The Aeshnid Dragonflies

 

I love Aeshnid Dragonflies. It was a love affair that probably began at Dungeness in 2010, when the big Aeshna mixta, Migrant Hawker dragonflies, provided me with excellent photography subjects and generally kept me entertained between counting passerines when I was doing my Undergraduate dissertation. I wondered at the speed at which they could climb and dive and turn, more than matching a Helicopter or a Swallow for aerial agility. I watched their hunting flights, the speed at which they could bring down insect prey small and large (ish), and how relaxed and complacent they would become when they perched up to eat and digest. I love the jewel markings like inset sapphires in their long, knitting-needle abdomens. I love their huge, wrap around compound eyes, affording a wide field of vision to spot prey and predator alike.

Aeshna juncea nomming a Speckled wood Butterfly. Isle of Mull, June 2014

These big insects are predators and no mistake. During their few short weeks on the wing they grab prey up to the size of large butterflies off the wing, and I have seen a Common Hawker (Aeshna juncea) eating a Speckled Wood Butterfly on a sunny June day on the Isle of Mull, completely unbothered by me and my camera lens, fixated on dismantling and hungrily devouring the smaller insect. They are hunters in their youth, too. A. juncea can spend a couple of years as a larva, in the small ponds in which it lives, hunting even small vertebrates like tadpoles and froglets, a veritable tiger among the pondweed. They can live at considerable latitudes, their growth limited by the low temperatures, while cogeners in Southern Europe can have several broods a year.  A. juncea is sometimes called the Moorland Hawker, for the Northern and Upland habitats in which it can thrive.

Migrant Hawker, Otmoor, Oxfordshire, August 2022

Aeshnids in the British Isles come in two genera, Aeshna, a name which Wikipedia claims might originate from a misprint, Aechma being ancient Greek for Spear, presumably in reference to their elongated shape and predatory nature, and Anax, from the ancient Greek for a king or leader, the emperor dragonflies. Both these genera are widely distributed around the globe. They are members of the order Odonata, infraorder Anisoptera, and now thought only distantly related to the similar, huge insects of Carboniferous palaeontology, though in the air they do appear true heirs to these prehistoric monsters. In adulthood all are predatory, and most are territorial, individuals patrolling stretches of hedgerow or pond side and tolerating no insect intruders.  Their larvae, called Nymphs, are, like other odonata, ambush predators, lurking in the pondweed and snatching passing water life. As large insects, they can take multiple years to mature.

Female Migrant Hawker, Essex, August 2022

In the Autumn, our most numerous Aeshnid here in Southern England is the Migrant Hawker (Aeshna mixta) which can be found, sometimes forming large groups of individuals, terrorising the little midges and such which gather in glades and on open rides, sometimes far from the water in which they started their lives. These groups can reach some numbers, and, unusually for dragonflies, they can be surprisingly tolerant of each other, seldom engaging in the high pursuit, rolling, dangerous territorial fights which seem to occupy a lot of time for other species. The Migrant Hawker only spends one year as a larva, emerging in late summer and early Autumn and remaining on the wing until mid-November where we are now.  It’s first segment is identified by a ‘golf-tee’ shaped marking. Sometimes a larger Southern Hawker (Aeshna cyanea) appears, and menaces them. This beast, which once bred in our Essex garden pond, is substantially larger than the migrant hawker, and tolerates few rivals. Its abdomen is jewelled in Blue and Green.

Elderly Migrant Hawker being 'mobbed' by a Willow Emerald Damselfly. RSPB Rainham Marshes, Essex, October 2021

More recently, Southern England, and my home county of Essex in particular, has become a hotspot for a new Aeshnid. The Southern Migrant Hawker (Aeshna affinis) is increasingly common on the ditches and grazing marshes which line the Essex coast from the Thames to the Stour. This beauty has a thorax washed with blue over a base of green, and a vivid blue abdomen. Its segment one is marked with a ‘Deadpool mask’ marking, recalling the face of Marvel’s sweary superhero.  First identified in the county in 2007, my summer was full of these stunners, fighting and breeding over clubrush and reed lined ponds and ditches in July and August. By my understanding, how long the Essex population spends as a larva remains unclear, though it is probably one year, and this incredibly handsome invertebrate is one of climate change’s winners, locally at least, benefitting from the hotter summers.

Southern Migrant Hawker, Bower's Marsh, Essex, July 2022

In contrast, Brown and Norfolk Hawkers are relatively dull in colour, large and robust, the Brown Hawker (Aeshna grandis) having brown flushed wings, and the Norfolk Hawker (Aeshna isosceles), now found much more widely in the UK than confined to Norfolk, though still considered rare and localised. The Norfolk Hawker has big, green eyes, and is relatively widespread in Continental Europe and North Africa. The Brown, which is large, has two pale diagonal stripes on its thorax and subtle blue eyes. It too is doing well, expanding its British range.

Emperor Dragonfly, male, Bowers' Marsh, Essex, July 2022

Though recently the Lesser Emperor (Anax parthenope) has been confirmed breeding in Southern England, for a long time the only Anax dragonfly in these islands has been the spectacular Emperor Dragonfly (A. imperator). This big, green and blue Dragon, by some measures the largest species in Britain, is common and familiar. I have witnessed them ovipositing in borrowdykes on the Essex marshes, and in city centre park ponds. The male has a solid, muted green thorax and a bright blue abdomen, distinctive by their size. They fly in high summer, into August, and range across much of the country.  

Southern Migrant Hawker, Essex, August 2022

Aeshnids form a most impressive family of insects.  Predators, aerobats extraordinaire, survivors and thrivers, wonders and jewelled terrors of freshwater bodies and their environs, nymph and adult. And even in November, it is not too late to see the distinctive shape of a Migrant Hawker, patrolling the hedgelines near you.

Wanderings in the Strangest Summer. 2nd-6th July 2020 Attenborough and Bempton

 On the second of July I headed, perhaps ill-advisedly, to Attenborough, and found it extraordinarily and uncomfortably peoply and doggy. The Visitors Centre, and thus the toilets, were still closed, and this unfortunately did no favours for the site. The most interesting wildlife encounter of the day was in Attenborough Village, when I encountered many, many Common Toadlets, beautiful and miniscule, some still bearing tiny tails. I managed to resuce some which had become stuck in a gutter and lurched awkwardly towards a drain grill. One Common Froglet was also among them. 

Following this rather mixed experience, I was rather unsure on the fifth, whether returning to Attenborough was a good idea, but between us Natalie and I decided Carsington was far too familiar, and Rutland Water simply too far. We did not, it turned out, regret it. I was still camera-less so there are no pictures from this trip-and I want a Bempton one for the share banner. 

We found the site again rather peoply, but perhaps the grey sky above and the stiff breeze which blew over acted as a deterrent, and it did not feel quite so busy. Dogs were again on the rampage on the central causeway, the temporary lack of wardening perhaps taken by some as licence for irresponsibility. Beside the semi-feral hounds, we saw a few passerines, and a lovely Green Sandpiper, probably a returning migrant, a hint of Autumn, was on the ridge and furrow. A huge abundance of Swifts and Sand Martins hunted insects, low over the water near the Tower Hide. A Kingfisher flashed between them, fighting the wind on a blur of wings. 

Attenborough hosted at least 10 Little Egrets, with six, later eight, counted on the ridge-and-furrow. The Common Terns which breed at Attenborough were active too, and, evidence perhaps of their maritime lineage, were apparently unperturbed by the wind. 

We walked up the riverside path as far as the Delta Sanctuary, before turning back, following the broad River Trent and its curves. There were plenty of insects about, to remind me of my paucity of Ladybird and Shieldbug ID skills. We saw some beautiful Damsels and Dragons including a beautiful male Banded Demoiselle, and a Small Tortoiseshell was an orange jewel in a moment of sunshine. 

Across the river we found half a dozen or so Black Tailed Godwit, still flushed orange in their breeding finery. Probably non breeding adults, or failed breeding birds, waders like these in July represent the vanguard of Autumn migration. As we watched them the heavens opened and the rain came down. We made our way back to the car, getting soaked to the skin. 

As we arrived at the car park the weather improved a little, and a Whitethroat and a Garden Warbler enjoyed the first of the season's blackberries. 

Birds Seen: Canada Goose, Greylag Goose, Mute Swan, Egyptian Goose, Gadwall, Mallard, Tufted Duck, Grey Heron, Little Egret, Cormorant, Moorhen, Coot, Lapwing, Black Tailed Godwit, Green Sandpiper, Black Headed Gull, Common Tern, Stock Dove, Woodpigeon, Swift, Kingfisher, Kestrel, Magpie, Carrion Crow, Sand Martin, Chiffchaff, Garden Warbler, Whitethroat, Starling, Blackbird, Sing Thrust, Robin, Goldfinch, Reed Bunting.

Metal Bird: Airbus A400M Atlas

Butterflies: Small Tortoiseshell, Meadow Brown, Peacock. 

Invertebrates: Aeshna spp, Blue Tailed Damselfly, Banded Demoiselle. 

Bempton Cliffs, Yorkshire, 6th July 2020

With lockdown restrictions easing further, Natty and I were, for the first time this year, able to make our annual pilgrimage to the RSPB's reserve at Bempton Cliffs in Yorkshire.

Puffins at Bempton

The weather was largely fine, and we explored the clifftop viewpoints of this towering seabird city, busy, distinctively perfumed, and alive with sound, the cried of Kittywakes and the chattering of Razorbills filling the air. A pair of Razorbills preened each other affectionately, and a mother sheltered her baby, standing between the brown fluffy creature and the chalky face. A large baby Gannet, still covered in down but big and ungainly, a massive white ball of fuzz as long as the adult, was fed regurgitated fish from its parent's crop. Its wings were tiny, but the black points of its juvenile flight feathers had just begun to appear. Puffins, always beautiful but never in great numbers at Bempton compared to the other seabirds bill-rubbed with their partners on their chosen ledges. Stiff-winged Fulmars breezed by- the air was full of seabirds, the white cruciforms of Gannets, the whirring wings of Puffins, and Herring Gulls, patrolling as if looking for trouble, and elegant Kittywakes. A single Common Seal was below in the water, looking up at the birds.

Gannet with chick, with Guillemot arguing with a fish behind. 

Kittywake in the sunshine.

We returned to the visitors' centre, and enjoyed a cup of coffee, something of a novelty after all these months, and found ourselves surrounded by confiding blue-eyed Jackdaws and chattering Tree Sparrows, perhaps hoping for a crumb or two of RSPB visitor centre cake. We also watched tree sparrows dust-bathing in the dry sandy soil. After our sustenance, we were treated to the graceful sight of a Barn Owl, perched on a post, then taking to the wing to seize an unfortunate rodent in the grass.

Tree Sparrows

In the sunny spells, butterflies were on the wing in the clifftop meadows. In the yellow glow of the early evening sun, two juvenile Peregrines perched upon posts. I avoided approaching too close, and enjoyed watching these two powerful predators, and was surprised when these laid-back youngsters did not flinch at oncoming walkers. The adult female flew by, and some minutes later we saw the adult male perched on a clifftop.

Gannet in flight

We turned our backs reluctantly on the seabirds, as the evening was approaching, and made our way back to the car park. Taking a last scan around, and watching some Linnets, Natty found a bird perched in a commanding position on top of a small Hawthorne bush, and identified it as a Red Backed Shrike, a scarce migrant, a life tick for Natty and only my second in the UK. The bird appeared to be an adult female, presumably a returning migrant, and sat with the deceptively cute look of the smaller shrikes, not betraying its nature as a powerful little predator of small mammals and even small birds.

Red Backed Shrike

Nearby a Yellowhammer sang from the top of a post. 

We made our way home, having enjoyed a wonderful day at Bempton, one of my favourite places, and our only day trippable seabird city. I hope we can return in 2021. 

Birds Seen: Fulmar, Gannet, Moorhen, Oystercatcher, Kittywake, Lesser Black Backed Gull, Herring Gull, Guillemot, Razorbill, Puffin*, Feral Pigeon, Woodpigeon, Barn Owl, Kestrel, Peregrine, Red Backed Shrike*, Magpie, Jackdaw, Carrion Crow, Blue Tit, Great Tit, Skylark, Swallow, Whitethroat, Blackbird, Song Thrush, Stonechat, Tree Sparrow, Meadow Pipit, Chaffinch, Linnet, Goldfinch, Yellowhammer*, Reed Bunting

Butterflies: Red Admiral, Small Tortoiseshell, Meadow Brown, White spp. 

Mammals: Rabbit, Common Seal (Harbour Seal)

Razorbill, chattering.

Lydd Airport Expansion

Finding time to blog is sometimes a bit of a challenge.  This is why I am blogging about an announcement made now several weeks ago. On the 10^th of April the news broke that permission had been granted for Lydd airport to be expanded, a measure which will may conclude the story of Dungeness’ National Nature Reserve’s “Death from a thousand cuts” to quote the expression once used by the botanist Brian Ferry, who has worked extensively on the site.

Dungeness Old Lighthouse from the RH&DR narrow-guage railway.

Dungeness, announced as “the other lands end” by a sign welcoming visitors to the expansive National Nature Reserve and ramshackle fishing community, is a totally unique habitat, with no parallel existing anywhere in the world. It consists of miles of shingle, bound by a community of lichen and bryophytes, grazed by a few hardy rabbits and hares.  It shows a complete succession from a maritime flora of rare Sea Kale, a curious, salt-tolerant member of the cabbage family, up to scrub, established on soils left behind by lichen and bryophyte pioneers, an example of life finding a way on a stony desert of rounded pebbles deposited by the sea. Wild flowers grow among the simpler plants and lichens, and in high summer these are visited by a range of butterflies, small tortoiseshell, small heath, small copper.  A single road winds across the foreshore, past the two lighthouses, historic and modern, past the Pilot Inn, serving local fish and chips, past the old coastguard cottages housing the Dungeness Bird Observatory, my home for five weeks in the Autumn of 2010, toward the dual towering, steam emitting monstrosities of Dungeness A and B nuclear power stations. A small footpath cuts north in a straight line across the shingle, past a memorial two a couple of brave Polish lads who died in their Spitfires defending the English coast, a threadbare polish flag flying over the wild, flat shingle country. A series of lakes,  traces of the gravel extraction workings which dot Romney Marsh are attended by herons, and in Autumn, swallows and martins gather over them in their thousands, surround an old cart track, where the lichen flora is barer, and where one can experience jelly legs after hours spent walking over the unstable shingle, which leads up to the famous RSPB reserve, home to the most obliging birds of prey in the country, a population of Marsh Harriers, a bird described by the lands custodians as rarer than a Golden Eagle. Yellow wagtails and meadow pipits breed here, and the reserve hosts black redstarts, specialists in these extreme habitats, and a rare colony of Tree Sparrows.  The gravel workings present an opportunity for migratory birds passing through the area from Great Britain, Ireland, Scandinavia, and even Iceland and Greenland, through the migration bottleneck the peninsula presents, on their way to the Mediterranean and beyond. From the lighthouse the ridges and troughs, landforms typical of an apposition beach, can still be seen, creating interest for Geomorphologists as well as Ecologists.

Rare Lapland Bunting at Dungeness.

Lydd airport as it is now is fairly inoffensive. Light aircraft fly out of it, pleasure flights take in the beauty of the channel coast and the Kent countryside. But the news of impending airport improvements threaten all of this, and, wooed by the promise of a meagre 200 new jobs (according to the Guardian’s transport columnist) local opinion is spilt, although a poll suggested 2/3 people would still rather not see their treasured NNR disappear, and are opposed to the airport expansion.  More concerningly, the scheme has been approved by government who claim, despite all the scientific evidence to the contrary,  that the airport scheme will not damage local wildlife.  This is a clear falsehood, as the RSPB, and Professor Ferry, of whose teaching I had the honour when I was an undergraduate at the University of London, would testify. The Sulphur dioxide pollution associated with jet propulsion causes increased nitrogen deposition to the soil, to which lichens, complex symbioses of algae and fungi, specialists in nutrient-poor environments, in which the two organisms depend on each other to survive, are particularly vulnerable.  The increased nutrient levels will destroy the unique plant communities and the succession.  The RSPB manages its reserve for birds, and flight safety legislation may prevent them from managing in such a way as to encourage them. The Wildlife and Countryside act protecting wild birds from hunting does not apply where there are flight safety issues, and any birds perceived as presenting a danger to flights will probably be shot.  Lydd Airport expansion, for Dungeness and its wildlife, means death.  The RSPB has been campaigning hard against airport expansion, with petition after petition, and even calling in the initial approval of the scheme to judicial review.  Their case was that the nature conservation value of the area was overlooked by the planners, which is clearly true. Nevertheless the judiciary sided with the business cartel.  The airport is owned by the charming Sheikh Fahad el Athel, who was once in court over millions of pounds of commissions involved in weapons deals between BAe and his native Saudi Arabia, who complains the runway.

Cricket among the shingle at Dungeness.

The government seems intent to force upon us some new airport building in the near future, despite widespread campaigns to the contrary. They support their war on Ecology through the use of academic stooges such as the Ecosystems Markets Task Force, a group, tellingly composed of economists, who claim it is possible to offset damage caused by commercial building projects simply by directing conservation effort, funded by developers, to other sites, equivalent to licensing an individual to destroy the Mona Lisa and replace it with a picture of a smiley face. Dungeness is irreplaceable, as the barren shingle “habitat creation” projects at Sussex Wildlife Trust’s Rye Harbour reserve demonstrates. Such habitats, and the landforms which accompany them, cannot be created artificially. This deserves another blog, but ridiculous exercises in market-based approaches will sound the death knell of the British conservation movement if they are permitted to get any further. Nevertheless they will try and fall back on such guidance notes.  Meanwhile Hundreds of loyal, Tory-voting West Londoners have succeeded in convincing the government not to expand Heathrow, with the help of well meaning green campaigners. Few of us see the need for increased airport capacity, and much as I love aeroplanes, and the opportunities for travel they provide, I acknowledge we need to reduce, not increase our capacity if we are to reduce carbon dioxide emissions and minimise the coming climate disaster. Campaigners, including those at the climate camp in 2005 I had the honour of attending, have done well, but using Heathrow as a focal point for protest is problematic, as it risks diverting development to places they can do much more damage, places like the Thames Estuary, and Cliffe. Places like Lydd.  The truth seems to be, although many West Londoners appear curiously reluctant to adjust to the jet noise which has been going on above their heads, usually since before they were born, Heathrow may just be the least worst place for this environmental tragedy to play out. Not Dungeness. We would all rather it didn’t happen anywhere, but so called green campaigners who talk of airports “in unpopulated areas” are really doing biodiversity no favours at all.

View across Dungeness to the Nuclear Power Station.

Now it seems the campaign against the airport, and to save Dungeness, could have found a pair of very unlikely friends. When it is next in court, as the RSPB will, with widespread support, ensure it will be, the main focus may be in the area of Nuclear safety.  Large aeroplanes and nuclear power stations present a fairly obvious safety risk and security challenge, and, especially in these days of paranoia, the risk of aeroplane-reactor collision, and all the associated fallout, are a real concern.  A blight on the beautiful landscape may yet, ironically, save it.  If not, one can hope that the legal fees will eventually build up sufficiently that the business interests whose endless greed would see this green, windswept paradise of bird life and lichen erased forever, will be put off by the mounting cost. The possibility remains that the cost of building the airport at Lydd will eventually prove prohibitive. We must not be complacent, campaigns continue to prevent it. It is not over, and it may yet go to court in Europe, where, as a designated SPA site, UK equivalent of the Natura 2000 network, the planning authorities will have to demonstrate that the airport, is in the vital national interest.

Small Copper butterfly and Cladonia lichen

What is in the vital national interest is preserving this unique, and incredibly fragile and vulnerable wildlife habitat.

View across Romney Marsh from the RSPB reserve.

Wild Lands And Wet Fowls

Saturday 29^th September took me to the rather stunning Wild lands and Wet fowls Trust reserve on the road to Liverpool at Martin Mere, in the company of some lovely and hung-over Mancunians. We braved the entrance fee, which always feels a little more than one might expect at WWT reserves, although I was sufficiently impressed by the reserve to claim it back off my membership,  and made our way initially to the captive waterfowl collection.  We allowed ourselves to be charmed by the two small and two very small Asian Short-Clawed otters while they were fed by the keeper,  a small compensation for the Eurasian Otter no-show at Leighton Moss a couple of days ago. These diminutive otters are incredibly cute, and seem to be the most popular species as zoo animal, perhaps on account of their social nature and relatively minimal space requirements. The keeper reminded us that the largest otter in the world is the Amazon river otter, which feeds on Piranhas in the South American river basin, and suggested keeping one close for safety. Most commentators seem to be of the view that the Amazon River Otter is a six-foot long predator every bit as powerful as a jaguar and more than happy to defend its territory against crocodiles. 

Asian Short Clawed Otter. Also capable of defending itself against crocodiles, through cooperation and strength in numbers.

Pair of handsome red-crested Pochards.

The otter feeding was charming and so were the lovely red-crested Pochards and Eider which occupied the next pool, sharing it with some wilder coots and moorhens. The captive wildfowl collections at the WWT centres, they have more in Barnes, have a clear conservation value and are no doubt an educational resource also. The WWT have also bred birds in captivity for release into the wild as part of invaluable reintroduction schemes, and maintain populations of birds which are threatened by habitat destruction. This doesn’t leave me unconcerned about the practice of pinioning wildfowl. The captive birds here (as opposed to the wild ones, separated by predator-proof fencing and largely in another part of the site) have had part of their wings removed to render them flightless. This practice is illegal in ducks kept on farms, but the WWT do it to prevent their wildfowl escaping. It does not sit easy that birds can be rendered permanently flightless, and how it impacts on their experience to be so damaged is unclear. I suppose pinioning is preferable to a repeat of the sorry tale of the Ruddy Duck, which was exterminated in recent years for expanding the gene pool available to an isolated population of the closely related White Headed Ducks in Spain, having initially escaped from, according to anecdotal evidence, another Wildfowl and Wetlands Trust exhibit in the 1980s.   The practice is carried out when the birds are chicks and supposedly do not suffer long term consequences aside from the intended, indeed, they appear to live normal lives, breeding well,  and the Trust has maintained these exhibits for the public for decades.


As we walked around the “Duck Zoo,” even while watching the Otter show, my eyes were being drawn skyward, and looking over the large Wetlands Centre, my anticipation for a look at the wild birds was growing. There were, occasionally, arrivals and departures, and sometimes just nervous flocks taking to the sky, of huge numbers of noisy, honking geese.  

To my surprise, there were still a few butterflies about, we saw Comma and Red Admirals feeding, and sunning themselves, on and around a buddleia beside the very quiet Beaver enclosure inside the captive waterfowl area. These beautiful nymphalids spend the winter as adults, often tucked up in the corners of outhouses and other cold buildings, and presumably in caves and hollow trees, to re-emerge when the weather becomes warmer, not reproducing until they emerge from this hibernation the following spring. These two were clearly feeding up before their long sleep.

Comma butterfly with autumnal hawthorne berries.

We made our way out of the “Duck Zoo” and onto the Martin Mere reserve “proper.” Martin Mere is a lake, situated in an unusually flat part of West Lancashire, which is fringed by wetland habitats, some reclaimed from farmland in more recent years, and some artificial scrapes used for the dual purposes of habitat creation and cleaning the water as it flows of farmland and into the Mere itself. Immediately outside the hide were the usual suspects, plus elegant pintails, somewhere out in the water a male almost in his full breeding plumage, with a chocolate brown head, while a pair, the male still in eclipse, dabbled closer to us.  The pintail is one of the most attractive of the wintering wild ducks, with the females and eclipse males having an unusual grace about them, elegant, more slightly built than some of their relatives, with longer necks and prominent tails.   A pair of teal flew low across the water and several more were around.

We walked up the muddy track toward the Harrier Hide, a wooden hide built in the shape of a bird of prey, or perhaps some Native American totem, which looks out over some marshland recently reclaimed from arable use.  A drake Shoveller sat contentedly on one of the grassy islands rising from the shallow water, as did a single Pink footed Goose and a smart Lesser Black Backed Gull.  There were relatively few birds to see despite the promising expanse of marshland we had in front of us. I’d hoped to catch sight of one of the promised Harriers or perhaps some other raptor hunting over the grass.  A shelduck grazed, while black headed gulls squabbled. It was at this hide that my camera battery gave out, finally, and I must thank Kel and Jack for the loan of their camera to take a couple of shots, including those which feature in this blog post.

Teal, Shelduck and Black Headed Gulls

We walked back along a muddy path to the visitors centre. Signs promised Tree Sparrows, the reserve being host to a colony, but we only saw a few blue and great tits on the feeding station, which was surprising given the diversity of birds around those at Leighton Moss.   I also elected to return to the visitors centre and become a member of the WWT, partly to gain free entry to some of the trusts’ other reserves, like Barnes in London, and Welney in Norfolk, and also to support their work preserving threatened wetland wildlife the world over. The WWT, alongside the RSPB and others is among the leading organisations working to establish a captive breeding population of Spoonbilled Sandpipers, an endangered species from Pacific Asia.

We walked around the corner past the gates to the car park and made our way to the final hide we’d visit that day and found it a spectacle. Pink footed Geese fly in from Iceland in October to spend the winter in the relative warmth of the British winter, and at Martin Mere, among other sites, they gather in their thousands. Estimates put the numbers there that day at around 12000. Skeins of the noisy, honking geese were returning from grazing on nearby farmers fields, where they are sometimes chased away when they threaten to eat the new shoots of Autumn-sown crops.   On the ground they were joined by a dozen or so Whooper Swans. From time to time, some of the Geese would take to the air, and others would return from feeding grounds further away. Greylag Geese also grazed outside the hide, although some of the islands had been reduced to mud by the action of so many feeding waterfowl.  Sometimes the teal would go up, perhaps responding to some terrestrial, or low flying predator outside of our view, and at times thousands of birds filled the evening sky, teal, pintail and goose.   But it was the V formations of Pink Footed Geese which provided the greatest spectacle. These migrants from the arctic, returning to their winter roost by the hundred.  These spectacular flocks seem to be the main features of reserves managed by the WWT.  They certainly maintain some special places.

Pink Footed Geese. Many.

Carelessly I also managed to leave my binoculars in one of the hides-fortunately, the typical honesty one associates from such places had prevailed and they had been returned to the visitors centre, giving me an excuse to make a repeat visit the following day.  On my return visit I managed to get a bit closer to the beautiful Whooper swans, taking in a hide to distant from the centre for us to reach on the first visit. Sadly I was without camera, but I must return when more of these birds are present. I also saw a Marsh Harrier and a couple of Widgeon,  the grazing duck which frequents wet meadows through the winter. A warden explained how local arable farmers bring some if their rejected potatoes to the reserve to feed the birds, distracting them from feeding on potentially more valuable crops.  

The work of the Wildfowl and Wetlands Trust is excellent and worthwhile, and, though I can take or leave their “duck zoos” of artificially flightless birds, they maintain some of the most stunning wetland habitats around on their reserves, and their conservation work is impeccable, so I was pleased to add another window sticker to the small collection in my car.

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.