All change

I may have only been away for a week but the changes on my local patch reveal the shift from autumn to winter that happened in my absence. The storm that passed through while I was away stripped many of the local trees of their leaves, changing vistas and shifting horizons. The dry hues of autumn no longer adorn branches but instead crunch beneath my feet, the tapestry of autumn colour now a carpet to be sullied, swept away and broken down. The only saving grace has been the temperature, remaining unseasonably high; the now dark evenings lack the bite of what will inevitably arrive over the coming weeks.

The soft calls of redwings in the night sky provide a different signal of the changing season, a pleasing sign of migrants arriving from further north. There is plenty of fruit for them this year, although it may remain little used until the first frosts restrict access to the soil-dwelling invertebrates on which these and other thrushes feed. The clear skies will see temperatures fall overnight, perhaps bringing with them an end to the late flying migrant hawker dragonflies and the last of the season’s crickets and grasshoppers. The odd bumblebee and butterfly is still on the wing though, and a few warming rays of sunlight are enough to see them stir. I wonder how the large white caterpillars munching on bolted greens in the vegetable patch will fair?

This is the time of the year when the lure of home grows stronger and where a good book replaces time spent in the field. There’s still the opportunity for a walk, although this has become a weekend treat and not something to slot in before or after work. Still, the dark evenings provide opportunity for reflection and for the collation of notes made throughout the year. There are ringing and nest recording submissions to be made, data to be processed and delivered and observations to write up. It is the time of the year for repaying the pleasure that has come from spending time in the field. There is also the opportunity to start thinking about next year, to make plans and to think about what new delights the countryside will deliver.

A season of mellow fruitfulness

The low autumn sun still retains brightness enough to brush the tops of the birches with brilliant light, splitting the trees into two horizontal bands; the upper band of vivid gold and yellow positively burns against the dull brown of shadow below and the rich Payne’s grey of sky above. The rain has been through, a passing shower moving at speed and leaving behind it a fresh fall of leaves to float on shallow puddles or stick to the glistening path. It is a beautiful scene, truly autumnal in nature and reminiscent of the paintings that filled my Ladybird book of Autumn as a child.

Much of the autumn landscape has changed since those paintings provided my first views of the wider landscape. I suspect that were I to view them again now they would present themselves as nostalgia, glimpses of an England now lost. Gone are the teams of horses and the burning stubbles; gone too are the vast flocks of finches and buntings that would have taken the grain that the harvester was unable to collect. Something of that landscape remains however: the autumn harvest still continues, the hedgerows still hang heavy with berries – particularly so this year – and the dark, clouded skies still bring with them autumnal storms.

The autumn landscape is often beautiful, the light more subtle than the harsh glare of summer and the air carrying with it ripe scents that tease the senses. There is a real feeling of change at this time of the year and of industry, evidence that the rural landscape is alive and lived in. Tractors ferry crops from the fields, lorries heavy with beet trundle to the towering sugar beet factories and tables at the local farmers’ market are weighed down with local produce.

Arriving thrushes and finches suggest a transition. These are winter visitors, arriving from Scandinavia and beyond to tuck into autumn’s bounty and delight birdwatchers. As the days shorten, so the richness of autumn will slip away, the landscape shedding its autumnal tones to reveal those of winter. It is a time of year to be out and about, making the most of the last warming rays and the harvest that underlines autumn’s bounty.

Autumn morning

The edge of the wood is bathed in sunshine and I can feel the warmth of the sun’s rays on my face as I emerge from the shadow. At the same time there is just enough of a chill in the breeze to underline that this is autumn, not summer, the strength of the sun’s warmth diminished as we tilt away from her reach. The breeze also carries with it the sweet smell of a bonfire, seemingly out of sight behind the shoulder of land that separates this little valley from the larger one beyond. It is a fine morning to be out and enjoying the clarity of light that autumn always seems to deliver.

It is too early in the day for the local buzzards to be abroad but other birds are much in evidence. A jay, I think it is just the one individual, is transporting acorns across the valley, preparing stores for the months ahead. Up to nine acorns may be carried by the bird during a single flight, the bird having a specially enlarged oesophagus and a liberal supply of saliva, both of which aid transportation. Autumn acorns are also taken by woodpigeons and rooks, so it pays the jay to hide those it can find away from the prying eyes of others. The jay’s store will be tapped throughout the winter, often beginning within a few days of the unhidden supplies being exhausted, and it is amazing to watch the way a jay can pinpoint one of its cached acorns with such ease.

Turning south, I skirt the edge of the wood before tacking left down the slope to the gate at the bottom of the field. My arrival at this gateway into another field sends a scatter of rabbits to their burrows and prompts the noisy flight of a pheasant that had been tucked in close by. With the smell of the bonfire still lingering in my nostrils I can just about pick up the scent of a fox, perhaps an individual that passed this point overnight or just as the dawn was breaking. I wonder if it had been stalking voles in the thick grass that dominates this piece of rough pasture. Deer slots show that the fox was not the only large mammal to have passed this way. One or more roe deer have worked this edge since yesterday’s heavy rain.

The hedgerow still has plenty of green colour, strewn with the dew-sodden webs of many hundreds of spiders and echoing to the wistful notes of a robin. A distant tractor hints that this is a working landscape and that I don’t have it all to myself. It is time to head home.

Some autumn insects

I found the remains of an old lady the other morning. Actually, to be more specific and somewhat less macabre, I found the wings from an old lady moth. The wings were on the floor of a passageway that runs under part of the house and out onto the street. This sheltered spot is well used by brown long-eared bats, which often bring the larger moths into the passage so they can devour them while clinging to the wall. The boldly marked wings of this large moth are easily recognised and they stood out from the remains of other species, taken more commonly by our local bats. The weather has been such recently that I have seen few moths against the kitchen windows of an evening and this makes me wonder if the bats are beginning to find things a little difficult. They have not had a good year by all accounts, with reports of underweight individuals and others seen on the wing during daylight, stressed by the lack of insect prey. It could be difficult for them going into the winter that lies ahead.

I have not experienced a late summer flush of other insects either, with few migrant moths and hoverflies evident in the garden. Not that there has been much late-summer nectar for them – the sedum and nettle-leaved bellflower only coming into bloom over the last few days. At least the sedum has been available for the small influx of red admiral butterflies that has been on the wing during those days when the sun shows against a bright blue sky. Late September and early October can be a reasonable time for insect immigrants; Camberwell beauty, a very impressive butterfly, tends to occur at this time of the year, although in very small numbers. The Camberwell beauty immigrants originate from Denmark, Poland and Sweden, which is why Norfolk delivers the greatest number of records in most years. It has been a while since the last major influx of this species and it is now very unlikely that we will see any influx this year.

There are invertebrates around if you know where to look though and can get out and about ahead of the first frosts. Bush-crickets can still be found in our hedgerows, along with various flies and smaller wasps, and there are plenty of spiders around at the moment, including some of the Tegenaria species that may be encountered dashing across the living-room carpet during the evening. There is a sense, however, that things are winding down, retreating ahead of the approaching winter and readying themselves for a sustained period of inactivity. Every now and then though you might still stumble across something of interest.