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 chain of thought regarding Transatlantic differences, Duck Stamps and the RSPB.

 In the American Meme group I have now left, there was a lot of talk of hunting funds for conservation, through levies such as the so-called 'Duck Stamps.' Duck stamps are a type of hunting licence issued in the USA, the money raised being used to fund the National Wildlife Refuges scheme. Doubtless it is a very important stream of revenue for wetland conservation in the USA. On the meme group, there was an assertion that this money from hunting is the only, or the primary way to fund conservation, and as such the whole 'Hunting is conservation' argument came about. It was a collision of many ideas, with the pro-hunt side, which was most of the Americans, using the mantra 'Hunting is conservation,' and explaining how 'Duck stamps' funded the national refuge system and how wildfowling was fundamental to wetland conservation. So determined were the American conservationists to defend this system, that their enthusiasm for it seemed to trump concerns raised by European group members about hunting in this region and in North Africa, which were angrily dismissed as outliers.

Now I am about to compare hunting in the USA to Hunting in the UK or in Europe, not right at the moment at least. But another thought occurred to me shortly afterwards. Soon there were more posts in the Meme group, referring to how birders never invest any money in wetland conservation, refuse to pay to access reserves, that only hunting has the clout, and the public participation, to raise money for conservation to be carried out effectively. And, thought I, that is where we differ.

Water Rail at RSPB Rainham Marshes

In Britain, while for sure there are wildfowl hunters, and for sure they look after some coastal wetlands, much of it fairly well, such that it provides good breeding habitat for waders, raptors and invertebrates outside the shooting season, but the way we look after Wetland 'refuges' for conservation is thus: The RSPB, and the local Wildlife Trusts.

Stonechat at RSPB Rainham Marshes

Conservationists in the UK, by which I mean non-professionals who care about and support nature conservation, do not generally buy hunting licences. Instead, they join the RSPB, investing sums comparable with those spent on 'Duck Stamps' in the USA. We do spend money on nature, and on nature for nature's sake. And we have achieved remarkable results through this. Minsmere in Suffolk, owned by the RSPB, is a former MOD range, and it was the stepping stone Avocets and Marsh Harriers used to recolonise the UK. Now Marsh Harriers, and Bearded Tits, breed at Rainham Marshes, another former military range within Greater London. Spoonbills and Bitterns have bred at Fairburn Ings, a former coal mining site near Leeds. At Old Moor near Doncaster, Slavonian Grebes breed annually, and Lakenheath Fen, a former carrot farm in the Brecks, Bittern, Bearded Tit and Common Crane breed, a species which was extinct in Britain a century ago. All without money from hunting, with management largely built on monthly and annual donations from a million members. The RSPB is our model of conservation and it works.

Lapwing at RSPB Frampton Marsh, Lincolnshire

It coexists with free markets, taking from the state only money available to any landowners who manage their land sympathetically for nature, and heritage money from the National Lottery. It has brought back species to these islands, and become a global expert in wetland creation and restoration without shots being fired in sport at all. Its predator control is not above criticism, of course and some regard it as unduly friendly with shooting organisations, as illustrated by the debacle at RSPB Strumpshaw Fen a few years ago, where gamekeepers were allowed onto the site to kill some much photographed foxes. However it walks a tightrope here of course and deserves, in my view, some slack. There are people in the shooting community, unnerved by the RSPB's excellent work in raptor protection, who love to stir the pot and set their opponents, in mainstream conservation and largely urban hippy 'animal rights' proponents, against each other, despite their common cause at least where it comes to threatened wildlife and habitats.

View from RSPB Wallasea Island, Essex

But its achievements at a national level are remarkable. Incredible. It is our model of conservation, Britain's proof that hunting and conservation are not inextricably linked, and I think that is bloody awesome. They go beyond land management of course, into campaigning, recently becoming involved in the discussion surrounding the draconian restrictions on environmental protest being discussed in parliament, and campaigning against particularly damaging developments threatening important wildlife sites. Their membership is huge and diverse.

Goldfinch at RSPB Frampton Marsh, Lincolnshire

Compared to what they have in other parts of the world, we are extraordinarily fortunate to have the RSPB, and can be justifiably proud of it, alongside the county Wildlife Trusts and the WWT of course.

Wanderings in the Strangest Summer, a Retrospective. Frampton Marsh and Freiston Shore

11th June 2020

With lockdown coming to an end, but my weekdays still luxuriously free, Natty and I celebrated our Anniversary with a drive out to the Lincolnshire coast, our longest away trip since March. We deliberately chose a grey day to avoid any crowds, though, as the weather deteriorated, we realised we may have chosen a little too well. 
Under a grey sky we walked from the car park down the main path toward the 360 hide, which remained closed, before pressing on toward the sea wall. Despite the cold winds, a Sedge Warbler put on a distraction display, posing on the wire fence, a response to a predator, distracting attention from the fledgelings in the reeds.

Sedge Warbler

In a creek on our right, a Spoonbill, crowned by its breeding plumes, pale yellow horseshoe marking emblazoned on its chest, emerged, and walked close to us, unperturbed by our presence. A stunning bird, once considered a real rarity, Spoonbills have begun to colonise Britain in recent years, but to see one so close and in its breeding finery was still a great privilege. A Little Ringed Plover, surprisingly well camouflaged against the mud, almost disappeared when it turned its back to us. It probed in the mud with its short bill, before flying off into the grassy marsh, the lack of a wing bar confirming its identity. 

Spoonbill

On the pool to the left of us were many Avocets with their chicks, big headed and gangly legged. Some took shelter beneath the wings of their parents, creating the impression of a six-legged bird, while the other parent was up mobbing a passing Gull. 
From the sea wall we watched displaying Redshanks, dropping on stiff downcurved wings, and calling eerily. Avocet parents mobbed us a little, flying close and noisily, and we made our way by as quickly as we could, to avoid creating any more disturbance or exposing the chicks to opportunistic and more confiding corvids and gulls. Perhaps reduced foot traffic during the lockdown period had allowed them to nest closer to the sea wall than they would otherwise have. 
The hedges are noted for their passerine avifauna, and I was looking forward to squinting into bushes for little brown birds, when it began to rain. Indeed, the heavens opened and all the birds were driven into deep cover. There was still plenty of birdsong, Natty's musician's ears identified 12 singing Yellowhammer, though I only heard three. The rain drove us onward to the sheltered stretch of public footpath, where the seeing was easier, and at least our binoculars could stay dry. A pair of Turtle Doves flew by, and damp, bedraggled hares stood hunched in neighboring fields. 
Beaten by the rain, Natty and I retreated to the motor, and then to Boston, where we picked up a fish and chip supper and headed to Freiston Shore. 

Birds Seen: Mute Swan, Greylag Goose, Shelduck, Shoveler, Gadwall, Mallard, Teal, Tufted Duck, Pheasant, Great Crested Grebe, Spoonbill, Grey Heron, Little Egret, Cormorant, Moorhen, Coot, Oystercatcher, Avocet, Lapwing, Little Ringed Plover, Black Tailed Godwit, Redshank, Black Headed Gull, Herring Gull, Lesser Black Backed Gull, Common Tern, Woodpigeon, Turtle Dove, Collared Dove, Swift, Magpie, Carrion Crow, Skylark, Swallow, House Martin, Sedge Warbler, Whitethroat, Starling, Blackbird, Meadow Pipit, Goldfinch, Yellowhammer, Reed Bunting.

Freiston Shore

We ate our chips in the car as the rain beat down on the roof, then took a brief walk down the path. past fledgeling blackbirds, baffled by what must have been their first encounter with heavy rain. A robin sang beautifully, but was wise enough not to expose itself to the harsh conditions. The hirundines were busy, hunting insects low over the water. Mist and rain limited our visibility, so we struggled to make out any waders a reasonable distance away. 
Freiston is in many ways a smaller version of Frampton, with freshwater lagoons and saltmarsh, but it does boast a clear view of the sea, something I had dearly missed over the past few months. 

Birds Seen: Mute Swan, Mallard, Grey Heron, Little Egret, Oystercatcher, Avocet, Black Headed Gull, Common Tern, Carrion Crow, Swallow, House Martin, Wren, Blackbird, Robin (H)   

Water Rails

Water rails are typically a shy species. When I was volunteering in Greece in 2011, the very numerous Rallus aquaticus of the Gialova Lagoon, were only seen as they ran across the small bodies of water which separated the vast reedbeds, squawking anxiously. At reserves in the UK, indeed across Europe and temperate Asia, the species' range, a typical encounter consists of a sound, a squeal, not dissimilar to a distressed pig, emanating from somewhere among the reeds. When Springwatch filmed a Water Rail nest at RSPB Minsmere, and saw the pretty, fluffy black chicks, it was the first time their hatching had been filmed in the wild. They often appear on Facebook cute-memes, wrongly labelled as “crow chicks” presumably because of their jet-black downy plumage. These are such seldom seen, if not terribly rare birds, the behaviour of one at RSPB Rainham Marshes, by the Thames Estuary on the cusp of South Essex and East London, in January, was quite unusual. Pretty much every birder in the region took a few photos, and I decided to join them.

The Rail was using a pool beside one of the reserve paths, walking around its edges, occasionally leaving the shelter of the reeds to swim across the open water, looking not dissimilar to the much more familiar Moorhen (Galinula chloropus), of public parks, and posing for photographs. Water Rails are omnivorous, and can turn their attention to a range of foods, but hard times can draw birds out of the reeds, or other dense habitat as the search for energy giving foods becomes ever more pressing. Water Rails can become surprisingly confiding when cold weather dictates, and this one had, perhaps ill-advisedly, been fed mealworms, a practice which is not encouraged when dealing with scarce wild birds whose chronic shyness is an evolved survival strategy, but nevertheless, whether through familiarity or though desperation, it had come out into the open and cast off its fear of humans.