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.

The Darter Dragonflies

As I write, it is grey outside. Mild now the now has melted, but drizzling and chill. Dragonfly season is well over. But it lasted into October, even November with the mild conditions and today feels an excellent day to look back.

Ruddy Darter, male, Essex 2022

At nearly every site I surveyed, the most numerous genus of Dragonfly I encountered, especially as the season pushed on into August and September, was Sympetrum. Specifically, Sympetrum sanguineum, the Ruddy Darter, and S. striolatum, the Common Darter, the former apparently capable of surviving even mildly brackish water conditions, favouring low lying coastal marshland, occurring alongside Scarce Emerald Damselfly (Lestes dryas) and Southern Migrant Hawker (Aeshna affinis). The latter, S. striolatum, is capable of flying well into the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness and is often one of the last dragonflies on the wing. However despite their abundance, and their abundant charisma, this genus seems relatively unexplored in the popular literature.

Ruddy Darter, Male, in Obelisk position as he attempts to lose heat during the heatwave of July 2022. 

These represent the two commonest species of Sympetrum, a genus in the family Libellulidae. Both species are broadly speaking red in the adult male, and gold, fading to brown in the the females. These creatures are, like other Odonata, agile aerial predators as adults, darting from their perches and sunbathing spots to seize small insects off the wing. It is this darting habit which gives them their common name. Their larvae lurk in almost any still or slow-moving body of water you might find.

Common Darter, Rainham Marshes, October 2021

Most numerous in the low coastal marshes of Essex in June and July is the Ruddy Darter (Sympetrum sanguineum),the males vivid, blood-red as the scientific name implies, the females an eye catching straw gold. They are the smallest of the ‘large’ dragonflies (Anisoptera) typically on the wing. They tend to form an assemblage with Scarce Emerald Damselflies (Lestes dryas) and Southern Migrant Hawkers (Aeshna affinis) alongside several of the small, blue damselflies, a habit noted by Brooks and Cham in their excellent field guide, which I found reflected strongly when I had the privilege of carrying out dragonfly surveys for a conservation organisation in the Summer of 2022. The males possess something of a ‘waist’ to the abdomen and can appear club tailed. Legs are jet black and the thorax lacks distinct stripes.

Common Darter, Otmoor, Oxfordshire, September 2022

Common Darter Breeding territories are closely guarded, with adults prepared to chase away any intruders, but away from water, their habitats are different. They like to be in the sun, and pick the sunniest spot they can find, and bathe in it, absorbing the solar energy through their skin. Signage, gateposts and fencing are among their favoured perches, and here they can gather in large numbers, occasionally lifting up, briefly, to grab some passing prey on the wing, or in readiness to flee a threatening shadow, before settling back down again, usually in the same patch of sunshine from which they took off. In Autumn especially, Common Darters can be surprisingly willing to come and sit on an outstretched hand, something I have witnessed and done several times, at a few sites up and down the country. Try it one sunny afternoon. Go somewhere with abundant Common Darters, any still water with adjacent sunlit rides is a good bet, find a patch of sunshine, and hold out a hand.Perhaps these engaging insects will come and visit. Stand calmly; they are completely harmless and will not bite, and they will use you as a sunbathing and bug hunting post.

Black Darter, male, Garry, Isle of Lewis and Harris, Scotland, August 2021

Both Common and Ruddy Darter are abundant and thriving, but another Sympetrum, S. danae, the Black Darter, a specialist of acidic pools on heath and moorland, has shown significant declines in its numbers in recent years. It is still an abundant dragonfly in the somewhat specialised habitats in which it occurs. Our smallest Sympetrum, and indeed our smallest true Dragonfly, shorter than your little finger, the male S. danae is also the only entirely black dragonfly in Britain; the female is black and gold. Like their red lowland cousins they can be confiding and will occasionally perch on fingers. Another upland species, under more extreme threat of local extinction, is the White-Faced Darter (Leucorrhinia dubia), reintroduced since 2010 to Foulshaw Moss in Cumbria, a Cumbria Wildlife Trust reserve probably most famous for its breeding Ospreys. A true specialist, this beautiful insect, with a white frons and a body dappled red and black, or gold and black in the female, they spend their larval development right down among the mass of sphagnum, avoiding open water, or anywhere fish can be found. Like so many species of the North, it is threatened by peat extraction, the abandonment of traditional moorland management, and by a warming climate. The peatland habitats in which these two darters dwell represent an important carbon sink, ever growing Sphagnum, is a real asset in our fight against man-made climate change. Efforts to secure the future of these two little dragons in Britain are efforts to secure the future of our world and ourselves.

White Faced Darter, female, Foulshaw Moss, Cumbria, May 2015

So keep an eye, next summer and into the Autumn, for these species wherever you happen to wander. The two ‘red’ species so numerous here in Essex are common and widespread, flying from May into late October, even November. They are sometimes overlooked in favour of the more glamourous Aeshnids and distinctly fashionable Lestidae damselflies, but I think they have a remarkable charisma of their own.

Great White Egrets

 I stood in a hide, at the RSPB's splended Ham Wall nature reserve in Somerset, in view of Glastonbury Tor, that small tower sat atop a hill overlooking the Somerset Levels, the marshes of Avalon, alleged stamping ground of King Arthur and his Knights, where Pagan Britons and Christian Anglo-Saxons apocryphally made play for the heart and soul of what we now call England. A mighty bird stood in front of me, just metres away, filling the 75-250mm lens of my camera, all in white, bill turning from black to yellow, fishing, preening with an air of magisterial indifference. The bird stood tall, the shape of a skinny Grey Heron, or an albino woodpigeon with a snake threaded through it, wearing stilts. It stepped forward, creeping, and stared at the water, with the suggestion of intent, before continuing to preen itself.  When noisier people entered the hide, it flew away, low across the water to a new position behind the reeds.

This experience would have been unheard of a few decades ago. First recorded in Britain in the mid 19th Century, though possibly with a history here going back much further, the Great White Egret was a scarce vagrant, less than annual until the 1990s, then annual wintering, I saw my first in 2010, at Dungeness in Kent, where a wintering bird, earning the universal Great White Egret nickname of 'Sharky,' had taken up home in a far flung reedbed. It was little more than a speck in my scope, the size of the bird, its height against the reeds, and its bright yellow bill (which turns black in the breeding season) making it unmistakeable. Great White Egrets are sometimes considered confusable with Little Egrets, but in reality I find them more confusable with a swan, on account of their huge scale in comparison with the more familiar of our two white herons. If you think you might have seen a Great White Egret, you haven't. You have seen a Little Egret. If you see a Great White Egret, you know what you have seen.

My next encounter with the species was in Greece, where I worked as a volunteer for the Hellenic Ornithological Society. A flock of 30 'Sharkies' had dropped into the brackish water marsh, cleared out from their breeding grounds, looking for somewhere to spend the winter. I watched in wonder as they stood stock still in the mirror still water, harbingers of a changing season. Southern and Eastern Europe once held the nearest surviving Great White Egrets. Once common in much of Central Europe, Great White Egrets, like so many charismatic wetland species, were victims of persecution as competitors for fish, and of the millinery trade in the 19th and early 20th century, pushing the centre of their European population East, with birds shot off their nests in the breeding season for their showy breeding plumes, a bold fashion statement for a Victorian lady to wear on her hat. The species has a wide distribution spanning five continents, and many North American colonies of Great Whites faced similar persecution. It was seeing the fate of these birds on their nests which spurred into action the ladies who went on to found both  the RSPB and the Audobon Society, whose campaigns eventually saw the species have something of a repreive, on both sides of the Atlantic.  So it was from Southern and Eastern Europe that the species began to spread.

In 2012, the species bred in the UK for the first time, on the Somerset Levels, at Shapwick Heath, a stones' throw from my Great White Egret experience. In 2017 it bred in Norfolk. Its breeding population continues to grow, and all these breeding attempts have involved small colonies of multiple pairs, on stick nests in trees, not dissimilar to Herons and Little Egrets. In January this year, one flew over my house in Wirksworth, Derbyshire, easily distinguished from a little egret by the sharp bend in its neck, protruding like a keel, and by its vast size and yellow bill like a sword. I have seen them standing in the fields by the Derwent of a morning with the Grey Herons, presumably joining them in munching any small mammals driven from cover by the intense winter cold. Several pairs breed at Shapwick Heath, and it was the most numerous Heron I saw at Ham Wall, and they winter up and down the country, including at Attenborough in Nottinghamshire, where their flights to roost are a popular sideshow to the spectacular winter Starling murmurations.

The Great White Egret is doing well. And I wholeheartedly approve.  Within minutes of its departure, no sooner than the hide was quiet again, my Great White Egret was back, ducks herding their broods away into the reeds with justified concern, and back to preening, nonchalantly, at home in this place of Arthurian legend.

Wanderings in the Strangest Summer. Frampton Marsh, Lincolnshire, and Coombes Valley, Staffordshire.

 Frampton Marsh, 8th August 2020

On a bright and sunny day, with a fresh breeze blowing, Natty and I headed to Lincolnshire to join my old friend Brian at Frampton Marsh, the RSPB's fantastic, relatively new and expanding, reserve beside the Wash in Lincolnshire.

Spoonbills, and a Moorhen.

Here we were greeted near immediately by a flock of 17 or so Spoonbills, a sight which would have been unheard of just a few years ago, another brilliant white heron-like wetland bird establishing, or perhaps reestablishing itself,  in British wetlands. The birds largely kept their spoons concealed, tucked under wings out of the sun and wind. The flashes were covered in Knot, Dunlins, Black Tailed Godwits, the latter in all plumages from tango orange to ash-grey, as though dressed for the summer.'s funeral.  Among the waders Brian picked out a couple of Curlew Sandpipers, smart, dunlin-like waders with bold supercilliums.

Spotted Redshanks

We continued to enjoy a veritable late summer wader fest, with so many returning migrants from the far North and East, graceful Spotted Redshanks in their near white winter coats, so different in their movements to their commoner cousins, Common and Green Sandpipers, and a very smart Greenshank, his head nearly pure white. The breeding waders remained too, graceful, long-legged Avocets, brown patches on their wings revealing them to be the very same awkward, gangly chicks hiding from the rain among their parents' breast feathers just a few short weeks ago.

Whooper Swan and Common Tern

 

Shelducks floated about in their eclipse plumage, and a single Whooper Swan which had stayed the summer, perhaps too injured to make it across the North Sea though capable of flying back and forth across the reserve, lounged on an island in one of the freshwater lakes. The Spoonbill flock flew over, magnificent face spatulas forward, out towards the Wash.

Spatulas to the horizon!

There was not an overabundance of passerines, as one would expect at this time of year, with so many lying low to moult and enjoy the richness of the season, but yellow wagtails, in their muddy looking winter plumage, were active around the cattle, and a few swifts zipped about. Swallows and Sand Martins were ubiquitous. Emperor Dragonflies patrolled the ponds, and Common Darters the paths, while Small Tortoiseshell butterflies fed at the Scabious blooms. 

Common Blue Damselfly

Frampton is an incredibly special place. You should go there.

Small Tortoiseshell

 

Birds Seen: Brent Goose, Canada Goose, Greylag Goose, Mute Swan, Whooper Sean, Shelduck, Mallard, Teal, Pochard, Tufted Duck, Pheasant, Little Grebe, Great Crested Grebe, Spoonbill, Grey Heron, Little Egret, Cormorant, Moorhen, Coot, Avocet, Lapwing, Golden Plover, Little Ringed Plover, Whimbrel, Black Tailed Godwit, Knot, Ruff, Curlew Sandpiper, Dunlin, Snipe, Common Sandpiper, Green Sandpiper, Redshank, Spotted Redshank, Greenshank, Black Headed Gull, Common Gull, Herring Gull, Lesser Black Backed Gull, Common Tern, Stock Dove, Woodpigeon, Swift, Kestrel, Magpie, Rook, Carrion Crow, Skylark, Sand Martin, Starling, Yellow Wagtail, Pied Wagtail, Meadow Pipit, Linnet, Goldfinch, Reed Bunting.

Black tailed Godwit

Butterflies: Red Admiral, Meadow Brown, Gakekeeper, Small Skipper, Common Blue, Small Heath, Small Tortoiseshell, Green Veined White.

Ruff

Dragons: Common Blue Damselfly, Emperor Dragonfly, Common Darter.

Cinnabar moth caterpillars were numerous at Frampton. 

 




Coombes Valley, 9th August 2020

Of a warm but slightly overcast afternoon I went to Coombes Valley, in Staffordshire. It was surprisingly quiet, with few of the special birds out and about, perhaps down to the advancing season. However it was pretty, though a family insisted upon throwing pebbles into the stream where they Grey Wagtails breed. At least they were not building cairns and diverting the flow of water in the stream. Such disturbance in a habitat so small can have serious implications for its invertebrate diversity. A wasp was busy on the wood of the small bridge.

Wasp. 

I walked the Valley Woodland Loop, as the map called the circular footpath I wandered, and was surprised by the beautiful sight of three Red Deer- young stags- making their way among the trees. Each wore small, but different antlers in velvet. Deer often make their way through the woods at Coombes, but are seldom seen.

Freaky doll stuck to a Silver Birch tree. 

I picked up what my map called the 'Woodcock Trail' and was surprised to find Ling Heather, Calluna vulgaris once again, growing as an understory plant alongside Bilberry, Vaccinium myrtilis, as these species grow in much of their European range, but here associated with open heath and moor. I also enjoyed commanding views of the valley and the wider Stafforshire moorlands.  Someone had stuck a small plastic doll to a tree. 



The day ended with a spectacular orange sunset. 

Birds Seen: Sparrowhawk, Buzzard, Woodpigeon, Kestrel, Magpie, Carrion Crow, Coal Tit, Blue Tit, Swallow, Willow Warbler, Garden Warbler, Goldcrest, Nuthatch, Treecreeper, Blackbird, Song Thrush, Spotted Flycatcher, Robin, Bullfinch. 

Butterflies Seen: Peacock, Gatekeeper, Green Veined White. 

Wanderings in the Strangest Summer. Tittesworth Reservoir, 21st June 2020

 I accepted Natty's kind offer of a lift up to Severn-Trent's Staffordshire reservoir at Tittesworth, in the shadow of the Roaches, and was surprised to find the site heaving with people and their dogs, running everywhere including the foreshore, putting up the waders, including a small crowd of Oystercatchers, surprised and confused at their previously quiet habitat suddenly robbed from them. 
The woods were relatively quiet, and I escaped the throng as I walked away from the Visitor Centre. The carefully managed Wild Flower meadows were alive with meadow browns and Small Tortoiseshells, flying among the ox-eye daisies and the Orchids, and they were a beautiful sight in the sunshine.

Small Tortoiseshell, photographed in 2015. Diving into the archive to illustrate these as I was still waiting for my new camera. 

Most of the avian interest was to be found on the Western side of the Reservoir, where a patchwork landscape of copses and scrub, fringed by fenced off farmland, dominates. A disheveled and unwell-looking Willow Tit adult fed a noisy fledgling. According to the Collins, Willow Tit fledgelings produce loud begging calls, while the near-indistinguishable Marsh Tit is near silent in its youth.  The Willow Tit is a fast declining bird and it was sad to see the adult in such an unfortunate state, showing severe feather loss and the suggestion of avian pox around its face. I hope it survived long enough to see the youngster to independence and the disease was not transmitted between the two of them, as this charming little species needs all the breeding success it can get. 

A beautiful Little Ringed Plover scuttled back and forth beside the water's edge, and Common Terns fished gracefully. The banks were alive with midsummer flowers, foxgloves and Ragged Robin. 
I reconnected with Natalie and we paused a while on the Bridge, and watched a Common Sandpiper probing about in the mud, possibly a returning migrant. A distinctive shape, like an obese torpedo on hummingbird wings, a Kingfisher whirred by, as the Terns continued fishing in the open water.

A Kingfisher photographed in Suffolk in January 2020. 

Birds Seen: Canada Goose, Mallard, Tufted Duck, Great Crested Grebe, Grey Heron, Cormorant, Oystercatcher, Lapwing, Little Ringed Plover, Common Sandpiper, Black Headed Gull, Common Tern, Swift, Kingfisher, Magpie, Carrion Crow, Coal Tit + Fl, Willow Tit +Fl, Blue Tit, Great Tit, Swallow, Long Tailed Tit, Chiffchaff, Blackcap, Garden Warbler, Goldcrest, Wren, Blackbird, Song Thrush, Robin, House Sparrow, Pied Wagtail, Chaffinch, Goldfinch. 

Butterflies: Meadow Brown, Small Tortoiseshell, Green Veined White, Red Admiral. 

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.