Among the wonderful moments on this walk: a heron gave its cronking call and flapped slow over the water; a plane passed behind three cormorants drying their wings, perched on the branches of a dead tree; a group of goldeneyes panicked and pattered across the lake, gaining speed for takeoff, giving their high-pitched call, the waves sparkling in the slanting sunshine; a song thrush tentatively singing its repeated music; a solitary fieldfare.
Wind or not, a sunny winter’s day is too good to miss, so I wrapped up warm and squelched through the mud around Wraysbury Lakes. In the car park, a Grey Wagtail hawked for insect life. Among the few ducks on the lakes were some Goldeneye, one of the winter specialities of the area. The Great Crested Grebes had most of the water to themselves, looking predatory with their sharp spear-beaks.
On the meadow, four Stock Doves got up – an under-recorded species if ever there was one, as people take them for feral or wood pigeons. A Green Woodpecker gave its ringing Plue-Plue-Plue call, really loudly: spring is on the way, honest! The Jackdaws wheeled and dived in the strong wind, totally at home. A Buzzard soared with barely a wingbeat, turning on well-rounded wings with fanned tail. Towards the end, the bushes thrummed with twittering Goldfinches.
But the best thing wasn’t a bird at all, but the Mistletoe hanging from a bare beech branch. Let’s hope it spreads.
It was a glorious winter morning at Wraysbury Lakes. The lakes themselves held few birds, but the Goldeneyes had arrived with the recent cold weather, and the males were giving their fine trumpeting call (they’re not called “clangula” for nothing, the duck with the resounding bell-like music) and displaying, too.
A few herons flapped lazily over the water; a small group of tits hopped through the bushes. My first fieldfares of the winter chack-chacked in the willows and obligingly gave good views of their handsome brown-and-grey plumage.
A sparrowhawk raced very low over the meadow. On the way home, a peregrine falcon perched on a streetlight.
The day was exceptionally warm after the chilly winter weather. The hedgerow plants dripped gently. I liked the colours and light on these blackened rose-hips, still somehow looking invitingly fruity.
The path too was covered in blackened leaves, wet and slippery. On the lake, half-a-dozen Goldeneye, a couple of Pochard, a few Teal, some Tufted Duck, a few Mallard. Apart from the ducks, a couple of Cormorants, two young and very white Great Crested Grebes. On the meadows, a Green Woodpecker, flocks of Goldfinches, scattered Redwing and Fieldfare, a flock of Carrion Crows.
Well, after 7 Vole Patrol postings, and some very cold, wet and early mornings, I felt like enjoying a nature walk in the sunshine, away from Woodmice. But as I left town I found myself in fog, not too thick to be sure, but fog nonetheless.
I was rewarded, however, with the lovely sight of the willows along the lake seeming to float, isolated in the smooth sea of soft gray.
As the mist slowly lifted, a pair of Goosanders and a pair of Goldeneye (the male displaying, the female in tow a yard behind) could be seen through the mirk.
I couldn’t get away from the mammals, either. I was pleased to see not just the usual Muntjac prints along the path, but Roe Deer too. A little way further, and there was a Wood Mouse hopping in a relaxed way across the path, before diving down its hole.
Among the birds calling were Green Woodpecker (finely), Great Tit, Song Thrush, Cetti’s Warbler. A Heron and a Parakeet flew overhead. Wood Pigeons and Carrion Crows watched warily.
The damp air had another good effect: the lichens looked wonderful, and even the bristly Ramalina were soft.
It was nice to see the lichens flourishing so close to London (and Heathrow): these little fungus/alga plants are very sensitive to pollution, and when I was a boy they were almost impossible to find anywhere near a city, so conservation stories can be happy.
It was cold out today, and I was glad of fleece, warm coat, woolly hat and gloves — not to mention gumboots through the clogging mud, the worst I’ve seen in many walks at Wraysbury Lakes.
But when the sun came out, it was beautiful, and I hope I’ve captured a little of that wintry beauty for you (and some of the puddled paths) with this photo of last year’s dried-out Teasels.
Just as I was about to take the photo, a flash of white from two largish finches caught my eye, and I grabbed my binoculars. Luckily, they landed in a bare thornbush, and showed themselves to be a male and a female Bullfinch, their black caps, red chests and white rumps splendidly visible as they sat a while, occasionally leaning right forwards to peck at the buds. They flew off to another bush, giving me the best views I think I ever had of the male/female differences at rest and in flight. The male really did glow red.
Up on the horse hill, a flock of some 50 Goldfinches flickered overhead. A Green Woodpecker called in the distance, as did two Mistle Thrushes, their loud, monotonous, ringing cries carrying across the wet ground. A solitary Redwing was all that was left of the winter flocks. Two streaky brown Linnets flew across.
A cormorant flapped heavily overhead, quite goose-like in front view but obvious enough in outline as it went by. Down at the nearly birdless lake, 5 Goldeneye brightened up the view, with a few distant Shoveler.
After the bitter cold of the New Year, down to a surprising -12C in London, suddenly spring (as it were) is back in the air, and the Daffodils are resuming their progress towards full bloom in gardens and on roadsides.
The warmth and sunshine tempted me out to Wraysbury. With the heavy rain and perhaps also the rapid changes of temperature, a large Poplar had fallen across the river, forming a minor weir.
On the path, a Muntjac deer had left its tiny prints in the soft mud. Unlike a lot of other mammals, at least this one is readily identifiable from its print, the two small sharp slots of its slim feet not mistakable for anything else.
The lake, which had been full of birds as big as Swans last time I visited, was almost empty: a few Coots, some Great Crested Grebes, a Black-Headed Gull, a few roosting Cormorants, a few Tufted: and happily two of the area’s specialities, three pairs of Goosander, and nine Goldeneye (including three males).
A Kestrel hovered and dropped slowly after a small mammal in the long grass. A Redwing flickered away around a corner. A Song Thrush sang sweetly from a thicket. One or perhaps two Bullfinches gave their distinctive “Deu” call from the middle of a bush. Half-a-dozen Fieldfares chattered and skittered about from the top of one bare thornbush to another. A few Wood pigeons and Crows looked out warily.
When a chilly east wind drops and the sky clears to a brilliant blue in February, it is a shame not to drop everything and rush outside to enjoy it. So I found myself down at Wraysbury Lakes, all wrapped up in my winter clothes — but my gloves never left my pockets, and my jacket and pullover were soon unzipped as the temperature climbed to 9.5 C, and in the sun with scarcely a breeze (the planes returned to their usual takeoff towards the west) it felt far warmer than that.
Some handsome white bracket fungi shone in the sun; they were triangular in section with flattened tops, slightly toothed beneath. Could be a Trametes or Tyromyces perhaps.
On the lake, half a dozen Goldeneye were all that were left of the more ‘special’ ducks; a male joined the party, and a female swam rapidly up to him, bobbing her head; he bobbed back, and threw his head over his back too. Spring is in the air. It looked as if they were already a pair, I’d say.
Also on the lake were some handsome Pochard, mostly asleep, one diving and surfacing, and a Shoveler, preening. A Heron flew slowly over, half a wingspan from the water. A Field Mouse ran right in front of me and down to the waterside by the willows, and obligingly fed in the open for a minute while I watched with binoculars on close focus: the long tail, round ears and quivering ‘whiskers’ (vibrissae) at work.
Away from the lakes, a Rabbit hopped across the path. A Mistle Thrush called harshly; another flew past; a solitary Fieldfare left over from the sizeable flock a week or two ago.
I wandered down to the confluence of the Colne with the Thames; a Kingfisher gave me a good of that always astonishing turquoise bolt of blue lightning, flashing on short triangular wings over the little river. A minute later, it flashed back upstream, as startling as before. A single green sphere of Mistletoe clung to the leafless canopy of a tree behind the industrial estate.
Winter has definitely set in. The spinach beet in my garden was all frozen, the air at -3 Celsius and the ground presumably rather colder under a clear night sky. Fearing it might all be lost, I picked some and went out to see what there might be today down at Wraysbury Lakes.
Almost the first thing I saw was a bulky little finch high in a waterside willow. It called ‘deu’ quite loudly, fidgeted about and flew before I could focus on it. Still, there was no doubt it was a Bullfinch: the call, its shape, its solitary habits, and its shyness all pointing the same way. It is never an easy bird to see, even where it is resident (it is regularly ringed at Wraysbury). Leafless trees and the rising energy of the coming breeding season provide one of the few opportunities to catch a glimpse of this less well known finch.
At first sight there seemed to be no birds out on the lake. Finding a small illicit patch cleared by a fisherman I set up the telescope and looked about. A Pochard or two; some Tufted Duck and Coot; a male Goldeneye… but the Smew and Goosander of a week or two ago were nowhere to be seen. The old truth is that you never know what you’ll see: but it’s often a delightful surprise, and almost always energizing to be out in nature.
I walked on and looked about again: some rather white ducks caught my eye in the distance. Two male Goldeneye, each with a female in tow. The males threw their heads forward a few times, pretended to preen; one threw his head back and forth, then lowered his head and stretched it out and in. His female swam after him, her head resting on her back as if she were asleep! But she was certainly watching the display, and swimming to keep up a few lengths behind.
A loud squawk betrayed a Heron; it flapped out of cover at the end of the lake and landed on the bank behind the ducks. A few Mallard panicked from the water below me; a Moorhen briefly took flight.
Away from the lake, a few Robin and Dunnock hopped in and out of the bushes. A solitary Fieldfare or two gave their chack-chack call from the hawthorns, watchful and flighty. Another Bullfinch calling, this time atop a bare hawthorn bush – or maybe the same bird, half a mile on – and again I couldn’t get binoculars on to it, despite my stealthiest movements: it had surely seen me at once, and just took a few seconds to decide when to flee.
A Kestrel hovered beyond the tall poplars: no Buzzards or Red Kites today, but really the Kestrel feels almost more special than them, its numbers declining across Britain.
A few Jackdaws, Carrion Crows and Wood Pigeons on the horses’ hill; some Fieldfares in the trees, with a single Redwing; a Stock Dove flying low.
After a chilly grey start, the clouds dispersed and it turned into a brilliant winter’s day, the sky crisp blue, the air clear. I grabbed the telescope and went down to Wraysbury to see if the winter ducks had finally arrived.
The first thing I saw was a sign of the violence of the recent storms; a Poplar, always a fast-growing and short-lived tree, had snapped off and fallen over the path. But a way had already been cut beneath it.
The next sight was a sad one: for the first time I can remember, the River Colne was obviously polluted, with lumps of foam drifting rapidly by, or caught on branches in the normally clean water. The river supports Kingfishers, wagtails and assorted waterfowl, so I hope the cause is a brief one-off event.
On the lake were four or five Goldeneye, the males waving their heads up and down to signal to the females – or to warn off rival males – the bold white patches on the sides of their heads visible without binoculars.
A little further on was a small party of Goosander, a male and two redhead females, their long serrated hooked bills and distinctive long bodies instantly recognisable, a sign of winter in this part of the world as they come down from their chillier breeding grounds.
Then, just as I was moving on, the bold whiteness of a male Smew caught my eye. With him was a redhead female, both ducks far smaller and shorter than the rather big Goosanders. A few grebes and tufted ducks vied unsuccessfully for my attention.
Some of the poplars, half-fallen, offered normally out-of-reach branches for close inspection. Along with the usual Common Orange Lichen and the grey leafy lichens (Parmelia sulcata and such) were a few bristly tufts of Ramalina, easily told for being rather stiff, slightly forked, and the same grey-green on both sides. You’ll probably have seen the genus on rocks just above the high-tide mark by the sea, or on big old stone-age megaliths. It’s a lichen that demands clean air, so it’s rather a nice surprise to see it so close to Heathrow Airport. Perhaps the prevailing Westerly winds keep most of the atmospheric pollution away. There is no doubt, though, that London’s air quality is far better than it was a generation ago: hardly anyone burns sulphurous coal any longer, and while there are hotspots of nitrogen oxides (Heathrow for one, Oxford Street for another) and diesel particulates, these aren’t as harmful to lichens as sulphur dioxide was.
Around the corner into the area of wet grassland and scrub, I was delighted to be surprised by two Red Kites circling silently overhead against the brilliant blue, their long wings and forked tails a welcome sight that would have been familiar to Shakespeare but was missing until their recent reintroduction to lowland Britain. There was plenty of professional angst about whether the new Chiltern population should be encouraged to interbreed with the remnant Welsh population: but in the event, the birds easily dispersed the couple of hundred miles involved, and soon the gene pools mixed all by themselves.
Up on the smooth green hill that was the old rubbish mountain and is now home to a dozen ponies and horses, the distant chack-chack of Fieldfares drifted to my ears. At least fifty of them were standing, watchful but constantly feeding, on the bare grass, flying up and chattering at the least warning. A solitary Mistle Thrush stood big and grey with its boldly spotted breast among them; a flock of a hundred Starlings moved flightily between trees and grass. A Wood Pigeon panicked and all the Fieldfares flew into the trees, still chacking. I splashed through the ankle-deep mud and puddles on the somewhat flooded path to the road.