Gateway to the Nuclear Wasteland?

The government is planning to dump nuclear waste in Cumbria, on the doorstep of the stunning Lake District National Park, and,  perhaps unsurprisingly given this knowledge, Saturday took me up to the town of Bowness in Windermere on the shores of the lake, to demonstrate.

The lake district is a remarkable landscape, its precipitous crags, high rolling hills and still, deep lakes inspiring poets over the centuries. Indeed, their descriptions were such that probably very little more is needed. The point is that Cumbria is remote, and as such, it lends itself all to readily to sites like this. The infamous Sellafield power station sits on the Cumbrian coast,  where it is processes nuclear waste from around the country, and beyond.  Suggestions of releases of radioactive material causing cancer in domestic pets and poisoning the catch of Norwegian fishing boats have never quite been proven but we all know they have been made.

Lake Windermere, Cumbria.

Current plans are to site a nuclear waste dump in West Cumbria, perhaps inside the National park, perhaps outside, the precise site is not clear. Previous surveys and reports have revealed concerns about the Geology of the area. The ideal site for a repository of nuclear waste repository, if such a thing exists, would comprise hard, non-porous rock, in a geologically stable area, under low relief.  West Cumbria was rejected for just such a dump in the late 1990s, at which point our government made advances toward to government of Australia to consider siting said waste there.  Unsurprisingly, their advances were rejected. And so the plan came back to Cumbria.  The rocks of West Cumbria sit about the Lake District Boundary Fault, which has produced tremors in historic time, and historic time isn’t that long in the lifetime of some of the country’s most dangerous nuclear waste.  It is not far from the places in which Britain’s adventures in Fracking shale gas will soon be commencing, the practice which caused such phenomena as burning tap water and earth tremors in the United States, dismissed in Britain as the result of “poor regulation.”  They also lie under some of the subterranean aquifers which provide water for some of the most populous parts of Western Europe- Greater Manchester depends on the Cumbrian hills for its water supply, as does much of the North West.  The Lakes are famous, too, and welcome millions of tourists from far and wide. Some local businesses can be forgiven for their concerns that some of their would-be customers may remain further South for fear of the nuclear waste. 

Dayglo Standards.

Those supporters of nuclear waste dumping in Cumbria, including the few local councillors who declared, much to the surprise of the people they represent, that the communities were “willing” to accept it, claim that “jobs” will be available to the local people, although they are less forthcoming about how many. These will largely be in digging out the holes in which the waste is to be stored, it is unclear whether they have accounted for the personnel needed should there be a serious radioactive accident.  Accidents and near meltdowns are dismissed by the nuclear lobby as something that only happens abroad, where workmanship is inexplicably considered poor, and management even worse. The Fukashima plant in Japan may have been poorly maintained, but what is Japan?  This is the land of the public private partnership, the Ladbroke Grove Rail Disaster and the filthy hospital, the land which would never fail to adequately maintain its vital safety equipment.  If the most technological advanced country in the world cannot safely deal with nuclear power, what is to be said for a country whose engineering record since the 1950s consists mainly of entries in Richard Hammond’s Book of Crap Cars?  The Cumbrian site, which leading geologists say is unsuitable, which was dismissed as unsuitable twelve years ago, will be accepting waste from all over Europe and perhaps beyond.

The problem remains of somewhere to site our domestic nuclear waste, especially following the decision to build a new generation of nuclear power stations as an alternative to coal and gas. I do not have any answers to this problem, but the consensus remains, that Cumbria is not suitable. With that in mind, a few good friends from Lancaster People and Planet gathered on the shore of England’s largest lake, the stunning Windermere, in the heart of the Lake District, and an icon of the country’s natural beauty, with concerned locals, to wave banners and sign petitions, and have a presence to express our profound anxiety pending the conclusion of the public consultation on Friday.  The demo was extremely friendly, a small crowd of fifty or so people from the local community gathered among the pigeons and jackdaws and ice in a beautiful place. Day-Glo flags stood in a row on the jetty, and it was disheartening but appropriate to realise they spelled out the word “Sold” against the backdrop of the Mute Swans and still water, snow-capped hills behind. Banners declared “no nuclear waste facility for the lakes” and beer mats, handed to passers by promoted the demo and declared that the nuclear waste was “for you, for eternity” a play on some marketing strategy used by the National Park Authority.  We signed some petitions and agreed to bring some literature back to Lancaster to make people more aware of what was occurring.

Mallards, Black Headed Gulls, Mute Swan, Feral Pigeon.

There were some hardy souls out , or some dedicated ones, who hung on in the cold for an hour or so. It was good to see some colour and hear some music, in aid the hope it would contribute to the cancellation of this frightening project. They were a good crowd and seemed pleased to meet the Lancaster crowd. After the demo we dispersed a little bit, some of our band making their way to a lovely little cafe up the road in Bowness, while three of us stayed a little while, to look at the bird life (this is, after all, a birdy blog, here comes the birdy bit...) and reflect on the potential impact of the development on this stunning place.  Mute swans and mallards ate out of the hands of demonstrators and tourists.  Further out on the water floated Tufted Ducks, and in the distance, smart Goldeneye, another diving duck, gathered in a flock, their white bodies and cheek patches separating them from the more familiar tufties. A couple of Goosander were about, a female swimming up and down not far from us.  Further out was a bright white drake goosander. This species used to be pretty scarce, perhaps partly as a result of historical persecution by fishery interests, but seems to be in the process of making a comeback. Goosander are big ducks, slightly larger than a mallard, and sit low in the water. Their toothed bills, they are among a sub family of ducks known as sawbills, mark them out as fish-eaters.  Unlike the Mohawk of the co generic Red Breasted Merganser, their crests are thick and give the impression of an oddly shaped head.  Also out there was a familiar bird I hadn’t seen yet this year, a great crested grebe. This common species had somehow evaded me this year and it was nice to see one out here.  I’d always thought of the lakes as something of an avian desert, host to plenty of wildlife, sure, remarkable invertebrates in the woods fringing many of the deeper, oligotrophic waters, and in the sediment of Windermere’s shallows. I’ve always been aware of remarkable fish, ice age relics like the Vendace and Arctic Char which live in the deep, cold waters, but I was under the impression these mesotrophic (like Windermere) and oligotrophic (like most of the others) lakes were of relatively little value for birds; their true wildlife value lying beneath the surface, but here was a good assemblage of species.

Mute Swan

A couple of swans strutted and waved their heads and necks in a courtship dance.  Someone got out a packet of Mini Cheddars, and within seconds, she was covered in pigeons. Handsome, white doves, none other than leucistic feral pigeons, descended in dozens.  The mute swans, clearly very familiar with people, climbed cumbersomely out of the water, and waddled towards us. Black headed gulls took up perches on the railings beside us. We’d watched other people feeding the birds, and then getting intimidated by the pigeons, and I’d always felt a little smug about it. I enjoy watching feral pigeons,  I find their behaviour fascinating and just think they’re very watchable, so I wasn’t adverse to borrowing a mini cheddar myself and crumbling it a little, offering it to a handsome white pigeon. Immediately the bird took up position on my arm. Several others surrounded me, perching on my back, my head, arms, shoulders. They felt very light, their wing feathers, even as they flapped about, very soft, but one of the birds beaks felt quite hard as it pecked me in the face. I didn’t look so smug and handed the Mini Cheddars to someone else, although not before we’d all posed for photos with the pigeons.

The Author With Pigeons.

Leaving the birds and the waterside behind we headed up to the cafe, and for an explore of Windermere and Bowness, and their outdoor shops. It was a great day. We’d stood up for something good, and we’d made friends with some pigeons. A couple of beers and a snowball fight later and we hit the train back to Lancaster.

Edited To Add: Links to petitions on 38 Degrees:

http://you.38degrees.org.uk/petitions/no-nuclear-dump-in-the-lake-district

http://you.38degrees.org.uk/petitions/stop-plans-for-a-nuclear-dump-in-the-lake-district

And for the benefit of Laura's bird notebook:

Canada Goose (Branta canadensis) Mute Swan (Cygnus olor) Mallard (Anas platyrynchos) Goldeneye (Bucephala clangula) Tufted Duck (Aythya fuligula) Goosander (Mergus merganser) Great Crested Grebe (Poediceps cristatus) Carrion Crow (Corvus corone) Jackdaw (Corvus monedula) Feral Pigeon (Columba livia) Common Gull (Larus canus) Black Headed Gull (Chroicocephalus ridibundus) Cormorant (Phalacrocorax carbo) Collared Dove (Streptopelia decaocto)

The Falcons of Manchester

Whilst my rant about the perilous situation facing many raptors in the UK at this stage, I have to write about my recent visit to Manchester where, in the heart of the city, I got some wonderful views of some wonderful birds of prey, and was a witness to their family life, on a ledge overhanging the river Irwell as it creeps sluggishly between the boroughs of Manchester and Salford.

On the day after my mate Tom’s birthday, we went over to the house of a pair of good friends of ours, a couple who live in one of the impressive, rather new “dual use” tower blocks in the city centre, overlooking the Irwell and the Arndale centre, as soulless a shopping centre as one could hope to find, and the wider city. From the 23^rd floor the city spreads out before you, its smart, red brick buildings dating back to Industrial Revolution expansion sitting side by side with glass office blocks, the 47 story Beetham Tower and, in the distance, older tower blocks sitting on the outskirts of the city, with rolling hills to the horizon. From here, on a clear day, one can see the Jodrell Bank observatory, and a bridge in Runcorn, Liverpool.  As we disembarked from the lift, the window which faced us briefly framed the shape of a Peregrine, its buff coloured underside indicating it was a juvenile.  A couple of pigeons rocketed through our view, obviously recognising the threatening shape above them, changing direction and disappearing from sight. The Peregrine did not stoop after them.

We made our way in to our friends’ flat where we were made welcome, and we sat by the window. We were pointed to a mossy, dark patch, on a ledge beneath the roof of the smart, red brick building opposite. The ledge, on inspection with the binoculars, turned out to be covered in feathers. Many of these were white and our friend reported having seen the Peregrines taking Black-Headed Gulls back to the ledge.  We did not have to wait long for the birds to return. Reports from the RSPB online suggested four chicks had fledged and were being fed by two adults. An adult Peregrine, we assumed it must be the female, the larger of the sexes in this and most raptor species, landed on the ledge, holding in its talons the grey body of a feral pigeon.  The adult was a smart bird indeed, with a slate-black back, jet black crown and facial markings, and a yellow cere and eye ring giving a fierce expression. For a falcon it is broad bodied, chunky even, but lacks none of the grace of its smaller and slighter relatives. Two juveniles, one distinctly smaller than the other, follow their mother onto the ledge. The juveniles are greyer than their parents, with a hint of russet brown in the crown, and very much beige, rather than white undersides. In flight they already look like falcons, but when perching their youth is plain to see. The feathers on their undersides still look fluffy, and they lack the striking yellow facial features of the adults. For now she just stands over the pigeon, which appeared initially to be struggling, but quickly becomes still as she begins to pluck it. The youngsters look intrigued but wait patiently, occasionally reaching towards the female. Within a few minutes, she has cleared sufficient of the late pigeon’s feathers and begins to offer it, in small pieces as if to a nestling, to her offspring, amid a loud chorus of shrill begging calls from the youngsters. A male and female juvenile sit in front of her, and a few seconds later, another smaller juvenile arrives. The largest juvenile appeared to be receiving most of the food, but the others are fed too. The process of delicately removing small fragments of meat and passing them to members of her brood continues for several minutes, before she is off again, leaving the young to share the meat among themselves. The two larger siblings go in for the largest piece of meat, but a wing or some other substantial section of pigeon remains and, furtively, the smallest juvenile approached and dragged it away, feeding in peace a few metres from his siblings.  The process of breaking down and eating the pigeon has, rather to my surprise, taken the birds about an hour, an hour of squawking begging noises. Feathers from the pigeon are carried away on the breeze.

Another hour passes, and two of the youngsters remain on the ledge for some time, one of them, the smallest, laying down on it as if still in the nest. Raptors incubate their eggs as soon as they are laid, so the oldest chick gets a few days development in before the last youngster has hatched. The older chicks tend to dominate the younger ones, and in poor years, it is often just the oldest, or two oldest, chicks which survive. This juvenile though seemed strong enough, we’d seen him eating and holding his own, so, although some of us were concerned by his odd behaviour in lying around on his belly, wings hanging by his sides, I have no reason to believe his chances now are much slimmer than those of his siblings. Part of the difference in size at this stage could well be due to sexual dimorphism as much as age nutrition, and I do tend to think of what we saw as one female and two male youngsters.

An hour later the adult female returned with another pigeon for her hungry brood, two of which, the smaller youngsters, have waited patiently on the ledge for her. From somewhere, the large, and somewhat ungainly, female youngster appears as well.  Puffed up against the cold, she looks awkward, somewhere between being an adorable, fluffy chick and a streamlined, elegant, and deadly adult peregrine.  Her brothers, squawking, have no such pretences of adulthood about them. One could almost be forgiven for making “squee” noises in their presence. Almost.  The adult begins delicately feeding one of the young males, but their big sister barges them out of the way. At one point the cheeky youngster is engaged in a tug of war with her mother, apparently trying to wrestle the pigeon from her, or at least help to break it into more manageable chunks.   The adult female eventually turns her back on the youngster and covers the kill with her wings, offering a little to the smallest male who seems constantly to be standing behind her, keeping his distance from his siblings. Eventually the big juvenile works out what is going on and moves around to compete with her brother. The tug of war is briefly resumed, after which the female flies off, not to return that evening, leaving the youngsters to sort out the food between them. There is plenty left for the smaller juveniles once the young female is satisfied. Again, they make the meal last well over an hour, and they are still feeding after we’d had our dinner and Birthday Cake. When we look back the two little males are still there, but the young female has obviously left, perhaps to join her parents at a roosting site somewhere. We didn’t see the juveniles leave, but as the light faded, and the sunset shone off the glass Beetham Tower, they did leave the ledge, presumably to somewhere to roost and spend the night.  We took a taxi back to Tom’s flat in Hulme not long after.

The Peregrines in Manchester are not unique, a pair roost sometimes on the Tate Modern here in London, and Bath, Lincoln and several other cities also host breeding pairs. They are not harassed, the street pigeons are nobodies sport, and many welcome a bird which can, perhaps, manage their numbers, and volunteers are often forthcoming to watch the nests and guard against would-be egg collectors, or rescue the juveniles when they fall out. Their success is part of the partial recovery witnessed since the banning of DDT and protection from persecution, and Peregrines, which are cliff nesters, are well suited by towns which offer concrete substitutes for their natural nesting sites. Feral Pigeons, too, are descended from wild ancestors which bred on sea cliffs. Their iconic beauty makes them treasured, both by local experts and by nature-deprived urbanites, and cities offer something of a refuge from the human threats presented by the countryside.