Winged Reproductive Ants emerging on back doorstep …
Every year, the ants that nest underneath our back doorstep form a swarm of winged reproductives that fly off on a day in July.
We were surprised to find at least 10 House Sparrows perched all around the garden, and flying up catching ants. They were joined by a male Blackbird and a Robin. The Robin, the only insect specialist among them, had its beak full of insects. The nearest Sparrow in this photo is just below the doorstep where the ants are emerging: it was just a few feet from the camera.
Three House Sparrows catching ants by the doorstep
We’ve never seen so many House Sparrows in our street. There is just one house nearby where they nest, and there are usually just two or three birds there. Maybe they had a large successful brood this spring. Whatever the case, they found the ants emerging very quickly; they whole flight took only a couple of hours, though we’d noticed increased (wingless) ant activity over the past few days.
Northward Hill, looking over oakwood, scrub, grazing marshes, and river
Well there are some things one just has to do, even if it means braving the traffic. Nightingales, once common all over the south of England, can now only be heard in a few special places, and Northward Hill is one of them. There are some others in the southeast, like Lodge Hill, and guess what, they want to build houses all over it. Better go and enjoy the birdsong while it lasts.
A very shy Wall Brown, now a mainly coastal butterfly, the first I’ve seen for years
I was greeted by the song of blackbird, chaffinch, robin, song thrush, and wren as I walked in. A few ‘whites’ – large white, orange tip, green-veined white – skittered about as I reached the attractively rough scrub of hawthorn in full May blossom, blackthorn, wild pear, wild plum, and wild cherry, topped by the occasional whitethroat singing away scratchily.
Into the woods, with a handsome old cherry orchard on the right. Some of the oaks were straight out of Lord of the Rings, splendidly gnarled, knobbly, with massive trunks and holes to hide a good few goblins in.
Nightingale country: a fine old Oak. It looks to have been pollarded at about 12 feet up some centuries ago, so it was probably cut to that height while smaller wood was coppiced all around it.
And yes, sure enough, a nightingale obliged by singing its hesitant but amazingly rich and varied song from the thick cover. A little further, another; and a cuckoo kindly sang its unmistakable song from an oak almost in front of me, then with a ‘gok’ call flew, sparrowhawk-like, from the tree, a special sight.
Down to the hide overlooking the pool in the top photo; I wasn’t expecting more than a coot and maybe a mallard, but there were breeding lapwings chasing off the crows; breeding oystercatchers, and an avocet sitting with them; and a couple of solitary little egrets, stalking and stabbing at small fish or frogs. A redshank gave its wild teuk-teuk-teuk call and flashed its wingbar briefly.
Little Egret Stalking
Overhead a few swallows flitted about, and three swifts raced over the marsh.
The Hoo Peninsula is still a wild, spacious, lonely place, even with the swelling villages. You can see the Shard and Canary Wharf in the distance (some 30 miles); the river with its cranes and giant ships is ever-present; but the North Kent Marshes are special, as is Northward Hill with its fine old woods, still unspoilt for birds. Go and see it while you can.
With another day of freezing fog, very dangerous on the roads, nature is telling us that, yes, global warming or no, it’s winter. The false acacia, totally leafless, whirs with activity. A big wood pigeon sits impassively, ignoring the small passers-by. Within a few minutes, these include 3 goldfinches, keeping well away from each other in the branches; 2 male blackbirds, similarly, their heads high on the lookout for competitive activity; 4 ring-necked parakeets, never settling for more than a moment, jumping up squawking at the slightest provocation; 2 redwings, handsome with their contrasting eyestripes; 1 fieldfare, markedly bigger, and a handsome bird when seen in crisp winter sunshine rather than today’s murky fog. A few minutes later, a blackcap appeared: still a bird that we think of as a summer visitor, though a few pass through in winter from colder places. Later still, a great tit jumped in and wriggled about; and a little flock of 6 starlings blew in for a few minutes, sadly diminished from the sort of flocks I remember: and even this local flock used to have 7 members.
The effect as birds appear from and vanish into the gloom is rather of one of those popular tales physicists tell to try to make the public feel they understand what nuclear physics is all about: particles and antiparticles are ceaselessly created by the vacuum, and as continuously meet each other and annihilate, returning to their matrix, the apparently endlessly creative fog, which one would otherwise have mistaken for chilly nothingness.
Yes, it’s ornamental cherry time again. Sitting at the breakfast table with a coffee, I watch two male Blackbirds perch on the garden table and chairs under the tree. One flies up, hovers for an instant, lands, and can be seen to have a small black cherry in its propped-open beak. It swallows, looks up, repeats the cycle.
There is a Blackbird nest exactly in the middle of the ornamental cherry, atop the end of a cut branch; it is not very well hidden from anyone walking in the garden, nor very far from night-prowling cats.
Less welcome are the Wood Pigeons that noisily flap into the tree’s slim branches, finding a wobbly perch before greedily guzzling the tiny cherries, the first fruits of the year. If they become numerous they will threaten to devastate the crop of real edible cherries from my ‘Stella’ tree. Stella is a good deep red variety, not as dark and bitter as Morello (but a great deal sweeter), though rather on the late side. The pigeons, of course, find it delicious. I always had to cover the tree with nets, until last year when there was hardly a pigeon or even Blackbird to be seen near the tree: I suspect a bird-killer cat used to lurk on the shed roof at night and stalk its avian prey.
Out the front, another bird-only cherry grows in the pavement. It is risky to park the car beneath it, the birds – mainly starlings – spotting roof and windows with rich purple-red stains made gritty and corrosive with white powdery uric acid.
Doing some tricky editing on a chapter, a flicker of movement catches my eye outside the window . Usually there is one male blackbird – shiny yellow beak, all black plumage – somewhere around in the block of gardens. Today there are six, and they are watchful. Three magpies, glossy with rainwater, are hopping about or perching in the Acacia tree, prospecting for nests or anything else worth robbing or mugging. The resident blackbird watches from a television aerial. One of the intruders chases another male off. Despite the rain, the visiting flock is unable to rest. The magpies chatter; one flies up, right in front of my window. I realise I am watching the soap opera, fascinated.
The English seem unemotional … except for their passion for nature
