The Magic Of Starlings.

 I remember one winters evening when I was a child, walking through an underpass in Romford town centre. The kind of structure beloved of urban planners in the 50s and 60s, dishevelled by the 1980s and 90s of my childhood and youth. I recall reaching an open space at the bottom end of Romford Market, a sort of roundabout for pedestrians, open to the sky and fringed by small street trees. There was a cacophony in the skies, twittering, and the distinct whirring of hundreds of tiny wings. I was in the shadow of an urban murmuration, a big flock of starlings making their way to a communal roost somewhere else in town. I recall even at that young age, fascinated by anything small and flighted, being wonderstruck by this sensational display. Starlings are still common, but when I was a kid a flock of them could darken a grey Romford sky. Not so now. They have declined and become much scarcer since. While murmurations as big and bigger than that one I witnessed circa 1989 and still in single digits, still exist, they are few and far between, and invariably something of an avian tourist attraction, and very seldom in town centres. The Starling’s decline has been rapid, tragic and transformative.

Starlings in Cromer, spring 2022

Starlings are familiar, if not the most popular of garden visitors, I recall my aunt referring to the small bands of starlings which visited her bird table of a winters morning in the 1990s as a ‘raiding party,’ and even today they make short work of the fat balls and sunflower seeds we leave out for them. A pair attempted to nest in the apple tree in the back garden this summer, a glorious, noisy nest in a natural tree hole. They lack the tidy, hygienic practices of Blue Tits and other small passerines, which carefully move the fecal sacs away from the nest to avoid giving away its location. A static waterfall of white bird poo coated the bark beneath the hole. The adults were noisy too, attacking any magpie which landed in the adjacent trees. Sadly, I fear their efforts were not enough to protect their chicks from the big, mean corvids, as the nest fell silent one day, and no brown coated juveniles were seen on the lawn as I had hoped. I believe the garden nest of which I was most proud was not successful.

Starling in Maldon, Essex December 2022

The cause of Starlings’ decline is not known.   Agricultural intensification has led to shortages of food, especially the ‘leatherjacket’ cranefly larvae they particularly enjoy. They are badly affected by environmental pollutants, including medicines in wastewater, where exposed to them, but precise sources of exposure are unclear. Both the wintering, murmuration-forming populations and the resident population, which is highly mobile but not migratory, are in precipitous decline, with various sources pointing to declines of up to 70% since the 1960s, and 51% between 1995-20006.  They remain abundant in the United States, where they were irresponsibly released in the 19th Century, and have since become an invasive species. 

Starlings at a pre-roost gathering in the rigging of a Thames Barge.

But yet, on a winter’s evening on the Somerset Levels, or at Minsmere or Leighton Moss, murmurations in the tens of thousands are still recorded, big wheeling flocks throwing shapes against the cold sunset sky, descending noisily into the reeds, or onto artificial structures- Brighton Pier used to host a famous murmuration, before taking off again in an audible flurry of wings, until eventually, as darkness falls, they settle down, chattering gently to each other, before falling silent until morning, when they rise again in the dawn light, dispersing in small flocks- raiding parties, perhaps- to feed on whatever they can find, probing for invertebrates with the Lapwings in open fields, visiting and emptying your bird feeders, even raiding bins.  The crowd on the promenade sign pictured, from Cromer on the North Norfolk Coast, were eagerly descending on any dropped human food, and making a fuss around the dumpsters behind a chippy.  Individually starlings are beautiful, star spotted, iridescent, especially in the breeding season, when their bills turn from black to yellow and their plumage, with the protective breast feathers worn away over the hardships of winter, reveal a deep iridescence, of blues, greens and purples. Juveniles are solid brown, moulting into winter plumage in unusual patterns- a spangly starling with a brown head, often confusing inexperienced birders. But it is in numbers that they are most spectacular, and sought after, while barely anyone but little child-me looked up as they descended on Romford Market, the roost on the Somerset levels attracted hundreds of eager tourists, watching the Starlings of Bristol and Western Super Mare descend on the whispering reeds of the levels not far from Glastonbury Tour. Families had brought their kids to see them, and photographers brought an arsenal of lenses to capture the strange forms against the sunset. A group of students from Bristol Uni watched admiringly the psychedelic shapes in the sky, while an elderly gentleman with an elderly pair of swift binoculars watched from his mobility scooter. All left grinning along the banks or the muddy canal, to the car park in the dark.

The Otmoor Murmuration

I most recently watched a Murmuration when my partner, Emma and I headed up to Otmoor, the RSPB reserve near Oxford. Even on a grey Monday evening, the anticipation in the air was tangible as the sun briefly appeared through the clouds as it crossed the horizon, briefly flooding the countryside with orange glow before disappearing. We thought, standing in semi darkness, we might have missed the spectacle. However, we needn’t have worried, as the small, oval flocks began to converge in the sky, just above the treeline, merging into each other to form the big murmuration, which flowed in the air, creating strange forms there, ever growing as stragglers came to join it. After a couple of massed passes the starlings began to funnel down into the reeds, The sound, the whirr of wings, even at a distance, make the murmuration a sensory experience. I’ve never heard the sound of a murmuration accurately reproduced in Springwatch or any similar media documentaries, it seems a thing only to be experienced live. They funnelled into the reeds, the flock separating, as if the back end of it needs to wait in a holding pattern behind the disappearing lead birds, flowing back and forth like a liquid wave, until resuming the descent once the first wave had perched up.

The Otmoor Murmuration

Soon the birds had all disappeared into the reeds, though they kept twittering noisily, and one had to wonder what information was being shared down there. After about 20 minutes, something changed, and to our immense surprise, what seemed to be the entire flock took off, leaving the reedbed at speed for something low down on the other side of the path, leaving the reeds outside the hide once again silent.

And singly, they're pretty beautiful too. Starling in Cromer, Norfolk. 

The beauty of a murmuration is incredible. Inspiring. To all. You should probably go and see one. Before it is too late.

A butterfly on Hawk Hardware.

 The long awaited gloom of a July evening on the West Country heaths as the extended summer day draws to a close. Though distant cars can still be heard they have faded into the ambience now, and I am alone on the earth. The damp, grey day of drizzle is giving way to still summer evening evening, though the sunset is still obscured by grey cloud. These conditions are not perfect, but they will suffice. I'd already been dazzled by the song of a Woodlark perched in one of the small birches which dot the heath, by scuttling Tiger Beetles among the eager blooms of Bell Heather, the Calluna yet to carpet the heath in purple. But there is one denizen of these South Western heaths that I am still waiting to see, waiting to hear. And now the light is fading and the distinct sound I am waiting for has not yet broken. I prepare to give up. Perhaps the weather is not good enough for this icon of warm scented summer nights. I dare to glance at my phone to check the England football result. It is good news. I sigh, irritated at how easily I am distracted. Where is my bird? I begin the walk back toward the car, noticing again the sound of traffic. 

It is as I stroll back that the sound creeps into my awareness. Distant at first, as if in my imagination. A growing, rising purr, perhaps if you had not heard it before you might think it an insect, a stridulating orthopteran of some description. It sounds a little like the tropical frogs you might have heard on nature documentaries, but far longer, uninterrupted, constant. It continues for minutes, rising and falling in volume, slowly but distinctly. The bird who is making it sits invisibly in a birch or one of the feral Scots Pines on the heath, slowly turning its head to project the sound around and about. Then, suddenly, quite unlike how it began, the sound stops. There is a quiet, single clap, and the bird is airborne before me against the sky. Its shape is almost raptor-like, long, pointed wings, a model of sleek grace, but its flight is nothing like a raptor, light, almost floaty, rapid changes of direction, recalling that of a Swallowtail butterfly over the Norfolk fens. A Nightjar! Anything but a Goatsucker, this long range migrant occupies a special place in the UK's avifauna. It is strictly nocturnal, and, by day, almost invisible, roosting stock still, a master of camouflage and concealment, either lengthways on a branch, or down on the ground among the heather. Folk myths give the bird its scientific name, Caprimulgus europaeus, the European Goatsucker. Pure slander, this insectivore has plainly never sucked a goat and never will. It flies like a butterfly with the body of a hawk, and any interest it has in livestock is strictly in the insects they attract and kick up when they move. Perhaps that is the bird's motivation when it approaches me closely, flying around me, and rising up in front of me to take a closer look, before, perhaps realising I have failed to live up to my purpose of attracting flies, he looses interest and flutters on into the rising darkness.

Nightjars are by no means confined to the West Country, though Aylesbeare Common in Devon, where I encountered them last summer, is a prime site for the species, as is lovely Arne in Dorset. They breed in Derbyshire, where their nest sites are kept somewhat quiet to prevent disturbance, and in Nottinghamshire, where they are a popular attraction at Budby Forest, part of Sherwood, as well as in Suffolk, the Brecks and on the Yorkshire Moors. They are, by the relative remoteness of their heathland habitat and their strictly nocturnal lifestyle, often overlooked and quite possibly under-recorded, though the loss of so much heathland over the passing decades has led to serious declines; and was once UK red listed, though it is now on the amber list, as sympathetic management has helped its fortunes. Go out for an evening stroll on open heath or moorland, or even in recently felled forestry habitats, and listen for the magical sound.

The European Nightjar is found in most of Europe and a swathe of central Eastern Asia during the breeding season, and it winters in sub-Saharan Africa. They are among the last Summer migrants to arrive in Spring, often not here until the second week in May. A stroll on the Early May bank holiday is too early, if you hope to catch sight or sound of one. They stay only a little later than the Swifts, and an evening stroll on the August bank holiday is likely to be a fortnight too late. By then they are on their way, flying by night through Europe, feeding and roosting in suitable habitat on the way. I encountered this bird in hand on my first day with the Hellenic Ornithological Society's ringing project on Antikythera in the Aegean. In hand they seem a different bird to the graceful creature on the wing, they have a huge gape, a massive pink maw with which they scoop up the moths and flies upon which they feed, and fringed with sensory whiskers. They have tiny legs, to closely grasp perches to better conceal their outline, and, while entirely without weapons, they hiss and gape, perhaps in imitation of a snake, when annoyed.

 Our Nightjar, Caprimulgus europeaeus, is one of a number of Nightjar species around the world, among the most spectacular is the Standard Winged Nightjar (Caprimulgus longipennis) in which the male trails long, modified feather  flag-tipped streamers behind his wings when he flies. He is resident in the savannahs of Sudan and Ethiopia. In Spain, the Red Necked Nightjar (C. ruficolis) can be found, looking remarkably similar to our, more Northerly species.  The scientific name Caprimulgus derives from the oft-repeated folk myth, that the Nightjar suckles from a goat, but the common name is appropriate, 'jar' being derived from 'churr' a description of the bird's haunting song.

Nightjar in hand in Antikythera, ringed, annoyed and shortly to be released to continue its journey. 

On my walk I enjoy the sound of the Nightjar multiple times, with several churring birds on several perches, and I almost miss a second close approach, within ten feet of my face, fumbling for my phone in the hope of capturing it on video for posterity, though I did record the bird cresting the heather, and its distinctive, buoyant flight.  I did get recordings of the sound and the floaty, butterfly-like flight over the gloomy heath, which I hope are available above if I understand Blogger's video uploading system. I had a truly extraordinary encounter, with a truly remarkable and very special bird. 

Wanderings in the Strangest Summer: A trip South, Part 2. 20th-21st July 2020

 A walk from Stone

Mum and Dad and I went up to Stone, on the South side of the River Blackwater, up in the wilds of Essex. I spent a few hours strolling the sea wall, strolling and wildlife spotting in the glorious sunshine, as my Dad played with boats.  Birds were surprisingly few and far between, with, in what must be a first for a walk by the River Blackwater,  no waders spotted, though Common Terns flew by with characteristic grace. However there was a veritable feast of butterflies. Mumsie spotted a Marbled White, and as I walked I counted many of these big Satyrids, and a pair danced among the parched grass.  Their dance, presumably a courtship display, was rudely but accidentally interrupted by a Small White, causing one of the Marbled Whites to abandon the dance, and the other, if one can imagine a butterfly angry, chased the intruder furiously for 50 metres or more along the sea wall, until they were out of sight.

One of the 101+, female Gatekeeper at Stone. 

Butterfly highlight was a pair of Clouded Yellows, which flew up and down the sea wall at speed, full of the sun's energy, and then ascended, twisting and turning around each other, into the blue heavens. Clouded Yellows are a scarce, accidental migrant from continental Europe, some years irrupting into Southern England across the channel. Sadly they are continuously brooded, and seem unable to survive a British winter, and little correlation is seen between their numbers one year to the next.

View of the Blackwater at Stone

A curious, large black bumblebee was not identified, and I think subsequent investigation led us to the conclusion it was probably a melanistic example of one of the Cuckoo bee species.

Melanistic form Cuckoo bee spp. 

A single small copper, and a number of little orange Small Skippers flew, but Gatekeepers were by far the commonest butterfly, indeed I maxed out the counter on the iRecord butterfly app, which settled, curiously, on '101+.' A beautiful Great Crested Grebe fished on the shimmering water, and Dad enjoyed the song of a Wren from one of the sailing club chalets.

Small Skipper butterfly at Stone

Birds Seen: Great Crested Grebe, Grey Heron, Black Headed Gull, Great Black Backed Gull, Herring Gull, Common Tern, Woodpigeon, Feral Pigeon, Great Tit, Swallow, Wren, Starling, House Sparrow, Dunnock, Pied Wagtail, Chaffinch, Linnet. 

Butterflies: Comma (1) Holly Blue (1) Green Veined White (19) Gatekeeper ('101+') Small White (19) Meadow Brown (24) Small Skipper (14) Marbled White (4) Large White (17) Small Tortoiseshell (1) Clouded Yellow (3) Small Copper (1) (210+ of 14 species) 

Canvey Wick, 21st July 2020

Mumsie and I found our intended destination, the excellent RSPB reserve at West Canvey, was still closed as a result of the coronavirus, so we headed over to the Buglife/Land Trust/RSPB reserve at Canvey Wick, a former industrial site, its concrete now home to some rare and unique invertebrates, including Shrill Carder Bees, one of the country's rarest bees, and Brown Banded Carder Bees.

The summer sun was high, and bright, and the air was calm, the weather glorious. 
 
Sadly, during lockdown the dog walkers had been doing their worst, and the path up from the car park was rather unpleasant, but entering the reserve 'proper' we found a riot of floral colour, from tiny alpines, to large and unfamiliar blooms, scarcities and garden escapes leaf by petal, no doubt. They rather made me wish I was I was a better botanist.

Note figure of 8 on hindwing, leading edge. Brown Argus at Canvey Wick

Note absence of figure 8 on hidwing and additional spot on forewing. Common Blue at Canvey Wick.

From a high wooden platform stretching over the Thames, we saw the unmistakable shape of a Whimbrel, probably a returning migrant, probing about in the mud with sharply downcurved bill, while Godwits flocked in the distance. A Little Egret flew out from under us, brilliant white in the sunshine. There were plenty of Carder Bees of various descriptions about, and beautiful little solitary bees. Whitethroats sang, and we saw many fledglings of this charming warbler. Mumsie found a Wall Butterfly, and a stunning Holly Blue, which invited photography.

Mumsie's Holly Blue

 

Birds Seen: Little Egret, Oystercatcher, Whimbrel*, Curlew, Bar Tailed Godwit, Redshank, Black Headed Gull, Lesser Black Backed Gull, Common Tern, Woodpigeon, Collared Dove, Great Spotted Woodpecker, Green Woodpecker, Magpie, Carrion Crow, Blue Tit, Chiffchaff, Lesser Whitethroat, Whitethroat, Wren, Dunnock, Greenfinch, Goldfinch.

Wall 

Butterflies seen: Small Skipper (1) Comma (1) Speckled Wood (1) Peacock (5) Large White (1) Wall (2) Holly Blue (3) Common Blue (1) Small Tortoiseshell (1) Red Admiral (1) Marbled White (2) Brown Argus (1) Meadow Brown (3) Gatekeeper (13) Small White (3) 

Burnet Companion Moth