Island Life

There is something romantic about island life and about being cut-off from the mainland and its ways. It is a feeling that is hard to describe, not least in terms of its origins, but I wonder if the feeling stems from having to look inward rather than outward. By focussing on the routine of island living you are freed from the unnecessary adornments of a globalised society, able to concentrate on the local and the present.

I find the feeling strongest on small, barely habited, islands, particularly those scattered along our western seaboard: from the Hebrides in the north to Flat Holm in the south. Even Flat Holm, a ten-minute sprint by rib from Cardiff Bay, shares the sense of comfortable isolation. Situated in the middle of the Bristol Channel and barely 500m wide at its longest point, the island and its scatter of buildings has a long history of use. In this time of economic belt-tightening, Flat Holm’s future has become uncertain; the council landowners allegedly keen to jettison their responsibilities for the island and its heritage. The ruins of a cholera hospital, of a naval garrison and of a Victorian rainwater collection system are testament to changing uses down through the years. Like many of our marginal islands, Flat Holm has been both protector and nurse to previous generations.

It is also a seabird island. Too far up the Bristol Channel to attract nesting auks or shags, the island is instead home to a colony of some 4,000 lesser black-backed gulls, fewer herring gulls, a pair of ravens and a pair of cliff nesting peregrines. A few pairs of woodpigeons breed in some low elder woodland, but these get hammered by the peregrines, while blackbird, dunnock, wren and two species of pipit just about make up the avian community.

Other islands may differ in their communities – Steep Holm, the neighbouring island to Flat Holm, has cormorants and, bizarrely, muntjac deer (an introduction) – but they share the same sense of ease. Of course, the realities of living year-round on a small island will be very different from the few days I get to spend on my trips. Even so, I suspect it would prove to be a rewarding way in which to live.

A mild end to the year

December has been rather mild overall and there have been times when, working outside, I have been most comfortable in a t-shirt. The mild weather has had an effect on our wildlife too, with a wider range of bird song evident and a distinct shortage of birds coming to visit the garden feeders. Judging by the moth wings scattered on the floor of the passageway at the side of our house, a brown long-eared bat has been equally active over recent weeks.

Coming off the back of a colder spell early in the month, the warm damp air that pushed up from the Azores mid-month seems to have tricked some birds into thinking that spring was on its way. In addition to the characteristic winter song of robin, which adds a melancholy air to the winter months, blackbird, mistle thrush, dunnock and woodpigeon were all to be heard in song from the garden. With the exception of dunnock, these are species that often make their first nesting attempt very early in the year and I would not be surprised to learn of individuals sat on eggs during the first half of January. Even a pair of mute swans on the river were reinforcing their pair bond with display behaviour more usually seen in spring.

That the garden feeders have been so quiet is not just a reflection of the mild conditions, which reduce the energetic stresses faced by small birds, but also the size of the autumn seed and berry crop. The 2013 crop of woodland and hedgerow fruits and seeds has been so abundant that it continues to last well into the winter months. No doubt the lack of a heavy frost has also played its part, since this often see the berries drop to the ground, where they then become accessible to small mammals and other wildlife. While the garden is quiet, the local woods are still busy with birds and mobile flocks of tits and finches can be found feeding among the trees. Siskin and lesser redpoll have been favouring the riverside alders; should the weather turn cold early in the New Year then I would expect the garden feeding station to become a hive of activity.

What's going on in the shrubbery?

The dunnocks are much in evidence in the garden at the moment, with plenty of song and display. Known to some readers as the hedge sparrow, the dunnock isn’t a sparrow at all but it does like the cover afforded by hedges and other shrubbery so this sometimes-used name is not completely wrong. The dunnock is an often-overlooked bird, perhaps because of its skulking habits or maybe because of its rather drab appearance and superficial similarity to the more familiar house sparrow. Despite this, the dunnock is a particularly engaging bird with a fascinating private life.

As with many other familiar garden birds, the dunnock maintains a breeding territory that is advertised through song. The song itself is rather melodic and is comprised of a series of sweet-sounding phrases, well worth listening out for. Although most dunnock pairs are monogamous, with one male and one female paired together, some indulge in rather more complicated living arrangements. Instances of polyandry (one female with two males) are rather common, as is polygyny (one male with two or more females) and there are even occasions where two or three males may form a relationship with three or four females. It is thought that such complex relationships develop because male and female dunnocks maintain their own, largely independent, territories during the breeding season. Male territories tend to be larger, so each male territory may overlap with several females.

Instances where two males appear to share a territory are also fairly common, with one male (the alpha male) dominant over the other (the beta male). Although both males may mate with the resident female, the alpha male gets the greater share of the matings. The two males will work together to defend the territory against other males, with both birds singing and displaying when faced with potential rivals.

Such complex relationships have also given rise to some interesting courtship behaviour. Prior to mating the female dunnock will crouch before her partner, quivering her body and lifting her tail. This prompts the male to peck at the female’s cloaca (which is associated with her sexual organs). The repeated pecking causes the cloaca to enlarge and this is then followed by a series of pumping movements by the female which serve to eject some of the sperm from any previous mating. It is thought that this ejection of sperm increases the chances that the current male will sire a greater proportion of the offspring. Such behaviour surprises many people and may even be enough to make them blush, especially if they have asked the question as to why dunnocks may sometimes peck each others’ behinds! It is surprising what goes on in our gardens!

What's in a name

I have been leafing through the new edition of my favoured bird guide, a publication that will accompany me on my birdwatching trips around the county. I hope that it will serve me as well as the battered copy of the first edition that it is now replacing. The book contains new information and so recognises new species, created where previously recognised races have been split into two. So now, for example, I have Yellow-legged and Caspian Gull. Annoyingly, for me at least, the guide contains some of the creeping changes in bird names that seems to come from an increasing Americanisation of our language. Gone are the Red-throated, Black-throated and Great Northern Divers, the ‘Diver’ now replaced by ‘Loon’. I cannot imagine any birdwatcher I know referring to the ‘Great Northern Loon’ at Whittlingham Country Park. At least the authors have not gone as far as those of a bird list that I saw recently; they’d replaced Common Gull with ‘Mew Gull’ and the term ‘Skua’ with ‘Jaeger’!

Somebody suggested that standardising the English names in this way is a sensible approach, enabling our New World cousins to understand which species we are writing or talking about. My natural response to this is that we already have names in place that enable those working on birds, in whichever country, to understand which species we mean. These are the Scientific names, based on the binomial system devised by Linnaeus.

Of course, such changes are not new and if you browse through bird guides from generations past, you will see many other examples of bird names that have changed. The Yellow Bunting of 1943 is now the Yellowhammer, the Hedge Sparrow is now Dunnock or Hedge Accentor and, going back further, the Red-breast is now the Robin. This last change of name is particularly interesting as the ‘Robin’ bit in ‘Robin Red-breast’ was a sort of country or folk name, in much the same way as some people refer to ‘Jenny Wren’. Imagine if we started calling the Wren, the ‘Jenny’!

I am often struck by how much more charm there is in the local names of birds than in many of the common names that we use at the national level. The ‘bee bird’ for Spotted Flycatcher is one of my favourite local Norfolk names but there are others: Bunt Lark (Corn Bunting), Blood Olp (Bullfinch – derived from ‘alpe’, the oldest known name for this bird and used by Chaucer) and the Sea Dotterel (Turnstone) are just three of many.

Whatever your views, names remain important because they enable us to communicate about these creatures and share our passions for the natural world.

Sex in the shrubbery

The last few days have seen my very own soap opera being acted out in the garden. The heady mix of casual sex, illicit affairs and multiple partners has been performed by a small, and rather unobtrusive bird, known as the Dunnock. Rather drab in appearance, this familiar bird has an extraordinary social system. Both male and female Dunnocks have their own territories and, since those of the males are the larger in size, this may provide a male with access to more than one partner – a behaviour known as polygamy. Such behaviour is seen in a range of bird species.

Things begin to get interesting when two males share a territory. The dominant male (known as the alpha male) is really the territory holder but he is joined by a subordinate male (the beta male), who establishes himself through sheer persistence. The alpha male grudgingly accepts this interloper since it does offer something of advantage; when it comes to defending the territory two males are better than one. The downside is that the beta male also tries to secure matings with any females present within the territory. Interestingly, females deliberately solicit matings from the beta male, a behaviour that should help them when the chicks are born. If a male feels that he has fathered a brood of chicks then he is more likely to help provision them. By mating with multiple males, the female is actively trying to increase the number of males that will help rear her chicks – a decent breeding strategy when living in a habitat where food may not be that abundant.

Mind you, there is a competing factor here, in that each male wants to ensure that he makes the biggest contribution to the next generation. As such, the alpha male spends a lot of his time guarding his mate from other males. As a further safeguard the male indulges in some rather unusual courtship behaviour prior to mating. A male will approach his mate from behind; she will quiver her wings and raise her tail to indicate that she is receptive to his advances. The male will then peak at the female’s cloaca (effectively the external part of her reproductive system). This becomes enlarged and then exhibits strong pumping actions that eject some of the sperm from any previous matings. Satisfied that his own sperm will now make a greater contribution the male will mate with the female.

This complex system results from a series of competing factors; the need to secure help rearing the chicks, the need to defend access to a female and the urge to maximise your contribution to the next generation. Soap operas seem a little tame by comparison!

Sunbathing in the vegetable patch

Given the weather of recent days, I would expect you to raise an eyebrow if I were to say that there had been a spot of sunbathing going on in our vegetable patch. Well, it’s true! There is a sheltered but sunny spot at the base of our bean poles, next to the outdoor tomatoes and just over from what is left of the broad beans. It is not actually me that has been doing the sunbathing – I wouldn’t inflict that on my neighbours – instead it is our resident male blackbird. In between his bouts of parental responsibility he has taken to making the most of the somewhat infrequent sunny interludes to let the sun go to work on his plumage.

A number of bird species appear to be regular participants in a spot of sunbathing, including robins, pheasants and, of course, blackbirds. Our cock blackbird settles down on the soil, spreading his wings and fluffing up his body plumage. By doing so he is maximising the amount of plumage that is exposed to the sun’s rays. It is thought that this serves two functions: first, it helps the all-important preen oil spread across the feather surface, working to keep the plumage in good condition. Additionally, it is thought that by exposing the plumage to the sun, small parasites like feather mites can be controlled more effectively.

Not all birds adopt this technique. Another part of our garden, beneath one of our thicker shrubs, is sometimes used by the visiting house sparrows for dust bathing. The loose, friable soil is worked through the plumage by a series of motions that closely resemble those used for more conventional bathing in water. The bird thrusts down and forward with its chest, the wings working to flick soil particles up and over the body. It may then lean, first to one and then to the other, and repeat the effort.

There are even some of our visiting birds that chose to shower in the garden. In the case of the dunnock this is accomplished by moving through wet vegetation (from rain or dew), while the woodpigeons seem to like nothing better than sit out in the rain. It is clear from their actions that this is not simply a case of being caught in the open and reluctantly accepting that they are getting wet. Instead, they adopt the ridiculous position of lifting one wing up into the air and holding it there, as if they are allowing the rain to wet the underside of their wing. All of these different ablutions serve a similar purpose – to keep the plumage in good conditions and, by doing so, keep the bird warm and fit for flight.