A tale of joy and heartbreak- An unforgettable encounter in Orkney

A couple of weeks ago, I was fortunate enough to visit the Orkney islands off the North coast of Scotland. A patchwork of ancient sites, standing stones, wild seas and cattle farms, of jewelled wild flower meadows and moorland in bloom, where blue butterflies and bumblebees live only in sheltered hollows, where Neolithic villages and places of worship stand testimony to the ingenuity of our ancient ancestors, Orkney is a remote, and fascinating place.

One afternoon, I drove in the sunshine to the RSPB’s Cottascarth viewpoint, on the moors not far from Finstown.  While on the road I encountered, and photographed, very badly as it turned out, a beautiful Oystercatcher chick, in the company of a parent. The chick still had some down, though its adult feathers had begun to show, and it was nearly ready to take to the skies. Oystercatchers breed in substantial numbers in Orkney’s farmland. I took the narrow, twisting track through farm buildings to the viewpoint, where, green-roofed and windowed, but still clearly crafted from abandoned croft buildings, stood the RSPB hide.  Optimistic, I waited and enjoyed the surroundings, hoping to catch a glimpse of a Hen Harrier.  The occasional call of a Curlew echoed from the hills, or an Oystercatcher alarm call rose from the farmland and the flock of linnet which alighted briefly on the roof of the hide. A few sheep grazed.  After about an hour the Harrier appeared, a male, a smart, grey bird, with black, fingered wingtips, a grey ghost over the moorland, hanging on wings with the characteristic dihedral.  Hen Harriers hunt in part by hearing, and by sight, and prey on voles, as well as young ground nesting birds.   The male made a couple of passes, his attention fully focussed on the ground below, looking for voles or any unfortunate small birds, before disappearing over the ridge into the valley behind. I waited another few minutes, hoping this magnificent bird would reappear, but he did not, and I began to make my way back to the small car park ready to head back to my camp site.

As made my way back to the car I saw the male glide over the place I had just been standing. With some disappointment at missing out on this close view, enjoyed his majestic hunting through binoculars. I headed back down to the coast roads. Driving slowly on empty roads with my eyes open for birds, I became aware of the mother Oystercatcher I had encountered earlier. She was loudly and aggressively mobbing something in the field, down beyond a low brow hidden from sight. She’d break away bto chase off a passing Hooded Crow, though these birds did not seem to go far, then returning to her target on the ground, strafing with her sonic weapon, her passes low and frequent, her calls rhythmic but high and frantic. I slowed down, wondering what could possibly have enraged her like this. Then, just 15 metres or so from my window, I saw what had happened. On top of a sad, white lump with feathers, feet extended toward the sky, stood a female Hen Harrier. Her golden yellow eyes, set in a subtle facial disc recalling an owl, glanced to me, before, unconcerned by me or the distraught mobbing of the adult Oystercatcher, returning to plucking her prize.

My heart in my mouth, I silently reached for my camera and grabbed a few photos through the passenger window.  I watched the bird, predator, as she continued to remove the downy feathers from her prey, scattering them to the wind like dandelion seeds, calmly, yet so alert, eyes scanning in all directions.  The adult did not relent from calling.

Suddenly the bird was on the move, a grey shape emerging from the bushes. A farm cat burst out from cover toward the bird of prey. With her wings spread, her imposing size was apparent. She struggled into the air with her prize, but it was a little too heavy, and she dropped it. The dead Oystercatcher chick flopped limp to the ground. She swooped in on it again, and stood on it, bearing a steely look, extending her wings to protect her prize.  But the farm cat was determined. The next spring it made, the bird was off and flying, back toward the hills, and the Oystercatcher chick was clasped firmly in the jaws of the tabby.  It sloped off, toward some farm buildings to enjoy its prize. I considered some attempt to scare the cat off, in the hope the Harrier would return, but I figured even semi-feral mammals must eat, and a cat brave enough to take on an adult Hen Harrier, talons and all, must be very hungry indeed.

My heart still in my mouth, I sat for a while,  as a band of thick, grey cloud rolled in over the sea, and the cool rain began to fall.  A double rainbow arced from the horizon. A confused and angry adult Oystercatcher stood on a fence post, yelling at the wind.

Dark Green Fritillaries in an Undiscovered Dale.

I think this blog may be developing into a celebration of seasonal natural spectacles posted just a little too late for the reader to actually go out and enjoy them. Speaking of which, on the first of July, I visited, in the company of the Bee Girl, and a dear friend and Londoner with whom I studied Environmental Science in the capital, one of the less-visited Dales of the southern Peak District, in pursuit of a rather special butterfly.  

The Dark Green Fritillary is an unfamiliar butterfly to many of us, although it is probably the commonest large fritillary in the British Isles. I first met it, when, during a heatwave not dissimilar to this one, I was studying the Northern Brown Argus at Warton Crag in Lancashire. The adults were on the wing for a few days, until, in the words of the site’s RSPB warden “they melted in the heat.” I’d only seen the odd one or two to date, mostly in Cumbria, so when a member of local Natural History group on a popular social network reported counting 40 or so on the footpath into Long Dale and Gratton Dale, just off the Via Gellia, about fifteen minutes from my home, it seemed an opportunity not to be missed. We’d been running about for the past few days, finding the Londoner her first Dipper at Lathkill Dale and connecting with Treecreepers and Stone Circles on the Eastern Moors, so an evening visit turned out the best we could manage. We went with some apprehension that the advancing hour would preclude success, but our fears were unfounded. 

We were greeted just a hundred metres or so from the layby, by a single Dark Green fritillary. Its topside was a rich burnt orange orange in the high midsummer sun, intricately marked with blacks and browns, and when it closed its wings, the underside, which gives the species its name, was a deep pastel mid-green, jewelled in silver, lustrous and metallic when caught by the sun. A beautiful insect, bigger than a Comma, it was comparable in size to a Peacock or a Red Admiral. Walking a little further down the dale, we were surrounded by dozens of these magnificent insects, bright, fresh orange individuals, and more faded specimens bleached a little by a few days in the sun.  Big, bright males maintained small territories, chasing off any rival males which dared to nectar at their Thistles or deep purple Knapweed flowers, and would eagerly drive off any passing Meadow Browns or Ringlets, which were abundant, occasionally appearing even to fly directly at human observers, before swiftly changing course to pick their battles. One even hassled a large Aeshnid dragonfly.

Dark Green Fritillaries fly from late June until late July, reaching a peak in mid July, though the anecdotal evidence of the warden at Warton Crag suggests hot weather can shorted this flight period. They are univoltine, and overwinter as a young larva, eating only their own eggshell before entering hibernation, miniscule and vulnerable, among the decaying vegetation. In spring the larvae emerge to feed on the leaves of violets. The larvae are black and as they near maturity broadly resemble those of the large nymphalini.

The Dales had more surprises still.  Butterflies on the wing included vibrant Common Blues (Polyommatus icarus), a small cluster settling down to a communal roost, and more than a few of the local, univoltine race of Brown Argus (Aricia agestis), long considered Northern Brown Argus (A. artaxerxes) distinct from strikingly similar female Common Blues by a single missing spot on the forewing at rest.  The Bee Girl found Small Heath, (Coenonympha pamphilus) a small and unassuming, and particularly fluffy looking satyrid butterfly of the grasslands, thought to be a declining species.  Plenty of Burnet Moth (Zygaena spp.) were on the wing, as were a whole host of common butterflies, we counted 12 species in all.

Brown Argus (Aricia agestis) 

Though many of the grassland and scrubland birds have finished breeding by July and largely gone to ground, there were still a few about. The bushes were alive with fledgeling Willow Warbler, and a single hen Redstart was noted, darting away, a fleeting glimpse of that tell-tale orange tail for which the bird is named.  We heard a Raven cronking but unfortunately it did not reveal itself. Swallow fledglings with short streamers wheeled overhead and a single Brown Hare paused on the rocks above to look down at us with suspicion. These dales are stunning on a summers’ day and that day, the butterflies were the stars.  We walked out of the dale at about 8pm, and still the Fritillaries were active, busy and chasing.

Dartford Warblers at Arne

Dartford Warblers

Dartford Warblers (Sylvia undata) are among the scarcest and most enigmatic passerines to grace these islands, and surely among the most charming. When vast tracts of heathland covered much of Southern England, the species was not uncommon, and it is named for Dartford Heath in North Kent, from which it has been absent for decades.  Perhaps more at home in Mediterranean Europe, it is on the edge of its range in Great Britain. With the increasing development and fragmentation of this habitat, sitting as it does in desirable Surrey and Dorset, it underwent decades of decline.  It is also said to be particularly vulnerable to predation by domestic cats, which can exclude it from small scraps of habitat saved from housing developments. An exclusive insectivore, and largely sedentary species, its greatest enemy is the British winter, persistent snow can wipe a colony out, and a cold winter in the early 1960s nearly did for the British population entirely, just a few pairs appearing after the snow finally melted.  However, amid great conservation effort and with possibly a small helping hand from climate change, the species is beginning to recover. 

Dartford Warbler at Arne.

There are a few places where these birds can reliably be found. Arne, and surrounding fragments of heath, and Chobham Common in Surrey, where I first met the species, host good numbers year round. They are vulnerable to disturbance, and responsible birders do not go tramping through the heather at any time of year. Occasionally individuals turn up on the coast in Southern England, undertaking short movements to avoid the very worst of the weather.

A view from Arne.

It was at the RSPB’s magnificent pristine heathland reserve at Arne, near Wareham in Dorset, that I had my most recent, and most magical encounter with these gorgeous little passerines. A solo expedition to one of my favourite corners of the country in the hope of catching up with Nightjar (I did, but not enough to blog about), I camped near this magnificent spot, a large tract of Dorset coastal heath on Poole Harbour overlooking Brownsea Island, managed impeccably for conservation, and took a long stroll among its heathland rides.  Arne was abuzz with dragonflies and butterflies and hoverflies, and 90 common spotted orchids grew along the bank of one small pond which must have hosted half a dozen different Odonata, including an iridescent Downy Emerald and a striking pair of Emperors including an Ovipositing female. It was becoming a good day.

Emperor Dragonfly (Anax imperator) ovipositing at Arne. 

 It was the song of the Dartford Warbler that first caught my attention. Imagine the song of a Whitethroat (Sylvia communis), and consider the qualities and notes which ensure the song is often described as “scratchy.”   Now distil those scratchy qualities, concentrate that Sylvia scratchiness,  andyou will begin to imagine the song of the male Dartford Warbler.  The male caught my eye first too, a small, dark coloured bird, with a longish tail, proportions somewhere between a Cetti’s Warbler and a Long Tailed Tit. He alighted briefly at the top of the heather, sang a few notes, and dropped back into the thick tangle of waist high vegetation.  He reappeared and my eyes strained to see his features in the sun glare, his dark blue-grey back and wings contrasting little with his dark pink-red underparts, and he had an air of cultivated scruffiness.  Rooting in the gorse he popped up briefly with a beak full of spiders, before dropping down to stuff his spiders into the expectant mouth of a scruffy fledgling, brown and distinctly smaller than the adult, which had emerged from the vegetation.   The fledglings and the female never left the thick heather and gorse, appearing to my eye only briefly before returning to the shelter of the thick heather canopy, but the male returned to his commanding lookout and sang, re-stating his claim to this his fragment of the coastal heath, the precious resource upon which his family depend.  Perhaps by remaining in this prominent position he also provided a distraction display focussing the attention of birders, and any would-be predators, on him, allowing the more vulnerable youngsters to slip away.

It was a magical moment with these scruffy, charismatic little survivors, and conservation icons of the lowland heath.  It was heartening to know that, with many small birds finding their breeding cycles disrupted by the late snow this spring, at least some of this most cold-sensitive warblers had successfully fledged broods. This family appeared to be doing well.

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.

I love South Essex

Strolling on West Canvey Marshes this morning, the flat, damp expanse of grazing marshes filling the space between the snaking mud channel of Pitsea creek, and the Canvey Way Avenue of Remembrance, as the A130 becomes when it crosses onto the “island,” and in the shadow of the huge former Coryton Oil Refinery, and its docks, I was struck by something. South Essex, you are flipping beautiful. Never change what you are.

Black Tailed Godwit at West Canvey Marshes

The water on the reserve was high, and there were puddles on the paths. These wet coastal meadows are a typical local habitat, sculpted by centuries of moderately intensive human land use, the coastal grazing marshes. The reserve is still, declare the information boards the RSPB have installed about, a working farm, and cattle graze its lush swards. The pool beside the A130 was attended by busy Black Tailed Godwits, prodding about on its grassy margins, and Lapwings stood on its banks.  The gentle mews of Common Gull, and the whistles of Wigeon, striking ducks with bold yellow stripes on tops of their heads seemed to fill the air, a winter chorus, despite the constant competition from the traffic just a few metres away.   These calls are evocative of the cold winter air, these birds have travelled from distant breeding grounds in Scandinavia, or Siberia, places compared to which these windswept marshes are relatively hospitable winter habitat.

I wander on as a trio of chirping Meadow Pipits fly overhead, more seasonal refugees from the uplands. Stonechats are here too, bold, striking and confiding. Stonechats watch you as you watch them. They seem to keep an eye on the observer, and occasionally take off to snatch one of the few insects still active in late Autumn, from the air or off the ground.  As I neared the next hide I was aware of the sky filling with birds, Godwit, all the ducks, Lapwings, and smaller Starlings, so often seen in the company of Lapwings on South Essex marshes at this time of year, and previously hidden among the long grass, all taking to the air.   Presumably disturbed by all the commotion, a Grey Heron joined them too.  They wheeled and climbed, alarm calls echoing, staying airborne, indicating the presence of an aerial predator. I could not spot one.  In the photographs of the flock the roofs of passing vans on the A130 are visible, but I was not aware of them at the time. This was wild Canvey. I sat down in the hide, and as I did so the birds began to settle again, Wigeon landing on the water en masse in front of me, hundreds of them.  A circling Marsh Harrier seemed too distant to be the cause of their collective alarm. A couple of ducks took off from the other side of the water, and a shape raced toward me across the water. I couldn’t make it out at first but within a few seconds I was eye to yellow eye with a Sparrowhawk. We seemed to hold each others’ gaze for a second as the raptor climbed a little, effortlessly, giving a piping alarm call of its own, and passed over my head, and over the top of the screen, dropping in behind a hedgerow somewhere between where I sat and the Oil Refinery, and was gone from view. I have no regrets about lacking the presence of mind to point my camera at it, that would have deprived me of the eye-to-eye moments I had with the bird, and the breathless, heart racing moment.  I hadn’t recognised the bird at first because its outline was broken by the dead starling in the hawk’s talons. This was a stunning wild predator, in a stunning wild landscape.

Flocking Wigeon, with passing traffic.

Walking down the path, between the hedges, crossing the bridge over the reed beds where a few short weeks ago Natalie and I had been watching the swallows gather to roost before their flight to sub-Saharan Africa, now long gone, I could not help but wonder at this oasis, and the beautiful, underrated part of the country into which it fits, the Estuary England, the South Essex Marshes. Like so many South Essex wildlife sites, West Canvey does not exist separately from the urban and industrial places which surround it, but merges seamlessly with them to form a wider landscape, continuous and stunning and interwoven.  It is not far from Basildon, and is one of a suite of marshes the RSPB helps to look after locally. Here and in the wider area, from Fortress Purfleet, known to the RSPB as Rainham Marshes and sitting West of the Dartford Crossing, to the wintering flocks of Brent Geese and Turnstone which hang around at high tide at the foot of Southend Pier in the East, and Wallasea and Foulness Islands beyond, both noted for their wintering raptors, these sites are settle easily into a landscape shaped by human activity along the river. So many, such as the chalk habitats at Chafford Gorges near Thurrock, once a chalk quarry, or the new invertebrate reserve managed by BugLife at Canvey Wick, home to rare bees and other invertebrates, once an oil refinery, exist on Brownfield sites, shaped by industry, and these industries existed here because of the river, connecting London with the open sea.

Stonechat on Canvey Island

South Essex, I thought, as I became surrounded by the squeaking contact calls of busy long-tailed tits around me, you are bloody gorgeous and I love you. Then I thought, oh look, a Goldcrest.

Pitsea Creek.

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