Wanderings in the Strangest Summer: Elton to Bradford Dale 17th June 2020

17th June 2020 

I took the short drive to Elton, not to be confused with the same name, once again, and parked near the church, where I was greeted almost immediately by a confiding young Song Thrush.  From here, and in pleasant weather, white cloud above, I crossed the farm fields where a magnificent Hereford Bull nuzzled affectionately with one of his cows. A glance signalled permission to cross, and I did so. I walked through meadows now teaming with Meadow Browns and Small Tortoiseshells, even on this overcast day.

Song Thrush at Elton

Then I crossed some 'improved' fields, ugly dayglo green dairy deserts, little more than lawns, with few butterflies. I waked past enclosed copses fenced in by barbed wire. Barbed wire was a feature only of the improved fields, curiously. I reached a rock-strewn slope and descended through the cattle, and paused to view a small pond, signs advertising it for angling, where coots and tufted ducks swam. The Eastern end of Bradford Dale was heavily managed and well trodden, but there were wild flowers down to the water's edge attended by smart Red Admirals and yet more Small Tortoiseshells.

The Eastern side, where I walked beyond the bridge in Youlgreave, was more wooded in character, though host to Grey Wagtails, swans, and an area of slow, crystal clear water designated for swimming. I walked into the woodland, in decreasing light, as storm clouds gathered. The river had historically been managed for fish, once on a commercial basis, and was divided into concrete pools, each holding a family of Mallards, some with large, near adult size juveniles, others with downy doughball ducklings. The weather was on its way, but still I paused to enjoy a Dipper darting in and out from a nest in some pipework where the river flows under a small arch bridge.

I took the footpath through some wetlands, across a camp site, abandoned for the time being, past a field of inquisitive bullocks, who walked in step with me on the other side of a fence, and reached a narrow road near one of a couple of places in the UK called Robin Hood's Stride. Here the heavens opened, and I found a memorial bench overhung with branches, I wish I could remember to whom it was dedicated, but to their family I am grateful, as from this bench I watched fork lightning split the sky, as the downpour drew on. Hares darted at the sound of thunder like gunfire, and cattle bellowed in their frustration, and gathered together around the loudest. Birdwatching was out of the window, butterfly spotting a laughable dream

When the rain alleviated a little, I made my way back to Elton. When it had stopped, I shivered. To my surprise, on my way back to Elton, I saw a Barn Owl, floating ghostly over the fields. Perhaps the rain had been so heavy mice and voles had been flooded out of their holes. It dived into the grass, stayed down a moment, and then was up again and flying. I reached for my camera, but found its viewfinder and LCD display frosted by condensation. 

I made my way back to my car, shivering, disassembled the camera, hopelessly it transpired, a victim of the deluge, on the passenger seat to dry. As I drove, another storm rolled into the green valleys.

Grey Wagtail

Butterflies Seen: Elton-Bradford Dale: Small Copper 1, Red Admiral 1, Small Tortoiseshell 6, Meadow Brown 29. 

Bradford-Alport: Small Tortoiseshell 8, Meadow Brown 1. 

Bradford Dale East: Red Admiral 1, Common Blue 1, Small Tortoiseshell 5, Meadow Brown 3.

Bradford Dale West (inclement weather) Green Veined White 1, Small Tortoiseshell 2.

Birds Seen: Greylag Goose,Mute Swan, Mallard, Tufted Duck, Pheasant, Buzzard, Moorhen, Coot, Woodpigeon, Barn Owl, Swift, Great Spotted Woodpecker, Kestrel, Magpie, Jackdaw, Carrion Crow, Blue Tit, Great Tit, Swallow, House Martin, Long Tailed Tit, Chiffchaff, Wren, Treecreeper, Starling, Blackbird, Song Thrush, Robin, Redstart, Dipper (visiting nest) House Sparrow, Grey Wagtail, Chaffinch, Goldfinch. 

A special tribe of Butterflies.

As Summer moves into Autumn, the peak diversity of butterflies has past, but a few species persist in our gardens and in the countryside, even as September becomes October. Speckled Wood (Pararge aegeria, L.) can fly well into November in their sheltered woodland edge habitat. However, these are not the most spectacular of Autumn butterflies. This prize must go to the members of the tribe Nymphalini, sometimes referred to as “the Aristocrats” in old field guides, or rather, a subset of them, the bright, boldly marked and coloured butterflies which dazzle on garden Sedumand even on rotting fallen fruit into early October each year.

Red Admiral (Vanessa atlanta) Enjoying the riches of Autumn, September 2014

These stunning bugs are out and active so late in the year for a reason.  They do not spend the winter as sleepy larvae, hunkered down somewhere out of the way like so many temperate zone butterflies. While my Northern Brown Argus (Aricia artaxerxes) the lycaenid unrelated to the Aristocrats, with which I worked the summer of 2013, remains an unassuming caterpillar, seeking a warm spot among the scrub of its hillside habitat in which to escape the frosts, Red Admirals (Vanessa atlanta)  and Small Tortoiseshells (Aglais urticae) are preparing for the epic ways in which these species escape the cold.  Small Tortoiseshell  and Peacock (A. io) look for sheltered corners, often venturing into homes and outbuildings, in which to roost out the cold, dark months, avoiding the depredations of spiders and other predators and incidental predators somehow, whilst in a state of torpor. Red Admirals, and the closely related Painted Lady (V. Cardui) feed frantically to fuel their ascent to several hundred metres altitude and their long migration back to Southern Europe where they can escape the worst of the North European Weather.

Polygonia c. album at Roding Valley, Essex, April 2014

Aglais io at Two Tree Island, Essex, April 2014

 The Aglais nymphalids, and the related Comma (Polygonia c-album) which also undergoes hibernation as an adult, have larvae which grow and feed communally on stinging nettles (Urtica dioca) and sometimes on Hops (Humulus lupulus) in the case of the Comma.  All have more than one generation on the wing in a year, with large numbers of all three on the wing in July. Their offspring go on to feed, grow and ultimately hibernate as adults. They emerge and embark on a brief but frantic period of feeding. Their bodies are modified for this, they will have no interest in reproduction until the spring.  Their wings, whilst bright and gaudy on their uppersides, are all remarkably plain on the underside, closely resembling a dead leaf. Stationary, and with their wings closed, they can virtually disappear into their winter environment.  On the whitewashed walls of a building, be it a camp site wash block or the attic of a suburban home, they are more conspicuous, but perhaps have less to fear from predators. Peacocks will still flash their eye spots when threatened, in the hope of dazzling of confusing a predator, but in the main they remain still and silent, before, as the weather warms, they become slowly active, before heading out into a new spring, often somewhat faded, to regain their energy levels, and finally go about the business of courtship and reproduction, assured of blackthorn blossom on which to find nectar, and fresh nettles on which to lay their eggs.  All are among the first butterflies to appear in spring. As the weather turns I wonder if I must wait that long to see them, or if stragglers will yet grace my Sedums this year. Nymphalini butterflies, which like all North European butterflies are largely nectar feeders and cannot ingest pollen, in the active state, can typically live a couple of weeks as adults.

The Early bug catches the blackthorn blossom. Overwintered Aglais urticae. Roding Valley, Essex, April 2014.

The genus Vanessa, which includes the hugely widespread Painted Lady (V.cardui), resident on every continent except Antarctica, and the Red Admiral (V. atlanta) have evolved a strategy even more remarkable with which to face the ravages of the North European climate.   It was long thought that these species dispersed from Southern European breeding grounds to Northern Europe, erruptively, settling in Britain and other countries, and produced a brood of caterpillars which fed through the summer, pupated, and then emerged between July and September, only to perish in great numbers when the first frost set in. The evolutionary absurdity of this theory was not explored, and even after Southward movements of Red Admirals had been detected and their migratory habits acknowledged, painted ladies were still thought to colonise Northern Europe afresh every summer only to die in their millions.  This, of course, is not true. Painted Ladies can cross oceans, and they cross them far higher than human eyes can see. Tiny signatures picked up on vertical facing radars, such as the purpose built entomological ones at Rothamstead Research,   show butterflies climbing to altitude, up to a kilometre above the ground, including at night, and carefully selecting a Southerly heading and a Southerly wind back to the areas where their parents or grandparents were pupae.  Large and powerful amongst  butterflies, paper thin and fragile against seas and windy skies, Painted Lady and Red Admiral navigate the chill autumn skies in vast numbers and at altitude, their heights taking them free of bats and diurnal predators, some form of evolved internal compass guiding them to their destination.   If you read as I type, perhaps they could be up there right now. In the spring their descendents make the return journey to take advantage of the flowers and the abundant thistles and nettles of Britain and other parts of Northern Europe.

A world traveller. V. cardui, Arnside Knott, Cumbria, August 2013.

(All photos are original. Do not reproduce for profit. Feel free to enjoy, or use in your essays)

The Last Flurries of Winter

ese past couple of days, still in Lancaster and without any pressing deadlines (how wonderful it feels to be free of pressing deadlines,) I was rather hopeful of getting some good wildlife spotting in. It’d been nearly a week since I last went birding, when incidentally I was able to add Bittern to my Lancashire list, one flying through the evening sunshine over the still brown reed beds at the RSPB’s stunning Leighton Moss.  I was enthusiastic to get out there and find some wildlife, see something I’d not seen before, perhaps.  On my way to drop off my essay, it did occur to me there may have been a fall of migrants, with what I am  I handed in my essay on Friday afternoon, and, no sooner had I done so, than the wind began to pick up, and Lancaster was, not for the first time that day, raked by horizontal, and some might say unseasonal snow.

Unseasonal. With Pheasant tracks.

I cursed climate change for its increasing tendencies toward extremes of weather, and spent the day indoors watching films instead. When I did manage to face up to the unseasonably big freeze, I got in the car and headed up, away from the sea this time, and into the Forest of Bowland, an area of Outstanding Natural Beauty which lies to the East of Lancaster. It took only a few minutes on delightfully names roads (Bay Horse Road! Procter Moss Lane!) to reach the car park in Abbeystead, a small town in Bowland. I wandered into the woods toward Abbeystead Lake. Bird life seemed a little scarce, the woods were quiet, and the footprints in the snow, enchanting to look at though they were almost exclusively those of grey squirrels and pheasants.  However the great tits with their two syllable song, were really going for it, the harbingers of early spring appeared unperturbed by the snow, which was thick on the ground in places. There were a few blue and coal tits about in the branches, but bird life seemed sparse.

Upland stream  in the Forest of Bowland

Upon reaching the lake, which was all pleasantly dramatic, lying in a steep-sided, wooded valley, with the snow white Bowland fells climbing up behind it, I startled up a few nervous mallards. Some teal, too, rested on the dark green water and a couple of Jackdaws passed overhead cawing. I continued round the lake, which was held by an impressive dam, and down into the woods. Robins and chaffinches occasionally flew across the path in front of me. As I walked back up toward the lake I became aware of a few Goosander, unfamiliar before my move up North but near ubiquitous round here it seems, floating about on the water surface, but I wondered where all the birds had gone. It occurred to me they may well have cleared out of these upland woods and headed somewhere at lower altitude, somewhere more sheltered, perhaps.  Walking across a bit of farmland on the way back to the car park revealed not just pheasants but also good numbers of Lapwing and Snipe in the fields, so the true upland waders at least were still on their spring habitat. Some of the lapwings were displaying, whooping and tumbling, using their broad wings to aerobatic advantage. Spring, it seemed, was in the air still somewhere, alongside the wind chill.  I drove home dodging pheasants and snowdrifts. One poor pheasant must have had the fright of his life, caught between a snowdrift, an oncoming vehicle and a Buzzard. Of course I waited until he had disappeared into the hedge beyond the snowdrift before I proceeded. 

Abbeystead Lake, Bowland, Lancs.

Today I headed down to a place near Scorton, on the river Wyre where it is still fast and narrow. I parked up at a picnic site with some bird feeders in it, which clearly hadn’t been filled for some time. A few blue and great tits hopped about in the trees above them, looking awkward and expectant. I walked past and onto the banks of the Wyre, where the tree canopy opened, The sky was blue, but a few flakes of snow fell from it inexplicably. A dipper shot up and down the river and paused on a rock for a moment, allowing me to take a (poor) photograph before returning to a cluster of branches by the waters edge. As it did so a second bird appeared and flew upstream. A pair of dippers, and a lovely new addition to my Lancashire list. These lovely birds are very scarce indeed down South, they are birds of the west and the midlands it seems, specialists of fast flowing streams, dipping under the water to hunt invertebrates and emerging still perfectly dry, smart and distinctive in their smart brown plumage and white breast.

Cinculus cinculus

   

Rounding the corner into the wood what struck me was the snowdrops. The wood was covered in them, and among them daffodils too were springing out of the ground. In stark contrast to the upland wood in Bowland, this wood down near the Wyre was a different matter. The snow had all cleared, as if it had never been there (of course, it might never have been there) and the snowdrops and daffodils still stood proud. March snowfall has been part of these plants evolution, of course. When the channel first separated Britain from the continent, about 12 thousand years ago,  isolating its impoverished fauna, anything which could not tolerate March snow would not have been able to survive. Colder winters abound through our history, the mini ice age of the 18^th century, the cold snap of the 1970s, and spring flowers have made it through. Here they formed a glorious white carpet splashed with yellow. Somewhere among the singing great tits I thought I heard a chiffchaff.  Cormorants flew overhead through a blue sky, and a buzzard was patrolling somewhere. Spring wasn’t cancelled, it had just had a minor setback, and it will be interesting to see what effect this late flurry of winter has had on wildlife phenology as the year progresses. 

Snowdrops near Scorton, Lancs.