Tittesworth Reservoir

Tittesworth reservoir lies a few miles from Leek in Staffordshire, a few more miles from Stoke on Trent. It is operated by Severn-Trent water, serving the Midlands, and, as is the case with many reservoirs, they allow part of the surrounding area to be managed for the benefit of wildlife. in the shadow of the Roaches, It became a rather wonderful birding surprise when I visited last week with Natty. 

A breeze and a dark grey sky greeted us in the morning, and the weather dictated there would be few exciting butterfly sightings today.  From the bus stop we made a substantial walk down a fast country road, past the sad remains of a squashed Brown Hare, on which a couple of Carrion Crows were feeding. The first area we reached when we arrived at the site was wooded.  A river, feeding the reservoir, meandered through the trees. The first bird we encountered was a Song Thrush, perched on top of a hawthorn shrub. It was singing, with the characteristic repetition of phrases typical of the species.  The river itself caught my eye, and sure enough a pair of Grey Wagtails were busily feeding and chasing each other over the shallow water.   These charismatic little birds seem to me to turn up wherever there is water, indeed I have seen them in litter filled storm drains in suburban centres, but only a few moments later a more unusual riverside passerine presented itself. A Dipper flew off the bank not far from where we were standing and alighted on a stone a few metres downstream. Dippers are very scarce here in the South East, and all my encounters with them have been in the North West and Midlands. 

The Hawthorn had just begun to flower in Staffordshire, the progression of the seasons perhaps a couple of weeks behind down South, on account of the slight change in latitude and altitude compared with Essex, and we could still see well up into the tree canopy, not yet closed by leaf burst. The ground was a little muddy, and the river flow quite powerful on account of the recent rain. The scratchy calls of whitethroats and repetitious songs of chiffchaffs dominated. A small passerine which alighted in front of me came as something of a surprise. It was black and white, a Pied Flycatcher! They seemed to be surprisingly common around the area! There was a female there too, and she was quite photogenic, hanging around for several seconds. A  couple of swifts hurtled over our heads on their constant pursuit of flying insects. 

Pied Flycatcher.

As we neared the reservoir the river widened and we moved into an area of wet scrubland. A bird with a bright, salmon pink underside and a white rump could only be a Bullfinch, and on closer inspection a pair were fluttering from branch to branch among the alders which grew out of the shallow water. There were Reed Buntings here too, smart marshland birds, apparently at home in the wet woodland. Singing on a branch which hung over the path was a Garden Warbler, a bird with which I am none too familiar. The Garden Warbler is a bird of scrubland like this, and not a common garden visitor in this country, contrary to the name. It is about as plain a bird as one can imagine, grey-brown on its back with a diagnostic grey marking on the side of its neck. I’d met a single passage bird at Chafford Gorges a few weeks back, but here the species seemed to be flourishing, and there were many!  As the wet woodland gave way to open water, we saw some Tufted ducks and Moorhens, nothing but the usual, on the water. We elected to turn round and stop on a conveniently placed picnic bench for lunch. Quite what perched on top of a nearby shrub and looked at us and darted off into the undergrowth remains a mystery, but it was perhaps a little bigger than a robin, had a rich brown back, a pale chest, and few distinctive markings. There appeared to be a slight white ring around its eye. I called it a Nightingale, but when submitting records to the BTO later I was told that the species was a local rarity, and had my ID queried, so now I am no longer so confident. If it had sung, I would have been confident, but it just watched as I nearly dropped my sandwich and fumbled around with the binoculars before vanishing.

A singing Garden Warbler

We wandered back to the council run visitors centre which, to our disappointment, seemed mostly a fund raising exercise, with no relevant information and no sightings board. The volunteer or member of staff on duty could only suggest we found one of the reserve wardens whilst on our walk to tell us about what had recently been seen. Perhaps it is better sometimes to go out onto a reserve with no expectations.

Our first stop involved crossing the country lane, to where a small area of water had been designated a nature reserve by the water company. The Roaches, rocky hills covered in moorland vegetation, relic patches of a once larger network, stood out before us. We found a small hide overlooking the water, which initially looked barren. A moorhen picked about in the shallows and there were a couple of coots on the water. The sky was beginning to look grey and threatening.  A small bird appeared from behind the island, which we decided was a Ringed Plover, on the basis of their posture, they are more rotund and hunched than the very similar Little Ringed Plover. Another small brown wading bird then presented itself, with a distinct flight pattern appeared and also landed on the island. It would flap very rapidly, and then glide, wingtips lowered in an inverted V, a little like a Harrier jump jet and completely unlike a Harrier. This is another migratory species which is often spotted around ponds, throughout Britain, at this time of year, a common sandpiper, and the unique flight pattern is diagnostic.  An Oystercatcher too sat hunched on the island, and before long a handsome lapwing flew in, mewing, to join it.  At one point, three handsome curlews, birds emblematic of the Staffordshire Moorlands landed. These are big birds, easily dwarfing the other waders, and have declined substantially as the moors on which they breed have shrunk. The land about us, aside from the scrappy Heather and Bilberry on the roaches, was farmland, “improved” pasture grazed by cattle, but here were the birds in their ancestral home. Being familiar with Curlews as very much a winter bird of coastal habitats, it was a pleasant change to see them inland, even if the habitat had been ripped from under them.  As we watched them, the rain began to drum on the roof of the hide.

The roaches, and an angry sky.

We walked back, past the visitors centre, past more whitethroats and thrushes and blackbirds, and under swifts and swallows, which had descended to pursue insects over the water as the rainfall purged the clouds of bugs from the air.   Hirundines and swifts characteristically gather over water in wet and windy conditions. Natty and I, however, pressed on. We noticed, as we walked beside the water, that there was a distinct lack of water birds on the reservoir itself, aside from the typical Canada Geese, Tufties and Mallards, many of the latter semi-feral with white blotches and markings betraying a farmyard history. I think such “hybrid” mallards are very pretty, but they are hardly exciting. A couple of Great Crested Grebes were more like it, and these could be seen swimming well out in the water.

The path took us away from the water’s edge, and the rain continued to fall as we made our way down a muddy track, past a field of improved grass and thoroughly miserable looking cows. A glance into the trees we past revealed long tailed  tits, another garden warbler, and a singing Willow Warbler, but nothing new. It was quite a relief when the uninspiring vista of mud and electric fencing gave way to the dam which marked the end of the reservoir, the length of which we had now walked. It was down some steps and through some pines, along the length of the dam, and up again into a pine plantation. Elderly, sweet smelling Scots Pines formed a dense canopy, and among their trunks dead trees rested on their living neighbours. A goldcrest alighted in front of us, looked around startled, and disappeared. There were a couple of Jays in the trees too.  As we walked through the woods, occasionally catching glances of the water beside us, we startled a large raptor, which disappeared over the water and into a cluster of trees opposite. It’s back was a ragged brown, and there seemed to be white markings on the underside but from my angle I couldn’t tell; it was the bird that got away. Buzzards are not uncommon in Staffordshire but Ospreys are also known to visit Tittesworth Water in spring and autumn, and one was recorded just a few days later. Whether we saw it first, it seems, we will never know.    

Another view of Tittesworth Reservoir.

  

The reservoir still had more treats in store for us. After getting overexcited about a Mistle Thrush, possibly mobbing some unseen mammal in the grass, and having almost completed our circumnavigation of the lake, we saw a small flock of finches leaving the grass. Most of them were pretty little goldfinches, flashing bright yellow wing bars as they took off into a tree, but some were plainer, and speckled. Lesser Redpolls are a breeding bird in Britain, but I am used to seeing them in the winter as they, in the company of other finches, nibble at catkins and other fruiting bodies on woodland trees. Here were, presumably, British breeding redpolls amid a flock of Goldfinches in mid May.  Also in the trees beside the lake, as if wires had yet to be invented, were a number of very hunched, damp and moody looking Barn Swallows. There were still many swifts and hirundines, including house and sand martins, wheeling about over the water, but these specimens had obviously thought it better to rest than spend their energy on thin pickings of insects over the water.  Even on such a grey day, the iridescence of their black-blue backs of the birds at rest was more obvious than it would be when they were in flight.

The tree of Swallows

We met a young family of ducks, as we both began looking forward to getting indoors and out of the rain. A sleek, brown-headed, largely grey duck with a fine chestnut crest, which any old school punk would be proud of, led a brood of ten black and white ducklings away from the bank and into open water. At one point some of the little ducklings even hitched a ride on their mothers back, like Grebes.  They were of the fish eating “sawbill” type, and again I had to check the Collins, but the sharp definition between the females’ chestnut head and grey body, and the small, white patch on her chin identified her as a Goosander. These are remarkable, exotic looking ducks with much lighter beaks than those of the dabbling and ducks which are so familiar. This family were shy, the mother clearly anxious to lead the ducklings away from us, and further into open water, so I resisted the temptation to stay and watch them for longer as, with the conditions and the known presence of a large raptor, making them nervous was only putting them at risk.

Viewed through some inconvenient marginal vegetation, the Goosander family.

Although it had been an incredibly good day of rain-soaked birding, we appreciated the warmth and a cup of tea when we got back to Natty’s house and dried off!

Beautiful Staffordshire

I would like to apologise for the delay, I've been a little under the weather these past few days and have been slow to update. But here goes.

Staffordshire is beautiful. I might be biased because a particular lovely young lady lives there, but the woodland wildlife I met there last week was something else. It’s the beginning of summer and as such the migrants are properly starting to arrive and get on with their business. The resident wildlife is on the go too, butterflies are on the wing,  and birds are singing, proclaiming territories and gathering food for nestlings. So it was at Coombes Valley on Wednesday, when I made a return visit.  No sooner had I arrived than I had encountered my first Small Copper butterfly of the year, a very handsome little creature indeed, with deep orange on his forewings, his brown hindwings flushed with an iridescent orange sheen. He sunned himself breifly on the dandelion infested meadow.

Coombes Valley is a woodland nature reserve, a mixture of young and ancient woodland, clinging to the walls of a steep sided valley, with a flood meadow set at the bottom, lying beside a small, fast flowing river. Where the river bends, sits a bench overlooked by a pair of nest boxes, and it was here that we saw our first Pied Flycatchers. We’d been sitting a moment or  two, fretting about our forgotten lunch, when a very smart little bird landed on a twig just a couple of metres away. It was black and white, with a bright white underside. A male Pied Flycatcher! It took off and appeared to perform a little aerial dance in front of us, in pursuit of flies. It was there for a few seconds and then disappeared among the branches of a hawthorn.

We waited a little longer, and saw, to our surprise, peering out of a hole in a tree, an adult Great Spotted woodpecker. He, and he was a male by the red patch on the back of his head, slowly, cautiously left his hole, and clung to the side of the tree which he had made his home. Waiting for a few minutes, he appeared to change his mind and disappeared back into his hole. Perhaps he was incubating a clutch of eggs and waiting for his mate to return from foraging, so it could be his turn. A Grey Wagtail, all flicking tail and smart yellow, darted about over the babbling brook, and a chaffinch sang its brief, repeated song in a tree above us.  A few moments later the Pied Flycatcher returned, with the female, browner but no less smart and charming, following behind. The male let me take a couple of record photos from a distance. It was, as the RSPB is fond of saying, a “moment.”

After we waited a bit longer in the hope of getting a better photo of the pied fly, we decided to head up into the woods. In the canopy birds sang, robins, pied flycatchers, great tits and willow warblers. A bird with a reddish tail, probably a female redstart, shot up into the canopy and out of sight as we rounded a corner on the muddy woodland trail. We stood and waited for it for ages. We only caught brief glimpses of Coombes Valley’s other resident passerine attraction, unfortunately, but we seemed to encounter a pied flycatcher every couple of hundred yards. The second was in a clearing when I seemed to startle a male and saw his striking black and orange underside as he flew away at speed, again into the canopy.

Among the whole host of woodland birds we saw at Coombes Valley were Nuthatch, Blue, Great and Coal tits, and a very obliging treecreeper. A treecreeper is an odd little brown bird, both adorable and reminiscent of an ageing woodland wizard at once. It has a greyish white underside and a dark, streaked back, and clings close to trees, creeping up the bark against which it is remarkably camouflaged.  This one broke all the rules, and almost posed for a photo, his curved beak full of grubs and spiders, clinging to a tree just metres away. We watched him for several minutes, and even as we walked towards him he barely flinched, just moving up the tree and around the trunk out of view.

As we left the woods and joined the flood meadow at the valley bottom, where whitethroats and blackcaps sang, replacing the true woodland species, a dark shape flew over, and it was distinct from all the other crows. It was bigger, and it had a diamond shaped tail. I’ve not seen many of my favourite Corvid and avian Goth in England, having met most of them in Scotland and Greece, but this was a raven, and a beautiful example at that. It crossed the valley and disappeared over the trees, slowly. There is something about the shape of a raven, its long wings, its slightly back facing primary feathers, that big tail, which just places it in a league of beauty above other crows, imposing and splendid.
Natty brought my attention to what appeared to be an owl pellet on the ground, which was attended by at least four beetles. Some of these had a striking pattern of orange markings, around a shape a bit like a cross on their wing cases.  I recalled the Sexton Beetle, which buries dead animals for its larvae to feed on, and wondered if this was it, confused by the animal remains in the owl pellet. Another beetle was round, with a flattened body, matt black wing cases and an orange thorax. I have no idea. If any of my readers can help I would be interested to hear from them.  

To conclude a day of wonderful wildlife encounters, Natty and I walked back to the nearby town of Leek through the grassland and copses, the beautiful rolling Staffordshire countryside, down a barely signposted footpath, taking us through fields of cows, and pigs,over a disused railway line, into the smart pleasant town, just as the night fell, and in time to find the fish and chip shop closed! The following day, we would head out into the Staffordshire Moorlands again, to the amusingly named Tittesworth Reservoir, to meet some more unexpected wildlife.

Migrants and Babies in the first week of May

I’m off to Staffordshire tomorrow, in search of the holy trinity of woodland passerines Pied Flycatcher, Redstart and Wood Warbler. In view of that, and it having been a while since I last posted, I’m going to brave the slow desktop computer, substitute for a laptop which, it turns out, was far to fragile, to share a few highlights, from a week in which the sky remained ashen and the drizzle rarely abated, except to pour.

Saturday 28^th April and the RSPB local group took us up to Paxton Pits in Cambridgeshire, in search of spring passerines, and other wildlife. Paxton is a sort of patchwork of beautiful wetland, scrub and open water, and, on the day of our visit, the wetland got wetter by the minute. Not long arrived from Africa, Swallows hugged the surface of the pits, as they hunted for insects taking their first weak wing beats of their adult lives above water. Swallows depend on flying insects and these tend to be hard come by in such wet conditions. One of the few places they still congregate is over water, and, as such, hirundines tend to gather over water when the weather is wet or turning. A single Swift, something of an early arrival, passed over our heads as we walked, and occasionally the fluid, musical notes of Nightingale, a species for which the reserve is particularly noted, could be heard emanating from the scrub. I must confess I have always found the nightingale somewhat overrated as a vocalist, finding blackbirds just as pretty, but yet having inspired, it seems, a somewhat smaller body of poetry. But there is something different about those notes, something bigger and fuller, a distinct quality of sound which sets the nightingale apart from other birds. Maybe it is something that has to be heard to be understood, and, like many musicians, is definitely best experienced live. Eventually a small, robin sized bird, a robin, it seemed, without a red breast, appeared on the ground behind one of the hides and started hopping around. Its back was chestnut brown and its underside a pale grey. Nightingales are often called drab, but that isn’t a word I’d use. They are impeccably smart, elegant, and very clean looking. They lack the bright colours of some related species of chat, yes, but there is something fine about their appearance as well as their voice.
Nightingales being the main attraction at Paxton Pits, we saw several other passerines, including several pairs of Blackcap, a few Common Whitethroat, lots of singing Robins and Blackbirds, and a very showy Willow Warbler. Resembling a Chiffchaff but with a much more tuneful, varied song, Willow Warblers are thought to be declining in this country, so this handsome individual, sitting on top of a hedge singing his heart out, was a very welcome sight. Walking around we came to the less pretty side of the reserve, where sand and gravel workings continue and signs warn visitors not to attempt to swim in quicksand.
In the afternoon I left the rest of the local group in the visitors’ centre, hiding from the drizzle, and glanced into the small pond outside the visitors’ centre. After a couple of false starts as little Smooth Newts came up for air, I made out the black shape on the stony bottom of the pond I was looking for. It was easily twice as long as the Smooth Newt, many times the volume, and looked jet black through the water. Eventually one came up for air and I saw the huge, deep tail of the Great Crested Newt, as it turned and dived under the water. It’s not a species I’ve really taken the time to see before, and it is quite impressive. There are few places I have come across where they can be observed just by looking, and where they cannot be observed by just looking they cannot be observed, being protected from disturbance by non-licence holders, such being their status under law, a necessary result of their increasing scarcity.
I ended the day at Paxton watching the Common Terns wheeling and diving, and chasing each other’s tails, over one of the pits. Three of these elegant white birds, with their thin wings and long tail streamers, were fishing here. One would dive for a fish, and then the other two would dive in for a tailchase, noisy, and demonstrating the agility of these birds in the air. I’d seen Sandwich terns battling with Arctic Skuas on a windswept Kentish beach before, and this was a similar display of the terns incredible agility, their quick turns, their ability to stop in the air and go into a dive almost instantaneously, over the green water and brown reed beds. If you happen upon some Terns, I would strongly recommend hanging about to have a look, they are well worth watching for a while. Many visitors were disappointed by the rain, which probably did limit the amount we could see, but I for one was satisfied with good views of a Nightingale, a number of passerines and my first encounter with the terns typical of these Atlantic shores since I was attacked by Arctic Terns on the Farne Islands in Northumberland last June.
Tuesday May 1^st

Saturday May 5th and I took a walk around Upminster with a freind, starting in Clockhouse Gardens by Waitrose in St Mary's Lane. Here Feral Ducks mingled with wild coots and moorhens, and a brood of yellow Canada Goose goslings were catching the attention of several people. Clockhouse gardens is a small urban park with a small pond and carefully manicured flowerbeds, no doubt enjoyed by grazing geese and picked over by Moorhens. We continued onto Cranham Marsh where the calls of noisy Parrots mixed with the more melodious songs of Blackcap and Whitethroat, and passed through that lovely reserve to Parklands and Bonnets wood beyond, where Skylark could be heard. A Grey Heron and a kestrel flew over, and Apple Blossom provided a welcome spot of colour against the grey sky and among the mixture of cultivated trees which have been planted there.  

Sunday May 6^th and I went for a walk at Thorndon Country Park near Brentwood with the Matriarch. Mum spotted a pied wagtail as we left the visitors centre, but I missed this, though both of us saw a smart Great Spotted Woodpecker just a few paces later. Chiffchaffs and Great Tits sang in the canopy, but in the rain few birds could be seen as we walked the muddy woodland paths. The woods are truly coming alive now, the canopies closing as the spring leaf burst nears completion, and parts of the park were carpeted with nodding English Bluebells. We made our way to a hide beside a small lake, and a pair of blackcaps could be seen in the understory, disappearing into higher branches as we appeared. When we reached the hide we were entertained by three sweet little Mallard duckings, swimming at speed in all directions as their parents tried to keep up. The male Mallard was, unusually, also in attendance. A couple of Greylag Geese also had a little yellow gosling with them, sticking close. A pair of smart Little Grebes swam across the water in front of us, and there were a couple of pairs of Tufted Duck about. A show of parental defensive behaviour was put on by the Greylags when a Canada Goose came a little too close to the pair. The reaction was instant, both adults lowering their heads and hissing at the intruder. When he didn’t get the message immediately, one of the Greylags ran at him on the water, hissing and flapping, as the confused Canada hissed back, and lowered his neck too, until the Greylag pressed home his attack and he retired a few feet to a safe distance. Such was the speed and violence of the Greylag’s defensive action, I was breifly concerned for the welfare of the youngster, as the water was churned and splashed in all directions as the two Geese clashed. Once the Canada had retired a distance peaceful Greylag family life appeared to resume, and they made their way off, amongst the marginal vegetation.
A pair of grey herons nested among the trees by the water, the male bringing back food to his sitting partner. A few chaffinches fluttered about in the trees, and Jackdaws made entertaining noises with their contact calls in the treetops, as Grey Squirrels, typically, were everywhere. The rain probably kept most of the bird life quiet, but Thorndon's woods are special, and an overlooked habitat in a county probably best noted for its wetlands,  and well worth a couple of hours on a quiet afternoon. saw me heading down to Stone near Bradwell on Sea in north-east Essex, and I took the opportunity to wander down the sea wall, past some beautiful and very friendly pigs in a field, to see what was about. May is an important time for migratory birds, with several species piling into the country for the breeding season, and I wondered if anything interesting might be found in this coastal spot. A line of shelduck flew over, and on the mud of the river Crouch were a few dozen Brent Geese. These birds were presumably stragglers from the huge flocks of geese which winter here on the Essex rivers. A handsome male wheatear, with a slate grey back and black bandit mask, perched on the sea wall, and some waders sat by a reed-lined pool inland of the sea wall. As they took off, most turned out, with the diagnostic white triangle on the trailing edges of their wings, but one, lacking these triangles, but similar in size and shape to its fellows, was probably a migrating Spotted Redshank. It was still, more or less, in its drab winter plumage. Round here, we rarely see their smart, black summer plumage, which they tend not to acquire until they have moved further North. A dunnock and a whitethroat sang in nearby bushes, and my attention was caught by a large, brown bird flying low over the reedbeds. It held its wings in a slight V, and had pale tan markings on its head. An unexpected Marsh Harrier was certainly a pleasant sight, as were two Avocets picking about daintily in the shallows. As I left I was fortunate enough to see a young fledgeling blackbird being fed by its father in one of the garden hedges, further sign that, while many long range migrants, like the Wheatear and the Spotred, were still very much on the move, our resident passerines were already well advanced with their breeding season.

Wednesday May 2^nd was volunteering and Roding Valley again. We contended with the mud to build some steps for access, and were over flown by plenty of Swifts and Swallows, but what amazed me was how the lower fields by the River Roding itself were flooded, and flowing. There were lakes where the meadows should be. Periodic flooding is part of the history and the ecology of the meadows, depositing nutrient rich fluvial soils on the grassland. Often, these low lying meadows are host to abundant wild flowers and butterflies, but on Tuesday, they had mallards floating on them. A kingfisher flew out of an oak tree, hundreds of metres from where it would usually have lived, and over to vegetation emergent from the water, but previously standing on the riverbank. One of the volunteers wandered out a few metres and found the water approaching the tops of his wellies, and said he could feel the water flowing. No doubt, unless there is much more rain, the river will already have begun to return to its channel, but the nutrient levels in the adjoining fields may have been topped up. Walking in the fields after the work party, an adorable, big-eyed Harvest Mouse, the colour of wet straw, scampered out of a tussock and briefly into view, allowing us a glimpse of an infrequently seen small mammal.

More Migrants at Chafford

It is curious how after the first Swallows and Martins appear, they appear to be everywhere. My first swallow of 2012 was at at Wat Tyler on the 17th, the first House Martin at Chafford on the 12th. With several at Purfleet the other day, they seem to be everywhere, I even saw one over Upminster during my driving lesson today and had to apologise to my instructor for being unable to point to it on account of the need to keep my eyes on the road.

One place where there were no hirundines however seemed to be Chafford on Thursday. On a grey morning I woke up unexpectedly early so headed down to get in an hours birding before the work party started. In Warren Gorge I was impressed by a little charm of goldfinches near the back entrance, busily feeding on catkins. It was a surprise to see these adult birds still in their charm like this, I wonder when they will pair off and begin nesting? Great tits were about carrying bits of moss and feathers to line their nests, and chiffchaffs were joined by the distinctive scratchy notes of Whitethroats. I eventually got a good look at a pair of whitethroats in a bush near the visitors centre, into which the female disappeared apparantly also carrying nesting material.

What caught my eye above the lake were not hirundines, but swifts. They look almost black against the sky, where they spend virtually all their adult lives. One by one they came in low over the water, each on a black arc of wing, curved backward like a bow, their body making the arrow. They are such streamlined aeronauts, naturally engineered for a life on the wing. Despite their agility their wing movements were imperceptible, flapping only when an insect necessitated a rapid climb. These birds are ususally late migrants, the last into the country for their breif breeding season, and the first out. They can range for several miles every day and after breeding I suppose there is little about in our dampening islands for them.

After lunch and a wall painted in the visitors centre, I cycled over to Lion Gorge, part of the reserve set in another chalk pit a short distance away. In the water, which is managed by an angling club, crystal clear and has lilly pads in, were several coots swimming, and a heron, wading in water so deep he looked like he was swimming like a duck, with a beak flushed pink and yellow, looking his smartest for the season. I walked down to the weir where I'd often seen grey wagtails before but there were none about. The wind rustled the trees angrily.
Walking on a little, between the tree lined embankment and the water, I heard some distinctive chirping in the trees and saw the recognisable shape of a long tailed tit in the understory. There in front of it was a most adorable sight, three tiny fledgelings, little balls of fluff with tails, and incredibly early, all clustered close together against the threatening elements. I walked away to give them some space. By the time I returned, I'd got my camera out, the acquisitive photographic instinct having got the better of me,  but unfortunately the fledgelings had dispersed. I hope minimising my impact was worth missing what could have been a superb photograph.

It wasn't long after looking for the long tailed tits that I saw something which rather surprised me. It was a rounded bird, brown above and off-white below, and almost featureless, apart from a splash of grey around the neck area and what looked like brown stains where its wings met its breast. I'll admit I had to consult the Collin's Guide on this one, and I narrowed it down to a Garden Warbler. Garden Warblers are not common around here, they resemble fat, capless blackcaps, sing very well, and probably pass through Chafford Gorges on passage. Shortly after the Garden Warbler encounter I met a couple of its co-generics, Blackcaps, in a buddleia. Satisfied, I headed back to the Centre with a bird list.
Another hour in Warren Gorge as the day wore on, and this time I walked to Heron point, at the end of a dead-end path, to see what I could see. I added a handsome Great Crested Grebe, and, happily, a smart little Grey Wagtail, grey and yellow, to my list. The coots here had young already, scruffy little black chicks with red heads, already active on the water and being fed by their parents.

Purfleet Again, with birds you can dance to...

Yesterday, my good freind Bexx and I decided, a little spontaneously, to take a wander around the RSPB's jewel on the Thames Estuary of Purfleet Marshes, that green and damp oasis which sits between industrial Rainham and Industrial Purfleet. I have described the site before, an open area, with few trees except at the Eastern end of the Reserve, now grazed by substantial numbers of large black cattle, and surrounded by fences of various kinds.  When we arrived, it was, inevitably, raining, but the usual goldfinch and chaffinch were on the feeders outside the visitors centre and they were joined by collared and, more unusually, three smart looking stock doves, dark grey with iridescent green flashes on their necks. The casual observer might have overlooked these smart pigeons as woodpigeon, or even feral pigeon, but they are a different species and a very handsome one at that.

View of RSPB Rainham Marshes

We wandered through the copse around the former explosives store, and arrived at the feeders, where we saw no less than three handsome male reed buntings, apparantly quite comfortable in each others company, although less comfortable in ours-we had to wait and stand still for a few moments before they were confident enough to move towards us and onto the well stocked sunflower seed feeders. A couple of Great tits also came down to feed, and there were blue tits about also. A chiffchaff could be heard calling among the wonderful horse chestnut trees, but he was not showing himself. We watched the charming Reed Buntings on the feeders and on the ground, among the straw laid down to save the volunteer who fills the feeders from the worst of the mud, for a little while before continuing around the reserve.

Reed Bunting on the feeder in the Cordite store.

From the Ken Barrat hide we could initially see only a young Mute Swan, calmly enjoying the shallow water, but after we had waited a little while we were joined by a few ducks, a couple of Tufties and some rather manic Gadwalls, a pair, the female easily separated from a female mallard by the broad, orange lines down each side of her bill. They were both diving under the water, reappearing, and chasing each other, on the water, creating no particular impression of the male chasing the female or vice versa. 'Dabbling ducks' like Gadwall feed by up-ending, grazing, or dabbling with their bills in shallow water, they do not usually dive, so I wonder if anyone else has seen similar behaviour. I wonder if they had found some particularly tasty vegetation too deep for them to dive for, or perhaps were simply trying to impress each other.
Walking up through the reeds, on the boardwalk, among the swallows (now arrived in the country, they seem to be visible all over the place) we heard a rhythmic song coming from deep in the reeds. It was comprised of whirrs and scratches, a little electronic, and it had a beat you could tap your foot to! Whoever writes the bird books which describe Reed Warbler song as "unmusical" has clearly not heard any music released in the last 60 years, it calls to mind dance music and is, in my opinion, one of the most underrated of avian vocals, and my favourite singers. Surely no bird has a stronger sense of rhythm? Another Reed Warbler singing a few metres down sounded less experienced, his voice was not quite as strong, nor his rhythm so clear. A Cettis warbler also let forth a burst of high-pitched sound, and a small brown back seen flying between the reeds could have been either species, both nondescript in appearance, they are almost uniform brown, but so distinctive and so different in their vocalisations.

Under an angry sky...

From the high-tech hide we were pleased to see a couple of very smart lapwings, some apparantly sitting on nests, and a distant Little Ringed Plover, a year tick and a spring migrant, which only seems to appear at Purfleet in late April and early May. A Little Grebe was also around doing its cute stuff, and diving about. There were several smart shelducks around and a few more flew in over our heads while we were watching.
Fortress Purfleet brings up its' drawbridge (literally, it has a drawbridge) and locks its gates, somewhat infuriatingly, at five PM, and we were faced with a rather hurried walk to the centre. We came across a couple of very obliging mute swans, big white posers that they are, who let us take a few photos, including of their massive leathery feet. Somewhere above us a Skylark was off on one, raining down its rambling techno on all below. Grey, heavy clouds, almost purple, were beginning to creep over the shooting butts, although the sun still shone in on us. Somewhere, noisy Marsh Frogs croaked and squawked, and although we saw the odd movement of water and heard the odd splash we managed not to see one.  A streamlined, elegant looking bird flew over us, and I was surprised to be able to call it, immediately, a whimbrel. Whimbrels closely resemble curlews, which are more common, but the relative shortness of the beak, and the slender, far more elegant build were actually fairly obvious in flight. It darted over the marshes, over the sea wall and across the river.  Outside the visitors centre, a dunnock sat on the wire fence, the fortress' perimeter, in full song.

 Dunnock Maestro

We left the reserve as the "lock-down crew" as they called themselves, were walking the paths locking up the hides, as "fortress Purfleet" was, appropriately, put on lockdown at five PM. Bexx and I watched the swallows on the beach and chatted about future blogging, before deciding to check out one of the Reserve's local pubs, the Royal. Its atmosphere was, we found, perfectly welcoming, and a couple of pints of Titanic ale later, we stepped outside to photograph a fiery sunset, sinking behind moody clouds above the river and the city beyond.

Purfleet Sunset

A walk beside the Pitsea, on the last day of Summer.

On Monday my freind Rebecca and I made our way to Wat Tyler Country Park near Pitsea on the C2C railway in the hope of catching up with some interesting passage migrants and some summer visitors.  The park, on the site of a long demolished explosives factory beside Vange Creek of the Thames Estuary, gets very busy at weekends as the people of Basildon flee to their local patch of countryside. As we walked up the path to the RSPB visitors centre, which covers the wider South Essex Marshes landscape, a few swallows flew low over our heads, my first swallows of the year, and a very welcome sight! We had a cup of coffee and a delicious Easter cake as prepared by the RSPB volunteers, and elected to visit first the small RSPB reserve of Vange Marshes. We walked down a grubby footpath beside piles of building rubble, and crossed the railway. The wider landscape is a patchwork of grubby industrial areas, construction sites, landfill traffic, and beautiful areas of scrub and marshland managed for the benefit of wildlife. A building site stretches along the footpath as far as the railway crossing, but upon reaching the other side, the lanscape transforms dramatically. mature shrubs, including plenty of flowering blackthorn and budding hawthorn sit on an area of close, rabbit-grazed grass, giving way towards the river to reedbeds and an area of open water. Plenty of passerines can be heard here, and the calls of chiffchaff, robin and great tit are the most evident. Water was evidently being pumped from one place to another as part of the RSPB's management plan and large hoses had been set up at intervals along the margin of the meadow and marshland.

We walked up to the viewing point beside the water and had a look around. Birds were surprisingly few, but a kestrel hovering above us might have been responsible for some shyness among the passerines. Looking through the metal gates which separated us from the water, we could see a single sleepy Oystercatcher, head under his wing, on one of the islands, and no fewer than four elegant avocets strutting their stuff in the shallows. They seemed to be sticking together in two pairs. It seems these brackish creeks, of which there are several in the wider area of South Essex Marshes, are well used by the species. I was a little disappointed not to see any more waders, having had hopes of catching up with such old favourites from Gialova as Common and Green Sandpiper, both of which have been reported here recently and pass through in some numbers in Spring and Late Summer. A few swallows wheeled about ahead. I hope that now they have arrived, they will appear evident in larger numbers, and return to local breeding sites. Vange Marsh is flat, dotted with scrub on one side, and underwater on the other. Above it rises the hill in the centre of Pitsea, with an old church tower standing on it, and the A130 road flyover beside it. It occupies the land between the railway line and Vange Creek. It is grazed by horses, which we saw messing around and enjoying the spring. We decided not to interrupt them and turned back toward the Country Park.

Walking up the entrance track a second time, as lorries on their way to the landfill thundered by on the other side of a hedge, we were checked out by one of the landfill site foxes, who just ambled nonchalently past. Perhaps more so than even the typically urban foxes one encounters in Upminster, landfill foxes have lost much of their fear of humans, and this one seemed happy for me to get a couple of photos. He looked every bit a handsome, healthy wild mammal, with a thick red-brown coat, and a leisurely gait. When a car passed he knew to stand aside, and eventually wandered off into the bushes.

Borrowing the key from the volunteers at the visitors' centre, we went first to the hide oppposite the Green Centre, housed in the building which used to be the National Powerboat Museum, now sadly closed down. There were plenty of avocets on the scrape, and several gulls of various common species. The scrape at Wat Tyler is actually a substantial body of shallow water dotted with small islands, many of them vegetated. Behind the scrape lie gently rolling hills to the west, and beyond the water, a hedge and a line of trees screen Pitsea Landfill Site, its location betrayed by the distant, but huge flock of gulls which swarm above. Handsome, chestnut-sided Shovellers sat peacefully, scattered among the islands, heads under wings, while pochards floated about, diving occasionally, and being more active. I imagine these winter species will be soon to depart for the North. Among them were a couple of tufted ducks, and several Mallard. A few teal skulked about in the corners of the lake. Among the brown reeds, a repetitious and familiar song rose up, rhythmic, curiously electronic. Another summer visitor, a reed warbler and the singer, alighted breifly on one of the brown phragmites stems. A lapwing was also displaying a distance away. After we had been sitting a few moments, I noticed a few birds becoming agitated at the far side of the scrape, and I took a closer look with the bins. Avocets, Lapwing and teal had gone up, while the larger Gulls and waterfowl appeared unperturbed.  It was actually a gentleman seated in the far corner of the hide who called the Sparrowhawk first, I had just missed it behind the reeds, but the smart little hawk soon climbed above them again and flew above us, affording us both good views of its barred underside as it flew past. Apparantly its hunting attempt had been frustrated as there was nothing in its talon.

We watched for a little bit longer and decided to carry on walking around the park, dropping off the keys to the hide with the RSPB volunteers on our way. We reached the creek and found it surprisingly quiet for birds. The tide was well out and the mud exposed.  From one of the smaller hides we saw a couple of teal, and decided to wait a little while. There was something of a cool breeze but the sun held good as we looked across the seemingly barren saltmarsh, when a couple of big, handsome, rugged looking curlews arrived, unfortunately landing just a little out of site. A little egret also flew over, trailing its yellow feet, a bird which has gone, in a relatively short space of time and in defiance of a trend, from very scarce to very common around this part of the country. The park is dotted with remnants of its industrial past, when it was used to produce ammunition, and a large, concrete bowl lies beside the creek, apparently it was once used to wash guncotton. Interpretive signage, which is actually quite informative, amusingly reminds you that you are on the explosives trail.

Wandering uphill, past more chaffinches and the common tits, we were able to discern a pair of blackcaps among the hawthorn, already, in a matter of days, growing thick and green enough to disguise any birds hiding in it. The female, who unlike the male has a chestnut coloured crown, looked at me curiously through the leaves. The peak of the hill in the centre of the park, complete with a metal sculpture of what appears to be a woodlouse, but doubles as a musical instrument, affords a good view of the Thames marshes and the mosaic of habitats this surprisingly large, but innaccessible area offers.

We eventually called it a day, and elected to go to the pub. As we walked back toward town,a large bird flew over the access road. It was dark, with long wings and a longish tail, and pale, beige markings about the head. The juvenile marsh harrier, still very scarce in this part of South Essex, was our third raptor of the day. Further down we also got good views of a hovering Kestrel.

 Unfortunately, as far as we could discern, Pitsea is a dry town. An old pub, a grand looking place called the Railway, stands boarded up in the centre of the town, advertising a hand carwashing service. Disappointing, but in reality a good days birding had been had.

A walk around the Upminster area.

Thisafternoon I took a local walk, taking in the lake at Parklands, and the wonderful old trees which surround it, down through the Forestry Commission's new woodland at Bonnet's wood, set on old farmland adjacent to the Gerpins lane tip, before doubling back on myself to visit one of my favourite local nature reserves at Cranham Marsh, a patch of Ancient Semi-Natural Woodland and marshland not far from the centre of Upminster.

I arrived at Parklands, a lake used by local anglers for carp fishing, in glorious sunshine, passing through the dappled shade of the copse, said to contain some of the oldest trees in the local area, many of which had just begun to come to life with the spring leaf burst. The squawks of Rose Ringed Parakeets, which roost there in the winter, could be heard in the trees, as well as the familiar calls of Great and Blue tits, and a couple of moorhens wandered about in the shallows, visible from the old bridge at the lake's Eastern end. Parklands is essentially an under-used urban park, and numerous beautiful willow trees hang over the water. I soon picked up the call of a chiffchaff, and found the bird in one of the bare Sycamores, which stand further back from the water. A song emanating from the green canopy of one of the willows was less familiar, but investigation revealed a handsome male Blackcap, a predominantly grey bird with a coal black cap, on a branch under the canopy, singing away. Although some blackcaps, probably Central and Eastern European breeders, do winter in the UK, those which sing here in the summer spend their winter around Mediterranean Europe. I recalled the last time I had seen one, I was in Gialova in Greece, last October, where they appeared in large numbers as the Autumn drew in, joining the beautiful resident Sardinian Warblers.

Mallard and Young at Parklands, Upminster

Walking on, bumblebees were busy around the dandelions, but the clouds were drawing in threatening April showers. I saw a female mallard followed by a brood of small ducklings on the water, and felt a few drops of rain, although fortunately the storm passed me by this time. I decided to risk it and continue to Bonnet’s wood, a newly planted area covered with a mix of species including native woodland trees, cherry and apple trees now coming into blossom, and the inevitable pines, representing future timber resources, but non-native to the South East and grown solely for their commercial value. I crossed Parklands car park and the small country lane separating the two areas of public access countryside. Chiffchaffs were here in large numbers and I thought I heard the odd whitethroat in the bushes as I followed the path. A pair of Great Tits were obviously gathering moss for a nest. Although the bulk of the trees here are new plantings, a row of older, pollarded oaks, perhaps centuries old, separated the community woodland from adjoining farmland, and such trees offer abundant nesting opportunities for hole dwelling birds like Great tit. A flock of Greenfinch, possibly passage migrants, flew between the high branches of the pollard stands.  Walking onto the adjacent farmland along a footpath, I saw a skylark climbing aloft and singing. Concerned that it may have a nest around, I carefully made my way back down the way I came, as these ground nesters are very vulnerable to disturbance.  A pair of Stock Dove flew over my head, and another couple perched in a dead tree. These seemed to, curiously, outnumber woodpigeon here, although a small party of these grazed happily on whatever expensive crops the farmer had planted for them, interrupted occasionally by the loud bang of a gas powered bird scarer, but always returning to the same spot. A close look at a passing Carrion Crow turned out to be worthwhile, as the bird was in fact a rook, separated by the grey base to its bill. The rook is largely a bird of open farmland, apparently less adaptable than other Corvids which have taken well to urban life. Here, however, there was no shortage of open farmland.

Views of Bonnet's Wood

Making my way back towards Parklands a smart Kestrel flew low over my head and the Goodyear Blimp, which seems to be a regular feature of local airspace these days, was taking tourists out for trips from the nearby airfield at Damyn's Farm. At the lake I added Coot and Canada Goose to my day list, and saw several chiffchaffs, which do seem to be hear in very large numbers recently. Leaving Parklands through the lovely copse I crossed the suburban main road, and joined the footpath to Cranham marsh, which lead across a patch of litter spotted private land. A patch of bluebells was in flower in a woodland clearing, which I passed before the path angled around past the Crematorium, and onto the reserve.  A brightly marked Jay showed me his blue wing flashes as I startled him into flight, and a wren bustled about in the undergrowth. A pheasant could be heard calling.  I arrived by the stream and the kissing gate, on the little Essex Wildlife Trust reserve. It could be described as my local patch but to my shame it's been some months since I last visited it. 

View of Cranham Marsh, from the grazing meadow toward part of the Ancient Woodland

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I took the path along the edge of the woods and saw one of the glorious and noisy, green Rose Ringed Parakeets which live and breed in the dead trees, which loom out of the ancient woodland canopy. The marsh itself, which suffered badly when the M25 building caused much local land to be drained, is more of a damp meadow, but later in the year it can be a wonderful place for wildflowers and insects. Birdsong was everywhere, and a great spotted woodpecker flew across the marsh to settle among the trees. Chiffchaffs and blue tits again, and, I think, the scratching song of at least one whitethroat, although he was not allowing me to see him and confirm his presence. The sky was blue and the sun was shining when I entered the woods, the canopy closing at this time of year, but, inevitably, by the time I emerged a chill wind was blowing and a bank of threatening cloud had covered the sun. Conditions were calm enough for a kestrel to hover over the long grass, a handsome, slate-headed male, and it wasn't clear if it was this predator, or the changing weather that brought a silence over the songbirds. A blackbird puffed his feathers as he perched on an exposed branch, and I saw a few Great tit making for the shelter of the woodland canopy. The birds seemed to read the coming weather very well. I walked on in the open, to feel, unexpectedly, not gentle April rain on my face, but stinging hailstones! The shower was intense enough to convince me to start heading home! Walking backwards, I looked at the painted scene introducing visitors to the reserve, which stands beside some impressive wooden carvings of a Kestrel and a Stag Beetle. It showed an idyllic summer scene, not dissimilar to the one in which I had arrived at the site. The glass accumulated white hailstones, the size of small peas, in its corners.

View of Cranham Marsh as the Hailstorm Passes.

 

By the time I approached the top of the Chase and neared the Church of All Saints, a lovely old church set in a beautiful, wildlife rich churchyard, always home to some interesting finches in winter, the sky was blue again. Dunnocks, robins and great tits had all resumed their songs. Damp, and admittedly a little surprised by the weather, I made my way home. It's good to spend a little time just exploring locally.