My recent surprise at seeing Egyptian Geese for the first time in the Marsham Valley was, of course, in the context of them being absolutely everywhere else, nesting on tiny little ponds at Egerton & Alexander Parks and recorded in flocks of over 100 in the Far East of the county. But it wasn’t always like that so I had a look at Birds of Sussex in which the maps derive from the 2008-11 Bird Atlas.
Apologies for the quality of the photos but they suffice to emphasise the extent of the species’ spread in just a dozen years, recorded from 32 tetrads in the Atlas and 143 in 2022.
Breeding distribution 2008-11: just one little “Possible” dot for our area. Confirmed breeding in 4 tetrads then and 22 in 2022.
An even more astonishing picture is presented by the national figures in the last BTO Breeding Bird Survey where an enormous expansion is noted.
Egyptian Geese were introduced in 1678 as an ornamental species in St James’ Park, London but for many years remained in few areas, albeit in large numbers. I first saw (a lot of!) them at Gunton Park, Norfolk in the early 70s at which time, in spite of their numbers they remained pretty much ignored by birdwatchers since, as a feral species, they didn’t count as real birds. A similar story for Ring-necked Parakeets, now present in huge numbers but at first so little recorded that their UK origins are clouded in myth concerning an escape from the set of “The African Queen” or a release by Jimi Hendrix.
They didn’t get to this part of the world until 20 years later. (SBR for 1995 just one record; in 2000 first county breeding record & at that point only one record in E Sussex.)
So what propelled the Great Leap Forward? Even “Birds Britannica” of 2005 makes no mention of a range expansion. It could be the ameliorating climate: since they nest very early in the year, cold weather could limit breeding success therefore containing populations, but the milder winters we now experience would release that brake.
In 2017 the UK government designated them as an Invasive Alien Species and their presence in this area has not been greeted with whole-hearted enthusiasm, especially since, rather then nesting in holes in trees, they seem happy enough on the ground on islands where they loudly compete with other breeding birds, some of those pre-established feral species….
Posted in Uncategorized on January 27, 2024 by cliffdean
Fluent, readable and fascinating account gleaned by Tessa Boase from trade directories, press reports, fashion journals and warehouse inventories, it starts at the bottom of the Murderous Millinery pyramid with an impoverished East End female feather worker – one of thousands – brought to court for the theft of two plumes.
At the apex of that pyramid, wealthy women sporting extraordinary, macabre mounds of bird-parts, brought to them via a chain of hunters, traders and importers, the exploitative employers of legions of diverse plumage-treaters working in insanitary conditions, milliners both basic and artistic, retailers, window-dressers and fashion journalists.
The slaughter was on an unbelievable scale: tons of tiny corpses shipped in to London to feed the trend, leaving behind scenes of devastation across the world with an incalculable impact on populations of the most decorative species (not just exotic birds but, for instance, Kittiwakes, whose slender white wings were severed from the living birds which were then tossed back into the water to die).
Steadfast middle-class women mounted a campaign against this wantonly destructive trade, to be met at first with ridicule, including from Suffragists fighting a parallel battle, who saw smart and fashionable dress as a convincing argument of their status. Against the odds of indifference, complicity and male dominance, however, it was women who founded the protective groups represented today by the RSPB.
It was only while reading this book that I recalled my maternal grandmother was a milliner from the hat-making town of Luton, having started off as a straw-plaiter in the nearby downland village where she grew up. By the time I, as a child, became aware of her trade, she was a piece-worker from home, the headwear components delivered to her front door (otherwise never used) together with her meagre pay.
I took this photo of her, wearing one of her creations, at my sister’s wedding in the early 70s.
My grandparents’ 19th-century house, a barber’s shop on the edge of Harpenden Common, not far from the famous Skew Bridge, also bore relic features of the millinery cottage industry, though I’m not sure whether they realised it. It was very different from the houses in which I grew up in the post-war era: a prefab then a brand-new council house. Besides the scullery and outside toilet, there was, behind their tiny back garden, a huge black barn, one-third occupied by rabbit hutches (I can smell them now), the rest by a jumble of mangles, hanging shallots, and heaps of cage-bird magazines, with pigeons cooing in the rafters.
The view looking north from beneath the Skew Bridge. My grandparents’ house is the larger one in mid-terrace. Beyond, beneath the tall trees, is the Queen’s Head, where my parents met.
Even stranger – and I did question this at the time – were mysterious hatches in the ceilings. I learnt from a local history book, long after the house itself had been demolished, that the barn had served as a repository for straw which would be distributed to neighbouring plaiters, the trap-doors permitting the bales to be hauled to upstairs rooms where the work would take place. And only now do I speculate that perhaps the minor partition of the barn was used to store the finished products.
I used to do this circular walk around Cliff End every week. It had long been a route in my immediate area was then formalised to fit in to the requirements of Bird Atlas surveys, which took place in tetrads: 2km x 2km squares. So it conveniently starts from home, drops down into the Marsham Valley, passes the Water Treatment Works and Stumblets Wood then along Stream Lane, up over the cliffs and down to Toot Rock.
If you search this blog’s archive for TQ81W, you’ll find plenty about it.
The prewar view from Boulder Cottage. Most of the hillside to the left of the photo has now been built over – repeatedly – while the plotland shacks and repurposed vehicles on the foreground marsh, behind the reeds of the RM Canal, have been replaced with more capacious and permanent dwellings which still, nonetheless, are vulnerable to flooding.
I’ve done it less frequently in the last few years, during which time various changes have taken place: the pleasant and convenient permissive path between Chick Hill and Toot Rock has been closed, requiring a return through traffic up the steep and narrow hill; the wood has become impenetrable (there’s no formal access anyway but you could look in for eg Marsh Tit & Tawny Owl); Stream Lane is currently blocked by a litter of Southern Water barriers (“Thanks for your patience, we won’t be here long”).
Incredibly, a bus service used to run along here!
The footpath over the cliffs has become increasingly muddy where footfall, constricted by encroaching vegetation, has eroded it into gulleys; the relentless urbanisation continues, in which little cottages are replaced by massive cubes and hedges by close-boarded fences.
This was until recently a modest and tastefully designed interwar bungalow with a beautiful garden, called “Sea Bank”. This was demolished to make way for a 5-bed holiday house, the usual plate-glass, set in a low-maintenance mown lawn. It has been renamed “Private Property”.
And to top it all…(though this is temporary) there was last week a team rebuilding part of the WTW, deterring the wintering insectivores. However…however…it’s still an interesting and very varied short walk, with a few slopes to make you feel you’ve had some exercise.
Last week, there were 42 bird species on this circuit including a new one to the list: Egyptian Goose! They’ve been turning up at this end of Pett Level for the last few years but not in this little patch. There were plenty of Fieldfares & Redwings along the hedgerows and, in spite of the workers, a clusters of Pied Wagtails attracted to the insects of a filter bed, along with single Grey Wagtail & Meadow Pipit; a Goldcrest along the fence, if no discernible Firecrests or Chiffchaffs (the latter at every other WTW in the county… From the nameless wood alongside Stream Lane, the calls of Tawny Owl & Nuthatch; Ravens & Buzzards overhead; from the clifftop, c60 G C Grebes bobbing on the grey sea with Fulmars gliding over them; down through the 1930s Monterey Pines where at least 3 Coal Tits were singing.
In Marsham Brook, a rusty gem of industrial archaeology: a disused gas-holder once converted into a guest-room and embellished with castellation inspired, I was told, by Bodiam Castle. There’s another gas-holder close to Pett Village Hall, in that case with a door cut out to provide shelter for horses. Another, in much better condition, was at Hogtrough Lane, Winchelsea until replaced by – you guessed it – a plate-glass cube.
And then, the approach to Toot Rock, encroached by Stinking Iris, has been cleared by volunteers from the Pett Level Preservation Trust. Along the old Military Road are Fieldfares & Long-tailed Tits.
While at the eastern end of the Trust’s land, three shaggy Highland heifers are now grazing down the rough vegetation, saving the expense of mowing while providing the additional ecologically diversifying services of poaching and manuring. Around the edge, Blackbirds, Robins and a Stonechat, show their appreciation.
Posted in Uncategorized on January 11, 2024 by cliffdean
A wealden site, out of the biting NE wind, with mostly surfaced tracks, big trees, sandstone buildings and a deep lake. But that deep lake is dammed in a steep valley, shaded in the early morning from the low winter sun.
Back before Christmas, in the hard frosts of northern England, I had persuaded myself that my inadequate clothing was, however, fine for the Soft South-east. I was wrong.
The biggest lake is mostly frozen at its silted, reedy headwater where the ducks often hide, pushing them out onto its partially iced open part where they are either silhouetted against the brilliant light, obscured by a scumble of vapour rising as the heat reaches the surface or lost among the dazzle of their ripples.
You can hear the quack of Mallard, whistle of Gadwall and, er – what is it? of Coot but a move to a new angle is needed to get a better look and, with luck, some sort of count as they mill about.
There’s a fine, echoing chorus of Nuthatch, Song Thrush and drumming GS Woodpecker. There are some Greenfinches in the garden evergreens and Bullfinches are active too. From a hedge of laurels one is piping out its funny little nasal hardly-a-song but it stops as soon as I try to record it.
Treecreepers are oddly inconspicuous, in spite of the ideal habitat provided by the many crusty old oaks and Firecrests too are keeping a low profile. Two Ravens croak overhead, Jays squawk from under cover and every so often a noisy crowd of Jackdaws & Woodpigeons bursts up out of the treetops, making me wonder if they can see a Goshawk. They might, but I can’t.
As the rising sun lights up the treetops, where Stock Doves throb, and even provides patches of warmth here and there at ground level, where Wrens are whizzing about among the frosty brambles. I wonder if it might encourage some activity from the so, so fugitive LS Woodpeckers. Should I even write that in the plural? Every year I wonder whether the previous had been the last I would hear one.
The waterfowl quack back & forth; the groups coalesce then split, fly and rejoin, frustrating efforts to count them but it looks like 101 Mallards – I think my highest count from here – c25 Gadwall, a single Coot (there must be at least one more?), no Moorhens at all (what? are they in the reeds?) and, suddenly, a young male Wigeon! That’s an uncommon bird here – it’s not really a Wigeony sort of place, too enclosed.
Over the dam, the ice on the next lake is thick enough to support the more adventurous Canada Geese, though it creaks. Most of the 34 remain sensibly on the lawn, but without the Greylag I was sure I sure as I drove in. No sign of it now so maybe to be expunged from the list…
The top lake is unfrozen, murky brown, overhung with trees from which whose shadow swim out 3 pairs of decorative Mandarins.
In the Alder tops, Siskins are twittering and buzzing while dozens of Redwings forage in the Hollies and the first Buzzards begin to stir themselves.
If you look very, very hard indeed to the left of this group, you can see a Goosander swimming across, beneath the person clad in red. This freshwater fish-eater has become more frequent in our area in recent years, frequenting first reservoirs, then Main Rivers and now, absurdly, this tiny municipal pond in Alexandra Park. Perhaps not so absurd if you’re a Goosander, because the other birds to be found there (Black-headed Gulls, Egyptian Geese, Moorhens) do not avail themselves of the fish on offer. There have been up to 4 in recent weeks, leading “twitchers” to “flock” there, as new channels always insist on reporting it.
It’s 14 years ago that I first wrote about birds in this excellent park – on a much colder day in late January 2010 – when we saw a very similar number of species including very similar Star Birds and I made the prediction that has never been realised that it would be the ideal setting for a local Bird Group.
If you search the blog archive, there are quite a few subsequent reports from the site.
More than 5 years have passed since I followed the suggestion of Phil J to set up an RXbirders Whatsapp group. It now has about 60 members, though with only a minority posting sightings, yet facilitates a group cohesion further aided over the last 2 years by the Rye Harbour Discovery Centre. It occurred to me recently that many of the members knew one another only by name, to which the addition of faces was now due. I’d been dithering about where & when might be suitable until Lee C proposed we meet At The Goosanders.
11 of us met up: some old friends, some old friends who’d not seen one another for ages, some new to the area, new to the group, new to the park and, having twitched the target species and captured cracking shots, we went for a walk. There was immediately so much to share that only two of us, lagging behind, noticed the Kingfisher hurtling across the lawn in front of the also-oblivious latte-drinkers on the café veranda. Other birds were remarkably consistent with those seen over the years, including Siskins & Firecrests, though Grey Wagtails were unusually obscure and Coots sadly missed.
The park on a Sunday morning is busy with families and dog-walkers ( we ticked a new breed: Glen of Imaal Terrier) who nearly always greet you and often show an interest in the birds you’ve seen (earlier on, when there weren’t so many people). In addition – and a great addition – there is now an excellent additional café – the Pump House: clean, bright, interesting menu, good coffee, clean toilets… up at the level of Harmer’s Pond.
Posted in Uncategorized on January 7, 2024 by cliffdean
Yesterday, Epiphany, Twelfth Night, was the end of the line for the tree which has kept us glittering company during the darkest days of winter. Since then it has been stripped of its ornaments (an historic collection, accumulated over the years of our family’s growth) and dragged out into the cold, leaving a memorial trail of stabbing needles across the carpet, to await dismemberment.
Every year I feel guilty about this, as if betraying the trust of a guest. It reminds me of the autumn slaughter of the family pig, almost a pet, which has lived close to the house and shared our food, its dying squeals an essential component of any film set in the rural past. (We haven’t got one, by the way…)
More on trees, or at least one remarkable trees, from geomantic Mtskheta, at the confluence of the Mtkvari and Aragvi Rivers.
I was fascinated when I first set eyes on this icon since it reminded me of an image I’d seen long ago of a tree springing from the grave of Adam (a brown skeleton tangled in its roots), soaring up until, in its very crown, hung the crucified Christ. I’ve looked for this image. I knew exactly where it was; I searched out the book, flicked through, turned the pages more carefully…and, mysteriously, it isn’t there. However, I’ve come across similar accounts of this tradition, with various tree species named. That below brings in our friend Mithras as well.
A Georgian, Elioz, witnessed The Crucifixion, after which he bartered with the Roman soldiers for Christ’s robe. Upon his return, he presented this holiest of relics to his sister, Sidonia, who swooned with emotion and died on the spot. The sacred garment was so tightly locked in her embrace that it could not be prised away and had to be buried with her and from her grave there rose a miraculous Cypress.
“At the beginning of the fourth century, the holy virgin Nino arrived in Kartli to preach the Christian Faith, settling in the outskirts of Mtskheta, in the bramble bushes of the king’s garden. St. Nino inquired as to the whereabouts of our Lord’s Robe, but no one could remember where it had been preserved. In her quest for the Precious Robe, she became acquainted with Elioz’s descendants, the Jewish priest Abiatar and his daughter, Sidonia. St. Nino converted them to Christianity.
St. Nino was blessed by God with the gift of healing. She healed the afflicted through the name of the Saviour and through the grace of the cross formed from grapevines by the Virgin Mary and bound with strands of St. Nino’s hair.”
What’s interesting and different at Mtskheta is that when, on Saturday, June 24, 324, King Mirian, with the blessing of St Nino, to build a cathedral on this sacred site, the initial materials to be furnished by the miraculous tree itself.
“Seven columns to support the church were formed from the wood of a cypress tree that had grown in the king’s garden.Six of the columns were erected without problems, but the seventh could not be moved from the place where it had been carved. St. Nino and her disciples prayed through the night, and at dawn they watched as a youth, encompassed by a brilliant light, descended from the heavens and raised the column. The miraculous column began to shine and stopped in mid-air at a height of twelve cubits. Sweet-smelling myrrh began to flow from under the Holy Pillar’s foundations, and the entire population of Mtskheta flocked to that place to receive its blessing. Approaching the Life-giving Pillar, the sick were healed, the blind received sight, and the paralyzed began to walk.
The robe is said still to be housed here within the cathedral and I suppose the Svetitskhoveli too, if no longer in mid-air. When I asked our guide whether any investigations had been carried out to ascertain the state of these relics, she looked amazed that I could even think of such a thing; faith should suffice.
And back to Christmas Trees, a tradition that we owe to St Boniface. Or maybe not so much a tradition as cultural appropriation:
“Boniface knew that in winter the inhabitants of the village of Geismar gathered around a huge old oak tree (known as the “Thunder Oak”) dedicated to the god Thor. This annual event of worship centered on sacrificing a human, usually a small child, to the pagan god. Boniface desired to convert the village by destroying the Thunder Oak, which the pagans had previously boasted the God of Boniface could not destroy, so he gathered a few companions and journeyed to Geismar.
His fellow missionaries were scared and fearful that the Germans might kill them, so they balked when they reached the outskirts of the village on Christmas Eve. Boniface steadied the nerves of his friends and as they approached the pagan gathering he said, “Here is the Thunder Oak; and here the cross of Christ shall break the hammer of the false god Thor.” Boniface and his friends arrived at the time of the sacrifice, which was interrupted by their presence. In a show of great trust in God and born from a desire to enkindle the fire of Christ in the German pagans, Boniface grabbed an axe and chopped down the Thunder Oak of mighty Thor.
The Germans were astounded. The holy bishop preached the Gospel to the people and used a little fir tree that was behind the now felled oak tree as a tool of evangelization. Pointing to it he said,
“This little tree, a young child of the forest, shall be your holy tree tonight. It is the wood of peace… It is the sign of an endless life, for its leaves are ever green. See how it points upward to heaven. Let this be called the tree of the Christ-child; gather about it, not in the wild wood, but in your own homes; there it will shelter no deeds of blood, but loving gifts and rites of kindness.”
Awed by the destruction of the oak tree and Boniface’s preaching, the Germans were baptized.”
And back to Georgian food……… “What,” I hear you say, “has all this got to do with birds? Or RXland?”
I have other interests, though not enough time to write about them. And, as I have commented in the past, it can get a bit repetitive just writing about birds.
The internet is just now creaking under the weight of near-identical Waxwing photos. Before that it was Short-eared Owls, before that Kingfishers…
Posted in Uncategorized on December 16, 2023 by cliffdean
Saturday night in Newcastle. For us, wrapped in four layers, it’s still COLD but not so for the famously hardy citizens.
Sunday morning: fresh overnight snowfall. Passers-by are swaddled but maybe they’re tourists who don’t realise that a T-shirt is more than adequate protection.
A Brisk Hike is required, away from the shuffling crowd at the Quayside mercatino and up the historically abused but slowly, slowly recovering sandstone ghyll of the Ouseburn.
Upstream and under mighty bridges: red brick for road, slender concrete for Metro, stone & cast iron for rail, till, somewhere between the Toffee Factory and the Biscuit Factory, the stream swerves round and vanishes. You have to climb 120 steps to go over what seems like a watershed but on its northern side, as you cling to the railings down the steep icy path, you finally come to a river still running south – into a culvert. In 1907, a whole section of the steep-sided valley was gradually filled with rubbish to create a convenient crossing point. It’s now the City Stadium; nothing can be built there on account of its underlying instability and the culvert presents a barrier to the movement of migratory fish up the valley.
The bed of the Ouseburn is jumbled with the allotmentscape of improvised fences, shelters and storage. From one cabin issues stove-smoke and a strumming acoustic guitar; in the screen of trees, parakeets are screeching and beyond that, children shrieking – if you peer just right of centre in the video you can make out little figures sledging down the grassy slope beyond.
This is what it looks like in achingly nostalgic Ladybird books…
And here – downhill from snow, to ice, to mud in an unpredictable and impromptu festival now lost to us in the extreme south-east where it might be frosty – even a bit of snow a few miles inland but here on the coast no longer.
When we first lived at Pett Level there were Proper Winters – with snow. It was hell trying to get in to work over the steep hills into Hastings; you never knew whether you’d get there, get home, wreck the car. Sometimes, we’d leave a green Pett Level only to find a blizzard blowing and vehicles abandoned ten minutes away at Hillcrest; or we’d phone to apologise for being snowed in, to be met with disbelief from a school secretary in green Hastings. Once, I turned our white Renault 4 onto the icy slope of Park Rise and found I was spinning downhill… round and round…
It was a pain, but if marooned we could take our children out onto the steep back of Toot Rock to join a raucous gang sliding face down on old fertiliser sacks – good fun till you go over a stump……. And once they were older, make the ten-minute walk over to the heady heights of Coneyburrow Banks. Children have grown and climate changed.
Posted in Uncategorized on December 13, 2023 by cliffdean
A similar thing happened a couple of weeks later, just over the border in S Kent where we had gone for a walk with an anglophile German friend to savour the historic Wealden landscape.
Apart from the characterful vernacular tile-hung cottages, black-boarded mill, ragstone churches, poor clay soil still ankle-twisting from the wet months’ poaching…
…the deep-hedged hollow lanes, steep-sided ghylls and shadowed mine-pits…
…and wonderful spring colours of golden buttercups and exceptionally brilliant silver May, there came something altogether unexpected.
The blue sky had become overcast. We were walking along an overgrown footpath beside a line of trees, looking forward to the point at which it dodged through onto easier ground when – it was like the Redstarts – I picked out this distinctive song up ahead:
The fluting cadences of a Woodlark as it fluttered high above a Christmas Tree plantation – now, apparently, the preferred habitat for the species in many places. They still haven’t reached our end of Sussex as a breeding species and I was pretty sure they were only known from a couple of sites in the W of Kent. I hadn’t anticipated anything very special in the bird line so hadn’t even brought my binoculars but – as with Nightingales – it’s the song that is really distinctive.
So the best I could do was to record the song on this video, in which I’m not sure the bird is even visible. If you don’t recognise Woodlark song, the purpose of filming a miserable-looking sky is hard to fathom. And if I had had not picked it up, we’d have carried on walking.
This gives me another excuse to quote Olivier Messiaen’s sonorous interpretation of L’alouette lulu singing at night above a French heath.
Once home, I checked the Kent Breeding Bird Atlas 2008-13 and more recent county bird reports to confirm my suspicions that there were no spring records at all for this area. Since then, however, the KBR for 2022 mentions a bird in sub-song somewhere in the same area that previous year.
Another surprising discovery that day was Helmut’s dislike of the sweet almond perfume of Hawthorn blossom. I had never occurred to me that it could seem anything but delicious. In view of its abundance this spring, we did our best to persuade him of its beauty but I’m not sure we succeeded.
Posted in Uncategorized on December 11, 2023 by cliffdean
Cognitive dissonance: when what you know, or assume to be true is directly contradicted by the evidence of your senses.
This is the Sussex breeding distribution of Common Redstart, as represented in the Sussex Bird Atlas of 2014. It is the SE outpost of a mainly western British population, with none to the east of the cluster around Ashdown Forest. (The Kent population appears to have dwindled away entirely.)
The Redstart is a beautiful bird but in our area I have only encountered them on migration, and then usually rather dull individuals in autumn. To my eyes, there is plenty of habitat that could appeal to them (Beauport Park would be a contender) but they don’t seem to share that view.
In early May, Stuart B & I were trying to get a look at a Wealden mill pond when the owner approached us and, although we expected the usual “Can I help you?” took a genuine interest in what we had seen (my only Spotted Flycatcher of the spring, as it happened). They welcomed us in to have a better look (Grey Wagtails!) and asked if we had ever been in to their very large lump of adjacent woodland. Since it has no public rights of way, I hadn’t. “Well please look around; here’s my number if you find anything good.” We were grateful of the opportunity to explore, though not really expecting anything more than the Siskins we could already hear buzzing overhead or the Firecrests which were bound to be in the conifers.
It was nice mixed woodland, with Beech in young plantations and as ancient, knotty, collapsing Veterans.
There was lots of birdsong from the usual forest species until I heard this:
Singing from the top of a very tall conifer, was a Redstart! I knew what it was, but couldn’t believe it, convinced I had my wires crossed and was confusing it with something else. But what else sounds like that? We couldn’t see it either, so spent some fruitless minutes walking mostly backwards, triangulating the exact position.
During that time we realized we could hear – a second bird!! One Redstart is very surprising but two in a very small area seemed…just…improbable. However, we could see this second one – not very well, right up on top of another conifer against the blue spring sky, but enough to pick out the while supercilium.
Hoping for a bit of reassurance, I summoned the assistance of Merlin, which lit up the blue spot (listening to a bird) while registering the distinctive signature on its sonograph…but declined to comment. I’ve encountered this problem before, where it seems that a species is not listed at the location. Of course it isn’t, but Redstarts breed elsewhere in the county, albeit not very near. I finally had success with a video because it seems that Merlin quietly analyses those behind your back – and there it was!
Exciting, gratifying but what did it all mean? Had they been there in previous summers but gone unnoticed on account of the access restrictions? Were they actually nesting or just hopeful? There were certainly suitable nest sites in those rotten old Beeches but we could see no females.
After celebrating our find with warm water and Sesame Snaps in the sunshine we carried on – and found another one!! I called the landowner, who was pleased but probably not as much as I was, and arranged a second visit a week or so later. On that occasion I found six singing males, including those already located. SIX! This would be a previously unknown, unexpected Sussex population (and at one of the sites, a Goshawk flew right past me carrying a hapless Magpie.)
But again, what does it mean? An exploratory gang of unmated males? Or a permanent outpost? All may be revealed in 2024, although two sites have been cleared of the preferred Western Hemlock songposts.
To my inexpert eyes (again) there’s quite a lot of similar habitat out in the Weald, so are these birds as isolated as I imagine? Since hardly anyone watches these areas, we’re unlikely to find out.
Posted in Uncategorized on December 9, 2023 by cliffdean
At this time of year – I can’t help it – I sink deeper and deeper into some dark psychological pit. For years I felt guilty for my inability to join in the mandatory jollity of the season. In addition, as a primary school teacher, I was exhausted by the pressure to present heart-warming Nativity Plays, to rehearse for Carol Services and to manage 30+ over-excited children in class parties.
“Never mind, you’ve got a fortnight’s holiday to recover,” pupils’ parents would encourage me. But with three small, over-excited children of my own at home, I’d reply, “Out of the frying pan, into the fire.”
Until, after a particularly depressing week of cold, still, lightless, shadowless weather, a friend pointed out that I shouldn’t blame myself; it was a physiological response to the darkest time of the year. The simple solution of parking the guilt made all the difference and although I still get the symptoms, the habitual patterns of thought, I can recognise them, thinking “Ah, it’s that time of year,”
There really are things to be depressed about: a brief overview would be the merciless savagery visited upon Palestinian families, the desperate fighting in freezing Ukraine, the unedifying COVID Enquiry interviews confirming that we are governed by egotists and psychopaths. All the other suffering evidenced by the pile of charity appeals on out kitchen table.
Two days ago it was dark and windy all day. Right now, it’s dark, wind howls over the house and rain clatters against the window. But yesterday the sky was clear, the air still but not freezing, and as I stepped out of the door a Song Thrush was singing and Rooks cawing. And at once I felt my spirits lift. What that means exactly, I don’t know, but it’s a good shorthand. To reconnect with the real, unmediated world provided instant relief.
“You seemed so tense,” an OFSTED inspector once commented, “The only time I saw you smile was when you pointed out that bird.” It had been a Goldcrest in the Yew overhanging the school gate; I didn’t even remember. But the bird was a little window in the intellectual prison cell of the malign inspection ritual in which you are judged deficient against an unreachable ideal. Another miserable bit of news this week had concerned the lovely, committed Head Teacher who had killed herself in response to an arrogant, brutal, humiliating inspection judgement. I suffered two OFSTEDs but was delivered from a third by the Hand of God instructing me to serve as a juror.
By this point, any readers will be looking at the blog’s title and wondering when it’s going to deal with birds rather than food and mental health. Here it comes:
Down the steep hill to the Level I could hear Redwings in the hedgerow. They don’t come much down to the marsh itself and I hadn’t heard any in our garden either. Further down, in the damp and scrubby flood-plain gardens, were lots more Song Thrushes & Blackbirds; in the tangled Hawthorns and Ivy, tricky-to-see Goldcrests, Bullfinches, LT Tits and a Chiffchaff – the first I’d seen this winter. In a very short distance around Toot Rock, I’d seen more than 30 species – all common birds, all a pleasure to catch up with though by now the song was matched by relentless construction noises from the several gentrification projects in progress along the sea wall.
Behind the crumbling asbestos carcass of Tamarisk I found the three newly-installed shaggy Highland cattle, making a start on non-mechanical grassland management for the PLPT, and beyond them the first of thousands of gulls, waders and wildfowl pushed by high tide onto the fields.
The high tide itself was unproductive – one, just oneGC Grebe and a Grey Seal -but over the marsh were swirling huge clouds of Lapwings, with Curlews, Dunlin, Ruff & Starlings tangled up with them. A lone Turnstone scuttled ahead of the beach-feeding bulldozer as it buried the berm for another however-many years, frustrating the urgent soundings of the regular detectorist.
Pete R had already been there for a while, making careful notes on the exact feeding locations of the many hundreds of birds before us. A spectacular sight – you’ll have to go! I’ve got no nice bird pix here but if you look at Dave R’s site there will be plenty:
What you won’t see is White-fronted Goose. Pete & I wondered when they’d be arriving and the answer was “The moment you leave here”. As I heard their high-pitched calls sound out from an incoming flock of Greylags I looked round for Pete’s car and he was gone. Then a bit later Dave turned up, camera at the ready asking ,“Where are they?” “Just down here…oh…I didn’t hear them go…”
They were the first of winter, along with half a dozen Shelduck back from Helgoland and several Lesser Black-backed Gulls on the way through, maybe – sensibly – to Morocco. The Golden Plovers, however, have gone. They’re not at Rye Harbour either; what’s more, the cattle have been removed from the marsh so the 8 Eponymous Egrets have followed, though I’m hoping they’ll take an interest in Lucille, Valentina and Twinkle. Two Peregrines lurked all day on gate-posts, a Marsh Harrier cruised and two Great Egrets flapped across the back.
So many birds, so many species (69 in 3km), such a sight in the winter sun. And I felt a lot better, much more positive. In spite of Everything. I’ve just read “Cloud Cuckoo Land” by Anthony Doerr, https://www.nytimes.com/2021/09/24/books/review/anthony-doerr-cloud-cuckoo-land.html which concludes with the last page of a classical manuscript showing, on one side, a beautiful, peaceful, harmonious perfect city. On the reverse, it is in flames, its citizens slaughtered. One and the same.
Birding Walks in RXland 