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.

exhibition part III

I think these last three are the paintings I'm most happy with. All of them reflect vivid memories of recent months, fleeting moments seared onto my memory and hopefully developed in the watery paint.

This last Autumn saw a number of good days at the coast - with potential seemingly awaiting us in every bush. While Yellow-Browed Warblers have become almost a cliche of October on the Norfolk coast, the Pallas' Warbler remains an extra special bird worth finding. I've been lucky to find a few in previous years, and with the movement along the coast turning up all sorts of migrants, it seemed that another one surely must be a cert. Luckily there were very few birders crowding the walk from Wells to Holkham - and it was along this stretch, after a very long day, that a small flock of birds darted from tree to tree, keeping just ahead of us as the dusk closed in. A flash of eyestripe and there it was - In the shadow and from slightly below, it wasn't immediately obvious, but then, it turned its head to reveal the lemon crown stripe that sets it apart from its close congeners. The birds were moving so quickly, there was no time for photos. I just had to try to absorb the shape before it was gone, and make a quick note in my fieldbook. 

The walk along from Thistle Corner is sadly lacking when it comes to rare migrants. On some days it's pretty lacking in birds of any sort. But there's usually a Robin or two around, quitely seeping within the dense Hawthorns and Blackthorns, or rippling across the pathway. They can be cautiously tame, and quite often will perch expectantly in the open. I had thought about making some Christmas cards - and a Robin in snow was the obvious theme. Shame about the snow.

A couple of days after I finished the Robin, I woke up to a scene I'd hoped for. Snow had fallen and covered the garden. But I hardly had time to take it all in, when a Sparrowhawk suddenly dashed in, pausing on a branch just outside the window. It was gone almost before I'd had a chance to grab a pencil, and all I could do was roughly sketch a brief outline of the upright hawk, breast feathers ruffled. Looking through my sketchbookss for reference, I found some head studies I'd done a few years ago, and so was able to piece together the details. The bird had been a juvenile, but I decided to paint an adult male, simply for the chance to explore the colour palette. Something happens when you put paint onto a drawing. For some reason, the form changes - exposing areas that suddenly don't seem right. Looking at the bird now, I think perhaps the tail is a bit too short. When I'd drawn it, I couldn't help thinking it looked too much like a female. I fiddeld with it's face a bit - but while it's face now looked smaller, I reckon that maybe the rest of the body was pushed out of proportion. I took a bit off the tail to try to redress the balance, but I'm not sure it succeeded. Oddly - it looks better in close-up than it does as a small thumbnail - so for best viewing, click on the image, open in a new tab and enlarge it.

Still, I was quite pleased with many of the different areas of the painting, and the process of painting it should help if I paint more sprawks. And there's definitely more sprawks to paint.

 

Martians know

The flurry of snow was a welcome change to the frankly annoying dankness of the last week. It's been cold and windy and wet. But today, for an hour, the winter threatened to wipe clean the slate and transform the brown.

 Didn't last.

 Never does these days.

 

Exhibition -part II

Not all of the pictures hanging up on the wall at Welney are recent works from this year. Back in hte before times, Dunc and I spent a couple of hours at Titchwell beach watching the seaduck lingering offshore. Among the Scoters, Mergansers and Eider, were Long-Tailed Duck. A few males paraded in front of the females, their heads swelled and white feathers shining in the strong light. These duck are all too often just a bit far away, but when they're close enough, you get hte chance to see just how enigmatic they are. There really is no other duck like them. despite them sporting lots of distinct plumage changes, they can't be mistaken for any other species, and it's always a real treat to see these visitors from hte far north. On their arctic breeding grounds, the males are wrapped in dark chocolate and chestnut, but when they drift south and gather off our shores, it's as if they've been coated in frost and capped with snow.

I immediately grabbed a small canvas when I got back to the studio and set to work on a simple motif to record my memories of the sharp blue waves and one of the Ice Princes.

Other visitors in winter drop into the birch woods in small drifts and are equally well met. Redpolls share much of the colour scheme of the Old Squaws, but that scarlet cap is the focus. Back in the Autumn of 2019, myself and Rich came across a small group at Holkham. There was still too much foliage on hte trees to get unobstructed views, and the strong light was against us, but we could see that these were Mealie Redpolls from Scandinavia, colder than our native ones. One bird in particular may have been a Coue's Arctic Redpoll, but identification in those conditions, and at range, was ultimately forgotten as we were already struggling to pin down a possible Siberian Chiffchaff in the trees closer to us.

I couldn't put up a show at Welney without Godwits. In recent years, they've become almost as significant as the Swans there. I've been lucky enough to have had intimate experiences with the Welney Godwits, from egg to adult. There is something very calming about watching them chuckling and probing in the late Summer evening, just a few weeks after hatching. It's hard to imagine the scene while hte cold January bitterness still lingers, but in just a couple of months, these same birds will be returning to the wet meadows of the washes and the 'tick-tock' calls will be added to the background of the Fen Spring.

Since it is Winter, I couldn't help thinking that I should put at least one image of the British Season on the wall. Of all British birds, the Robin is perhaps the most familiar, and most regarded. They stare back at us expectantly as we dig the garden or stroll along a country lane. Scuff up the ground, stand back and they will dash to inspect the work, ready to glean any exposed grubs and worms. 

 

Harrier gathering

 

The Harriers at the settling beds have been performing superbly over the last couple of weeks. I've been trying to get down at dusk as often as possible - mainly to get a glimpse of the Hen Harrier - but in the meantime hte Marshies have been putting on quite a display. The other evening I experienced a great gathering, in the company of a couple of avid Ely10 fans, Sally and David. Always hard to count without missing the beauty of the individual birds, we had over a dozen birds up together at any one time, and at one stage most of them seemed curiously interested in one small patch of reeds. The whole spectacle was full of different interactions - individual birds chasing others, some birds suddenly dropping low, others circling at height, while in the distance more birds were arriving on casually bowed wings. 

A ragged blanket of mizzly rain drew close as the skies darkened - could it be that the oncoming weather had prompted an increased urgency to find a suitable roosting spot? On fine evenings, the birds seem to arrive unhurriedly and drop into the reeds only when darkness obscures their movements. Windy evenings see the appearence of perhaps a certain 'nervousness', as the birds spend a long time patrolling the roost site - as if to make doubly sure there are no dangers hidden by the white noise and interference in the rustling reeds.

The Hen arrived just before 4pm, and did its usual brief back-and-forth, just above reed height, before dropping into its usual roosting spot. As per usual, a tantalising view that ensured I'll be back before too long.

now, it's personal.

Lockdown has happened again, and the news on the grapevine is that Welney is closing down completely. This is a little bit annoying, since I'd only just put up some paintings on the wall in the centre.

So, thanks to Dunc's prompting, I am going to show them here, on the blog, where literally 3 people will see them. 

I won't put them all up at once - don't want to overload you with sensory euphoria, and this affords me some space to write a little exposition on each painting.

So, stick on one of Tony's Dawn Chorus recordings, and sit back and enjoy.......

The First painting in the collection is one that I started many years ago. Those familiar with my working practices will be no doubt surprised to hear that will be the only time you see that phrase, as most of the works in the exhibition are from this year - and not just this year, but this winter.

The Hawk Owl is a picture of the first one I saw, in Finland with Dunc, Mark and Simon. Only metres from the road, at about midnight, with intense light stunning the birch scrub, the Owl sat motionless as  Bramblings buzzed in the thicket and a Wood Sandpiper poked around a roadside puddle. The green buds were beginning to open, a sign of the lateness of the northern Spring. It was June. I have to admit, I was slightly disappointed that the owl wasn't as fiersome looking as I had imagined it would be. The feathers on its head were fluffed up, making it look like a stuffed toy, but the unblinking gaze was transfixing.

I've been thinking about Scandinavia again, recently, and so I looked again at the picture, which had been set aside in an unsure state. I wasn't completely happy with the barring on its underparts, and the body lacked a little sophistication. I'd already tried a few times to get it right, and progress had been unsatisfactory, so I left it to simmer. Taking the bold step of slapping paint over the barring with a big brush, somehow it looked immediately better. Checking my the sketches and photos I'd taken at the time, I had a clearer idea of how the bars should look, and within half an hour, I'd brought the picture up to a standard I was happy enough with.

We saw two species of woodpecker in Finland that I hadn't seen before, but the Great-spotted is a frequent visitor to my garden. It's been a long time since I painted one, but I took the chance to use as a motif for a painitng about the apple trees just outside the kitchen window. The bark and moss creates a wealth of pattern and subtle colour, and the tangle of branches and twigs forms the structure of the composition, leaving the woodpecker to rest for a moment in the stillness of a damp December morning.

Just before the last lockdown, I headed over to Wicken with Rich, his dad and Loz. The sun turned the sky peachy yellow - almost as bright as Trevor's boots. Looking south across the largest patch of reeds, a male Marsh Harrier patrolled in the darkening sea of Phragmites, its wings silver blue as it drifted on the slight current. It was the only Harrier was saw that evening, but the scene stuck in my mind as somethng to capture in paint. I don't think I succeeded completely in distilling the complete vision, but it'll do for a start. 

As we walked back, the clear sky still beaming, three swans headed off towards the distant washes. Again, the contrast between the yellow sky and the shining blue plumage of the birds was the thing I wanted to capture. This picture isn't in the exhibition, but I think it's a more confident piece, and better for it, thanks to the exploratory work done while painting the Harrier.