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
Thursday, 1 May 2008
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, 1 January 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, 1 December 2007
The Barn Owl
It was dark when I realized the washing was still on the line. I put on my coat and went outside. The sun was setting, pink drifts crossed the sky and on the horizon there was a fierce orange-red glow. I stood watching. It was cold and growing darker by the minute, but the sunset held me there. It was so quiet and I felt peaceful and at one with the world. Suddenly, out of the utter stillness of the night came a shriek. Although I had never heard the sound before I knew from reading what it was – a barn owl. I looked out across the fields, but could see nothing.
There are no barn owls in the area. How could I have heard one? Fifteen to twenty years ago two were released locally, but after a few days, were never seen again. I hastened indoors to tell Mike.
The next afternoon about 4:30pm we were down by the river admiring the rafts of golden yellow and orange leaves drifting by when we were delighted to see a kingfisher not once or twice, but five times, and the last time not one but two kingfishers. We were thrilled.
We turned our attention to a nearby stretch of grass and watched two bats hawking. After ten minutes we decided to go home, but as we turned our eyes swept the field to our left where we were amazed to see, like a ghostly apparition, a barn owl quartering it. Spellbound, we watched him flying low, skimming the long grass, back and forth, from side to side. Once he landed briefly in a tree only to soon return and continue his hunting. We looked at each other, huge grins spread across our faces – so we do have at least one barn owl in the area. It was a rare and magical find for both of us.
The river has yielded our best times this autumn: hazelnuts to eat, sloes to make sloe gin, conkers to gather and admire, berries and autumn leaves to draw, so many creatures to enjoy, and a chance riverboat trip complete with a glass of wine thanks to a friendly stranger. Long live the river!
There are no barn owls in the area. How could I have heard one? Fifteen to twenty years ago two were released locally, but after a few days, were never seen again. I hastened indoors to tell Mike.
The next afternoon about 4:30pm we were down by the river admiring the rafts of golden yellow and orange leaves drifting by when we were delighted to see a kingfisher not once or twice, but five times, and the last time not one but two kingfishers. We were thrilled.
We turned our attention to a nearby stretch of grass and watched two bats hawking. After ten minutes we decided to go home, but as we turned our eyes swept the field to our left where we were amazed to see, like a ghostly apparition, a barn owl quartering it. Spellbound, we watched him flying low, skimming the long grass, back and forth, from side to side. Once he landed briefly in a tree only to soon return and continue his hunting. We looked at each other, huge grins spread across our faces – so we do have at least one barn owl in the area. It was a rare and magical find for both of us.
The river has yielded our best times this autumn: hazelnuts to eat, sloes to make sloe gin, conkers to gather and admire, berries and autumn leaves to draw, so many creatures to enjoy, and a chance riverboat trip complete with a glass of wine thanks to a friendly stranger. Long live the river!
Thursday, 22 November 2007
Of Weasels and Amphibians
The weasel is back. We had a happy half hour watching him running and cavorting around the lawn. We know he will decimate the mole, vole and shrew population, but as always, they will rebuild again. During the last week our fish population was halved in number. We know it was not the heron this time because no oily film was left on the water. So we conclude it was the weasel. We have often watched him in the past “playing” around the pond, but have never seen evidence of him catching fish either for play or feeding.
Talking of the pond, for the last twenty years, we have tried to introduce amphibians into the garden, always unsuccessfully despite countless buckets of frog and toad spawn being emptied into the pond. However, five weeks ago, I chanced to see a newt in the pond, which was very exciting. I rushed off to ring my grandson with the news. I haven’t seen the newt since, but it is enough to know he is there.
Last week we were clearing the garage and were surprised to find a medium-sized toad crawling about. He clearly dines on the myriad flies, spiders and snails who share his abode. Two days later, my grandson who is staying with us reporting seeing an enormous toad on the patio. No frogs yet, but maybe soon.
Talking of the pond, for the last twenty years, we have tried to introduce amphibians into the garden, always unsuccessfully despite countless buckets of frog and toad spawn being emptied into the pond. However, five weeks ago, I chanced to see a newt in the pond, which was very exciting. I rushed off to ring my grandson with the news. I haven’t seen the newt since, but it is enough to know he is there.
Last week we were clearing the garage and were surprised to find a medium-sized toad crawling about. He clearly dines on the myriad flies, spiders and snails who share his abode. Two days later, my grandson who is staying with us reporting seeing an enormous toad on the patio. No frogs yet, but maybe soon.
Monday, 1 October 2007
Ladybirds
Ladybirds are probably the only beetle most people will happily handle. Worldwide there are 3000 species, but only 44 recorded in Britain. This weekend I have been delighted to see swarms of ladybirds in the garden. The walls of the bungalow were decorated with hundreds of these tiny beetles, which I have been recording. So far I have found 22 varieties. Since there is such diversity I suspect they interbreed very successfully. When attacked they exude a foul tasting fluid, which puts birds off.
Many years ago they were used as folk remedies for colic, toothache and measles. Also there is that well-known ladybird nursery rhyme.
They are a valuable asset to our gardens due to their voracious appetite for many garden pests: aphids, scale insects, mealy bugs, mites and thunder-bugs. They have also been known to feed on each other.
I fear many ladybirds are killed at their larval stage simply because people don’t recognise them, which is a great pity.
The variety in these little creatures is astounding, ranging from no spots to more than twenty, although black on red is the most common, there are also: black on yellow, black on orange, black on brown, even two-tone brown, red on black, and would you believe even black with red spots with a black spot on each of the red spots.
Now I am hopeful that as the weather cools I shall find a large cluster of these delightful beetles sheltering somewhere in the garden, probably in the woodpile, and I will look forward to the good work they will do for me next spring and summer.
Many years ago they were used as folk remedies for colic, toothache and measles. Also there is that well-known ladybird nursery rhyme.
They are a valuable asset to our gardens due to their voracious appetite for many garden pests: aphids, scale insects, mealy bugs, mites and thunder-bugs. They have also been known to feed on each other.
I fear many ladybirds are killed at their larval stage simply because people don’t recognise them, which is a great pity.
The variety in these little creatures is astounding, ranging from no spots to more than twenty, although black on red is the most common, there are also: black on yellow, black on orange, black on brown, even two-tone brown, red on black, and would you believe even black with red spots with a black spot on each of the red spots.
Now I am hopeful that as the weather cools I shall find a large cluster of these delightful beetles sheltering somewhere in the garden, probably in the woodpile, and I will look forward to the good work they will do for me next spring and summer.
Wednesday, 12 September 2007
Crows
During a telephone conversation with my son who lives in Seattle, I was intrigued by his telling of a radio programme about crows, and also an amazing sight his friend Rich witnessed showing the caring nature of squirrels.
First to the squirrels: Rich was walking along the road when he saw two crows fly down into the middle of the road. They were cawing and bobbing up and down. As Rich drew closer he noticed an injured small squirrel lying between them. It was a young squirrel, probably hit by a car. It was still alive, but unable to run away. The crows pecked at the squirrel as if testing whether it had yet expired. As Rich drew level with the scene, an adult squirrel shot out of the undergrowth, across the pavement and out to the middle of the road. It picked up the injured squirrel in its mouth, dashed back carrying it across the road, climbed up a tree with the injured squirrel still in its mouth until the two disappeared into the leaves. Whether or not the injured squirrel lived, we will never know, but to witness such an act is a precious thing. My belief is that the injured squirrel was a youngster and the rescuing squirrel its brave and strong parent rescuing it from an awful fate with the hungry crows. My son, however, says if hungry enough, squirrels will eat their own, but I prefer my compassionate explanation.
The radio programme about crows told how it had been discovered that crows are much more intelligent than previously thought, able to recognize human faces and tell them apart. Apparently crows have good memories and remember those who harass or upset them. When they see such a person they will set up an insistent cawing to warn others. (The researchers donned Dick Cheney masks before disturbing the crows – quite an appropriate mask I thought.)
First to the squirrels: Rich was walking along the road when he saw two crows fly down into the middle of the road. They were cawing and bobbing up and down. As Rich drew closer he noticed an injured small squirrel lying between them. It was a young squirrel, probably hit by a car. It was still alive, but unable to run away. The crows pecked at the squirrel as if testing whether it had yet expired. As Rich drew level with the scene, an adult squirrel shot out of the undergrowth, across the pavement and out to the middle of the road. It picked up the injured squirrel in its mouth, dashed back carrying it across the road, climbed up a tree with the injured squirrel still in its mouth until the two disappeared into the leaves. Whether or not the injured squirrel lived, we will never know, but to witness such an act is a precious thing. My belief is that the injured squirrel was a youngster and the rescuing squirrel its brave and strong parent rescuing it from an awful fate with the hungry crows. My son, however, says if hungry enough, squirrels will eat their own, but I prefer my compassionate explanation.
The radio programme about crows told how it had been discovered that crows are much more intelligent than previously thought, able to recognize human faces and tell them apart. Apparently crows have good memories and remember those who harass or upset them. When they see such a person they will set up an insistent cawing to warn others. (The researchers donned Dick Cheney masks before disturbing the crows – quite an appropriate mask I thought.)
Saturday, 2 June 2007
Spider versus Wasp
Most of my nature observation occurs through a kitchen window while I inhale nebulized antibiotics each morning. This morning I watched an interesting interplay between an arachnid and an insect. The spider was smallish, mid-brown with a big abdomen. The insect was a parasitic ichneumon wasp, with its ovipositor it was larger than the spider. The wasp was first caught in a web at the top left hand corner of the window. The spider hurried across to her web and attempted to contain the struggling wasp, not entirely successfully. They dropped together to the bottom window ledge, where a brief struggle ensued and the spider took control – so much so he was able, even with the wasp’s wings moving in a blur, climb up the window, with his unwilling victim, back to his web. At this point, the wasp managed a short flight with the spider actually still attached to it, but it was unable to sustain it and the spider duly dragged the wasp back to its web. Once back at the top of the window the wasp made a valiant attempt to escape, and this time, even though locked in the spider’s embrace, took off , with the spider, and flew away across the lawn. What happened next? We shall never know.
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