Evening

It is a beautiful spring evening and without doubt my favourite time of the day. In the hour before dusk, and as the sun slips away, so stillness descends onto the landscape. It is as if things are winding down; the songs of birds dwindle and the brown hares stretch stiffly or scratch at troublesome flies. This early in the year the warmth of the day is insufficient to carry far into evening and there is just enough of a chill in the air to make me glad of the fleece that I had sense to bring.

Earlier, the still young evening had felt very different, the sky buzzing with the calls of swallows and house martins, newly arrived and hawking over the lakes. These birds were probably moving through, a steady procession of exuberant groups following the line of the old river as it meanders towards the fens and beyond. Willow warblers and chiffchaffs could be heard singing from scrubby parts of the reserve, together with more blackcaps than were here when I had last ventured out. Not all of these birds would remain to breed and I suspect that many of the willow warblers would depart soon enough to leave us with the dozen pairs that we normally hold. Some of the chiffchaffs have been here for several weeks and are definitely paired and on territory. It will not be long before they have nests for us to find and monitor.

But that was earlier, that was when I was looking hard, scanning for migrants and searching for nests. Now it is late, too late to be visiting nests but a good time to stop and to take in the landscape. I don’t what it is about dusk that resonates so strongly with me. Perhaps it is the sense of transition from day into night, from a world with which I am familiar towards one that is less well known. I never feel unsettled by the darkness, instead finding its embrace comforting, but it does change the balance of one’s senses. Visual cues are replaced by auditory ones and I become more alert to what is going on around me. There is also, I suppose, the sense of satisfaction; a good day’s work is done and I can turn for home.

As the lights fades, the last brief glow of the daytime sky plays shadow puppeteer to the silhouetted trees. Blackbirds chook nervously in the hedgerows and the occasional pheasant rattles off a loose call. A toad shuffles across the sandy track, heading towards the shallow pools where it will gather with others of its kind. Spring is here and I hope this is the first of many such evenings. 

Un-sprung

It has been just over a week since the weather changed and spring uncoiled herself from the grip of winter, a winter uncharacteristically long and reluctant to shift. Since that Sunday morning, when everything suddenly felt different, the countryside has burst into life. The half-light of dawn echoes to a chorus of bird song. Initially dominated by the songs of resident species like robin, dunnock and blackbird, it now carries the added notes of newly arrived chiffchaff, blackcap and willow warbler. Blocks of forest clear-fell, initially silent, now carry the descending notes of woodlark and tree pipit. It is as if everything had been held back and is now rushing into the breeding season headlong.

Even my small urban garden is full of activity. Both dunnock and blackbird have been collecting nesting material; the dunnock is well on and clearly lining the nest, the blackbird a bit further behind and taking mud to form part of the nest’s core structure. The blue tits have been busy adding moss to the nest box on the studio, seemingly a protracted process and sometimes involving the removal of material viewed as unsuitable. A quick check with my endoscope (a tiny camera on a flexible cable) revealed that the tits have got the base of the nest finished but still have some way to go.

Then there are the woodpigeons, comical in their approach to nest construction. The pigeon pair have been rather haphazard in their selection of sticks and other material for the nest that they are building in next door’s apple tree. Oversized sticks are collected with zeal but then dropped as the bird struggles to add them to the nest. One of the pair even tried to remove a long piece of ivy, still attached to a wall; the bird struggled for a dozen minutes before accepting that this was one tug-of-war that it simply was not going to win.

I suspect that over the next few weeks the pace of spring will continue to increase, as birds shift from nest building through to egg-laying and the rearing of chicks. Everything seems to happen so quickly, as the vegetation unfolds, the insects emerge and the nesting season moves into top gear. It is such an exhilarating time of the year and there is a real sense that new life is being created. In fact, so much seems to be going on that it can sometimes be a struggle to keep up with it all. As someone who spends a lot of hours studying birds and their nesting behaviour, it can feel as if everything is happening at once, the days and weeks quickly slipping by towards mid-summer and beyond.

Early sounds of spring

The fickle nature of the weather at this time of year can produce some interesting effects. Just the other week for instance, before the snow came, a run of warm bright days prompted some birds to start singing. A song thrush at the bottom of our garden was in full song every morning for nearly a week, joined by blackbird, dunnock and even great tit. All of these birds were under the impression that spring was on its way and so we received an impromptu dawn chorus. Even our young cockerel tried to get in on the act. On the river, mallards were mating and a pair of mute swans was seen to deliver some half-hearted courtship display.

Of course, most of these early signs will not lead to an early nesting attempt, though some will. I suspect that within the next week or so I will find a female mallard incubating a complete clutch of eggs at the base of one of the riverside alders or limes. There will also be early-nesting robins and blackbirds, mostly likely reported from an urban area, perhaps because of the supplementary food on offer or because more of us live in towns and cities and are therefore more likely to spot a bird that happens to be nesting early.

In most years, we’ll have received reports of early nesting for around a dozen bird species by mid-February. Invariably it is the same species that are being reported, with tawny owl and collared dove joining some of those already mentioned. In fact, there has already been one report of an orphaned tawny owl youngster taken into care. Nesting so early in the year is a risky strategy; any deterioration in the weather and the attempt will fail. It seems likely, therefore, that most early nests are made in error, the birds caught out by a period of unseasonal warmth. Some birds do, however, nest very early in the year, with crossbill and tawny owl two such species. Common crossbills, some of which breed in Thetford Forest, are often sitting on eggs by the end of February, with some individuals already on eggs now.

Winter can seem to go on for a long-time but by February some of our resident species are already gearing up for the breeding season ahead. Increasingly, as the winter slips by, we will see more days that are warm and bright. Gradually, more birds will be prompted to sing and the dawn chorus will gradually build. It will, however, continue to be a stop-start affair, the promise of an approaching spring raised and dashed on more than one occasion. It does, at least, feel as if spring is approaching.

A slow start to spring

Despite the tantalizing period of exceptionally early spring warmth, it has been something of a slow start to the season. There have been some early nests, with young Robins, Song Thrushes and Blackbirds evident in many gardens across the county, but other individuals were held up by the returning cold conditions. Now, however, it feels as if the pace is quickening.

We have seen a succession of arrivals, as returning summer migrants have been quick to settle on favoured breeding territories and deliver song. The Chiffchaffs were the first of these to be noticed here, around the brecks, followed by Woodlark, Blackcap, Willow Warbler and, most recently, Whitethroat. Early Reed and Sedge Warblers appeared late-month, with numbers of these reed- and sedge-bed songsters now increasing. The hirundines (swallows and martins) were slow to return in numbers and my first sightings of these summer visitors were behind those of recent years.

We have also had a smattering of passage migrants, in particular a good arrival of Ring Ouzels. These striking thrushes resemble a large Blackbird but with beautiful sculptured plumage markings and, in adult males, a white crescent around the throat. We have also seen some less common visitors in the shape of at least two Hoopoes, continental breeders that have overshot their breeding grounds off the back of southerly winds. They won’t linger, however, and will soon reorientate to return south. One of the most fascinating aspects of the unfolding migration has been the return of the Cuckoos, fitted with satellite tags by the BTO. Regular updates on their progress continue to appear on the BTO website (www.bto.org/cuckoos). The five tagged last summer, were all captured in East Anglia and it will be interesting to see if they return to the same sites.

The pattern of activity seen in our birds has been mirrored in the county’s butterflies, with a good number of early reports of species that overwinter in the adult form, followed by several lean weeks in which few sightings were forthcoming. Other species are now being reported on the wing, including Orange Tip and Holly Blue, so it does feel as if the butterfly season is now properly underway. Other insects have been taking advantage of early season nectar, with good numbers of bumblebees foraging in my garden and quite a number of hoverflies as well. The changeable weather that we see at this time of the year does deliver something of a stop-start feel and while it can appear that spring is here to stay one morning, the next can suggest a return to winter. It is a great time of the year to be out and about though as each new sighting delivers a thrill.

A sense of spring

It is the spring warmth on my skin that really lifts my spirits, the sense that winter has passed and that life is returning. These first few days of spring, though changeable, mean more to me than the warmer, predictable, days of summer and I suspect that it is the sense of renewal that makes this season so special.

The dawn air rings with the calls of rooks. Settled at their rookery, there is much society to be had as pairs reinforce bonds or bicker with their neighbours over the ownership of sticks destined for the nest. The clear skies and lack of foliage show the rookeries off at their best, the birds striking in their black feathering and bone white faces. While other birds are singing to attract a mate or are still on their way back from African wintering grounds, the Rook breeding season is well advanced. Most Rooks will be incubating a clutch of four or five eggs by now and it will not be long before there are hungry young in the nest. The blue-green eggs, with their pattern of speckles and blotches, were once the unfortunate targets of egg-collecting children and it would have been a fearless youngster who sought out these nests, perched precariously within the fine outermost branches.

In addition to the avian activity, the first of the season’s insects are on the wing. Most obvious of these are the butterflies and queen bumblebees, newly emerged from their winter slumberings and in need of nectar to replenish resources metabolised during the dark days of winter. The queen bumblebees seek suitable nesting chambers in which to initiate a colony that will grow in size through into autumn and the next major change in the seasons. I love watching these bees as they buzz about noisily, peering into each potential nest site before lumbering on somewhere else until the perfect site is found.

This spring seems to have started with good numbers of hoverflies foraging at early season nectar and there have even been reports of Hummingbird Hawk-moths active within the county. These are either recent emigrants or, more likely, individuals that arrived late last autumn and which have, somehow, managed to survive the winter.

With the leaves yet to form on the trees, there is a flush of green across the woodland floor. These are plants that manage to take advantage of the short gap between the end of winter and the restoration of a new summer canopy, after which the woodland floor will be plunged back into shade. Visit an old woodland, like Bradfield Woods (just over the border in Suffolk) and you will be treated to a fine display.

Dinner is unfurled

The sap is rising and all around the countryside things are springing into leaf. Fresh green leaves, often miniature versions still to expand to their full size, see a welcome return of green hues to the landscape. The stark, two-dimensional forms of branches are now clothed and the dry soil beneath shaded by an expanding canopy of life. These new leaves will power this season’s growth, enabling many trees and other plants to lay down reserves that will see them through the distant winter.

This flush of green serves another purpose and is already being eyed by hungry bugs that will chomp, munch and slurp their way through its plump cells. The caterpillars of various moths will be among the most numerous of these eager herbivores. While some will live on the surface, trimming back the fresh growth, other tunnel their way through the soft tissue leaving behind them characteristic ‘leaf-mines’ full of frass (caterpillar droppings)! Caterpillars are not the only creatures to mine the leaves; various sawflies, flies and beetles also make a living in this manner.

Some of these mines will be familiar enough to regular readers of these columns. The Horse Chestnut Leaf Miner has made the headlines on numerous occasions since it first reached our shores. The sheer size of its population on individual trees has turned the entire canopy a rusty brown and there have been calls that ‘something should be done’. It might well be that the population of this particular leaf miner settles down to a more respectable level over time, in much the same way as was the case with the Firethorn Leaf Miner just a few years ago. The mines made by many of the small leaf mining moths tend to be all that we see of the moth, so small are they in size. However, these diminutive creatures, just a couple of millimetres in length, are some of the most beautifully marked and patterned moths, with tufty golds, shining purples and wispy whites.

Some of the other leaf feeders are equally impressive but many adopt more subtle tones, attempting to blend in with their surroundings and avoid the unwelcome attentions of would be predators. Nevertheless, the vast number of leaf feeding invertebrates is a food resource that is fully exploited by nesting birds. Resident tits and newly arrived warblers will feast on this spring bounty, using it to fuel their own breeding attempts. So tightly are some of these birds tied into their invertebrate prey that their breeding success is dependent upon them matching the timing of the peak in their chicks’ growth with the peak in caterpillar abundance. This, in turn, is linked to the timing of bud burst and that first flush of green.

Feeling my way towards spring

Even though it has been cold and occasionally wet over the last few days, I sense the end of winter and the first glimpse of an approaching spring.  It is not one single thing that leads me to think that winter will soon be behind us but a combination of small things; an extra warmth in the sun’s rays, the growing number of birds in song, including a solitary Blackbird, and buds that are swelling on the trees. While February can tease, with false starts and broken promises, March feels sufficiently far into the year to offer something more robust.

It has been an odd start to the year, the celandine bright in flower but the snowdrops yet to appear in many of the haunts where I would see them in other years. Will spring all come at once, with a rush of blooms? That’s what some observers are suggesting.

Of course, the end of winter does not mean the arrival of spring; there is no instantaneous change from one to the other. There is this period of in-between – this no man’s land of mixed days; some bright, clear and filled with growing warmth, while others remain dull, cloud-covered and hang with a clawing damp that gets into the bones. What does matter though, what shapes these days, is the knowledge that spring will come, that days will feel longer, that I’ll be able to walk home from work in the light. It is these things that offer hope, lift my mood and fill me with a sense of expectation.

To suggest that other creatures feel the same sense of expectation would be to anthropomorphise but maybe the changing day length, that extra warmth in the sun’s rays, is triggering hormonal changes that parallel my shifting mood. Many of the creatures with which we share this landscape will be responding to seasonal cues, initiating changes that trigger flowering or the establishment of breeding territories. The question I have been asking myself is whether I am responding to these cues in the same way or whether I am responding to their resultant effects in other creatures? It is in these periods of transition, as the seasons shift from one to another, that I feel most closely in tune with the world around me. The feelings that I experience at these times serve to remind me that I am also part of this wider web of diversity, that I too am a creature responding to the environment and the subtle nuances that mark the turning of the seasons. It won’t suddenly be spring tomorrow but I sense that it is approaching and over the coming weeks I too shall slip from one season into another.