fritilarious

 

Here comes the Green

On Monday morning three little sparks of green arrived at the feeders. Siskins are moving through after spending the winter months down at sea level in damp woodlands, flocking with Redpolls and Goldfinch.

The regular seedeaters - the Goldfinch, Chaffinch, Greenfinch and Reed Bunting are still busily bouncing across the garden to feed, and then returning to the hedge, where they chatter and buzz while the Tits, Wrens, Dunnocks and Robins stake their own claims for the coming season. Half a dozen Woodpigeons have taken to gathering by the pond for a communal bathe before waddling across to pick over the spillage left by the messy finches. They've grown so fat that they struggle to take flight when disturbed. In the denser shrubbery, Blackbirds squawk noisily, and on hte roof, the Jackdaws are gathering wood for their chimney.

The Cherry tree is a blizzard of white blossom and the first Hawthorn leaves are beginning to emerge.

 

Skyscraper

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=KnNP9lhzvt0

Under the huge arc of the sky we often feel gloriously pressed up against the heavens in the Fens.  Pushing even harder against the vapours are the towers and lantern of our medieval skyscraper, Ely Cathedral, the eye of the Ely10.  Lockdown#1 favoured the pair of Peregrines that settled late winter 2020 and proceeded, surely aided by a lack of human activity on the tower, to nest and rear young.  It was a hard secret to keep as the adults and subsequently the very showy and vocal youngstars demanded attention over the town - giving frequently tremendous displays as they honed their skills of pursuit on the hapless local pigeons.

They've been territorial again for some time now and a webcam is due to go live on the nest soon.  In the meantime Simon Stirrup has continued to patiently log their activities and has produced more striking images.  The prey item here being a Snipe.  

Me and Ben had a discussion about the potential predator that had left a Snipe for dead on Springhead Meadow a few weeks ago - Ben thought Sparrowhawk but neither of us considered that it might have been a Peregrine.

wood working be easy fam

With the guttering and facure boards getting a massive overhaul, the Starlings were going to feel pretty aggrieved at their nestholes suddenly disappearing. So I figured the best thing to do would be to rescue some of the old wood and see if I could cobble together some sort of container - a box, if you will - that could stand in as a suitable replacement area in which they could build a new nest. This rugged "nesting box", as I shall call it, didn't take much effort to bang together, but I must admit, the task of affixing it to the wall, at a considerable height, was one that I didn't particularly relish. Fortunately I have a man to do things up ladders. I managed to pry him away from his other duties and sent him up, drill in hand, to complete the task. Like some sort of arboreal legend, he was done in a matter of seconds. Good work Stu.

 

When telling people his surname, many people asked Saul - "Why Tarsus?"

I recently bought a pad of watercolour paper I hadn't used before. I wasn't sure what kind of marks I could make with it. It's quite evenly textured, but the texture isn't too rough, and by dragging a fairly dry brush flat across it, I was able to scumble some interesting patterns that reminded me of the sort of sandstone we came across in Morocco. With that in mind, I thought it would be a waste of paper if I didn't try to turn the random marks into some kind of picture, and I immediately thought of a Black- eared Wheatear as a suitable subject. As such, the painting was more of an experiment in texture and colour, than any conscious attempt at getting the details right. You can see that the shadow supposedly cast by the bird is not exactly coherent, and the structure of the rock wall too, is a bit too much like an Escher drawing - but I really was more interested in the colour palette of greys and oranges that typify the desert regions of the Maghreb.

Wheatears have always drawn my attention. They are proud birds, never afraid to perch out in the open for all to admire. of the dozen or so species in the western palearctic, I've been lucky enough to see most of them. All have their subtle idiosyncracies - variations in tail pattern, face mask and colour, and some can be tricky to tell apart. The Isabelline Wheatear is one that eluded me for a long time, but when I finally saw my first, up on the Norfolk coast, the second appeared only a few days later near Wardy Hill. I had always assumed they would be hard to tell from our far more common European Wheatear - but as it turns out, I think Desert Wheatear is a far more likely confusion species.

The European Wheatear is a regular sight on the Norfolk coast in Spring and Autumn, as well as a somewhat harder to find bird inland at the same time of year. Birds headed to Greenland are bigger and brighter than those that breed in this country, and boldly patrol the short sandy coastal turf or black fen fields for a day or two, before heading on. Now March has come back around, the Wheatears will soon be popping up again.

 

Breck Fast

It's the verge of Spring, just before the green closes up the woodland. The remnants of snow lay in the hollows, and the river bank is still flooded. Santon Downham is a great place to guage the beginning of another breeding season. Marsh Tits, Treecreepers and Nuthatches stand out as their songs fill the bare branches, but the special bird here is the Lesser Spotted Woodpecker. This diminuitive bird does its best to stay obscured in the treetops, even when drumming its weak tremor. Its slight build is reflected in its power. Unlike the Greater Spotted Woodpecker, the lesser pecker cannot seem to maintain a robust clatter. The drumming often trails off halfway through, before renewed efforts increase the pace. Every now and then, it calls like a distant Kestrel.

On the open ground - a narrow strip of Breckland heather and fine grasses, a pair of Woodlarks doodle discreetly as the woodland finches bounce overhead, making their way between blocks of trees. They can be quite confiding, trusting in their muted streaks to hide themas they forage. The cream band running back from their eyes meets on their hindneck, and when seen, the dark primary coverts give its wing a bold contrast, unlike that of the Skylark.

Over in the King's Forest, larger areas of grassland and newly lumbered compartments provide enough habitat for both Lark species, as well as the smaller Meadow Pipit. The air is filled with their twinkling song - descending scales and abstract melodies mingle, A pair of Stonechats dart from gorse to gorse. The Birch trees along the eastern edge of the clearing attract Redpolls briefly. Stopping for a few seconds and then moving on.

A tall stand of conifers makes for hard viewing, but in the uppermost sprays of needles and cones, a group of Crossbills mingle with Siskins as they noisily feed. 

At the end of the path, another stretch of trees - mixed Larch and Pine aligns with the north. In one long since wounded and regrown tree, a large nest sits cradled by the split trunk. Further along, another nest hugs the trunk more precariously. Both nests are pretty flat but pretty deep. Neither looks to be in use...yet.

 

Returning to the main clearing, to get the widest view of the sky, it's not long before the nestbuilders show themselves. Two large Hawks, one adult and one younger bird briefly appear above the treeline. The adult circles. The young bird moves off slowly but with purpose. She is not wanted here.

                                                           

 

snowfall and survey.

Every year for the past four years, I've been lucky enough to have a whole swathe of MOD land to explore for a few days. In the heart of Goshawk country, a stretch of the Wissey and the gradual roll of copse-covered farmland to the east, it's always a delight.

This year it was doubly delightful, as I timed my visit to coincide with the snow. I was greeted with warm pink sunlight shining on the snow covered fields, wandered through a soft blizzard that blanked out the whole landscape, and was dazzled by sharp shadows formed by the ruts and divots.

As always, the birdlife is tremendous - and a real contrast to that of the Fens. Goshawks are there but elusive, but red kites wheel overhead almost constantly. This year, at the end of the first day, I was lucky enough to watch one float towards a solitary Ash, and once perched, tore at a rat it had found somewhere. I didn't have camera or sketch boook, so i settled for some awkwardly scribbled notes in the little notebook I use to record the birds. A quick watercolour sketch to solidify the image will have to do for now, but the proud bird posed as if demanding its portrait painted large as life.

The woodland, especially along the river valley, is dominated by Alder and Ash - and holds a diverse array of birds not seen often at home. Big flocks of Siskin whisper in pendulous groups on the Alder bows, only to suddenly shoot off and crash onto another branch like a breaking wave. Nuthatches, and Treecreepers climb hte trunks and Coal Tits mingle with their more familiar cousins.

Every now and again, the sharp sneeze of a Marsh Tit betrays their presence. 

These less flamboyantly marked birds are nevertheless beautifully clothed in creamy browns, subtle tans and all set off by a glossy black crown. Willlow Tits used to occur along the river, but their population has shrunk to the point where old haunts are now deserted.

Woodcock erupt from the tangled debris from time to time,

always with the feeling that somehow they could have been spotted if only 

each dark shadow had been scanned more thoroughly.

One bird sprang up from within a thick hedge, only to thrash against the thick bramble stems for a few seconds. Its way was blocked, and so it had no choice but to turn and proudly walk into a clear patch as if it hadn't just failed to do what birds have been doing for millions of years. once in the open, it jumped and silently rowed past me with deep wingbeats that revealed its chestnut grace.

The early morning sun scattered blue shadows across the snow-frozen field. The open land is perfect for Hares, and everywhere you look, their dark forms stood out against the white. While standning in one particular maize stand, a Hare loped along an adjacent row. Just five paces away, it stopped, and reaching up on its hindlegs, started nibbling a cob. 

The next day, as I wandered along a scant cover strip, three Roe Deer trotted nonchalantly through a gap in the hedge in front of me - two bucks and a doe. The two bucks faced each other as if sizing up the impressive antlers that sprang from their crowns like gnarled branches of old hawthorn. One turned away, and as he slowly walked off, he noticed me. Only ten metres away, I had been frozen for the whole time, knowing that any movement would surely send the deer into a rout. He stopped, staring curiously for a few seconds, and then carried on his way. The other buck followed, barely glancing at me, and, as if feeling suddenly insulted at being ignored, the doe made off after them.

It seemed that in any tree or bush or field corner, a new vision of nature revealed itself. A huge flock of Linnets - 800 strong raided a big patch of sunflower and millet. Backlit silhouettes streaming out of the hedge and down and then up again - a rolling applause of wings and dry calls. Lapwing and snipe gathered at the edge of the frozen marsh, between the snow and the icy mud. Meadow Pipits poked around the legs of sheep and cattle in muddy pens. The odd Redpoll feeding amongst the Goldfinches, scarlet caps dark against the golden weeds. 

But this year, the one memory that will last longest was the briefest of brief encounters, in the last moments of the survey. I had been creeping through a broom thicket, hoping beyond hope to see the woodcock before they saw me, for once. Two had flushed already, as well as a couple of pheasants and rabbits, and as I stood contemplating my route through the thinning bushes, the air ripped suddenly as if a firework had been set off. Twisting to my left, I was just in time to see the unmistakable shape of a Peregrine. It was momentarily frozen in space, wings and tail spread after pulling out of a rapid stoop. It was below the treeline. I could see each individual tract of streaking on its breast. Time started again, and the young falcon eased into a straight flight down towards the river. 

And it was all over. An intense three days of thousands of birds. I got home, made a few watercolour sketches -'aides memoires' to spark future projects, collated the numbers and settled back with a renewed desire for the beauty of the Brecks.

 

 

stone out of a flood. it's a reversed pun. the most dangerous pun of all.

Sunshine on the water meadows this morning, and the gulls were perfect on the blue floods. Nearby, a cetti's warbler called occasionally from a section of hedge that runs along the footpath.

 

The Stonechats were exploring the sedge bed, seemingly oblivious to the constant passing of Eleans out enjoying the Sun.