Introducing Lancaster

On Friday afternoon I took the opportunity to do a bit of exploring along the Canal and beside the River Lune in Lancaster, to see what was about. Although the walk did not turn up anything especially unusual, it was an excellent opportunity to explore my new ‘Local Patch.’ The canal is a green corridor not just for wildlife but also for students travelling between the Universities and the City Centre.  It flows through sheep-infested hills into the heart of the city, and onward into the Lune.  Mallards graze on its banks and Jackdaws squawk in the ancient oaks which dot its pastured banks.    While I was cycling along it I saw a Sparrowhawk,  pursuing small birds unidentified at hedgerow height and over the water.  A pair of Ravens, unfamiliar birds I tend to associate with places far more remote and weather beaten than this, could also be seen in the distance. Ravens! A ten minute ride from my new home!

The River Lune runs through Lancaster, and separates it from its seaside neighbour Morecambe.  Negotiating the awkward Lancaster one way system on my bike, I eventually made it to the Lune near the large metal supports of the pedestrian Millenium Bridge, and turned left, following the riverside path past construction sites, and some of Lancaster’s decaying industrial heritage, the river front lined for the first half mile or so with derelict factories. As I pass under an arched railway bridge, the city passed behind me and I was in the wild. A fence separated me from fields in which cows and horses grazed.  The sky was grey and drizzle fell intermittently, which negated any possibility of seeing any butterflies or dragonflies about, but there were plenty of gulls on the bank of the Lune, as well as the occasional handsome Cormorant drying his wings, or a fishing Grey Heron.

I followed the path beside the muddy tidal river to Freemans’ Pools, a patch of land managed by the Lancashire Wildlife Trust for the benefit of wildlife, and took the opportunity to sit by the river for a while.  There were cormorants fishing, curlews probing in the mud, and Black-headed and Lesser Black Backed Gulls, fishing actively in the water or roosting beside it. A couple of noisy skeins of geese flew over my head, presumably transiting between some farmers field in which they graze, or mudflats lost under rising tide, and their roosting site. Their harsh calls suggested they were probably Greylags. They flew in loose V formations at height and circled about above me before flying on in the direction of Lancaster and the Universities.   At the time it was being used apparently by no more than a few gulls and a pair of Mute Swans. Access directly onto the reserve was not possible but I was able to get a good view from the fence. With winter approaching it seemed likely that these ponds would soon be well used by wintering wildfowl.  The footpath continued toward Aldcliffe and I followed it, passing a few arable fields, before entering a patch of farmland, which the path crossed. Many of the fields had been flooded and the sheep stood on islands they shared with Lapwings, Curlew and Black Headed Gulls, while Mallards swam about between them.  The floodwaters had also taken over the main bridleway, but fortunately a raised path on top of a muddy bank ran parallel to it, and I did not have to face the awkward choice between turning back and riding my bike through deep water.

I saw a couple of swallows, surely among the last of the year here, and a charm of Goldfinch flew over, chirping. Eventually I reached the main road at the Village of Aldcliffe, up a steep slope. I looked around at the tree-lined hills. The sun was beginning to set and had found a gap between the clouds, the evening light illuminating the hillsides, and the leaves which, around here, are already beginning to turn gold, brown and red, and I thought that I could get into local birding here.

The same evening I headed down to Bolton to listen to a couple of Punk bands in a bar down there, before going on to Manchester and visiting Martin Mere- more on that to follow- but on the way I had another moment. Driving in the near-darkness along one of the small B-roads, I was lucky enough to see a handsome, attractively mottled and downy-looking Tawny Owl fly through my view.

Yes. This place will be good for birding.

Leighton Moss

Looking at the grey sky, I am afraid I failed to rise with the lark this morning and get to the RSPB’s reserve at Leighton Moss as the Sun came up, but I did make my way to my new local big RSPB reserve this afternoon.  I arrived under the bluest sky I have seen since I arrived in the North West. The leaves on the trees up here have already started turning, leaving me feeling like I had lost a couple of weeks off the end of Summer somewhere on the M6, and despite some sunshine yesterday, it has rained continuously since the day after I arrived, albeit with rainbows.

The downpours which have afflicted the North of England in recent weeks will not have gone unnoticed given all the flood warnings. Here in Lancaster I am fine, it has rained incessantly bar two days since my arrival but when I reached Leighton Moss I was a little disappointed to find that I was only able to view half of the reserve as some of the paths had become flooded. I left the visitors centre and took the opportunity to glance at the feeding station which sits outside it. There was a large amount of Passerine activity, with chaffinches and greenfinches alongside a less familiar Marsh Tit and a number of scruffy juvenile Bullfinches. One young male Bullfinch appeared to be gaining his distinctive and instantly recognisable salmon-pink breast in awkward patches. Badger-striped coal tits were here in number, and Mallards, these ones now well past their ‘eclipse’ and regaining their adult plumage, pottered about on the ground picking up the dropped seed from the feeders.

Coal Tit at the Feeding Station.

Scruffy young bullfinch, a stark contrast with the very smart adults.

After a few attempts to photograph some of the passerines, a task made all the more difficult by the positioning of the feeders under a thick woodland canopy, I headed on to the first hide,  called Lillian’s Hide, and from it, a large structure with a wide bay window affording good views across the lake, and was able to get a feel for the reserve. I was there with few expectations, and had been expecting to find a “moss,” that is, a Sphagnum bog, of the type so threatened by peat extraction, and was surprised to find a lowland wetland of much more familiar character.  Leighton Moss is described as the largest reed bed in the North West, and is a combination of Phragmites reed-swamp with scattered clumps of Typha, with its thick dark seed heads, popularly called Bullrush, and open water, fringed by (very) wet woodland, with wooded hill slopes climbing away. It lies in or close to the Silverdale Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty, and the elegantly curvaceous landscape is certainly beautiful. I was surprised to see, given the autumnal character of the last few days, that there were still dragonflies on the wing. Migrant Hawkers patrolled above the reeds. Some of the people in the hide were discussing Otters which had apparently been seen the same morning. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so persistent with that snooze button.   Outside were no more than the usual suspects-coots, some scruffy Tufted Ducks, the males now moulting out of their eclipse plumage, brown and patchy with white flanks, a moorhen or two, and the obligatory mallards. I stayed to enjoy the landscape for a bit, and watch a late Red Admiral butterfly fluttering about,  but the lack of interesting birds drove me on.

RSPB Leighton Moss.

I walked along the path toward the next hide, called the Public Hide, presumably because it sits on a public footpath to Leighton Hall, passing on the way a patch of open grass and a view of the reserve. The reed swamp certainly looked expansive. I continued through a Carr woodland rich in bird calls, and Goldcrests, to the main path through the reedbeds to the hide. I found myself wading uncomfortably through water several centimetres deep, and very cold, but stuck to the path and persevered.   A sign advertised grit trays supposedly frequented by the UK’s most Northerly population of Bearded Tits, but none of these charismatic denizens of thick reed beds were out today. Another advertised Bitterns, but only a beautiful family of mute swans, dabbling about in the sunshine, were to be seen in the patch of open water I looked out upon. Above me a buzzard circled. I might have missed it but for the friendly couple with pleasant local accents who pointed it out, along with the distinct absence of bearded tits, which they suggested might be in Africa. I replied that they might equally be at Purfleet. No bearded tits, but I took a moment to enjoy the sight of a large bird of prey circling on thermals above the beautiful Lancashire countryside.

Mute Swans near the Public Hide.

The view from the public hide was not much better than the first, again with Mute Swans, Mallards, Coots and Tufties. Not fancying further wading along the flooded paths, it was with a sense of mild disappointment that I made the return trudge through the freezing water.  As I re-entered the Carr woodland I was in for a pleasant surprise. A flock of small birds was moving though, paying particular attention to one Elder bush. This was one of the big gangs of mixed passerines foraging together and taking advantage of safety in numbers through the Autumn and Winter.  They are said to tolerate each other for this reason-while each species has a subtly different diet to the others. Goldcrests foraged frenetically among the yellowing leaves, and long tailed tits contact-called to each other. Blue tits and coal tits hung upside down from the tips of branches, and Treecreepers wound their way up the stems.  Great tits paused before disappearing into the depths of the vegetation, and smart Chaffinches and Greenfinches perched boldly and openly on the lower branches.   As I stood enjoying the spectacle of all these birds around me, yet more species piled in. A very handsome, boldly striped male Siskin appeared before disappearing among the elders’ leaves. A bird I enthusiastically called as a Garden Warbler turned out to be a female Blackcap.  I am certain I have never seen a fraction of this number of goldcrests in one place before, even in sheltered southern woodlands on snowy days.  A Marsh tit was also briefly visible. An older couple also stood enjoying what the RSPB might describe as a “moment,” and they told me they had seen a Willow Warbler in the flock as well.  We were surrounded by tiny passerines. In all the flock seemed to contain no less than 11 species, including the ten I had seen and the friendly couple’s Willow Warbler.  A Robin appeared and made angry noises toward the other passerines, and as soon as the show had begun, it was over, the distinct shapes of two Long-tailed Tits were briefly silhouetted against the sky through a gap in the branches appeared as stragglers, as the flock moved on to new bushes deeper in the woods and further from the path.  I don’t know whether the chirpy but highly territorial Robin had actually chased the whole flock away, but he seemed content to have his bush to himself again.

Very nervous coot.

I continued my return journey to Lillian’s hide.  There were a few Siskins feeding on the Birch which hangs over the hide. Inside the view was a little more interesting than before, and I hung on for a while in the hope of seeing some otter action. None was forthcoming, but a handsome, and very well camouflaged Snipe offered a rare photo opportunity, as it probed about in the  mud where some of the reeds had been cut, in search of invertebrate prey.  A very handsome Grey Heron stood silently and solemnly on one of the islands, eventually tucking his head away under one wing and roosting there. A single Little Egret flew over. I was surprised to see the small white heron so far north just a few decades after its rapid invasion of the country, I thought of them as a Southern thing.  A Gadwall, a male smart in his fresh breeding plumage, swam by, allowing me to add another water fowl to my list. As I enjoyed the view, I saw a number of Mallards take off in the back of my view. The coots instantly fell silent. One moment ago they had been splashing about, calling, bickering with each other, and diving for weeds. Now they swam quickly, some of them running on the water, onto the island, where they stood tensely among the reeds staring fixedly across the water. I followed their gaze. A Marsh Harrier was quartering over distant reeds, wings raised in a shallow V, with gold around her face and the leading edges of her wings. She settled into a bush across the water, where she remained as long as I did. I waited a while, fruitlessly, in the hope of meeting my first English otter, and eventually the tension among the coots subsided and some of the bolder ones ventured back into the water, still clearly aware of the deadly predator on the other side of the water. 

Very handsome and obliging Snipe.

I took a walk back to the RSPB visitors centre for a swift cup of coffee, and then took another look at the feeders.  I could hear the low, throaty bellowing of Red Deer stags in the distance, an enthralling and unfamiliar sound to this Southerner.  A handsome cock Pheasant strutted up and down beneath them. A brown passerine on one of the feeders was revealed to be a Redpoll, another less familiar species. Its body was brown and heavily streaked, with a small red cap on its forehead.   Passerine numbers were down on this morning, perhaps the fading light, and failing weather, it had begun spitting again, had seen some of them off to roost. I watched the antics of some of the remaining birds for a while, there was still a Marsh tit about, before I decided to jump in the car and try to reach the other end of the reserve. The RSPB land straddles a railway line, and to reach the other side I had to drive up in the direction of Silverdale and over a level crossing, then take a right turn after crossing a bridge. Inevitably, I got completely lost and spent several minutes trying to find the place. When I did, and I never got as far as the two Salt marsh hides, which overlook the edges of Morecambe Bay, I discovered Leighton Moss had one more trick up its sleeve to really impress me.

Pheasant at the feeding station.

I drove up the gravel track, having found it eventually, and stopped behind another driver who was looking up at the starlings, which had gathered in some number on the telephone wires which hung between two poles each side of the road, framing a small railway bridge and the sunset behind them. Every couple of minutes a small group of Starlings would arrive from somewhere and jostle for position with the birds which had already arrived. The gentleman in the other car passed me and remarked he was off to get his camera, the starlings had arrived. He departed down the road. Not long after he left, a larger flock appeared, and, as if at a signal, they combined with the flock on the wires and ascended into the sky. At first a disorganised mass of birds, a shape moving low over the reeds appeared to cause them to transform. All at once the edges of the flock became sharply defined, each bird apparently moving as part of some combined whole. They moved quickly, sharply, and as one dived into the reeds. A few moments later the chattering started, and the dark shape rose up and away headed for the hills. It was a fat dark shape, a ball of muscle, a clenched fist of a bird, between pointed wings. I recorded it as a male Peregrine, as it slipped out of site. I waited a few moments listening to the chattering in the reeds. A few pied wagtails flew low over the tops of the reeds as Cormorants passed inland over my head, and a fine rain began to fall as the light continued to fade, the sunset burning a deep yellow-orange, a gap in the cloud fringing the horizon. Lapwings flew down off the slopes, perhaps from further inland, in a flock, toward some protected saltmarsh roosting site. The gentleman with the other car returned with his camera, and was a little disappointed to find himself with only a noisy reed bed to point it at.  A distance away a Marsh Harrier put up small flocks of starlings, rising out of the reeds like puffs of smoke. We both looked at it through the binoculars and enjoyed the presence of a splendid raptor.   The next predator to appear, the starlings saw before we did. First, the noisy chattering of the birds stopped, and then, with a roar like the ocean, like waves breaking on a shingle beach, the starlings in the reeds took flight. The murmuration twisted, a single dark shape composed of what must be hundreds of birds, above the reed bed. Assigning a number of birds to them would have been impossible.  The predator, a juvenile Sparrowhawk which only briefly passed through our field of view, continued on its way and must have cleared the area quite quickly, as the starlings dived down into the reeds in a single column. They fell silent but the sound of the birds’ wings in unison was probably the most memorable feature of the spectacle.  Eventually the chattering resumed, and we watched the sky fill not with dense flocks of starlings but a more diffuse flock of hirundines, shortly, surely, to be on their way back to Africa in pursuit of bugs and summer.  Loosing the light, I headed home, with the word "murmuration" and the sound of hundreds of starling wings in my ears.

Murmuration.