Lapwings

 A light spring mist lies across the lush green grazing marshes of Essex. The tiny herd of cattle stare me down with curiosity as I begin walking across the open field, the morning dew soaking off the grass onto my trousers. A cuckoo calls distantly, one of the closing headliners of the fading dawn chorus. I am looking for something else.  I am alerted to the presence of the bird I am looking for by its alarm call. It lifts into the air on broad, square wings, black and white, climbing quickly and turning sharply, and bears down on me, whistling its curious electronic whistle. The adult Lapwing makes several passes over me, close enough to let me know I am not wanted in its territory, but never close enough that I feel in danger of being pecked.  Its underside is bright white, its wingtips black, its eyes fixed on the potential danger, and its call almost otherworldly, to my mind recalling science fiction ray-guns, or Clangers, perhaps.  To others it may be the archetypal sound of the British countryside in May and early June. The reason for the adult Lapwing not wanting me there, and its reluctance to leave, is close by, at the muddy margin of a small pond, once a creek now cut off from the tidal river, pecking around in the mud. A tiny, awkward, fluffy chick, with a crown of mottled brown and a white collar, it’s one of the few chicks in whose downy plumage one can see the markings of the adult. A tiny, precarious little life, prodding around in one of the few remaining sections of its habitat in the county. The landowners here are rightly proud of their breeding Lapwings, and of the habitat they live in, and go to considerable lengths to protect these birds.

Lapwing, Speyside, Scotland, May 2023

Breeding Lapwings are not a typical part of the countryside in South East England. They have declined significantly since the 1950s, with the advent of intensive farming, and the loss of grazing marshes. They tend to do well on nature reserves managed for them, with water levels and grazing tightly controlled, and predators controlled or else excluded by metres and metres of electric fencing. Where I am now, a long way from Essex, North of the Border and then some, in the lush, green glens of Strathspey, Lapwings, and other farmland waders, are still a feature of the wider landscape, where lower intensity farming methods persist, though conservation organisations build links with farmers to promote their conservation. Elsewhere, small numbers of dedicated farmers and landowners are supporting the Lapwing’s return to the wider countryside, but they face an uphill struggle. They require very specific management, with grass short enough to allow a nesting adult a line of sight, for early identification of ground predators. They are highly vulnerable to predators, especially where shrinking colonies no longer allow a coordinated mobbing response.  They prefer shallow, standing fresh water in their nesting fields to persist into June and July to allow the chicks to feed, and cannot tolerate complete dessication of the soil, a challenge in times of changing climate.

Lapwing, Speyside, May 2023

To many birders Lapwings are very familiar, particularly from their wintering aggregations, their big flocks wheeling in the sky, turning from green-black to brilliant white as the birds bank and turn to evade a passing Peregrine or a Marsh Harrier. They are one of winter’s great spectacles. I recall immense flocks wheeling skyward against a backdrop of distant skyscrapers and wind turbines at Rainham Marshes on the edge of London many times.  One winter flock might comprise locally bred individuals, alongside birds from the near continent and beyond. A study from the Netherlands found that Dutch birds travelled to England, and to North Africa for the winter before returning to the same Dutch fields in Spring. They are individually faithful, as far as we can tell, to their wintering sites, but sometimes snowfall or other severe weather can displace them, and they need to undertake movements South and West to find food. They are largely short-range migrants.  Sometimes their flocks can be seen overflying even urban areas as they search desperately for a gap in the snow.

Lapwing, Lincolnshire, 2021

They are one of those birds which were they scarce or rare we would look at in absolute wonder. They’re a member of the Plover family, perhaps feral pigeon sized, topped with a smart black crest, over a friendly looking face in black and white, with big dark eyes and a short bill. Their undersides are white, and their back a palette of iridescence, mostly green but with notes of red and purple depending how they catch the light. Back in 2011 and somewhat blasé about Lapwings, given the large wintering numbers at some of my local patches, I was a volunteer at the Gialova Lagoon in Greece, where, one bright September day, in the heat, I encountered a Lapwing on the edge of some scrubland, and told my supervisor, she went running off after it, and came back cock a hoop to have found such a beautiful and unfamiliar bird.

Lapwings, RSPB Rainham Marshes, Greater London, 2011

But again, with such a decline in their breeding population, their wheeling summer displays and territory holding electronic sounding calls in an English, or even a Scottish summer, may become confined to specially managed reserves, or worse, a thing of the past. And, while managing for them is not easy, and can be costly, and thankless, it would be a great sadness not to see and hear that. And some people are investing the resources and energy required for Lapwings to return to the Essex countryside. And indeed, later in the season, when I returned to that site, the chicks had become two flighted juveniles, short crested, scaly backed versions of their parents, and it was great to see them making their way across the sea wall, to the Saltmarsh, to feed up on the wealth of shoreline invertebrates, before moving on, to wintering grounds near or far.

Snospurven! Snow Buntings, Plectrophenax nivialis, and all I know about them.

 At the lower station of the Cairn Gorm funicular railway, just above Loch Morlich, not far from Aviemore and part of Britain’s most noted Ski resort, there is a small, and usually astoundingly busy car park, surrounded by high end tat shops and various small, ski-related enterprises.  Emma and I visited the Cairngorms’ eponymous mountain in the hope of catching up with the confiding Ptarmigan for which the lower slopes are noted. The heavens had, the night before, dumped impressive volumes of snow on the towering landscape, and, though some paths up to the Slopes were already well trodden, the mountains, for miles, were coated in a thick, deep blanket of white, softening their ragged edges. Snow brings a curious sense of silence, and seemed to dampen the hubbub of excited skiers, and we looked down on a winter wonderland, snow hanging in the branches of the pine woods of Rothiemurchus, all the way down to the loch shore and beyond.

Snow Bunting, Cairn Gorm, March 2023

There were, despite this being apparently the only centre of human activity for miles here, special, and especially beautiful, birds here. A small band of Snow Buntings perched on the sloping roof of the ski centre. They fluttered down to pick about in the snow beside the green, angular, corrugated iron structure, flashing black and white wings. They allowed close approach, unafraid of the people around. Eventually a small crowd of photographers, armed with long lenses, gathered, and the Snow Buntings were keen and obliging models. Charming birds of high altitudes and the high arctic, last time I visited the flock, apparently a fairly regular fixture around the lower car park and the higher Ptarmigan restaurant during the winter months, had already melted away to their breeding sites high up in the crags. Flocking, and moving around these lower slopes, and being confiding, are winter behaviours. They nest high in the rocky landscapes, males singing atop deserted and windswept crags, where people very seldom tread. Arctic/alpine specialists, they breed right up into Arctic Norway, Arctic Russia, Iceland and Arctic Canada, places of icy extremes. When I visited Arctic Norway, in high summer, ‘Snospurven,’ a ‘common breeding bird,’ were nowhere to be seen.  Both sexes become whiter in summer, as they feed around the snow line, grabbing the insects which drift up on thermals, to find themselves dropped just above the snow line, an easy meal for the Snow Buntings to take back to their chicks.  During the last ice age they thrived across Europe. What impact climate change will have on such specialists as these remains to be seen.

Snow Buntings, Cairn Gorm, March 2023

Britain’s only breeding Snow Buntings are the few hundred pairs in the highlands, but in winter, more do appear in the country, and tend to choose a habitat which couldn’t be more different to the Cairngorms. They gather in small parties on stony ground, usually on shingle beaches, and are a regular fixture in some spots along the East coast. Here, their white-and-sandy winter plumage provides remarkable camouflage, blending readily with the Carstone and iron stained Hunstanton chalk pebbles of North Norfolk.  Here too they can be confiding, on a recent trip to Titchwell it was a joy to find these small and cheerful little birds scuttling around our feet. They can turn up as far South as Kent and Essex, but favour the North and East, making landfall at night as they cross the North Sea from Scandinavia and beyond, from places which make the North Norfolk winter seem mild.

Snow Bunting on the beach at Titchwell, Norfolk, December 2022

When we returned from our fruitless trudge through the snow on Cairngorm, without having seen a Ptarmigan, and a pair of noisy, cronking Raven the only new species on our day list of two species, we found 30 or so Snow Buntings now gathered, and a small crowd of photographers admired them, from just a couple of metres away.  What a privilege to encounter such charming and special birds, at such close quarters.

Cairn Gorm in the Snow. 

Snow Bunting.

Icon of a British Christmas: Robins (Erithacus rubecula) and all I know about them.

 As the season rolls around, and I expect to get this blog online at some point during the festive period, probably, with my inevitable tardiness, around St Stephen’s Day or New Years, attention inevitably turns to a bird which to many in Britain (though not, perhaps, elsewhere) is something of a spirit of Christmas. The gardener’s friend, the European Robin (Erithacus rubecula).

A Robin singing in an English winter.

Robins are a regular feature of my parents’ Essex garden, hopping endearingly out from underneath the hedge to enjoy the seeds and mealworms left out for them. They are noted for following gardeners as they turn the soil, grabbing what unlucky worms and leatherjackets may be turned out, a practice they may have learned from following Wild Boar when those beasts roamed the Wildwood. On the continent, where humans have been perhaps less kind to small birds down the years, they still do this. However Robins have developed something of a special and unique relationship with humans, or perhaps specifically with the British. At my local RSPB reserve, Robins appear eagerly from the bushes for passing photographers, hoping to be paid in mealworms or cheese for their modelling services. When my father was recovering from illness a few years ago, he took some comfort in sitting on the patio, and enjoyed the company of our breeding pair of Robins and their offspring during the summer. He gained their confidence such that he could hold out a hand with a few sunflower seeds or dried mealworms in, and they would come and perch on it. This communion with nature contributed to his sense of wellbeing, when his family were often out at work and University, contributing in a small but life-affirming way to his recovery, and contributing greatly to my admiration for these charming little hedge birds.   More recently, when Dad put mealworms inside the shed for the robins, they learned to use a small hole he cut above the shed door to access this food supply, while the magpies and carrion crows were effectively excluded, though these bigger birds found rich pickings under the bird feeders still. They can be incredibly confiding, nesting openly in window boxes and even in sheds and garages, perhaps taking advantage of many of their predators natural and justified shyness of people.  In British gardens, at least, ones managed with few chemicals and not to be sterile lawns, they thrive in part because of, rather than despite human interactions.  While we have no ‘official’ national bird, robins were voted Britain’s favourite bird, in polls in the 1960s and the 2010s.

Robins are of course, present all year round, although the UK population swells somewhat in winter as the species undertakes a partial migration, with birds from Scandinavia pouring out to the South and West to escape the bitter arctic winter. Some, but by no means all, of the British breeding population cross the channel to France and the Mediterranean.  The oft-repeated question of whether the Robin in your garden in Summer is the same robin in your garden in winter is one which has yet to be conclusively answered, despite some sources leaning heavily in one direction or other. The best answer seems to be they may or may not be the same individual, perhaps depending on where you live. Certainly, plenty do move into the country in the Autumn, my friend Dave Roche, assistant warden at the Dungeness Bird Observatory, recalling seeing many exhausted Robins perched on the sea wall by the Power Station of a cold Autumn morning, having crossed the channel by night in search of more amenable weather conditions.

When I worked for the HOS in Southern Greece during the summer of 2011, Robins appeared with the other migrants such as blackcaps as the weather turned to Autumn, but always kept their distance from us, retreating into deep cover like all the other passerines as we passed. Although they were frequently in our ringing nets on the Island of Antikythera in the Aegean in the Autumn of 2019, I don’t recall ever seeing the shy, continental Robins out in the open, even as Wheatears and Whinchats, distant relatives of the European robin adapted for sparser habitats, would watch us from their rocky perches.  On the continent, robins have been hunted as a source of food for centuries, a practice which continues, mostly highly illegally, in places like France and Cyprus, an enraging anathema to British birders like myself.  The British have long taken a warmer view of this species, perhaps influenced by tales of Robins giving comfort to Christ when he was dying on the cross, their chests becoming stained with the blood of God, or of delivering water to tormented souls in hell, scorching their chests on their way, and it has never really been exploited in the way it has in other places, even when wild birds were still regarded as a source of food here.  In some countries, the Black Redstart, another member of the chat family, and not the Robin, is the archetypal confiding garden bird.

While friends of humans, and very much loved, Robins have a feisty side to their nature. They are famously territorial, their sweet summer and solemn winter song a warning to conspecifics not to infringe on their territories. Intraspecific fighting is a significant cause of mortality, especially for young birds, in parts of their range. My impression is of fights not usually being to the death, indeed, to waste so much of your population in this way hardly makes evolutionary sense, and while the fights are energetically expensive, they do typically end with one bird retreating to seek territory elsewhere. They breed several times in a summer, and are dedicated parents, with adults of both sexes actively provisioning the chicks in the nest. The sexes are indistinguishable, even in hand, and both males and females sing and hold territory. They are one of the few birds to sing in winter, albeit a more subdued version of their distinctive and beautiful song.

While they have long been associated with Christianity and the church, perhaps building on earlier associations in Norse mythology, their association with Christmas is much younger, and probably related to their association with the Royal Mail, whose red jackets recalled Robins’ breasts, and this led to their depiction on Christmas cards. Nevertheless they have become strongly associated with the season, and perhaps this is appropriate. Their habit of singing through the winter makes them among the most obvious of small winter birds. Cold snaps can make many birds more confiding, and Robins are no exception, as they take advantage of the shelter and microclimates, and our cultivated berry bearing plants, of our gardens to feed.  I love Robins, and a day out birdwatching in the field still feels incomplete unless I have added one to my list, whenever I am out and about in a place where they occur.

Unlike many species of birds in Britain and Europe, the Robin seems to still be undergoing a small population expansion, and the IUCN thankfully considers it of Least Concern. With seven million breeding pairs, the RSPB places the species on its Green List.  In Britain it occurs everywhere except the coldest and remotest uplands and islands, and it breeds across Europe from the Urals to Iberia, though of course its habits, migratory patterns and confiding nature are not consistent throughout its range. And I think, a small hedgerow bird of unusual confidence around humans in these islands, and a cheery splash of colour on the gloomiest, figuratively or literally, of days, it deserves all the love and admiration it gets.  So do offer them nest boxes, they like a low, open fronted box, and do feed them, they have in recent years learned to feed from hanging bird feeders in many areas, despite typically being ground feeders, and perhaps, on a reserve where they are already confident, or in your garden if you have the time and patience to invest in gaining their confidence, try dried mealworm, sunflower hearts or even a little crumb of cheese on your hand, and perhaps this magic little bird will bless you with an unforgettable close encounter.

Stonechats

One of the signs of Autumn down at my local RSPB reserve is the arrival of the Stonechats. Related to the Robins and Redstarts, these charming little denizens of the open countryside descend on the marshes fringing the Thames estuary from their breeding habitats on higher ground, perhaps on the continent or in upland western Britain.  Their harsh calls, reminiscent of two flints being struck together may give them their name, although the generic  Saxicola comes from a latin root meaning “stone dweller”, perhaps referring to the often rocky moorland and heathland habitats on which they breed. They are also among the only insectivorous birds to spend the winter in Great Britain, supplementing their diet with seeds, berries and molluscs. A hard winter can be devastating, causing very high juvenile mortality and knocking back populations hard. Some individuals in the British breeding population are migratory but they do not go further than the Mediterranean. Other populations, such as those in Siberia, are much longer distance migrants, and wintering populations are found in sub-Saharan Africa and in India, though some in Britain are thought to be near sedentary.  These sedentary birds get to begin their breeding season early, in March or April, typically sitting on eggs or feeding chicks when their nearest relative in Britain, the Whinchat (S. rubetra) is still making its way back from Africa, and can raise 3-4 broods compared to the Whinchat’s average of one. While migration presents its own challenges, there is a cost to its long distance travel in breeding opportunity.  Unlike long range migrants, the Stonechats in Britain also look set to gain from climatic change, as winters become milder.

Pair of Stonechats at Purfleet Marshes.

Stonechat numbers at RSPB Rainham Marshes, as it is known to the RSPB, or Purfleet Marshes as it is known to everyone else, begin to rise in September. These birds are often accompanied by Whinchats, similar but distinguished by their more slender shape and bold pale supercillium.  The Whinchats are gone by the time the winter sets in, down to Subsaharan Africa like so many British-breeding insectivorous birds, but Stonechats however must tough it out. They are related to Robins and share many of their relatives’ charm, and are often very confiding and will allow people to get quite close, and get good views. They are striking, even in winter when their fresh plumage is duller, before it wears down to reveal its breeding finery. The male has an orange breast, and near black upperparts with a white partial collar around his neck, and white wing markings.  I met a pair last weekend at the reserve, perched on the dry, upright remains of an umbelliferous plant, against a grey and forbidding sky.  They tolerated my slow approach, even when I was concerned I had flushed the female from her perch she had simply taken off to snatch an insect out of the air, and returned to it.  Somewhat romantically, stonechats, like some other species, typically move in pairs throughout the year.   Eventually she dropped down into the reeds as I walked by, although she rose occasionally to hover and seize passing insect, taking advantage of the continuing mild spell which allows these creatures to remain on the wing. Her mate eventually followed.

Walking on a moor near Bakewell in Derbyshire with my partner in the last days of October, tenacious Stonechats were still present, and are likely to remain so through the winter.  The moors are sparse, the vegetation faded to the colour of a red grouse, though a few small insects were flying around boggy patches. Wild animals were few and far between, Meadow Pipits were present in ones and twos, and a predatory Merlin flew over us, but a gaze across the damp and dead vegetation would typically reveal only sheep. The wind was cold, and as the winter progresses it will only get colder.  One handsome male perched on emergent fronds of dry bracken as Red Grouse flew out of the heather around them, watching us, calm and confiding as a garden robin.   He may spend the winter up here, or perhaps move down to open spaces such as wetlands at lower altitudes, but he, a tiny insectivore, will not be visiting gardens or attending feeders like his relatives from the Christmas card, he will be out here, toughing it out.

Male Stonechat at Purfleet Marshes

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)

Pennington Flash

Here is a blog post I wrote about a week ago following a trip to Pennington Country Park between Wigan and Manchester.

About a fortnight ago I had the privilege of spending an afternoon birding at Pennington Flash Country Park near Leigh, Greater Manchester, during a foray up North to see my dear friend Tom, getting out birding for the first time in a few days.  The site, which sits on the fringe of the great conurbation, between the City of Manchester and Wigan, was created in part by mining subsidence, where collapses enabled the formation of several large pools. An expansive lake, used by boaters, birders and the inevitable duck feeders armed with bags of bread, greeted us when we arrived. A scan of the water revealed distant goosander and Tufty among the Mallards, which was promising, but it was the nature reserve which adjoins it that we were interested in. A number of hides overlook a range of smaller pools, all home to interesting waterfowl.

Shoveller and Goosander at Pennington Flash.

Confident Reed Bunting, close to the appropriately named Bunting Hide. 

The first hide we visited revealed Shoveller engaged in their rather fascinating and rather mesmerising courtship dances, the male and female swimming in close circles, matching each others’ speed while often beak to beak, forming pair bonds that would presumably travel North with them onto their summer breeding grounds.  There were also several Goosander,  which typically winter on inland waters, especially in the North, where they seem to be growing more common.  They are among Britain’s prettiest ducks, the green-headed males sporting bright white flanks, while the females crests are endearingly punky.

Blue tit from Bunting Hide. 

Stock Doves from Bunting Hide.

The highlight of the visit had to be the experience of sitting in what is called the bunting hide, just watching so many birds around the feeders. Mottled and wintery Reed Buntings, smart hen Chaffinches, gaudy male Chaffinches, and fascinatingly pink Bullfinches landed on the tables. A grey squirrel, apparently blind in one eye but seemingly none the worse for its disability, enjoyed the seeds it could pull from behind the bars.  Little, noisy parties of Long Tailed Tits came and went from the hanging peanut feeders, accompanied by Blue Tits and a Coal Tit with an unusually long beak, perhaps regrown following some injury.  A pair of handsome stock doves, in beautiful slate grey plumage with their deep metallic green neck flashes, not dissimilar to woodpigeons but so much (even) more beautiful sat eyeing each other in the trees at the back of the clearing. The clearing was dotted with bird tables and feeders, bringing all the passerines so close. The scarcest bird in this little clearing was a beautiful female Brambling, a winter visitor from Scandinavia and other more boreal climes. It resembles a Chaffinch, with pale orange on the breast and mottled black and brown on the back and crown, with similar wing markings to its cogener, but suffused with orange, and a bright white rump. It fed on one of the bird tables, sadly the one furthest from us but still close enough for a photo for the records.

Partially blind squirrel

After we had sat in the hide a few moments, the birds scattered, and a Sparrowhawk flew through the clearing at speed. The mallards and moorhens which did not flee suddenly paddled or swam into the vegetation, apparently still nervous. The bird of prey disappeared, maneuvering between the trees, and we could not tell whether it had caught anything, but it took the passerines a long time to return, with the feisty blue tits appearing first, and the shy bullfinches taking their time to return to the clearing.

Brambling

This grey day was just the night after the latest round of storms which had affected the country, and especially the North West, and a few trees were down, including one close to bunting hide. Crack willows by the main lake had been snapped, their jagged edges reaching skyward, and elsewhere smaller Birches lay uprooted across the paths. The clouds were coming over in waves, and the wind was light but chilling, a shadow of the destructive force which had brought trees down on top of cars in the town centre just the night before. Despite the sporadic greyness and showers we wandered through the diverse habitats around the pools, adding a pair of kingfisher to our day list, the two bright little birds pursuing each other at speed, zigzagging close to the water surface. We saw a very windswept moorhen picking its way among the patches of gravel which formed islands in the pools, its breast feathers caught in the breeze.

Windswept moorhen

We saw a handsome Goldeneye out on the water of the main lake, and plenty of little grebes and scruffy, first winter grey herons.  Herons seem to have a roost in a cluster of trees beside one of the scrapes, to which the huge, broad winged birds were returning as we watched.   As the sun began to set, the sky cleared and we spent a few moments trying,  fruitlessly, to pick out a Mediterranean gull reported on the sightings board among the confiding, black headed gulls which had gathered amongst the motley collection of wild and feral mallards.

Motley mallards. 

Pennington Flash sits among major conurbations and is well used and much valued by a range of people. As a country park it represents a popular local day out. Despite the breeze we saw a range of dog walkers and other members of the public wandering around the site, but nevertheless it held a range of remarkable wildlife habitats and a surprising array of wildlife, and has become, in  my mind, something of a gem in the Greater Manchester area, and I look forward to seeing it again!

Sunset Gulls.