In search of the wild

It is all too easy to think of wild as something remote and unobtainable, to imagine that it exists only on some distant mountain slope, offshore island or in some hidden sunken lane. We sense that our increasing reach and untidy habits leave even the most remote of places touched by our activities, the wild tamed or tainted. While all this is true, it is easy enough to discover wildness much closer to home. Wild is the late November wind that batters the shutters, the rain that runs down the window, the dark shadow of that slips into an urban river and the plants that push up between the cracks in the town centre pavement. Wild is everywhere and however much we try to conquer it, it will always find a way.

It is not so much that the wild has been tamed but more that we have become too comfortable with our modern existence and can no longer see it. Part of the reason for this is that we rarely, if ever, have to face the dangerous wild, the wild that challenges us, scares us and has the potential to harm. No large predators stalk our countryside; we have just the one venomous snake and there are few creatures with enough bite or sting to threaten. No longer do we have to take risks. We are comfortable and secure but sense there is something missing. It is this sense of something being missing that drives some of us to seek out the more remote parts of our archipelago, to promote ‘rewilding’ and daydream of the return of big cats and other missing carnivores.

Of course, we do not have to go as far as reintroducing Lynx or Wolf to rediscover our missing wild. All we need to do is step outside from time to time and engage with the natural world around us. It might appear a bit ‘new age’ to suggest immersing yourself in a late summer hay meadow or to insinuate yourself into the middle of a blackthorn thicket, but to do so will envelop your senses with the buzzings and scratchings and sniffings of wild. Peer at the weedy looking plant emerging from the narrowest of cracks in the pavement and discover the vitality that drives it to conquer our attempt to blanket it out. Seek out the creatures that have gained access to your home, the spiders, silverfish, moths and woodlice, and delight in their persistence.

The wild should never be completely understood, and perhaps it should probably carry a hint of danger, but it needs to become a more central part of our daily lives. It is part of us and we are part of it.

The wandering water-ouzel

On the south-east edge of Thetford stands an aged bridge; it is stone-built, strongly arched and full of character. No longer used by traffic, other than of the pedestrian kind, the bridge is partnered by a more modern construction a few metres to the south over which the main road now runs. It is here that the Otters are sometimes sighted and it was here, just a fortnight ago, that a wandering ‘water ouzel’ put in an appearance. ‘Water ouzel’ is an old name for the Dipper, a bird of the bubbling, fast-moving rivers and streams of the north and west of Britain.

Other than a few local or altitudinal movements to escape the worst of the winter weather, British Dippers are sedentary in their habits and unlikely to stray into the flatlands of Eastern England. This suggests that the individuals which turn up in Norfolk are likely to have arrived from overseas, most likely from Scandinavia. Usefully, most of these longer-distance visitors are ‘Black-bellied Dippers’, distinctive in appearance and belonging to a different race to the one which breeds in the west of Britain.

Reminiscent of a thrush or a rather solid and chunky looking Robin in structure, the Dipper is a dark-coloured bird, deep brown across the upperparts, with a white chest. In size it is similar to a Starling. The belly has tones of warm chestnut in the British race, while in the black-bellied race it is black or dark brown. This is a bird of character, not least for its ability to feed underwater, probing between submerged boulders and pebbles in search of aquatic invertebrates. The compact body shape, coupled with strengthened bones, no doubt aids the bird as it battles against the current and its own buoyancy.

The Dipper has a tendency to make small bobbing movements when perched, like tiny curtseys, something that is reflected in the name. These add to the character and I always feel a flush of excitement when I watch a Dipper. It is a bird that lives on the margins of two different worlds, a bird which swims and dives but which can also take to the air.

Much of the river along this section appears unsuitable for a visiting Dipper, being deeper and slow-flowing, but there are a few places along its length where the water flows over stony shallows providing feeding opportunities. Whether or not the bird will spend the winter here is unclear and it may be that it moves on to seek out more favourable conditions elsewhere. While it has been present it has attracted a good deal of interest from local birdwatchers and even the local dog-walkers have been talking about the bird and the crowd it has drawn.

Soundscape

Writing in the 1920s, soon after the Great War and the loss of her husband, Helen Thomas recalled a trip that they had made together to the Wiltshire downs. From her description of the cottage in which they stayed and the natural world around it, it is clear that this experience of the countryside made a very great impression on Helen. One particular passage resonates with me and provides perhaps the best description of the silence that the countryside delivers. Helen wrote ‘No other sound was to be heard, no trams, no people, no traffic, nothing but the sounds that do not spoil silence, but rather deepen it…’

For me, such words capture the true strength of the countryside and its stillness. It is not a silent world but one in which natural sounds enhance the sense of peace and welcome comfort. Helen’s husband to be, accompanying her on this first trip, was Edward Thomas, a poet, reviewer and writer on nature and the countryside. Edward, like Helen, was a great walker. Prone to bouts of deep melancholy, he would sometimes stride from the house angry and bitter to seek relief through long hours spent alone, pacing through the countryside. Edward Thomas found peace in nature, the welcoming stillness of the countryside allowing him to battle his inner demons.

The countryside has changed a great deal since that time and the sounds of human activity reach even the most remote parts of our small island. Traffic noise insinuates itself throughout much of the day and passenger jets add a deeper background rumble. Neither, however, is as intrusive as the roar of military planes flying low and fast or the sharp retort of sporting guns. Such abrupt sounds penetrate the calm in a manner that cannot be ignored.

It is only during the hours of night that a sense of stillness can truly be felt, as our activities dwindle though never quite ceasing altogether. Then, even in the middle of a town as dusk slips towards dark, the stillness descends, the evening song of robin and blackbird becoming more resonant, deepening the silence. The air feels heavier; you begin to pick out other natural sounds and feel more at one with your surroundings.

As individuals we benefit from the stillness of the natural world and the opportunity to settle within its embrace. It provides space for reflection, increases our sense of place and, importantly, is free from the sounds that would otherwise claw at our attention. We are so busy filtering out the artificial, day-to-day sounds of the world around us, that we lose sight of the natural world and, by doing so, lose the all-important bond that helps to keep us rooted.

A nutty problem

It seems that many of us have noticed that there seem to be more squirrels around this autumn, with individuals turning up at sites, like Lakenheath Fen, where they are rarely seen. According to correspondence and comments made in online forums, the numbers of squirrels using garden feeding stations across the county are also up, with individuals raiding bird feeders and hanging fat balls in a sometimes troublesome manner. Our personal observations are supported by data collected through the BTO’s weekly Garden BirdWatch survey (www.bto.org/gbw), whose systematic records also show a substantial increase in squirrels this year. According to their figures, the use of gardens by squirrels is currently a third up on the same period for previous years.

So what is behind this increase in sightings? Is it a case of the squirrels having had a good breeding season, such that there are simply more of them around, or is a shortage of tree seeds forcing them to travel farther afield, delivering more of them into our gardens and urban parks? It might be a combination of both of these things, the increase having started fairly early in the year but it certainly seems to be the case that seed crops have been poor this autumn, with beech mast in particularly short supply.

The lack of tree seed has been having an impact on other species too. We have seen many more Jays around this autumn, struggling perhaps to find acorns and having to cover more ground. It is even possible that some of these birds will be immigrants from the continent. There have also been some big movements of Woodpigeons (a species that makes good use of the autumn beech mast crop) along the east coast. Additionally, many people are reporting Nuthatch, Coal Tit and Chaffinch appearing in greater numbers in their gardens than is usual for the time of the year.

It is also worth mentioning those birds that feed on berries, since these also seem to be having a hard time this autumn. Included with these, alongside the more familiar thrushes and Starlings, are rare visitors like Waxwing, a species that has already begun to arrive in northern Britain in growing numbers this autumn and which is likely to push south in the weeks ahead. I would expect to see some of these stunning birds feeding on the berry-producing shrubs used as amenity planting in supermarket car parks and new housing estates later in the winter.

These birds and mammals may well be facing challenging times this winter and so any helping hand that you can spare may be particularly worthwhile. In return you might be treated to the sight of a garden full of visitors.

Marine wonders

I could tell that Harriet was hooked on the marine world by the glint in her eye as she described her most recent dive, made on the chalk reef that sits just off the North Norfolk coast. The enthusiasm underlined that this was a new experience, a first glimpse of the diverse community of organisms that lives below the surface of our coastal waters. Harriet Mead is a sculptor, president of the Society of Wildlife Artists and recent recipient of a diving bursary from The Wildlife Trusts. This bursary has been given annually for the last five years to highlight our marine communities and the threats that face them. Harriet was diving the Cromer Shoal Chalk Beds, often referred to as the Cromer chalk Reef, sketching the wildlife she encountered before creating the wonderful sculptures that are now on display at the Mall Galleries in London.

You may well have come across news of this chalk reef through features on local television or in the EDP. The reef’s important contribution to our marine ecosystem has only recently come to light and, quite rightly, it has been recommended for Marine Conservation Zone status. The first of these zones was designated around Lundy in the Bristol Channel in 2010 and others have since been designated or put forward as candidates through the Marine Conservation Zone Project, a partnership bringing together people who use the sea for their livelihood or leisure. The extent of the chalk beds and the range of creatures that they support is being catalogued by local divers who are discovering new things all of the time. The beds could prove to be Europe’s largest chalk reef and they have already revealed species new to science, most notably a new species of purple sponge.

The reef, with its boulders, stacks and arches, provides an array of microhabitats for the many different creatures that live on it. From delicate sea slugs and pipefish to robust crabs and beautiful worms, the reef is rich with life. Harriet’s sculptures deliver a taste of this underwater world; recreated from scrap metal we see the solidity of a lobster, claws raised in defiance, and the curves of a baby cuttlefish – the size of a bumblebee – that squirted ink and then dropped to hide in the sand. Such works provide an insight into this marine community and raise the profile of the important efforts that are being made to secure the reef’s future.  I suspect that Harriet will be diving the reef again and again, delighting in this new experience and the creatures with which she is sharing it. Information on the Cromer Shoal Chalk beds can be found at www.wildlifetrusts.org/MCZ/cromer-shoal-chalk-beds and Harriet’s work can be seen at www.harrietmead.co.uk

Traveller of the fields

The harsh dry calls of passing Fieldfares have become a feature of my early morning walks, the distinctive notes resonant in the half-light. An upward glance and I can just about make out the shapes of these larger thrushes, newly arrived from Scandinavia, as they flick by overhead. I am equally likely to stumble across these birds later in the day, perhaps flushing a flock from a berry-covered hedgerow or a quiet pasture.

Good numbers have arrived this autumn, perhaps a little later than in recent years but I suspect that we will see a sizeable population wintering here. Fieldfares tend to remain on their breeding grounds for as long as there is food available. Rowan berries are favoured and once these are gone the birds move on elsewhere, often in the company of other thrushes. The movements are nomadic in nature, the birds responding to both food availability and weather conditions. Flocks will often feed on insects and earthworms taken from farmland fields. During the hardest weather, when the ground is frozen and soil-dwelling invertebrates unavailable, the birds have to turn to opportunities elsewhere. It is during the worst of the weather that they will turn to gardens, raiding berry-producing shrubs and windfall apples. Orchards may also be used during the autumn and winter, from soon after the birds have first arrived until the fruits have gone.

The Fieldfare is a striking bird; larger than a Blackbird this is a robust thrush, boldly marked with a grey head and rump, a chestnut back and chestnut and black wings. The breast is washed buff and marked with dark spots that become larger in size down the flanks. The name itself comes from the Anglo Saxon word ‘feldware’ which literally translates as ‘traveller of the fields’ a reference to both its nomadic nature and preference for open fields.

Although a gregarious species, the Fieldfare may sometimes use its size to defend a food resource, such as a berry-producing shrub or a single windfall apple. This form of food defence is also seen in the Mistle Thrush. Unusually for a thrush, Fieldfares often nest together in a loose colony, where they can then work collectively to see off would-be predators. The birds will dive at the predator, calling loudly and defecating on the intruder, a behaviour that is usually enough to drive the predator away.

As you might expect for such a nomadic species, the Fieldfares that you see here this winter may have spent the previous winter somewhere else entirely. Birds ringed in Britain have, for example, been found in subsequent winters as far away as the Po Delta region of northern Italy. This could make your garden quite a cosmopolitan destination this winter. 

Sea duck makes a rare appearance

I don’t make a habit of rushing off after work to look at rare birds but on this occasion I made an exception. After all, the bird in question had turned up on the nature reserve at work and was the first of its kind to put in an appearance in nearly two decades of my working here. The slightly foggy conditions, coupled with fading light, did not provide much of a window to take the bird in but there it was, a common scoter, sitting quietly alongside the local mallard and tufted duck. The fact that the common scoter is a sea-duck means I rarely get a good view of one anyway, so a bird sat fifty feet away on the flat surface of an old gravel pit was welcome whatever the conditions.

This was a male, jet black in colour with a splash of bright yellow across the bill, and rather smart in appearance. Although common scoter are present off the Norfolk coast throughout the year, it is in the winter months that we see peak numbers with an estimated 5,000 to 6,000 wintering in flocks, known as ‘rafts’, in those areas where the sea is fairly shallow. The association with shallow water underlines the scoter’s foraging requirements, diving to feed on molluscs, like the blue mussel, found on sandy seabeds.

Inland records are uncommon and usually involve birds that are simply resting, taking a break from overland passage. Nationally, such inland records tend to come from our largest waterbodies, particularly more northern reservoirs, so the presence of one on a relatively small gravel pit in the heart of the Brecks was a little unexpected. Mind you, the pits sometimes attract Smew in the coldest winter weather, another sea duck with a rather smart appearance. This bird stuck around for a few days, which again is unusual as most inland records involve birds that are gone within 24 hours.

There is a small British and Irish breeding population, restricted to the north-west fringe and breeding by remote Scottish lochans and Irish limestone lakes, so most of the birds that winter off the Norfolk coast will be from other populations, most likely those breeding in Scandinavia and east into Russia. As is the case with certain of wildfowl, scoter undertake a moult migration, with individuals drawn from over a wide area gathering together at favoured sites to undergo their annual moult. Many will make a substantial overland crossing so the origins of the male that dropped in at the Nunnery Lakes could be many thousands of kilometres from here. Having such a bird arrive on my local patch underlined the pleasure of watching a local site.