Nesting course

The Hindhead Commons in the Surrey Hills are where I cut my teeth as a young naturalist. This weekend I am back here, helping to lead one of the BTO's Nest Recording Courses. The courses provide the opportunity for people to develop or refine the skills needed to find and monitor bird nests for this key scheme providing information on breeding success and productivity.

Scrubby heathland can be a hot, dusty and difficult place to work but it holds some very special birds, including Tree Pipit and Woodlark. These two species can be a challenge for the nest recorder, wary around the nest and usually nesting in wide areas of uniform habitat. This means watching from a distance when off-nest birds return (visits to the nest can be 40 minutes or more apart, even when feeding chicks) in the hope of pinning down the nest location.

Woodlark nesting habitat in Surrey

With the Woodlark listed as a protected species we are operating under a Schedule 1 licence. The nest itself is placed on the ground, often in heather or other low vegetation, and it is essential to watch where you put your feet and to make sure that you do not damage the vegetation as you move around. The Woodlark pair that we are watching a feeding under the shade of a solitary tree, taking their time and giving no indication that they might have young in a nearby nest. Finally, after just under an hour of patient watching, they take to the air and head a hundred metres east, the lead bird (invariably the female) dropping down into a patch of light vegetation. Over the next 10 minutes we watch her walk towards what we hope will be the nest, though she often disappears from the sight. The important thing is that she is carrying food, as is her mate who has also landed nearby.

There is a crucial moment where she reappears from behind a tussock without the food she was carrying, a decent indication that she has visited a nest and fed chicks. We give it a few more moments and then walk towards the point. One of the difficulties of watching birds back is that distances are foreshortened and two tussocks which might seem close together turn out to be many feet apart. With Tony watching for a different angle, we are able to narrow the search down to a few feet of heather. Even so, the nest is well hidden (see below).

Woodlark nest - can't you see it?

 It is then a case of carefully working through the vegetation to reveal the nest itself and the young Woodlarks within. You would think that the adults would have to make visits more frequently, but such is the abundance of prey in this good weather that a few early morning feeds have packed in plenty of food and the adults can now be more laid back in their approach. These young a too young to ring but Tony will return in a few days.

Woodlark nest with young

Stoat

Normally alert to human approach, the Stoat must have been unaware of me as I skirted the edge of the Rabbit warren that is a bustle of activity at this time of the year. It was not until I was within just a few feet that the Stoat dived for cover, leaving me to settle and wait in case its inquisitive nature afforded me with a second, more prolonged viewing. At this time of the year Rabbits dominate Stoat diet, with male Stoats in particular targeting them, while females tend to take more small mammals, like mice and voles.

Prey preferences reflect the size difference that exists between male and female Stoats; males are the larger of the two sexes and, at about 30cm in length, this one was undoubtedly a male. This makes males better equipped to deal with larger prey, like Rabbits, although both sexes will tackle prey species that are decidedly larger than themselves.

A dominant male Stoat will hold a territory that overlaps with several (smaller) female territories and during the breeding season he may expand the size of this by up to fifty-fold. During this period, which peaks between April and June, he will seek out the females, spending a few days with each, before moving on to find another. Female Stoats use delayed implantation of the fertilized egg, meaning that young are not born until the following Spring.

Sometimes when I am out and about I get the opportunity to watch a Stoat hunting, as it moves through an area and searches burrows and other forms of cover within which potential prey may be found. From time to time, a Stoat will stand on its hind legs, a behaviour known as periscoping, presumably to get a better view of the surroundings. I have also witnessed encounters where a Stoat has taken a Rabbit, sometimes with a quick charge but other times seemingly able to mesmerise its prey. Some individuals may be seen to exhibit a wild, cavorting dance, but whether this is a behaviour used to mesmerise prey or the result of an infection of a nematode worm is unclear. This particularly unpleasant parasite is thought to occur in up to a third of British Stoats, infesting the sinuses and bringing about skull deformity and, presumably, other internal damage.

This Stoat was showing no signs of emerging from the cover into which it had dived and I attempted to imitate the squeaking and squealing of an injured Rabbit. This sometimes brings them out into the open, a trick that an old gamekeeper friend once taught me. Either the Stoat was not playing ball or, more likely, my squealing Rabbit impression was not up to scratch.

A forest dawn

The timing of dawn means that I now get out to the forest almost bang on first light and I relish these early spring mornings for the wildlife watching opportunities that they deliver. It is, in my mind, the best time of the day and, quite possibly, the best time of the year.

There is still a chill in the air as I head out. Sometimes a slight frost will crisp the vegetation but on other mornings the air will be heavy with moisture, the vegetation dripping and the dogs soon soaked. Two Roe Deer that have been hanging around this block of forest are present again this morning, cautiously watchful but tolerant of my regular presence. Less often these days I catch a glimpse of a group of Red Deer and rarer still is the sighting of one or more Fallow Deer. Interestingly, the numbers of Muntjac are much reduced and instead of seeing several each day I now only see perhaps one a week.

This morning it is the nonchalant ease of a fox that catches my attention. The fox is sitting some 70 metres or so ahead of me, just on the edge of the forest track, its upright posture alert but seemingly unconcerned. I halt and call the dogs to heel and for a few moments we watch each other. The sun is high enough and strong enough to cast long shadows, one of which cuts across the fox so that it appears two-tone, warm red across the head and shoulder and deep brown below. The fox relaxes, has a good scratch and then turns, trotting away into the undergrowth. It is a magical but all too brief moment and the best view I have had of a fox here for many months. We continue with our walk and pass the spot where the fox had been sat. As is the case most mornings there is the scent of fox on the air, something that the dogs invariably notice and they scout about before being called onwards.

Fox populations have struggled in a rural county like ours because of their reputation as vermin – unwelcome predators of game and domestic poultry. Such persecution has made them shy and, excepting the brazen individuals that make a living in urban Norwich, they are easily overlooked. As one of our larger mammals they should have a special place in our countryside, affording the opportunity for a wonderful encounter and providing children and adults alike with a special moment interacting with nature. We used to have foxes visit our garden when I was a child and I can still recall the sense of wonder that seeing such a creature had on me.

Woodland

Woodland changes a landscape, shortening horizons and softening vistas. Its verdant summer growth casts a shade of deep green, the air beneath the canopy still and heavy with the sound of a thousand buzzing insect wings. Come autumn and the liquid greens are drained, as trees draw back nutrients and seal off their leaves. The colour palette shifts to dry browns and golden yellows before these autumnal hues slip from the trees to make a crisp carpet ripe for crunching footsteps. 


Now, in winter, the wood opens itself to the elements, the network of branches and twigs stark against brooding sky. The trees linger in a state of limbo until the first warming days of spring, when tight buds burst forth to release the new season’s growth.


Woodland is part of me. Having grown up within its tender folds I welcome its comforting embrace and I feel exposed when I find myself in a landscape without some patch of woodland cover. For others, perhaps those who have grown up not knowing the childhood pleasures of a woodland playground, a wood may seem threatening, its deep shadows the haunt of unnamed creatures conjured from folk tales handed down. There is nothing to fear from our woodlands though. There are no creatures of menace but, instead, a rich biodiversity of animal and plant life, from the spring flush of colour that appears before the canopy closes through to the birds whose songs resonate at dawn. Being in a wood focuses your attention and returns rich rewards. 

Wet woodland wait

I am standing on soft ground, a few metres back from a shallow drain that feeds into the main river just beyond this piece of wet woodland. Somewhere in the tangle of dead stems that surround the root plate of a fallen Alder ahead of me is a Water Rail. The bird had been feeding in the open but ran for cover at my approach, underlining its secretive nature. Although I am hidden somewhat by an old Alder it also limits my view and the bird could already have moved away without me noticing.

I play this waiting game often, watching patiently in the hope that some bird or animal will re-emerge. At other times I select a likely spot with a good view and just wait to see what comes along. Not everyone has the patience to sit or stand still, often for the best part of an hour, but it is something that I have always done. I find that I am not so much waiting but gradually tuning myself into what is going on around me. I am getting a sense of the place and, in some way, becoming part of it. Take today, for example; my ears gradually start to pick up gentle rustlings around me, the sounds of small mammals and birds working through the vegetation in search of food. I pick out the soft calls of a tit flock as it moves through the wood towards me, the shrill notes of a Treecreeper and the distant ‘chack’ of Jackdaws over the town.

There is a sudden ‘pichou’, the call of a Marsh Tit, and soon I have a pair of these delightful little birds working their way down through the canopy to my left. Lower and lower they descend until they reach the gurgling shallows of the drain, where they drink in turn perched on an old reed stem. Wet woodland is a good place to find these birds which, because of their hole-nesting habits, require secondary cavities in standing dead wood.

A larger creature is moving through the reeds and dead grass, most likely a Muntjac since these woods are full of them. The river is no obstacle for them and on occasion one may be seen swimming from one bank to the other. My attention returns to the spot where the Water Rail disappeared but there is no sign of the bird. I am a little pushed for time this morning and am forced to return to the path. My departure prompts a flurry of brown wings as the Water Rail appears, rushing away before taking flight and disappearing deeper into the wood. Today, it seems, my waiting was not long enough.

Goldfinch with abnormal plumage

This Goldfinch has been visiting the garden over several weeks. In place of the black heading markings is an area of white, meaning that this bird is suffering from some form of plumage abnormality. The BTO is running an Abnormal Plumage Survey and wants to hear from you if you have seen a bird with unusual plumage, perhaps a Blackbird with some white feathering. You can access the BTO pages on abnormal plumage here.

Networks

In this land of large fields and monster blocks of plantation woodland, it is the rivers that provide the all-important linkage across wider spatial scales. These are lowland rivers, more often than not a steadily flowing meander that shifts its liquid bulk across the broad, barely perceptible valley floor. At various places along their length these rivers are controlled, forced into channels that meet our needs: the neat, concrete-sided river that flows through town; the high banked channel into which the drains feed to keep the low lying land dry.

If you could see a natural river from above over a period of many decades you would see a river that is alive, its course shifting over time as it throws out new meanders, splits into multiple channels and reforms. These shifting courses underline the power of the river, brought about by the volume of water that is carried ever seawards.

My local river forms part of my own natural rhythms. It is my guide as I walk to work; it is my companion when I seek somewhere quiet to pause. In summer it is clear, the green of countless waterweeds gently moving in the current, but come winter it turns dark and brooding. The river annotates the seasons, catching the blossom of spring and the spent leaves of autumn. At times it is tranquil, its surface a flat reflection of bright skies and white clouds. On other occasions it is fierce, the rush of water over the weir gates into the plunge pool below, whose depth you can only guess at.

It is the wildlife that brings the river to life, the other creatures with which I share its watery environs. An egret hunting in one of the shallow feeds that drain into the main river; the electric blue of a Kingfisher as it rushes upstream piping alarm, and the rare glimpse of an Otter as it slips silently into the water in the shade of the far bank. These creatures make use of the river along its length, a pattern repeated on other rivers in other places. It is a corridor that connects many different habitats, providing linkages that would not otherwise exist.

There is a flip-side to this connectivity, however, in that damage done in one place may be felt elsewhere along the river’s length. The plastic bag carelessly discarded here may choke a creature many miles downstream. Sample a river upstream of a town and compare this with what you sample downstream of that same town and you’ll gain true measure of our impact. The river is not about the here and now; it is connected and we must understand that if we are to care for it properly.