastest and loudest tube line, on the way to Manor House.
I emerged into the grey urban jungle of the Seven Sisters Road, the cars whizzing past the fast food shops as if to escape as soon as they might. Hooded youths hung about the estate gardens in small disconsolate groups. Women scuttled past, heads down, on the grimy pavements. I consulted my map, strode eastwards as purposefully as I could, and crossed into Woodberry Grove.
Woodberry Down
The gleaming new towers of “Woodberry Down” rose on either hand, the street lined with clean young trees and gleaming black cars. Even the pavements were newly laid in handsome yellow-brown flagstone. It was evidently a shinier, more prosperous Manor that the developers had had in mind.
Woodberry Wetlands gateway
Around the corner lay the entrance to London Wildlife Trust’s newest reserve, Woodberry Wetlands. It too was carefully landscaped, and money (from Berkeley, Thames Water and the National Lottery) had evidently been lavished on the gateway itself, a cunningly strong rust-coloured hut of iron, the reserve’s name laser-cut right through the metal walls on both sides. The building straddled the New River, a natural moat; and the gatehouse had its own portcullis, in the form of robust iron gates, locked at night.
London Bat Group arriving for a night’s trapping. The New River is in the background
Huma (of Vole Patrol fame) and two other members of the London Bat Group arrived by car, carrying two enormous Harp traps in big red ski bags. I helped them over the footpath gates, locked to keep people away from bird nesting areas in the breeding season, and they walked around the reserve to a good place under the trees to set up their traps. They are doing some trapping as part of the National Nathusius Project, to learn about that species’ ecology and distribution in Britain.
Woodberry Wetlands (East Reservoir)
I walked along the broad new boardwalk to admire the reserve, a ring of reedbed and bushes around Thames Water’s East Reservoir. A Mute Swan dabbled peacefully; a few Mallard and Coot prepared for nightfall. I counted 66 Swifts whirling about the three grey towers across the water.
Woodberry Wetlands cafe
In an old Water Board building, elegantly converted to a cafe/meeting room, were waiting soft drinks and an excited crowd of the lucky few who’d managed to get tickets for the bat walk.
Huma ran in, a little late, but evidently excited by the result of putting up the traps. She quickly told us a little of the myth and truth about bats – they never get in your hair, they don’t really drink blood (well, vampires do exist, but they’re tiny, and they lap up a few drops of the blood of peccaries (wild pigs), unless humans cut down their forests, remove the peccaries, and then insist on lying with feet poking out of mosquito nets).
She introduced our local bats, too, painting colourful portraits of their respective characters.
The largest, the Noctule, is “military”, flying high, fast and straight, echolocating loudly on each downbeat of its broad wings, with sounds heard in a bat detector set to around 20 kiloHertz as “chip shop chip shop”, slow and regular. The Serotine is “funky” by contrast, with shaggy fur and uneven calls; the middling Leisler’s, a relative of the Noctule, is halfway between the two.
The small bats, the Pipistrelles, call at frequencies depending on their species: the Common “Pip” at 45 kHz, the Soprano Pip at 55 kHz, and Nathusius’ Pip (a migrant from Europe that Huma hopes may be here) at 39 kHz. All of them have a distinctive, low, jinking flight as they pursue their agile prey; and all, too, accelerate their echolocating calls into a feeding buzz or trill as they close in on their prey, getting more and more accurate positional information exactly when it is most needed.
Learning how to use a bat detector
We picked up bat boxes, little miracles of electronics with a sensitive ultrasound microphone, speaker, and illuminated setting dial. They work by heterodyning the signal: that is, you guess or choose what frequency you want to listen out at, say 20 kHz (too high for nearly everybody’s hearing), and the device subtracts that from the signal received from the bat, if one is calling. The difference, if you have guessed close to reality, is a low frequency, say 1 kHz, which you can hear. If the bat is calling in bursts (which radar engineers call chirps), you hear those as patterns of clicks.
Listening out for bats
We went outside and fiddled with the controls. Clouds of gnats, and some nibbling to our ears and cheeks, as well as the whizzing Swifts, proved there was abundant insect food on the wing for any bats that might deign to turn up. Nothing.
Suddenly the air was filled unmistakably with the loud, distant, slow handclaps of a Noctule bat. The Germans fittingly call it the Grosse Abend-segler, the Great Evening-Sailor, as it strides boldly across the dusk sky. We saw no bat, however, just a few Swifts. Presumably the Noctule was far away, its calls detected by our sensitive electronics. We scanned the sky in hope.
And then there was one, plain to the naked eye. And another, and another, and yet more. Five Noctules at least whirled above our heads, uttering loud claps in chorus. With binoculars they looked exactly as you’d think, large batwinged shapes black against the still-glowing sky. Since I was on duty as a helper, I passed the binoculars around; and everyone who looked managed to see what we had come for, bats wheeling joyfully, plentifully, close by, in a London summer sky.
Huma leading the bat walk
Huma led us on. Between the New River and the reedbed, with bushes and small trees all around, Pipistrelles darted and swerved, buzzed and clicked. They were harder to get in binoculars than their larger cousins, but it was possible. Heterodyned clicks and claps played a chorus all around. Excited fingers stabbed the sky. A Little Egret flapped slowly overhead, on its way to its night roost. The urban jungle felt very far away.
We were called forward in little groups to a gate to see the trapping. Huma came up and showed us a Daubenton’s Bat, her hands gloved against small sharp claws and insectivores’ teeth. The species is a specialist in hunting low over still water: it can scoop up insects from the water surface with a cunningly-designed flap, and if it should fall in, it can swim and take off again safely. The London Bat Group was carefully weighing and measuring the little mammals, and then releasing them. They were using a lure designed to attract Nathusius’ Pipistrelle: it also attracts Daubenton’s, hence the catches. But they did catch a female Nathusius’: Huma was delighted.
London Bat Group with their Harp traps. Bats strike the fine mesh and fall into the soft containers below. The bright reflections are of flying insects.
Let’s end with a closeup of the main photo. It’s not every day you see a Daubenton’s Bat face to face, let alone in a capital city.
We had a fine airy walk in brilliant sunshine, cooled by a stiff northerly breeze, around the tip of the Isle of Portland. Underfoot was fine maritime turf and massive Portland limestone, dotted with tufts of pink Thrift and yellow Birdsfoot Trefoil. The sea sparkled blue and silver around a wooden sailing ship with four triangular sails. A pair of Gannets flew effortlessly down the wind, tilting their long black-tipped wings.
To the south, the fearsome tide-race splashed ominously as if some Odyssean sea-monster (Charybdis and its whirlpool?) lurked beneath: the tide there runs faster than a yacht can sail, one way and then the other. Jonathan Raban describes it wonderfully in his book Coasting, the feeling of rising alarm and then, going for it, being shot like a cork from a champagne bottle through the swirling water.
A Rock Pipit, its beak full of insect grubs, called urgently as we strayed too close to its nest. A Razorbill, improbably proportioned like a fat impresario in black tie and tails, flapped by on small rapid triangular wings.
Oedemera nobilis, the thick-kneed flower beetle
We saw few insects – some bumble bees, some handsome Thick-kneed Flower Beetles glowing iridescent green on buttercups, later on one male perched on a pebble on Chesil Beach
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Yellow Rattle at Portland Bill
The best flower of the day was probably the Yellow Rattle, an odd-shaped parrot-beaked yellow flower with spiky leaves. It’s a member of the Figwort family (like the Eyebright, whose growth habit is similar though smaller), and a hemiparasite of grasses: an important plant, as it weakens the grasses, keeping them low and allowing in a wealth of other flowers. It was once common in our meadows and permanent pastures, but fertilizers and ploughing have destroyed over 95% of these, and Yellow Rattle and the rest of our grassland flowers are now all desperately uncommon.
Overhead, two Peregrine Falcons slid through the air, circling without visible effort. A pair of Ravens came by. Standing at the top of the western cliffs, Fulmars flew out from their cliff nests, circling on stiff wings.
Scarlet Pimpernel
A little patch of Scarlet Pimpernel by a gate again reminded me of how this once common weed of cultivation (and sand dunes – presumably it was pre-adapted to disturbed ground) has declined.
We left Portland and drove down the hill to the Chesil Beach, struck as everyone is by the enormous shingle bar that stretches miles from Abbotsbury to the Isle of Portland, forming a bar with the Fleet lagoon behind it.
Sea Kale on Chesil Beach
A few handsome Sea Kale plants clung to the lower part of the landward side of the shingle, including this one on the edge of the car park. It is the ancestor of the domestic cabbage in all its varieties, from Broccoli to Brussels Sprouts, Kale to Cauliflower. It is itself (obviously) edible, though as a now-scarce maritime plant one wouldn’t want to pick any of it at all often.
Sea Beet
Nearby, the ancestor of another valuable food plant, the Sea Beet, origin of Sugar Beet, purple Beetroot, and Spinach Beet. The wild plant too is edible, though the leaves are small, thick, and leathery!
Stag Beetle, Lucanus cervus, just landed, wings not fully folded
I was just walking around the triangle, talking to one of the Garden Design students about its natural history, when a mouse-sized animal scurried across the top of a post that we had hammered in to form a dead-hedge above the boundary stones. In my binoculars, it was at once clear what it was, a Stag Beetle. As I pulled out my camera, it spread its wings impressively, and flew a few feet across to the woven top of the dead-hedge, folding its wings but leaving the ends still sticking out of its wing-cases for a while.
Stag Beetle, side view
So, all that work on loggeries may have paid off. Or perhaps it didn’t: behind the dead-hedge was simply a pile of brash and logs, abandoned for several years. Anyway, we’re very pleased to see a handsome adult male out in the sunshine.
Azure Damselfly recent hatch
The triangle’s first batch of Azure Damselflies, surely within a day of hatching, perched on leaves of emergent water-plants, or flew around in cop, laying eggs already. One or two Large Red Damselflies sunned themselves also.
Large Red Damselfly
P.S. A week later, on 4 June, a Lesser Stag Beetle crawled across the lawn in my garden. I guess it emerged from the dead wood stacked in odd corners for that very purpose. It’s a lot smaller than the Stag.
Lesser Stag Beetle in gardenLesser Stag Beetle, playing dead
I picked it up to ensure I got a photo, and was rewarded with a fine display of thanatosis, shamming dead.
Huma and John on Vole Patrol with Mammal Nest Box in Perivale Wood
We revisited the nest tubes and nest boxes that we put up for small mammals in four of the Vole Patrol study woods a few months ago. It seems another world: bare leafless trees over chilly wet forest floor have been replaced by a thick green mantle over a mass of brambles that seem to have shot up faster than tropical bamboos and bananas (my father maintained that he could watch a banana leaf unfurling while he shaved in the hospital he was running in postwar Malaya, but I digress).
So it was a case of first case your hare, or rather, first find your small mammal box. Gunnersbury Triangle’s densest parts are pretty thick, and the nest tubes had been put up somewhat at random as the new team did its enthusiastic best on its first day of training all those months ago, followed by the brambles doing their enthusiastic best to hide all traces. We did well to locate 14 of 18 nest tubes: none of them seemed to have been used. We moved on to Perivale Wood, where stout wooden boxes like bird nestboxes had been tied to trees in a much more regular array, and we found them without too much difficulty.
Mammal nest box used by Wood Mice, with opened hazelnuts
Three of the Perivale boxes were inhabited by Blue Tits, the helpless youngsters lying inside while (we suddenly realized) the alarmed but brave parents chattered excitedly outside. We closed the lids and backed off as quickly as we could. The boxes have the openings on the back to encourage mammals and discourage birds, but it’s of only limited value against sharp-sighted Blue Tits. One of the boxes had certainly been used by mammals: two hazelnuts had been opened by small teeth, their ends neatly gnawed to circular holes. I’m not certain I understand how a nut can be withdrawn through such a little hole.
Off to Tentelow wood through the grinding traffic. A game of cricket was going on in the playing fields; it was hot in the sun, a lot cooler under the canopy. The nettles were waist high, the brambles thick. It seemed impossible we would find any of the nest tubes, but we did, eventually. A Scorpion Fly perched on a bramble leaf beside the path.
Sir Thomas Gresham’s symbol, a golden grasshopper (a pun on his name, Grass-Ham), at his building in Lombard Street (photo: Wikimedia Commons)
Then we drove down to Long Wood, part of Sir Thomas Gresham‘s Osterley Park estate. He liked insects enough to use a golden grasshopper as his symbol, punning on his name, which might be Grass-Ham, village in the grass. It’s a beautiful wood, coppice with fine tall straight Oak standards, a proper stream running clean through a steep-sided valley, sullied only by the continuous roar of the M4 invisible above. Chiffchaffs and Blackcaps sang above the din.
Brown Silver-line Moth Petrophora chlorosata at Long Wood, Osterley
I disturbed a Brown Silver-line Moth, which flitted among the nettles and bracken. We saw Holly Blue, Speckled Wood, Large White, and Red Admiral butterflies: it looks a fine place for Purple Hairstreak too.
Acorn Weevil, Curculio glandium
When I got home, I found this funky weevil under my shirt. It looks very much like the Acorn Weevil, presumably from one of the many Oaks I walked under.
Click Beetle, Athous haemorrhoidalis, on goose grassCoreus marginatus shield bug, distinctive horns between antennae
As well as the handsome insects, a migrating Tree Pipit called from the wood near the Picnic Meadow. These once common birds are now scarce on farmland and have disappeared from London as breeding birds, but still drop in occasionally in spring and autumn migrations, and breed on larger commons such as at Thursley.
It was a lovely sunny walk today, spring in everything but temperature, in a fresh Northerly wind.
I was greeted at Wraysbury Lakes by a jumble of music, a loud and vigorous Garden Warbler competing with an even louder Song Thrush to pour out rich fluty notes in a confusing stream.
Suddenly the air is full of rising Mayflies with their long triple tails. The masses of Comfrey and Nettles are dotted with the iridescent blue of Banded Demoiselles, like slender dragonflies, and the clear green of the females. Also quite a few Azure Damselflies, the males brilliant blue with little cup markings at the base of their abdomens (Segment 2), the females green with little ‘Mercury’ markings in the same place. I think I saw a slender Sawfly, too; and quite a few bumblebees visiting the Comfrey. Just two butterflies, a Speckled Wood and a battered Red Admiral.
Canada Goose with Goslings
On the lake, a pair of Canada Geese watchfully escorting their fluffy line of chicks.
Further along, Blackcap, Robin, Blackbird; then a patch of Chiffchaffs; more Garden Warblers, then a few Whitethroats, making extraordinary wheezing and squeaking anxiety calls, and one in song flight; a little flock of Goldfinches; a few Willow Warblers, deep in the scrub, my first of the year. The May blossom is on time, the Hawthorns heavy with their white dresses. In clearings, Bugle, Forget-me-nots and Cowslips; a Red Campion.
In the sky, a Kestrel; a dozen Jackdaws; a Heron and a Cormorant; more surprisingly, a pair of Shelduck, rather big, rather white, with black wingtips and a brickred band across their chests. Four Swifts wheel past, race low over the hill.
Among the mares with their foals, a dozen Starlings making their rasping calls, feeding their newly-fledged young on the ground in the open or watching from the bushes; a French (Red-Legged) Partridge running rather than flying; a hen Pheasant flying in, her broad wings heavily loaded like the wide-bodied jets that roar overhead.
It’s utterly different from the heat earlier in the week, when I was down in Wiltshire, watching a Kingfisher flash along the river in Bradford-on-Avon, a Heron stalking fish in the shallows, a Horseshoe Bat among the bushes at dusk.
The English seem unemotional … except for their passion for nature
