A Kestrel hovered persistently in the steady breeze, starting above treetop height and dropping lower in little steps, over the rough grass full of thistles, burdock, and teasels
Comfrey, once used as a medicinal herb to knit bones, still in flower in October. A solitary Chiffchaff sang its simple song nearby.
Germander Speedwell, a miniature beauty in bloom
Creeping Cinquefoil, an attractively bright flower in clusters among the well-trodden grass of the path
The extraordinary pink of the fruit of the Spindle Tree, a small slender tree with long and extremely straight twigs, that were ideal for medieval spinsters to use as spindles when spinning thread
Scentless Mayweed, a cheerful flower of waste ground, common in the pony field. A twittering flock of Linnets flew into a bramble patch in the field, perching atop the bush and making little flights, apparently catching insects, before returning to their perches.
Eriophorum angustifolium, Bog Cotton, a plant of wild, wet and rugged places
A bright, breezy, and much cooler day (16 C, not 29 any more) was just perfect for a visit to Thursley. Perhaps many of the dragonflies decided not to fly: I saw one Common Darter and (I think) one Brown Hawker, and nothing else, so anyone who went along hoping to see the Hobbies hawking for dragonflies by the dozen will have had a wasted trip (and indeed I saw several extravagantly camouflaged types with gigantic telescopes standing about looking very bored).
But everything else was in full swing. A Cuckoo called from the pinewoods. A Curlew gave its marvellously wild, bubbling call from the open marsh. A Dartford Warbler gave me the best view ever of its rufous belly and long tail, as it sat low in a scrubby Birch, giving its rasping anxiety call repeatedly. I enjoyed the view through binoculars. By the time I remembered to take a photo it was half-hidden again.
A scrappy photo of the Dartford Warbler
A Stonechat gave its scratchy call from a small Birch, then hopped up to some Pine trees (so, a distant shot).
Stonechat on Pine branch
A few Chiffchaffs called from the woods; plenty of Whitethroats sang from the regenerating Birches that are encroaching on to the heath. A Green Woodpecker gave its fine laughing call.
Birches regenerating on to heath below Pines
So I heard three warblers today to add to the four yesterday, so seven singing warblers in 24 hours, a little bit special.
The lichen flora on the heath was quite beautiful, with Usnea beard lichen, leafy Parmelia, bristly Ramalina (all on old Heather), and elegant Cladonia potscourer, cup, and stalk lichens (three species).
Miniature elegance: Cladonia cf fimbriata, cup lichen
A Linnet sang from the top of a Birch. Goldfinches twittered and flitted about.
Musk Stork’s-bill, Erodium moschatum, (?) on dry heath beside path
And on the path out, a Hobby leapt from a tree right in front of me, where it had been sitting watching the bog pools, waiting for dragonflies to come out and display themselves. It flew round and up, then circled, soaring, away to the south. Perhaps it was the one the twitchers had been waiting to see flying all morning.
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.)
OK, it’s official, spring has arrived. It may be freezing in the North wind, snow may be forecast, but … this year’s foals look lovely, relaxing with their mothers in the sunshine.
Overhead, the first three Swifts of the year wheeled against the blue sky; a couple of Buzzards drifted past, one mobbed by a pair of Carrion Crows; a Kestrel hovered, moved on, hovered again.
Down below, Wraysbury’s Lakes are empty of ducks, the winter visitors long returned up to the far North. The bushes, however, are rapidly filling up with warblers. Chiffchaffs, Blackcaps, and for the first time this year, masses of Whitethroats (there must have been at least a dozen, wheezing out their scratchy little songs) displayed atop still bare thorn-bushes, one male even venturing a little song flight. Several Sedge Warblers chirruped, whistled and churred their complicated but not very harmonious song — avant-garde jazz with Ute Lemper, perhaps — and to my great pleasure a Garden Warbler gave out its marvellously rich, full, even, sustained warble from a dense Hawthorn. So it was a five warbler walk.
The prettiest bird of the day, however, was a male Linnet. After months of being drab and scruffy, he was in full breeding plumage, his head gray, his back brown, his tail crisply forked, and the band across his breast redder than a Robin’s orange, really startlingly red. Most of the time I think Lars Svensson’s marvellously detailed Collins Bird Guide is exaggerating in those too-beautiful colour plates by Killian Mullarney and Dan Zetterström — but its painting of a breeding male Linnet is exactly true. Red. So there.
Freshwater Clam at Wraysbury
While off the beaten track listening to the warblers, I found this 13cm long Freshwater Clam shell. It was considerably thinner than a marine clam, and handsomely greenish-brown. I had no idea there were such large ones here right by London. It looks very much like the Swan Mussel, Anodonta cygnea, given its size, and indicates that the water “is in tip top condition”. The Natural History Museum has seen a specimen 19cm long.
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.
Yet another astonishingly warm day, not exactly Indian Summer now with a cloudy start, but too hot for more than a t-shirt by midday. The Wraysbury Lakes were quiet, the winter ducks represented only by a few shoveler and a couple of gadwall. The most impressive waterbirds were the cormorants roosting on the dead branches of a large willow.
Muntjac footprint and pellets
On the path I found a single muntjac deer footprint, with its tiny pellets. A few goldfinches twittered in the bushes, and a linnet. A buzzard circled over the hills in the distance.
The English seem unemotional … except for their passion for nature
