Category Archives: Wildlife

Gardening, Natural History, Wildlife

Even more on a Blackcurrant Leaf … Welcome or Not

Further to the World on a Blackcurrant Leaf, today the Ichneumons and the Harlequins were joined by two more conspicuous flying visitors, some green Shield Bugs (true bugs, Hemiptera) and some swift yellow-abdomened Sawflies, most probably Gooseberry Sawfly. Both of these are held in definite disfavour by many gardeners, the bugs for sucking plant juices and possibly weakening plants or spreading disease, and the sawflies for making caterpillars which in a bad year can totally defoliate gooseberry bushes — it only happened to me once, and it was quite a shock: from seeing the first little green caterpillars to leafless plants only took a week or so.

Since then I have carefully checked the gooseberry every few days for signs of sawfly damage (and actual caterpillars). If there are just a few, I remove the affected leaves and squash any caterpillars I find; this usually does the trick. If there are many, which has only happened once or twice, I consider spraying, choosing a time without wind, after sunset so the bees aren’t flying, and work close to the bush to keep the stuff local. The approach seems to work well for bees and berries.

As for the bugs, well, I rather like their handsome appearance and their confident swagger. There always seem to be enough currants so I don’t mind if the yield is down a bit on what it might have been.

Natural History, Wildlife

Wood Wasp, Sprouting Loggeries

While doing the Butterfly Transect at the Gunnersbury Triangle, I came across a fairly large Wood Wasp (in the sawfly family), about 25mm long. It was a bit tricky getting a photo,  as these insects are distinctly skittish – they race about in the shadows, occasionally perching on a leaf’s upper surface. The breeze was wafting the branches gently, so patches of sunlight came and went. I shot several images with the miniature camera – it has two big advantages over my full-size SLR: one, it has a very short focal length, so it has a better depth of field than an expensive macro lens; two, it’s small and cheap, so I habitually carry it with me in my rucksack.

Wood Wasp, cf Sirex, on Ivy

The two images here show (left) the resting position with the wings over the body, the long antennae,  the alarming-looking ovipositor, and the orange-brown legs; and (right) the plump black abdomen with white spots. Perhaps the two images show that it’s rather hard to get a single image which is suitable for identification. This one looks like a Sirex so perhaps that’s what it is. The eggs are drilled into wood.

The butterfly transect yielded the first definite Green-Veined Whites, i.e. I was able to get close enough to be sure; until now they’ve all been “Small/Green-veined” worse luck. There were some Speckled Woods and an Orange Tip, too; a Brimstone turned up after I’d put the clipboard away.

Sprouting Loggery
Sprouting Loggery

But the most curious observation of the day was this sprouting loggery. We ‘planted’ (more literally than we knew) the sawn Willow logs in the winter. They seem very happy in their new setting and are growing vigorously. It will be interesting to see how they get on.

Natural History, Nature Reserves, Wildlife

Endless Forms Most Beautiful … Conifers in Kew

Looking Straight Up: Giant Sequoia at Kew
Looking Straight Up: Giant Sequoia at Kew

One of the unceasing delights of nature is the feeling, some days more clearly justified than on others, of coming into contact with Darwin’s ‘endless forms most beautiful‘. A marvellous botanic garden – it has to be a large one, like Kew – takes one perhaps more directly into that space of wonder and delight than anything else, if it is laid out taxonomically to show the variation and diversity within one group after another.

Today we wandered happily among the Conifer section of Kew Gardens, gazing straight up into the patches of sky between the radiating branches of the Giant Sequoia, feeling the soft fibrous red bark and wondering why everything is larger in America.

Chinese Hemlock Tsuga chinensis
The pattern of new spring growth in Chinese Hemlock, Tsuga chinensis

Then on to the Hemlocks and Spruces, delighting in the pattern of bright new bunches of needles scattered in diverse patterns among the older, darker growth: of course the new leaves are always at growing tips, so the patterns reveal the habit of growth of each species.

Quite a different pattern in Himalayan Spruce, Picea smithiana

Many of the spruces are adorned with new male cones; those of Picea orientalis ‘aurea’ are a surprisingly pretty pink.

Male Cones of Picea orientalis 'aurea'
Male Cones of Picea orientalis ‘aurea’

The male cones of the Bishop’s Pine, Pinus muricata, from California are, on the other hand, grouped into pineapple-like spirals and surrounded by the Pine genus’s characteristic pairs of long slender needles, forming a fine rosette.

Down at the end of the gardens, Queen Charlotte’s cottage ornée (just for picnics, never inhabited; the royal party could walk down the mile and a half from the red-brick Kew Palace, or came (often) by carriage to play a la Marie Antoinette at having a little cottage in the woods. The 37 acres of bluebell woods around the cottage form a nature reserve, complete with real badgers, inside the gardens. As well as the Bluebells, Alkanet and Ramsons made the woodland floor lovely, while around the margins skipped Orange Tips, Brimstones, Peacock butterflies and Small Coppers. Fit for a Queen.

Small Copper on daisy
Small Copper on daisy
Natural History, Wildlife

Lacock, Home of Fox Talbot, Pioneer of (Nature) Photography

Lacock Abbey
Lacock Abbey

Lacock Abbey: it sounds innocuous enough. Suffice it to say that it is one of the very few mediaeval abbeys whose buildings survived the Dissolution of the Monasteries by Henry VIII. Many of our great abbeys were closed, stripped of all their portable assets, and allowed to fall down – Fountains, Rievaulx, Tintern among them. Lacock was slightly luckier: its Augustinian Canonesses – nuns to you and me – were sent away, the buildings sold by the king (not his to sell, really, but nobody felt like telling him so) to William Sharington, who knocked down the church (it would have been on the green lawn in front of the house), used it to build himself a brewery and other practical outbuildings, and converted the abbey itself into a comfortable house. One of his descendents, Olive, inherited the property and married a Talbot. Fox Talbot, centuries later, was lucky enough to have the time and space to play about, and one thing he played about with was photography.

Fox Talbot's window at Lacock, subject of his first photograph
Fox Talbot’s window at Lacock, subject of his first photograph

His first, famous, photograph was a postage-stamp-sized negative and positive of this window, looking out the front of the erstwhile Abbey. Many of his (not much) later photographs were of natural subjects, not least of the patterns of veins in leaves. In other words, as soon as people had the technology to photograph nature in detail, they did so, from the first man. Fox Talbot thus qualifies as ‘obsessed by nature’ (.com).

Ramsons at Lacock
Ramsons

In the beautiful grounds, under graceful beech trees is a springtime carpet of Ramsons, sometimes called ‘wild garlic’. It’s not exactly garlic but it is an Allium, and while the bulbs are much too far down to be worth trying to dig up (and it’s illegal anyway unless they’re on your land), the leaves are delicious. You just cook them like Spinach and add a little oil or butter; they are soft with just a hint of onion-family taste about them.

A Woodland Carpet of Ramsons at Lacock
A Woodland Carpet of Ramsons at Lacock

Outside the Abbey’s grounds is the hurly-burly of a touristy village. The first Swifts of the year wheeled around the church tower; Jackdaws nested in the belfry. Down by the ford with its little pack bridge, a Treecreeper zipped across the road and climbed up a small tree in the hedge.

 

Wildlife

Ian Alexander’s Amazing Audio Guide to British Warblers

Today I noted down in my nature diary “Sedge – Cetti’s – Blackcap – Chiffchaff – Whitethroat.” I didn’t see any of them: but I’m sure all of them were there, because I heard them unambiguously.

If you think that would be a nice thing to do, but utterly impossible for you, being a city-dweller with cloth ears, let me reassure you: it’s really not difficult. Have you ever been in a noisy party where someone suddenly said your name? You picked out the sound right away, and looked straight at where it came from, didn’t you. In other words, your hearing, and the auditory processing part of your brain, is perfectly adapted to picking out sound signatures from a jumble of other stuff  – engineers call it noise, and who are we to disagree  – without even thinking about it. It’s a wonderful ability, and it has obvious survival value.

So, to warblers. A lot of small, inconspicuous LBBs (yeah, little brown birds) that mainly lurk about deep inside bushes: but with one sharply distinguishing feature – you guessed it, their song. Each species takes good care to avoid hybridising with other species, probably producing uselessly infertile offspring, by announcing its identity to all and sundry. Males tell other males to push off; and they tell females where they are, what species they are, and (so I’m told) how wonderfully fit they are, just by singing in what the females judge is the right way.

So what is the right way? How, in other words, do these warblers sound? Ok, I lied about the audio, there’s no tape or what have you here. But, in simple words, here’s how to tell them apart.

Let’s start with the easiest one. The Chiffchaff just says his name, over and over and over again. Chiff-chaff-chiff-chaff-chiff-chaff… It’s a fairly high, lisping sort of song on, yes, exactly two notes. If you’re a registered European you may prefer to call it Zilp-zalp-zilp-zalp-zilp-zalp…. — it’s the same thing. The call is pretty loud and clear; if you know the Great Tit’s insistent Teacher-Teacher-Teacher call from park or garden, well, it’s not as harsh as that. The Chiffchaff can be heard almost anywhere there are a good number of trees and bushes; there are plenty in parks and by the river.

The warbler that looks almost exactly like the Chiffchaff is the Willow Warbler. It doesn’t frequent willows. It seems to be getting scarcer, and it likes more secluded bushy areas than the Chiffchaff. The song is a unique series of descending phrases, lisping from high to low like a pianist carefully practising his scales every morning: swieeuo(high)-swieeuo-swieeuo-swieeuo-swieeuo-swieeuo(low). It never varies.

The Blackcap is one of the commonest of our warblers. It sings from any reasonably thick patch of bushes: you need a pretty large garden to get Blackcaps, but they’re in every park and reserve. It’s a bit tricky to describe the Blackcap’s song, because he always improvises, like a jazz musician doing a gig. However, he is a bit of an opera meister, a tenor constantly worrying about his voice. So he goes like this:  Ahem. La, la. Do re mi fa. Ahem. Hrrm. La la la. Ah, let me see. Yes. Aaaaaa–La Dolce Vita — Voce di Tenore – si – Aaaaaa!  In short, the Blackcap starts rather hesitantly, stumbles a bit, warms up, sings a few fine fluty notes — and stops abruptly.  Another way of putting it is the traditional “Blackcap’s brief”, but he’s not always quite that short.

The singer you might confuse with the Blackcap is the Garden Warbler. He’s distinctly less common, and requires more green space, but you have a good chance of hearing him in May. The Garden Warbler’s song is immediately recognisable as rather good. Even if you don’t bother with classical music much, you can at once hear that this is someone with a well-trained voice, perfectly modulated, even, rich, rapid, full of notes, expressive. I don’t want to spoil this by saying that the voice doesn’t do terribly much, but it’s true: the Garden Warbler’s song is always somewhat of a piece. It can go on for quite a while, sometimes tens of seconds without a break (excellent breath control), but there are no sudden leaps, no sharp highs or lows, no discordant notes. It’s Radio 3 not trying too hard in between major concerts.

Quite the opposite is the Sedge Warbler. I can give you a pretty sharp clue as to where you’ll find him singing: in a patch of reeds, certainly near water. He doesn’t need much room: at the Wetland Centre, one sings from a tiny reedbed right in front of a hide, and it’s amusing to watch people trying to locate him even as he sings his heart out. The Sedge Warbler’s song is REALLY discordant. Think modern classical and then some. Schoenberg and Cage rolled into one. Charr-charr-charr (so far so good) SQUEAK Chirp Weeaaiourgh – SQUEAK SQUEAK SQUEAK chirp chirp charr-charr-charr- getting used to this – charr-charr-charr SQUEAK hic! SQUAWK SQUNK got you there charr-charr-charr… and so on for ages. I promise you’ll recognise him straight away.

If we’re into scratchy, the Whitethroat is the start. He’s a beautiful bird and if you’re quiet and come out early before the hordes you’re quite likely to see him atop a tall thorn bush, singing at the top of his voice. He prefers rather isolated bushes in patches of scruffy scrubland. He is reddish brown with a conspicuous fluffy white throat, like an elegant eighteenth-century Mr Darcy with a tailcoat and a white silk neckerchief. Unfortunately for the romantic appearance, Mr D really can’t sing too well, nor for very long. Squeaky-squawky-scritch-scratch. Scrape. Scritchy-scratchy.  Honestly, that’s about it. Occasionally if you’re very lucky you get a little bit of tune, but mostly there aren’t many musical notes in it at all.

OK, the Cetti’s. He isn’t nearly as Italian as his name; in fact, you can find him in reedbeds and beside lakes pretty much all year. He is a real skulker, so I hardly need to describe him, other than to say he sings from quite low down in thick waterside bushes. If you see him at all, it will be a quick glimpse of a medium-dark brown bird with a rounded tail, vanishing into a bush. To compensate, he has a REALLY LOUD song with the pattern Witchipitipit, Witchipitipit. Well, that’s the polite phonetic version. If I remember rightly, it was Simon Barnes in his magnificently naughty How to be a bad birdwatcher (Short Books, 2004; Amazon.com Amazon.co.uk) who voiced the Cetti’s as Me! Cetti’s! If you don’t like it, you can Fuck Off! You’ll definitely recognise him when you hear him, or he’ll nut you one. And once you know his song, you’ll be surprised how widespread he is.

I could do the Lesser Whitethroat for you too, and the Reed Warbler, but I expect you’ve had quite enough for one go. But feel free to ask me if you’re curious.

Natural History, Nature Reserves, Wildlife

Glorious Spring Morning at the Wetland Centre

Starling foraging by reedbed ... why do they think they're waders?
Starling foraging by reedbed … why do they think they’re waders?

One of the abiding mysteries of London’s natural history is why Starlings act as if they believe they are wading birds. At the Wetland Centre, the flock of Lapwings is constantly accompanied by Starlings, whether in the air or on small muddy islands.

Today, a few starlings were rootling about in front of a reedbed, their handsomely starry plumage giving back the warm sunshiine with green iridescence that for once the camera has managed to catch. They really are beautiful birds in fresh plumage; quite unlike their ‘worn’ plumage, where they just look dark grey-brown and scruffy.

Six warblers today – an early Sedge Warbler squeaking and rasping out its complex rhythms with funky discordant notes a few feet away from the path; some invisible Cetti’s as usual; Blackcaps and surprisingly Whitethroats all about, singing away; a Chiffchaff or two; and a Garden Warbler too.

Out in the pools and on the grazing marsh, a good number of Redshank with their graceful calls, and plenty of activity from Lapwings and Common Terns – these being harassed by Black-Headed Gulls; and overhead an early Hobby, circling like a small dark Peregrine with long wings, high in the sky.

Not many butterflies about – Orange Tip, a very worn Peacock, Brimstone, Small White; and several Bee Flies, like a miniature hummingbird moth with a furry body and a long straight proboscis; but while they keep up the wing action in front of a flower, actually 4 out of 6 legs perch on it! One of the bee flies was hovering over some low vegetation with no flowers, darting down rapidly and repeatedly, at once coming back up, like a damselfly laying eggs: that might be what it was doing.

Environment, Nature Reserves, Wildlife

Star Species of a Seven-Warbler Walk was … Skylark

I did wonder, before I began writing a nature journal here, whether half the entries wouldn’t be ‘nothing much to report today’. Well, so far I haven’t been there.

I went down to Wraysbury again in the hope of finding the Lesser Whitethroat. I arrived rather early, driving out of town only to see a gigantic queue of cars crawling in the other way, trying vainly to beat the Tube strike. No-one was about as I wrapped up in an extra pullover and listened intently to the morning chorus.

My day was already made when I actually SAW a Cetti’s Warbler – for about a second, before the rich brown bird with the rounded tail dived for cover. A Cormorant flapped heavily, taking off from the lake like a lumbering military transport, showing glossy blue-black plumage like a giant crow, circling three times to gain height. Two pairs of Gadwall (only one pair last time) swam shyly near the far side of the lake; Green Woodpeckers laughed their loud ringing call.

Comfrey flowerhead just starting
Comfrey flowerhead just starting

Blackcaps were singing all over; Song Thrushes too, at least three of them; a considerable flock of Long-Tailed Tits made their extraordinary “Tsrrrrrp” noise (try it); Chiffchaffs spoke their name, and (Common) Whitethroats sang their rasping songs or chattered from inside their thornbushes. Great clumps of Comfrey, the medicinal herb used in mediaeval times to knit bones, have suddenly sprung up with their dark, foxglove-like leaves and clusters of flowers in a range of anthocyanin colours – reds and violets.

There were more Willow Warblers and Garden Warblers, too, making them easier to find; more must be arriving each day now.

Whitethroat habitat
Whitethroat habitat: Hawthorn bushes in damp open scrubland

I made my way over the bridge and out into the dry scrubland. Whitethroats were all around now, singing competitively; a few Blackcaps joined in. Then, yes, I heard the simple, flat trill of a Lesser Whitethroat. I sat down and listened, heard it a few more times to make sure: it was a Seven Warbler Walk, I think actually my first, at least when I’ve taken the trouble to count them and write them down. I took a swig of water; an Orange Tip and a Brimstone butterfly flickered past.

DSCN0214 Roe Deer slots (with penny for scale)
Roe Deer slots (with penny for scale)

Looking about the bushes carefully, I noticed a trail of Roe Deer prints, medium and small. Their numbers have been increasing steadily, certainly since 2007, and they are close to becoming a nuisance. About 350,000 are culled each year; another 74,000 or so are killed on the roads, without limiting their growth. Clearly we need some predators, though what our farmers would say to having Lynx back, let alone Wolverines, is easy to imagine.  Where they are most numerous, woodland shrub vegetation and bird numbers are suffering.

On the way out, some Goldfinches sang near the road, and a Swallow flew overhead by the river Colne. I felt I’d had a good day, and braced myself for a tricky drive home. On a whim, I went via the airport road. It’s a bit slow but not uninteresting, and there’s a nice tunnel. Waiting at one of the sets of lights, I opened the window, and at once heard a Skylark singing its rippling song. I looked up, and there it was for a moment, a little flickering dark shape against the bright sky, pouring out its aerial music. The lights changed, and a jet growled in to land, the air whistling over its fully-extended flaps.

Fancy, a Skylark at Heathrow, seen and heard from a car, the highlight of a seven-warbler walk, Lesser Whitethroat and all.

 

 

 

Natural History, Wildlife

All-round Amateur Dilettante Nature-lovers…

A reader of the RSPB’s members’ magazine, Nature’s Home, wrote in a letter to the editor that “If I had my time again I would try and be an all-round naturalist, instead of just a birdwatcher.” [Mike Strickland, Summer 2014 issue, ‘Your view’ page 13.]  Well, good on you, Mr Strickland. He went on to praise “such ‘all-round giants’ as Gilbert White and Charles Darwin.” White wrote the Natural History of Selborne, covering topics such as the swallows that flew round his nice house, how to get a garden growing (buy several cartloads of manure – literally – and use it to build a raised veggie bed), the doings of a hibernating tortoise, and whether swallows spend the winter underwater or in holes somewhere. Darwin wrote about everything from Galapagos Finches to earthworms and human emotions, with a lot of time on dogs, pigeons, barnacles and natural selection.

Clearly Mr Strickland had a point. If we’re going to be rounded naturalists, we need to observe whatever is around us – slime moulds and lichens, aphids and fireblight, hoglice and cuckoospit, not just the elegant courtship dances of Great Crested Grebes.

The editor assured Mr Strickland that “The study of other forms of wildlife has definitely become more mainstream with more and more birdwatchers also taking a keen interest in dragonflies, butterflies and moths. While other wildlife has been a feature of the RSPB magazine for quite some time, birds will definitely remain at its heart.”

The other forms of wildlife that, we learn, birdwatchers bother to look at are apparently dragonflies, butterflies and moths. That’s just two groups really – Odonata and Lepidoptera; both are large, day-flying, colourful, and conspicuous – just like birds, but without the feathers – differing only in being insects. Forgivable, I guess. They are, basically, the next best thing: easy to notice, out there when you want ’em (shame they don’t fly all year), and best of all, not too numerous.

I mean, suppose the average birder wanted to get into the beetles, the Coleoptera. They can be found all over the world, are quite often big and spectacular, don’t fly much, are generally black or brown, and are mostly so small you need a hand-lens or microscope, and are so numerous in species that you need to take them to the museum expert to get identified for you. Not terribly convenient, but definitely important.

The biologist J.B.S. Haldane is supposed once to have said, in response to a natural theologian who wondered what one could conclude about God from the study of nature: “An inordinate fondness for beetles.” Since there are about 400,000 species of beetle, one species in every four is a beetle, and a rational Martian visiting Earth would conclude that the planet’s ecosystem designer must have had six legs and a hard waterproof exoskeleton, presumably the joke that Haldane had in mind.

Shepherd's Purse in my street ... almost finished reproducing for the year
Shepherd’s Purse in my street … almost finished reproducing for the year

If we are going to be less species-ist than Haldane’s Coleopteran Creator, we need to cast our net wider than Aves, Odonata and Lepidoptera. The streets round here are planted with cherries, mainly; there are a few whitebeams, a rowan or two, a line of ash trees, and a few foreign hazels, they could be the American hazel, must check when they fruit.  Under the cherries, the observant naturalist can note that Shepherd’s purse, the delightfully named Capsella bursa-pastoris (guess the poor man had so little money, it could fit in those tiny capsules) is already in fruit, soon to scatter its miniature seeds, and April isn’t even over: weeds have to be quick to survive on dry ground, perhaps. The ash trees support a lichen flora which is far more diverse than the basic Lecanora conizaeoides (low grey scaly lichen, no English name) that survived the pollution of the twentieth century; the trees have circles of Common Orange Lichen (Xanthoria parietina) and little patches of a grey leafy Parmelia lichen. And it doesn’t just consist of birds and other conspicuous day-flying objects, either. If that’s all we know to look at, we’re definitely amateur dilettante nature-lovers. Amateur is the French for lover, by the way, and dilettante is the Italian for someone that takes (idle) pleasure in something, the word is related to ‘delight’. Curious that both words should mean “ignorant dabbler” in English. But curiously appropriate, perhaps.

Natural History, Nature Reserves, Wetlands, Wildlife

Seven Sea Swallows Don’t Make a Summer …

Down at Wraysbury, I wondered what I might see now the spring migration is well and truly under way. Last year there was a single Cuckoo, a rare treat. And perhaps there would be a good number of warblers already.

The winter ducks had all vanished from the lakes, all bar a pair of shy Gadwall right at the back. There were indeed quite a few warblers about – Chiffchaffs, Blackcaps, Cetti’s, Whitethroats, Garden Warblers and one or two Willow Warblers, all singing lustily. I listened out for a Sedge Warbler to make it Seven but couldn’t find one. Still, not bad going.

But over the lake there was a high call: Pik! Cheer! Cheeri-Cheeri-Cheeri-Cheer! A pair of Common Terns, the first of the year: graceful white ‘sea swallows’, marvellously buoyant in flight. But no – there were two pairs .. no, five birds … no, seven in all. They wheeled and shrieked high above, swooped and delicately took insects from the water surface. Comically, one or two of the Black-Headed Gulls tried to do the same: they looked like tubby Sunday footballers trying gamely to keep up with their mates, flapping heavily, looking rotund and clumsy – yet, these are the same birds that gracefully wheel about the tourists at the Round Pond in Kensington Gardens, skilfully catching pieces of bread tossed into the air at any speed, any angle, any distance. It’s just that the terns are seven times more agile. Their forked tails divide into streamers as long as the rest of the tail; their wings almost pure white below, smooth ash-grey above. Do they make a summer? Almost.

Also swooping over the water was one Swallow, the first of the year for me; and about eight House Martins were hunting above the treetops. Some Alder Flies flew past; perhaps they are emerging from the water, providing a feast for the terns.

One green female Banded Demoiselle perched on some nettles; she too is the first of her kind – indeed, the first dragonfly of any kind – for me this year. And a solitary Greylag goose stood in the shallows, an unusual sight here.

Horses and Jackdaws at Wraysbury
Horses and Jackdaws at Wraysbury

Around the horses on the green grassy hill that used to be the dump, a flock of Jackdaws with some Carrion Crows, benefiting from the insects around the horses; and a second flock, more of a surprise, of Stock Doves. They are notoriously under-reported, people just assuming they are Feral Pigeons or Wood Pigeons without looking to check. They all had the same pattern, and none of them had white wing flashes.

Walking down to the road, the narrow path was carpeted with small teardrop-shaped white petals: Hawthorn flowers, May blossom.

Natural History, Wildlife

Plume Moth cf Stenoptilia bipunctidactyla

An extremely slim-winged Plume Moth landed on the kitchen window and has rested there for some hours, in broad daylight. I was familiar with the distinctive White Plume Moth, Pterophorus pentadactyla, a ghostly little moth with thin, branched, feathery wings – never understood the ‘penta-dactyla’, (‘five-fingered’) as I’d make it many, or perhaps two, but certainly the wings are oddly subdivided. This moth was obviously something in the same family (Pterophoridae) but another species, and given its brownish colour, it must be very inconspicuous among vegetation or on bark.

Plume Moth cf Stenoptilia bipunctidactyla
Plume Moth cf Stenoptilia bipunctidactyla

The excellent British Moths and Butterflies: A Photographic Guide by Chris Manley 2008, reprinted 2011 by Bloomsbury ( Amazon.com,  Amazon.co.uk), quickly pointed to a species of Stenoptilia: there are several similar and hard-to-tell species, so I wouldn’t presume to say which one it is, but it is most like Stenoptilia bipunctidactyla. The photo shows the family’s distinctive T-shape, and the long thin whitish legs with spines. The back is dotted, and the wingtips lack white, which is why I’m guessing it’s something like this species. It’s said to be common throughout Britain, eating Scabious.