Well, where can you see swamps, meadows, wild flowers, scrub, woodland, lakes, riverside, rough grassland, and even a Victorian monument, all in an hour’s walk, and in easy reach of London? Wraysbury is the answer.
Comfrey by the lakeRing-necked Parakeet in its nest holeMove over, Alabama Swamps, this is Wraysbury! Sheep and Jackdaws on the banks of the reservoir. The Jackdaws devour insect grubs in the grass, especially in sheep droppings.
Colne Brook, May blossom, Lombardy poplars
Cowslips, BugleDaisy lawn, Whitethroat scrub habitatMute Swan drinking – the scene may look peaceful, but his wings and tail are raised threateningly even though no other birds were about! Such is the mating season.Complicated, or what? In August 1832 it must have seemed well worth setting in stone the rights to not being flooded by anyone deliberately raising the water level above the limit defined here …
I don’t know if I’d set this in stone, but I heard 5 warblers singing, and caught a typical glimpse of a Cetti’s warbler diving from a bush beside the lake – big, dark brown, it really wasn’t any other bird. Still, I didn’t hear it call, which would have decided the matter beyond reasonable doubt. So, a 5-and-a-half warbler walk, I guess.
Butterflies: Large white, Small white, Brimstone, Holly blue, Peacock, Speckled Wood.
Odonata: Banded Demoiselle, Common blue (teneral, i.e. just emerged).
Other insects: Mayfly, Alder fly.
On the way home, I went round Heathrow airport, and a Skylark sang to me through the open car window from the grassy areas beside the runways.
Well, I guess the point of a walk in nature in May is to see what is in flower, what birds are singing, and which insects have emerged (in other words, it’s all about sex). The first warbler to make itself heard was the Blackcap, with many singing males trying out different brief songs. They were mixed in with Garden Warblers, which have a distinctly longer and more even song. A Cetti’s Warbler or two sang their loud abrupt call chwitipitit, chwitipitit: once heard, never forgotten. I couldn’t find any Sedge or Reed Warblers by the river for some reason. In the thorny scrub, a couple of Chiffchaffs sang their names, and many Whitethroats rasped out their short scratchy song, flying up to the tops of Hawthorn bushes and hopping about for the optimal perch.
A Little Egret flapped slowly across the lake: it would once have been thought a wonderful sighting, but the species has happily spread northwards and is now quite common on British coasts and lakes.
I was however delighted to hear the wheezing spring call of a male Greenfinch. It was until recently a common bird around towns and villages, but the population was halved by the Trichomonas parasite in the 2000s. Here in London it almost completely disappeared, and it is only slowly recovering.
I glimpsed one damselfly, probably a Common Blue.
Chicken of the Woods fungus on a fallen Poplar. Some find it delicious, others terrifying!
A handsome parasitic wasp, on the hunt for caterpillars
The presenters on Radio 4’s PM programme said that we needed an Awesome Nature Walk to lift our spirits during this renewed Covid Lockdown. Happily, we had already planned to go on one, and here it is: an Awesome Nature Walk at Wraysbury Lakes.
Sketch Map of the walk as it feels when I’m on the path (rather than mere cartographic accuracy, whatever that is)
The walk begins near the road bridge over the Colne Brook at the bottom of the map, which is by a repair garage. I’ve drawn the sketch map to give something of the feeling of the route while I’m walking it, rather than attempting to make an objective map.
The Area’s Natural and Unnatural History
The area is just outside the M25 ring motorway that informally defines London’s boundary; Heathrow Airport is just inside that, so in normal times (hmm) there is a plane overhead every 90 seconds. Down on the ground, there are numerous lakes which all started life as gravel pits. The River Thames laid down great amounts of sand and gravel in its wide flood plain during the Pleistocene, and the various Flood Gravels now form valuable building materials. Extraction round here has finished, but there are active pits a bit further afield. The pits go below the water table so they fill up by themselves. The large Reservoir is a bit different – it has an enormous high earth bank all around it, so the water level is high above the surrounding ground level (maybe there was gravel extraction there too before the Reservoir was built). A railway runs across the area; it can be crossed at a pedestrian level crossing with a pair of stiles and a lot of looking both ways. To the south of the lakes is an attractive area of thorn scrub with Hawthorn, Dog Rose, Spindle, Bramble and suchlike, with quite a few trees, all very good for wildlife. Down by the lake edges and the Colne Brook are many large Willows and Poplars which grow quickly, lean over, fall, and sprout up anew, forming a constantly-changing cycle of growth and regeneration, and providing cover and roosting-sites for warblers and water-birds.
The lakes have variously been repurposed – one is used by the sailing club, though I more often hear the clatter of rigging vibrating against sail-less masts on windy days than people actually sailing. Another is a strictly private fishing lake, protected by fierce signs and fiercer fences which must have cost a fortune to put up. The lake by the start of the walk is open to wildlife and fishing is forbidden; a delightful trio of icons make it clear that running with a large carp under your arm is forbidden, as is spear-fishing (or is that a black line crossing out a standing fisherman diagonally); frying fish on a griddle is not allowed, though nothing is said about making fish stew in a saucepan, interpret the icon how you will.
South of the scrubland is a pleasantly scruffy pony-field with scattered thorn-bushes and rough grass dotted with tufts of Alfalfa. It rises to a low hill which was once a municipal landfill dump. For some years the dump was grassed over and the ponies roamed all over it; then men came and installed deep pipes to sample and carry away the presumably polluted groundwater; finally, a sizeable array of solar panels was installed and fenced off, complete with security cameras, so ponies and walkers had to make a detour around the array.
So — airport, motorway, gravel-pits, railway, landfill, post-industrial leisure activities, it’s pretty much the classic Urban or Peri-Urban nature area.
The Walk
The bridge over the Colne Brook offers a glimpse of calm nature; the water babbles softly among the waterweeds, and two Kingfishers dark on triangular wings just above the surface. One swerves into a U-turn, catching the sun to reveal its brilliant blue-and-turquoise plumage. What a moment to start a walk.
We dive gratefully down the few steps from the pavement to the path: the pavement by the bridge is half-occluded by unclipped bushes, and the traffic whizzes past perilously close to unwary walkers.
In the sudden quiet we peer through the trees to the lake. A gang of twenty Cormorants is on the water, with a group of Mute Swans.
The path is bordered with Willows and coarse herbs; a patch of colourful Comfrey, once used to help knit broken bones, attracts some Common Blue Damselflies. At a gap in the Willows, a Cetti’s Warbler sings its abrupt, loud song. Some Migrant Hawker Dragonflies scoot too and fro beside the water, their transparent wings whirring, their long slender bodies glittering blue.
Little Egrets, Grey Herons, and Cormorants roosting and preening in the Willows beside the lake: not bad for an Urban Nature Walk
We come to a patch of reeds where we can see right across the lake. A Chiffchaff flits between bushes. On the far side is a bank of Willows, several with protruding dead branches. Perched on these are a few Grey Herons, half-a-dozen Cormorants, and most excitingly three Little Egrets — small white herons with black legs and yellow feet: uncommon visitors here. All of these are predators, feeding on fish and small animals like frogs; the Cormorants fish by diving from the surface, while the herons stand by or in the water, looking out for prey.
The track through the thorny scrub is bright with Rose and Hawthorn fruits — “Hips and Haws” in the fine old country phrase, rich with double entendre, glowing in different shades of red. Across a wide patch of Teasels and Burdocks and Thistles, all tall and prickly in their differing ways, more Hawthorn bushes are still in green leaf but bursting with red fruits, so they are red and green at once, which you might have thought impossible, but there it is, spectacular.
We swing through the kissing-gate and into the pony-field. The animals barely glance at us, the rich grass is clearly far more interesting. “Alfalfa” apparently means “King of Herbs” in Arabic; it was supposedly the finest pasture for grazing animals from goats to camels.
The path rounds the Solar Array; I guess it’s good to know that more and more of our energy is renewable, even if an Electric Vehicle, with its large price-tag, doubtful driving range, and complicated charging arrangements if like me and many city-dwellers, you don’t have a front drive to park and charge it on, is still perhaps a bridge too far. It does feel as if, with one more push, there could be charging points everywhere and affordable prices, and suddenly it’ll look not exotic but obvious. Five years, maybe? Who knows, but at least it’s coming.
After a long cold spell, it again felt like spring today, and despite the cloud I went to Wraysbury, thinking that it could be a good time for warblers.
I was greeted by a pair of Cormorants on a bleached branch beside the lake. And a moment later by the first of many Blackcaps. Warbler the first.
A little way along the path, a rapid and rich warble went on .. and on .. and on – aha! A Garden Warbler. (How to tell Garden from Blackcap? “Blackcap’s Brief.” Well, good enough for a first approximation.) Warbler the second.
I walked on a few paces, and glimpsed something small and brown in the willows. Binoculars showed an unmistakable Garden Warbler – Sylvia borin[g] – pretty much uniformly coloured, or rather, so beautifully countershaded that it looks flat in sunlight, quite the clever camouflage trick.
It started to sing – and was almost drowned out by the deafening repetitive din of a Cetti’s Warbler (roughly, Chwit-i-Pit-i-Pit! Chwit-i-Pit-i-Pit!), as usual without a glimpse of the songster. Warbler the third.
I then saw my first Banded Demoiselle, indeed my first flying damselfly or dragonfly, of the year. It’s always a lovely moment. A few bright yellow (male) Brimstone butterflies skittered about or sunbathed: perhaps the butter-coloured insect is the original “butter fly”, or perhaps the name refers to the fluttering flight of the whole group – it must make them very hard for predators like birds and dragonflies to catch them, and given how common it is to see a butterfly with holes pecked in its wings, it is easy to believe that anti-predator adaptations are highly advantageous.
Other conspicuous insects were a lot of Sawflies, looking much like tiny red wasps with black-and-yellow striped tails, and numerous large Bumblebees enjoying the purple Comfrey which is abundant beside the river.
The droning chatter of a Reed Warbler came out of another Willow beside the lake: Warbler the fourth.
From across the river, just audible but quite definite, came the Chiff-Chaff-Chiff-Chaff-Chiff-Chaff song of .. you guessed it. Warbler the fifth.
Across the bridge and onto the flat scrub, and in almost the first bush was a Whitethroat singing its short simple scratchy ditty. (Presumably female Whitethroats find it enticing. Or other males find it repellent, one or the other. Maybe both, actually.) Warbler the sixth.
I reconnoitred the wood-and-scrubby area for possible Willow Warblers (they don’t inhabit willows any more than Willow Tits do), but they don’t seem to have arrived yet. Some Song Thrushes improvised their fine, repeated melodies of many different repeated phrases.
Indian Summer days are delightful, but often not terribly rich in visible wildlife – this year’s young have fledged and left the nest; flowers have faded and gone into fruit (which can be beautiful, of course); butterflies and dragonflies have mostly stopped flying; summer birds have left for Africa; and the warm calm air doesn’t bring winter migrants from the frozen North.
But there was plenty to listen to this morning.
As I walked in off the road, a Heron took off behind the bushes, and gave a two-tone ‘cronk’ note as it flapped off over the lake. I peered through a gap, and there it was, its amazingly broad angled wings like an ingeniously light balsa wood and doped muslin flying machine, totally unlike the awkward folded umbrella of an ungainly bird that a Heron is when perched.
Two Mute Swans took off and flew low over the water right in front of me, as silent as their name: only their wings whistling with each heavy wingbeat.
A solitary Cormorant took off from the water, very black without the white breeding season thigh patches, also silent except for the heavy thwack of its feet slapping the water on the first ten wingbeats.
A Cetti’s Warbler, invisible in the waterside bushes as always, burst into its loud rude song. (Once you’ve read Barnes’s description of just how rude that is, in How to Be a Bad Birdwatcher, you’ll never hear a Cetti’s without smiling again, I promise.)
A Green Woodpecker gave its cheerful triple signature call, somewhere far out of sight. No need to look.
A few Long-Tailed Tits called anxiously to each other, ‘Tsirrup’, high in the willows. I couldn’t see them either, and again, I didn’t mind a bit.
Bizarrely (and this was a sight to behold, perhaps the only one of the walk), 4 Cormorants took to the air, seeming to be chasing 4 young Herons, presumably a family party.
Up on the horses’ hill, a Kestrel hovered silently on whirring wings.
The horses won’t be there much longer: Affinity Water have put up little notices To Whom It May Concern, saying they’ve had enough with ‘flygrazing’ (makes a change from flytipping, presumably) and will remove the horses if they’re not taken away. I suppose the gypsies have left them to breed as well as graze for free (there’s plenty of grass); the horses are always gentle, and do a good job of controlling the meadow, actually. Why would they do that, a friend wondered. I suggested that it made perfect sense – each year, the ‘owners’ could drop in, take a mare, and leave the others to keep up the supply of new horses. What an economical, ecological system. Without the horses, I guess someone will have to pay for mowing, or maybe they’ll hire a flock of sheep for a few weeks each year? Not sure the horses aren’t a better solution. Of course they could leave some goats to go feral. (Only kidding.)
Spring is full of surprises, and this Heron, nesting not in a colony up in the trees, but all alone in an abandoned Swan’s nest in a reedbed, is certainly one of them. The London Wetland Centre this morning also boasted a mass of Blackcaps in the “Wildside” woodland, with at least three males and a female actually in sight at once, along with an obliging Chiffchaff giving me an excellent view, and a characteristically invisible Cetti’s Warbler, shouting out its amazingly loud call. The Silver Birches were in wonderfully fresh green leaf, their bark crisply white against the clear blue of the sky.
Red-Breasted Geese
“Birches in wonderfully fresh green leaf”
Yesterday, round at Wraysbury Lakes, the same set of three warblers sang, but more elusively. The most delightful surprise was a Treecreeper, not only creeping up the willow branches, but singing its sweetly plaintive little song. This used to be rendered, rather tweely, as “Tree, tree, tree, once more I come to thee”, which does capture the length and rhythm of the song. It is not unlike the Chaffinch’s song, if you know that, but without the twiddly “tissy-cheeooo” ending, and not so firm and harsh. One of the Blackcaps, in the thorn-scrub area, had a fine mimetic song. Out on Horse Hill, the first two Swallows of the year flitted overhead, a solitary Kestrel beat its way against the wind, and half a dozen Jackdaws played and chased in the air, for all the world like a gang of naughty schoolboys.
“Cast ne’er a clout till May be out”, runs an old proverb. I guess it means, don’t trust the appearance of spring and sunshine in March or April: I recall two other spring proverbs, “March winds, April showers”, and “One Swallow doesn’t make a Summer”. In other words, spring arrives in fits and starts.
Well, it felt almost like spring at Wraysbury Lakes, with bursts of bright sunshine. A rather bold Cormorant investigated the fish in the river from a low perch. Many Willows have fallen and been cut down: they grow very rapidly, soon become hollow or outgrow their roots in the soft ground, and snap in a storm or topple — across the path, or into the water.
A Cetti’s Warbler gave me a single burst of its loud song from a waterside bush: as usual it was invisible.
Three or four Chiffchaffs chorused uncertainly. There were no other warblers to be heard. Perhaps I’ll get a Six Warbler Walk in a few weeks’ time. The early songsters remain the Song Thrush, the Great Tit and of course that 12-month, 24-hour standby, the Robin.
A Magpie chattered on the woodland edge of Horse Hill: a big brown Buzzard flapped slowly away from the annoyance to perch in a tree.
Amongst the chilly weather brought by the East Wind, today has at least been sunny, and out of the wind pleasantly warm.
Down at Wraysbury Lakes, plenty of Chiffchaffs, presumably mostly recently arrived from Spain or Africa, are now singing. The other migrant warblers have not yet arrived – if they think it’s too cold, who can blame them – so the only other warbler singing is the robust, secretive Cetti’s, calling from across the lake.
Apart from them, a flock of cheerful Jackdaws fluttered about the horse meadow; each mare had a new foal, wobbly on its new legs. A few Goldfinches and Chaffinches sang bravely. A Crack Willow’s buds gleamed silver, the green just starting to show; a solitary Pussy Willow (Sallow) shone golden against the dry brown scrubby area, last year’s dried Teasels still tall and handsome. Some Poplar branches gleam orange-yellow with Common Orange Lichen.
Suddenly it feels like spring. The migrant warblers haven’t arrived, though a resident Cetti’s gave me a fine burst of its loud simple song; and the winter ducks haven’t all gone back up North, a few Goldeneye and Goosander still fishing the lake; but it was almost warm in the bright sunshine, and the wild pear tree in the woods positively sparkled with fresh new blossom.
Tiny footprints: Muntjac slots
There were animal tracks too: tiny footprints of Muntjac.
A little further, a fresh pile of tiny scat, Muntjac for sure.
Tiny scat: Muntjac
A Sparrowhawk dashed low over the willows, and disappeared as swiftly as it had arrived.
On the path, the much larger slots of Roe deer; and a Rabbit hopped quietly aside.
Larger tracks: Roe deer
The last of the winter thrushes – a flock of Fieldfares – called their chattering chack-chack from the tall boundary hedge of trees. A flock of gently twittering Goldfinches, too, served as a reminder of a winter only just passing.
It was too sunny and warm to sit at a desk writing, so I took bicycle and binoculars and went along the Thames path to the Wetland Centre. Even in a T-shirt it was warm work, feeling more like an English July (ok, that’s not saying much) than the last day of November .
Afternoon sunbeams on a very warm Halloween at the Wetland Centre
Inside the Centre I passed some diminutive witches and warlocks: they seemed to be sweating uncomfortably inside their costumes. I took a swig of water and cooled off in a hide; two rare migrants, Green Sandpipers, bobbed daintily at the end of one of the little islands, dwarfed by a Black-Headed Gull and a Moorhen, neither of them particularly large birds. Their habit is not unlike that of the Common Sandpiper, but they lack the white streak that rises in front of the wing. One of them took flight, its slender dark wings and white belly giving it something of the look of a rather large and clunky House Martin. It felt very odd to be watching autumn migrants on such a summery day.
Over at the wader scrape, a Little Egret strutted and once fluttered across the shallow water; it is an uncommon visitor here, though becoming more usual along the south coast marshes and estuaries.
A Green Woodpecker bounded over the grazing marsh in its distinctive undulating flight, its red cap and green body showing beautifully in the hot sunshine, with a loud laughing call in case anybody was in any doubt what it was.
A Cetti’s Warbler sang its bold short song, Chwit-i-pit-i-pit, Chwit-i-pit-i-pit, as usual invisible deep in a reedbed.
Out on the open water, numbers of winter ducks are (oddly, given the summery weather) building up; several Shovelers dabbled; some dozens of Wigeon grazed; a few Teal, the drakes in glorious colour, swam nimbly about with some Gadwall.
Even on the way home, I had no need of a pullover. The BBC weather report confirmed what everyone instinctively knew: it was the warmest 31st of October ever recorded in Britain, with an astonishing 23.6 Celsius in London. Of course, a cold front is forecast.
P.S. The next morning was grey and rainy, autumn on the way. Two large grey Mistle Thrushes flew overhead, rasping out their wintry calls, like a boy blowing over a comb covered in tracing paper.
P.P.S. Four days later, after a clear starry night, the sun rose over a chilly town on a fine November morning. It was winter.
The English seem unemotional … except for their passion for nature
