Autumn and Foxes

There is an autumnal feel to the air. Bird song is much less. In fact, the robin is often the only bird to be heard during the day. He sings a thin, lonely song far removed from the robust singing of spring.

Beautiful shiny brown conkers are waiting to be collected and admired indoors for a few weeks before being put outside for the squirrels to bury and feast upon. Delicious blackberries are waiting to be gathered from the hedgerows. More will be eaten instantly than ever get home. Stained fingers reach eagerly for the next one – why do the best ones always grow out of reach? I love the leaves of blackberry plants, at this time of year, with their beautiful colours. How often we find delicate flowers still blooming, and the cobwebs hung on the plants still bespeckled with dew. These are, for me, the real treasures of life, apart from family and friends, of course.

After our disappointment earlier this year, when we lost the broods of pheasant chicks, both due to natural phenomena, imagine our surprise a few days ago when one of the female pheasants turned up looking for food with yet another baby in tow. It’s only one chick, but we were still delighted. Was it the only one to hatch? Or had she already lost all the others? We don’t know, but we were pleased to welcome this tiny new chick to our garden and hope it will grow strong and live long.
The foxes have always been welcome and in past years we have often had two – always they have been comfortable in each other’s company, and have given us much pleasure. This year, however, for the past few weeks we have been entertained by three foxes. Two of them will feed together fairly easily with one being dominant and the other submissive; she crawls on her belly and moving quickly away if turned on. Now with a third fox involved the behavior has changed. There is a lot more aggression shown. Mostly they chase each other, or quickly turn and end up pinning another fox on the ground inflicting sharp nips. In spite of this, the foxes are high spirited and always return to feed. Just occasionally full fights will erupt. They start fighting on hind legs and then end up rolling around on the ground. From the squeals and screams it is clear they are hurting each other. These fights are clearly to establish dominance. The smaller, darker submissive fox never takes part in these conflicts and is very quick to run and hide in the bushes if turned upon – maybe this one is a female, but it appears that one of the aggressive dominant ones is also a female. Interestingly, while the foxes fight with each other, the hedgehog remains calmly eating his share of the food while all this takes place around him,

Birds of my Garden

The garden is very lush at the moment and filled with flowers and their perfume is such a pleasure. Today is cool and overcast. It’s 12:35pm and already we have had visits from blackbirds, thrushes, dunnocks, blue, great, cole and long-tailed tits, robins, starlings, magpies, pigeons, wrens, bull, gold and chaffinches, one of our two pairs of mallards, and then, to my joy, the white duck flew in. By the time I had reached the kitchen window to feed her she was already underneath, head held high, beak reaching eagerly upward. Satiated she hastened to the pond for a good wash and then was off. We hadn’t seen our white friend for a few weeks, so we were particularly pleased to see her today.

My pleasure knew almost no bounds when a few minutes later a brown female mallard appeared at the patio door asking for food. On going to feed her I opened the kitchen window and to my delight found a female pheasant with her babies standing waiting to be fed. The babies were so tiny – the smallest pheasant chicks we have ever seen and not able to hurry without falling over their own feet. They must have been very recently born.

People often find it strange that I feed magpies, jackdaws and crows, but they need to eat and feed their young, and by providing food for them I hope they will not raid as many nests. Having said that they have raided both blackbird and thrush nests in the garden already this year. Although I must admit the sight of magpies in their fine attire, proudly strutting across the lawn as if they own it always makes me smile.

I am glad to report that both the thrush and blackbird have subsequently successfully bred. For those of you wondering about the 12 ducklings in our garden last month, the news is not good. The mortality rate is high and sadly all these ducklings were victims of predators. Their numbers lessened each time we saw them, and the same happened to the pheasant chicks; survival for these creatures is very difficult. Ducklings on the river are again very few this year.

This year we have seen some surprising sights. We have watched a magpie and a crow picking off ducklings and a mother duck fight with a crow – even though she had no young she flew across the lawn and attacked it. We also watched a magpie repeatedly attack a young rat, eventually picking it up and flying off with it. The young rat was very strong and put up a good fight before succumbing – it was still struggling when carried off. (Please note: we do not usually have rats in the garden, but living near the river, we do get the odd one passing through occasionally.

The Pike and the Ducklings

There’s a bend in the river, where the water runs deep
There laying and waiting is the fat pike sleeping deep
Ducklings happily bobbing on the pond
Soon these carefree antics will end
When the mother decides it’s time to grow
Down to the river to learn they all must go
If the pike is still in the river, with a crash
He’ll drag them down, leaving only a splash
Anxious mother jumps the fence with wing powered leap
Showing her little ones how under the fence they can creep
Seen it before, I’ll see it again, with heart in my mouth
I watch the rusting little ones follow her south
Across the paddock and into the field where danger lies deep
Tonight these images will disturb my sleep
With motherly movements and tender quacking
Slowly she shepherds her treasured ducklings
She guides them on through rough grass and bramble
Guards them as they hasten and tumble
The river is near
Is the pike waiting?
If only she’d taken the path to the lane
Maybe tomorrow I’d see all her babies again
But even there lies danger, of cars hurtling past
Uncaring, unseeing, and much too fast
A swift drop over the bridge to the water
The current drives them forward to their slaughter
But, this year, there’s hope in my heart
If the mink ate the pike they’ll have a good start

Wimpole Hall in Royston

The day of our visit to Wimpole Hall was grey and overcast, with a chill wind, but we were well wrapped up and it was delightful to see our countryside in spring. We came upon fields of cowslips nodding their pretty heads and braving the cold winds. There were two lonely birds on a lake: one an attractive grebe, and the other a beautiful white swan. Each kept its own company of silent reflection. We were admiring banks of primroses leading down to the lake when we noticed a heron nearby, who suddenly rose from the water’s edge and came to rest not more than twenty feet away in a field full of sheep and their lambs. We walked through this field with the little lambs racing and chasing, jumping and climbing on to fallen trees – it was magical.

The staccato sound of a woodpecker drumming high in a tree caused us to pause, lift our heads and search for him in vain. High on a hill, on the edge of a field, we came across the remains of a hare: bones bleached and weathered jutting out from the last remnants of fur. This caused me to wonder if there were no foxes in the area, for surely the hare’s remains would have been carried off, and if not foxes, were there no carrion crows in these parts?

We turned toward the car and then headed for home through the lanes or minor roads across the beautiful Hertfordshire countryside. The first thing we saw was a bird of prey, strong wings silently slicing the air as he searched the field below for prey. Across the road a seemingly small blackbird sat in the fork of a leafless oak tree, as if seeking shelter from the cold northerly wind.

The roadside verges were prettily peppered with bluebells, coltsfoot, dandelion, daisies, primroses and cowslips. Two pheasants lay on the roadside, probably struck by cars, and countless live ones flocking the fields and verges. A ford glistened over the road topped by a lone wading moorhen, while up on a slope were two dozen mallards dozing, heads tucked snugly under their wings.

We passed a rookery full of noisy cawing birds and two badgers still and in their final sleep. I wondered if they were a pair.

Between Standon and Much Hadham we chanced on two muntjac deer cropping the roadside verge.

It was a beautiful ride home. So many trees with their pretty fresh green frocks on to welcome spring, quintessentially English views of fields broken by mile upon mile of hedgerows, woodlands, rolling hills and, in a dip, a village marked only by roofs, chimney stacks and a church spire. All the while, the birds chorused overhead.

Demise of the Ducklings

On the 23rd, two days after my last report, we awoke to find our female duck and 12 ducklings waiting for breakfast under the side window. We had two days of pure delight watching them. WE marveled at what a good mother this female was – 12 offspring to watch over, but she managed admirably.

The next morning, she was there waiting with her 12 babies, along with 4 female and one male pheasants, plus a few pigeons, blackbirds, dunnocks, thrushes, chaffinches and robins. The goldfinches were feeding on last year’s seedheads. A pair of bullfinch and a greenfinch were on the lawn and two wrens did a wonderful courtship display on the back lawn. Across the middle side lawn were our other pair of resident ducks. Later in the day, we decided not to allow them to spend the day in the garden. We just fed them and gently moved them on each time they returned – easier said than done when they consider this their home. We had to do this because the male found the female with 12 ducklings irresistibly attractive and would harass her until she flew off leaving her dozen ducklings scattered in disarray across the garden, and while she would eventually return, the male was waiting and the scene would repeat itself.

The third morning we rose and on looking out of the kitchen window saw eight ducklings and no mother. We watched and waited, an hour passed and still there were eight motherless ducklings. Mike scoured the lane – had a fast-moving car run over the mother duck, and maybe the four missing ducklings? I visited our next door neighbor and after explaining the situation asked if I could search their garden. We searched under bushes and hedges, in flower beds and down to river bank, but found no sign. Then on rounding a bend I saw a piece of downing fluff, and in two more steps I saw the unmistakable scattered remains of a duckling on the path. Back home still only eight ducklings and no mother. We wondered did they make their own way to the pond or did she bring them? Either way, what had happened to her? Was it that the other resident male had driven her away? If so, was it a bird of prey that took the missing ducklings? Or was it a fox? A few years ago I watched a fox decimate our family of ducklings even though I went outside and tried to intervene. The fox stood his ground, skirting round me all the time then rushing in to snatch another duckling. Why didn’t she get on the pond with her ducklings? I did not know. I was beginning to wonder if the same fox had paid another visit and was responsible for the situation.

The eight surviving ducklings were amazing: they swam on the pond, caught flies, played, climbed out, groomed, and slept in a huddle. Previously we had only seen them tucked safely under their mother to sleep. They went to and fro to eat, marching like little soldiers in close formation across the lawn, down the path to where the food was put out. Yesterday when their mother was here they had run hither and thither investigating everything, jumping to catch flies, and climbing into flower pots. Now they moved as one, tightly packed together. Just after lunch they decided to leave. We followed them out to the lane, over the weir and down to the marina, stopping cars for them and trying to keep them safe. I must admit I breathed a sigh of relief – they had left of their own accord and maybe they would find their mother. We watched them happily swimming on the water and then returned home. Two hours later they back by the pond, but only seven this time. They continued to eat, swim, groom and sleep for the next few hours. When they slept they huddled together in the impression left by their mother’s body. The next morning there were none.

How Not to Feed a Blackbird

The first snowdrops, iris and aconites are in bloom. I have watched a blackbird, who has for the past three years lived in the ivy and honeysuckle covering fallen pear tree. She has become very tame. As soon as I appear at the window she flies across and waits for currants to be thrown for her. Should I already have a handful of peanuts ready to place on the outer window ledge, for the various tits, she will fly to the ledge and sit there enjoying a peanut feast.

Three days ago I baked an extra potato and cutting it in half, threw it on the lawn. Of course, she was the first one there and a few minutes later, on hearing the screech of the blackbird, I ran back to the window to see a sparrow hawk cloaked over her. There was nothing I could do, but try to learn from it. I felt very sad and determined that in future I would throw food into the undergrowth to reduce the chance of this happening again.