Icon of a British Christmas: Robins (Erithacus rubecula) and all I know about them.

 As the season rolls around, and I expect to get this blog online at some point during the festive period, probably, with my inevitable tardiness, around St Stephen’s Day or New Years, attention inevitably turns to a bird which to many in Britain (though not, perhaps, elsewhere) is something of a spirit of Christmas. The gardener’s friend, the European Robin (Erithacus rubecula).

A Robin singing in an English winter.

Robins are a regular feature of my parents’ Essex garden, hopping endearingly out from underneath the hedge to enjoy the seeds and mealworms left out for them. They are noted for following gardeners as they turn the soil, grabbing what unlucky worms and leatherjackets may be turned out, a practice they may have learned from following Wild Boar when those beasts roamed the Wildwood. On the continent, where humans have been perhaps less kind to small birds down the years, they still do this. However Robins have developed something of a special and unique relationship with humans, or perhaps specifically with the British. At my local RSPB reserve, Robins appear eagerly from the bushes for passing photographers, hoping to be paid in mealworms or cheese for their modelling services. When my father was recovering from illness a few years ago, he took some comfort in sitting on the patio, and enjoyed the company of our breeding pair of Robins and their offspring during the summer. He gained their confidence such that he could hold out a hand with a few sunflower seeds or dried mealworms in, and they would come and perch on it. This communion with nature contributed to his sense of wellbeing, when his family were often out at work and University, contributing in a small but life-affirming way to his recovery, and contributing greatly to my admiration for these charming little hedge birds.   More recently, when Dad put mealworms inside the shed for the robins, they learned to use a small hole he cut above the shed door to access this food supply, while the magpies and carrion crows were effectively excluded, though these bigger birds found rich pickings under the bird feeders still. They can be incredibly confiding, nesting openly in window boxes and even in sheds and garages, perhaps taking advantage of many of their predators natural and justified shyness of people.  In British gardens, at least, ones managed with few chemicals and not to be sterile lawns, they thrive in part because of, rather than despite human interactions.  While we have no ‘official’ national bird, robins were voted Britain’s favourite bird, in polls in the 1960s and the 2010s.

Robins are of course, present all year round, although the UK population swells somewhat in winter as the species undertakes a partial migration, with birds from Scandinavia pouring out to the South and West to escape the bitter arctic winter. Some, but by no means all, of the British breeding population cross the channel to France and the Mediterranean.  The oft-repeated question of whether the Robin in your garden in Summer is the same robin in your garden in winter is one which has yet to be conclusively answered, despite some sources leaning heavily in one direction or other. The best answer seems to be they may or may not be the same individual, perhaps depending on where you live. Certainly, plenty do move into the country in the Autumn, my friend Dave Roche, assistant warden at the Dungeness Bird Observatory, recalling seeing many exhausted Robins perched on the sea wall by the Power Station of a cold Autumn morning, having crossed the channel by night in search of more amenable weather conditions.

When I worked for the HOS in Southern Greece during the summer of 2011, Robins appeared with the other migrants such as blackcaps as the weather turned to Autumn, but always kept their distance from us, retreating into deep cover like all the other passerines as we passed. Although they were frequently in our ringing nets on the Island of Antikythera in the Aegean in the Autumn of 2019, I don’t recall ever seeing the shy, continental Robins out in the open, even as Wheatears and Whinchats, distant relatives of the European robin adapted for sparser habitats, would watch us from their rocky perches.  On the continent, robins have been hunted as a source of food for centuries, a practice which continues, mostly highly illegally, in places like France and Cyprus, an enraging anathema to British birders like myself.  The British have long taken a warmer view of this species, perhaps influenced by tales of Robins giving comfort to Christ when he was dying on the cross, their chests becoming stained with the blood of God, or of delivering water to tormented souls in hell, scorching their chests on their way, and it has never really been exploited in the way it has in other places, even when wild birds were still regarded as a source of food here.  In some countries, the Black Redstart, another member of the chat family, and not the Robin, is the archetypal confiding garden bird.

While friends of humans, and very much loved, Robins have a feisty side to their nature. They are famously territorial, their sweet summer and solemn winter song a warning to conspecifics not to infringe on their territories. Intraspecific fighting is a significant cause of mortality, especially for young birds, in parts of their range. My impression is of fights not usually being to the death, indeed, to waste so much of your population in this way hardly makes evolutionary sense, and while the fights are energetically expensive, they do typically end with one bird retreating to seek territory elsewhere. They breed several times in a summer, and are dedicated parents, with adults of both sexes actively provisioning the chicks in the nest. The sexes are indistinguishable, even in hand, and both males and females sing and hold territory. They are one of the few birds to sing in winter, albeit a more subdued version of their distinctive and beautiful song.

While they have long been associated with Christianity and the church, perhaps building on earlier associations in Norse mythology, their association with Christmas is much younger, and probably related to their association with the Royal Mail, whose red jackets recalled Robins’ breasts, and this led to their depiction on Christmas cards. Nevertheless they have become strongly associated with the season, and perhaps this is appropriate. Their habit of singing through the winter makes them among the most obvious of small winter birds. Cold snaps can make many birds more confiding, and Robins are no exception, as they take advantage of the shelter and microclimates, and our cultivated berry bearing plants, of our gardens to feed.  I love Robins, and a day out birdwatching in the field still feels incomplete unless I have added one to my list, whenever I am out and about in a place where they occur.

Unlike many species of birds in Britain and Europe, the Robin seems to still be undergoing a small population expansion, and the IUCN thankfully considers it of Least Concern. With seven million breeding pairs, the RSPB places the species on its Green List.  In Britain it occurs everywhere except the coldest and remotest uplands and islands, and it breeds across Europe from the Urals to Iberia, though of course its habits, migratory patterns and confiding nature are not consistent throughout its range. And I think, a small hedgerow bird of unusual confidence around humans in these islands, and a cheery splash of colour on the gloomiest, figuratively or literally, of days, it deserves all the love and admiration it gets.  So do offer them nest boxes, they like a low, open fronted box, and do feed them, they have in recent years learned to feed from hanging bird feeders in many areas, despite typically being ground feeders, and perhaps, on a reserve where they are already confident, or in your garden if you have the time and patience to invest in gaining their confidence, try dried mealworm, sunflower hearts or even a little crumb of cheese on your hand, and perhaps this magic little bird will bless you with an unforgettable close encounter.

The Darter Dragonflies

As I write, it is grey outside. Mild now the now has melted, but drizzling and chill. Dragonfly season is well over. But it lasted into October, even November with the mild conditions and today feels an excellent day to look back.

Ruddy Darter, male, Essex 2022

At nearly every site I surveyed, the most numerous genus of Dragonfly I encountered, especially as the season pushed on into August and September, was Sympetrum. Specifically, Sympetrum sanguineum, the Ruddy Darter, and S. striolatum, the Common Darter, the former apparently capable of surviving even mildly brackish water conditions, favouring low lying coastal marshland, occurring alongside Scarce Emerald Damselfly (Lestes dryas) and Southern Migrant Hawker (Aeshna affinis). The latter, S. striolatum, is capable of flying well into the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness and is often one of the last dragonflies on the wing. However despite their abundance, and their abundant charisma, this genus seems relatively unexplored in the popular literature.

Ruddy Darter, Male, in Obelisk position as he attempts to lose heat during the heatwave of July 2022. 

These represent the two commonest species of Sympetrum, a genus in the family Libellulidae. Both species are broadly speaking red in the adult male, and gold, fading to brown in the the females. These creatures are, like other Odonata, agile aerial predators as adults, darting from their perches and sunbathing spots to seize small insects off the wing. It is this darting habit which gives them their common name. Their larvae lurk in almost any still or slow-moving body of water you might find.

Common Darter, Rainham Marshes, October 2021

Most numerous in the low coastal marshes of Essex in June and July is the Ruddy Darter (Sympetrum sanguineum),the males vivid, blood-red as the scientific name implies, the females an eye catching straw gold. They are the smallest of the ‘large’ dragonflies (Anisoptera) typically on the wing. They tend to form an assemblage with Scarce Emerald Damselflies (Lestes dryas) and Southern Migrant Hawkers (Aeshna affinis) alongside several of the small, blue damselflies, a habit noted by Brooks and Cham in their excellent field guide, which I found reflected strongly when I had the privilege of carrying out dragonfly surveys for a conservation organisation in the Summer of 2022. The males possess something of a ‘waist’ to the abdomen and can appear club tailed. Legs are jet black and the thorax lacks distinct stripes.

Common Darter, Otmoor, Oxfordshire, September 2022

Common Darter Breeding territories are closely guarded, with adults prepared to chase away any intruders, but away from water, their habitats are different. They like to be in the sun, and pick the sunniest spot they can find, and bathe in it, absorbing the solar energy through their skin. Signage, gateposts and fencing are among their favoured perches, and here they can gather in large numbers, occasionally lifting up, briefly, to grab some passing prey on the wing, or in readiness to flee a threatening shadow, before settling back down again, usually in the same patch of sunshine from which they took off. In Autumn especially, Common Darters can be surprisingly willing to come and sit on an outstretched hand, something I have witnessed and done several times, at a few sites up and down the country. Try it one sunny afternoon. Go somewhere with abundant Common Darters, any still water with adjacent sunlit rides is a good bet, find a patch of sunshine, and hold out a hand.Perhaps these engaging insects will come and visit. Stand calmly; they are completely harmless and will not bite, and they will use you as a sunbathing and bug hunting post.

Black Darter, male, Garry, Isle of Lewis and Harris, Scotland, August 2021

Both Common and Ruddy Darter are abundant and thriving, but another Sympetrum, S. danae, the Black Darter, a specialist of acidic pools on heath and moorland, has shown significant declines in its numbers in recent years. It is still an abundant dragonfly in the somewhat specialised habitats in which it occurs. Our smallest Sympetrum, and indeed our smallest true Dragonfly, shorter than your little finger, the male S. danae is also the only entirely black dragonfly in Britain; the female is black and gold. Like their red lowland cousins they can be confiding and will occasionally perch on fingers. Another upland species, under more extreme threat of local extinction, is the White-Faced Darter (Leucorrhinia dubia), reintroduced since 2010 to Foulshaw Moss in Cumbria, a Cumbria Wildlife Trust reserve probably most famous for its breeding Ospreys. A true specialist, this beautiful insect, with a white frons and a body dappled red and black, or gold and black in the female, they spend their larval development right down among the mass of sphagnum, avoiding open water, or anywhere fish can be found. Like so many species of the North, it is threatened by peat extraction, the abandonment of traditional moorland management, and by a warming climate. The peatland habitats in which these two darters dwell represent an important carbon sink, ever growing Sphagnum, is a real asset in our fight against man-made climate change. Efforts to secure the future of these two little dragons in Britain are efforts to secure the future of our world and ourselves.

White Faced Darter, female, Foulshaw Moss, Cumbria, May 2015

So keep an eye, next summer and into the Autumn, for these species wherever you happen to wander. The two ‘red’ species so numerous here in Essex are common and widespread, flying from May into late October, even November. They are sometimes overlooked in favour of the more glamourous Aeshnids and distinctly fashionable Lestidae damselflies, but I think they have a remarkable charisma of their own.