Category Archives: marshes

The turtle dove’s aeolian song

One was calling immediately we arrived. The song came on the wind, lost when the breeze got up to a susurration in the grasses and trees, but then clear and gently there. It came and went for just long enough to confirm what we thought we’d heard, something of an aeolian making.

There are some birds my wife and I seek out every year, now with our young daughter too. They are the markers of seasons, and intimate element of those places we have come to know so well in our home county of Kent. In winter we hope for fieldfares, Arctic swans, and short-eared owls. In spring, nightingales arrive in late April to the ancient Wealden forests nearby, swifts arrive suddenly and nest in the eaves of the old houses in our street, cuckoos and nightjars sing and breed in scrubland just down the road.

Of all these birds, though, it might be the turtle dove we yearn for most. Regrettably, we seek turtle doves each year because we fear each year might be the last. Nearly all the birds that come to our shores for one season or another are in trouble, but the turtle dove is in such serious jeopardy that there is a very real chance this species will be extinct in the UK before my daughter has a chance to see, hear, know this bird for herself.

IMG_2984
Turtle dove, north Kent marshes, 30/05/18

Turtle doves have declined by 91% since 1995. That’s well within my lifetime. I’m not old enough to recall a time when this species was ever plentiful, but I know they are harder and harder to find in general. Where we live in Kent there is lots of ideal habitat for them, with expansive, untidy hedgerows and shaw boundaries between fields. And yet the birds just aren’t here. It feels deserted. Turtle doves, more than any other bird, make me think of a lost legacy I have never experienced, and never will: the overwhelming abundance of life and song and colour that once was.

For now, at least, we know one or two untidy spots in the north of our county where we can still hear turtle doves. Momentarily we can forget the sombre narrative of loss and enjoy the hazy summer evocation of their song. All our pigeon species convey something of this: it’s in the ease and rhythm of a wood pigeon’s throaty cooing, or even the collared dove’s early-morning tiresome intonation. But it’s the turtle dove’s purring, like a chorister’s tongue-rolled ‘rrrrr’ or contented feline slumber, that most conjurs high-summer, drowsy days. Everything about turtle doves seems understated. Their song is soft and delicate, and their uncertain futures as fragile, as their suffuse, exquisite plumage.

IMG_2997
Estuary ahead and scrub behind us, where we found our second turtle dove.

That day we found the birds was scorching August-heat at the end of May. We moved further along the coast for lunch, and settled for an hour or two between estuary creeks and dense hawthorn scrub. A lone nightingale gave a late-season burst, and then, just audible on the wind, another turtle dove’s pink purring song.

Advertisements

The winter stare of a short-eared owl

I’d never have found them two minutes later. I watched them, a pair, drop to ground after twenty minutes working the field and hedgerows and there achieve an instant metamorphosis—bird become sullen vegetation. Fixed on the spot where they went down, I located them only by their intensely yellow irises, stark and astonishing against indistinguishable feather-scrub, like a night creature’s eerily luminous eyes in singular darkness.

Photo: W.dog.net

Short-eared owls are always a remarkable and special winter sight. They breed in northern and Scottish uplands, but their numbers are swelled from autumn onwards when continental birds disperse to new territories across the rest of more southerly Britain. Some years bring so many birds that every likely patch of land for hunting seems to have a resident pair (one year the small common just across from my in-laws, right on the edge of a busy town, had a pair that hunted each evening right among the regular dog-walkers).

Flickr_-_Rainbirder_-_Short-eared_Owl_(Asio_flammeus)_(1).jpg
Photo: Wikipedia Commons.

The owls’ seasonal appearance makes them particularly associative of shortening, colder days. Their cryptic plumage is somehow the stuff of winter itself: matched to the subtleties and gradations of arctic tundra. It is the drab beauty of earth and grass intricacy; winter browns of loam and thorn, sedge, stubble and reed. It’s those facial markings, too, which conjure for me the year’s darkening nights—that black smudging mask framing the eyes has something of a Gothic, All Hallows spectre, a ghoulish stare that is unyielding and severe as winter itself.

IMG_2406.jpg
Mist coming in over the owl field. Beeding Brooks, Sussex, 27th December 2018

That evening mist came in quickly as the sun set. It seemed to generate and rise from the earth itself, as though the field steamed with optimistic warmth. The cows became monoliths, their dark, head-down bulks forming a stone henge. To the south-east where St Peter’s church stands on a knoll, I could hear the jackdaws’ nightly Tenebrae in the tall stands of beech tree either side of the rectory. The birds continued to drift across from the west, their black forms like bonfire fragments in the red sky. Periodically and suddenly, the growing roost broke to an explosive cackling as thousands of jackdaws took flight before settling again minutes later.

By contrast, the owls hunted on in complete silence, easy and elegant on long, languid wings. The mist in the last minutes of light had consumed the whole field and the owls’ ghostly figures dissolved into whiteness.

 

IMG_2407.JPG

A bittern booming in the mire

It’s easy to imagine why some birds appeal so well to our myth-conjuring habits. I think particularly of those species that make a skill of obscurity. Crepuscular birds excel in shadow—the nightjar or woodcock are no more than ghostly silhouettes in dusk-dark. By day you’ve not a chance—their plumage is the very stuff of earth, intricate and cryptic patterns of leaf-litter, mulch, soil.

The bird that most comes to mind for these evasive sleights, though, is the bittern. It does not need darkness; this bird has perfected invisibility in specialist reed bed living. The woodcock’s argillaceous plumage is matched in the bittern by habitat imitation so effective it is remarkable no origin myths have passed down to tell of how the bird sheared from reed in metamorphosis, ripped up from the very same material in which it skulks. It’s colour and striations mimic the close, vertical world of marsh and fen exactly, especially so when the bird lifts its beak right up, narrows itself to reed-thinness and sways gently with the wind-rustling stems.

bittern.jpg
A well-camouflaged bittern. Image: Wikipedia Commons.

This morning I’ve been waiting since dawn at Ham Wall RSPB reserve for the briefest of glimpses. It’s April and I can hear one male booming—a sonorous, eerie bass note that carries over a mile. It’s this aspect of the bird, in fact, that humans have responded to for millennia. The many dialect terms for the bittern show alliterative playfulness with the bird’s reverberations: butter bump, bog bumper, bog blutter. These marvellous names go way back. In the Anglo-Saxon age, when King Alfred was hiding out here on the swampy Levels, the bird was a raredumle, probably meaning  something like ‘reed-boomer’. By the late Middle Ages, the vernacular term was miredromble, but the English language also adopted French bitour, which became ‘bittern’. The strange booming spurred inventive explanations about how ‘a bitore bombleth in the myre’ by lowering its head ‘unto the water doun’ (Chaucer), or blowing through a reed. Inevitably, the supernatural aspect of the disembodied noise associated it with omen and disaster.

1008872-bittern.jpg
Image: RSPB

The old names alert us to the priority given to bird sound in the past, and even now the bittern is certainly a bird more encountered by its unique call than sight. Its presence in the once extensive marshes of Britain bred inventive myths down the centuries. Here on the Levels, bitterns stalked the prehistoric swamps alongside pelicans, cranes and white-tailed eagles. Neolithic tracks across the marsh still exist, preserved in peat beneath the watery landscapes recreated in recent years. What did our prehistoric ancestors make of the bittern’s booming call? What was their word for the bird? We’ll never know, but surely they were equally struck by its eldritch presence. Perhaps those medieval myths and names reach back this far.

Like many of Britain’s fen and marshland birds, the bittern became extinct. It recolonised in the early twentieth century after an absence of 50 years, but numbers remained low and as recently as 1997 there were only 11 booming males. Thanks to hard conservation work, 46 males have been estimated calling on the Avalon Marshes this spring in Somerset alone, the densest population anywhere in the country. Our names and myths recall how elemental bitterns are to this habitat, as much as reed and peat and water. It is joyously encouraging that a bird so intimately rooted in these special places is not lost.

IMG_1148.jpg
RSPB Ham Wall reserve, April 2018

Finding the fieldfare

When it comes to favourites, certain British birds nudge their way into the top ranks repeatedly: the robin – unofficially Britain’s top choice – is predictable enough, as are other garden species, such as blue tit and blackbird, or perhaps something less commonly seen; a barn owl or kingfisher. I suspect my own favourite, though, is shared by few, and would never occur to anyone curious enough to hazard a guess. Fieldfares are unfamiliar to many, a birder’s bird maybe, unnoticed in the hedgerows of sodden ploughlands in such short and dreary days. But these mobster thrushes are mysterious and attractive. They exist like the promise of hard snow – overnight, sudden and thrilling, they come with the boreal cold.

dl8d4996_tcm9-338811
Fieldfare in snow. Image: RSPB (https://www.rspb.org.uk/birds-and-wildlife/bird-and-wildlife-guides/bird-a-z/f/fieldfare/).

This year, as every year, I have been walking and driving the lanes in search of fieldfares and their thrush cousins, redwings, mostly across the flatlands of Romney Marsh not far from home in Kent. These winter nomads breed right across sub-arctic Scandinavia and the Baltic regions, making their annual incursions each October and November to wander and raze berry harvests in southern Europe. I found a roving flock last November, one bright and blue morning when it was painfully cold. I knew the birds were there long before I saw them, announcing their presence with restless stony calls, a ringing magpie ‘chak-chak’. For all this commotion, they can be frustratingly difficult to catch in good view. They remain teasingly invisible in the bare but impenetrable thorns. Suddenly, at the moment you become just too close, they burst from cover as though the trees have kept their leaves all along to release just now in a brisk gust. The action is surrounded by accelerating notes that rise in pitch and dynamics, scattering with as much force as the birds themselves. These cackling fits disappear again just metres down the frosted path, though some birds veer upwards to sit defiantly at the top branches. They mark my advance like a procession, always just ahead and out of reach, as though alarmed and mocking all at once.

The fieldfare’s evasive presence seems fittingly mirrored in their slight cultural legacy. The name as we have it is certainly medieval, but its origins, although almost certainly older (Old English feld ‘field’ + fara ‘to go’), are all but lost, scantily and obscurely present in the inky tracks of just one or two Anglo-Saxon scripts for scholars obsessed with such things to ponder and trace. Fieldfares, curiously in my view, have never attracted poetic attention in the way of so many other British species. John Clare, of course, does not forget them as passing details: they ‘chatter in the whistling thorn’ (‘Emmonsails Heath in Winter’) or ‘come and go on winter’s chilling wing’ (Shepherd’s Calendar, March). At the end of the medieval period, though, it is clear that fieldfares did not go unnoticed: Chaucer ends his catalogue of birds in The Parliament of Fowls, unexpectedly, with the ‘frosty feldefare’, and in the Sherborne Missal (c. 1400), there is a remarkable titled image of the bird, accurately depicted in all its striking colours (see here for some of the images, although the fieldfare page is not included).

I find a new, hustling chatter of fieldfares on Romney Marsh again this week in mid-February. By now, with most berries stripped, they are dispersing to the fields, roaming in big numbers. Chaucer’s phrase, I’d say, has it right – their hoary plumage is a precise configuration of winter splendour, even on a day as drab and wet as this. They mark extremes: that pristine white underwing and belly, that storm-grey hood, are balanced with colours that flare like hibernal dusks, or the light and warmth of indoors we seek against such cold – the colour of smoky whisky, or the slow burn of wood fires. I follow fieldfares across tree-lined fields, follow their flights down hawthorn paths to be with all that clattering verve that turns and turns again straight into the wind.

February is the cruelest month

Thomas Hardy’s poem ‘The Darkling Thrush’ achieves its haunting allure because the bird at its centre features an unresolved and disquieting contradiction. It is both everything we might expect a song thrush to be – tuneful, ‘full-hearted’, ‘ecstatic’ – and yet ‘frail, gaunt’, intimately associated with the ‘growing gloom’. It is a favourite of mine precisely because of this ambiguity – effortlessly simple but, like all great poems, endlessly regenerating new meanings. Originally titled ‘The Century’s End, 1900’, for instance, the poem clearly expresses some sense of fin de siècle anxiety, but Hardy could not have guessed how much more painfully ominous his words would seem following the advent of the Great War. The poem presents a restless mixture of despondency and hope which might carry all sorts of valencies, including perhaps, in the early 21st century, the ecological.

FullSizeRender (6).jpg

I was minded to recall this poem today. Here on the Essex coast again, I walked at Tollesbury Wick along the Blackwater in late afternoon light. We had been out all morning, but with mid February now suddenly cold I am indulging a little winter solemnity while it lasts. Mornings have been below freezing – a hard frost, the ground brittle under hard glistenings. Out on the marsh, raised on the sea wall, the North Sea blast comes straight at you. There are huge flocks of huddled wigeon and teal on the reed bed pools, shifting lapwing and golden plover; on the other side, solitary redshanks on the exposed mudflats. I watch a barn owl quarter the banks way out on the grazing marsh. The bare hawthorns along the path have endured this for years – wind-beaten and crouching, aged with silver lichens that wreath the branches like dense fogs.

In these circumstances, I had not expected to be brought up short. But there it was. A single hawthorn in full bloom. I circled the shrub as though in ritual, brushed the white flowers. Then got in close to frame winter out – here was something wholly of spring, its delicate petals and scent, sweet green shoots lilting warmth and renewed earthly energies. I moved out, glanced up and across to Mersea where the clouds gusted, the colour of dented pewter. A small group of black-tailed godwits called overhead, all subdued greys.

FullSizeRender (5).jpg

A week before, perhaps I would have not been quite so astounded. It’s been an exceptionally warm winter – record-breaking – with temperatures well into the teens through the Christmas period and into New Year. I noticed daffodils, butterflies in December, primroses in January; naturalists and writers all over Britain have been noting these strange occurrences (see here, and here). Swallows were recorded months after they should have departed for Africa, and have already been sighted again this year. What might this have to do with the swift I saw at the beginning of September? This is one pleasure (and consternation) in watching nature; you see things that go entirely missed by others, both that which is expected (the firsts and lasts of each season), and that which is out of joint.

It is staggering, quite incomprehensible to think that here at one spot in squelching mud on this stretch of a tiny peninsula in south Essex I might be witnessing some phenomenon, a possible link between this moment and extreme weather patterns all around the globe prompted by Pacific ocean currents; the El Niño, droughts in Africa, a disrupted jet stream, a dragonfly in November, and the premature blooming of one young hawthorn. Even in our modern age, when the causes for such events can be explained, thinking upon the implications still invokes the portentous. I do not know precisely what atmospheric influence or telluric force is at play here, but one single feature of the natural world has reminded me of the intimate and far-reaching interrelations of all things, and I  am embraced with it. I think of Hardy’s singing thrush. My hawthorn blossom in February’s ‘weakening eye of day’ conjures that ‘ancient pulse’, something ‘whereof he knew / And I was unaware’.

Mysteries of the marsh

Marshes, levels, fens, bogs, mires, wetlands – these places, and the countless names for them, have long registered their eldritch presence in this island’s imagination. They are there in the Anglo-Saxon epic, Beowulf – the looming morhopu [marshpool] from which Grendel, that mánscaða [evil being], lopes to seize his wretched human victims. They open Dickens’ Great Expectations, the first indelible landscape in child Pip’s ‘first most vivid and broad impression of things’:

the dark flat wilderness beyond the churchyard, intersected with dykes and mounds and gates, with scattered cattle feeding on it, was the marshes; and …   the low leaden line beyond, was the river; and … the distant savage lair from     which the wind was rushing, was the sea.

Pip’s ‘savage lair’ has something of Grendel about it. Intriguingly, recent historical interpretation of the epic has attempted to site the action in north Kent, in the territories where the early stages of Dickens’ novel is set and where I most enjoy birdwatching in the county. The Isle of Sheppey in winter still maintains a sense of wild down by the Swale estuary. The 11th-century name for Harty was Heorot (exactly the name of Hrothgar’s mead-hall in the poem) and the region itself was recorded as Schrawynghop in 1240, an Old English term, supposed to mean something like ‘marshland of malign creatures’. I cannot find anything convincingly academic on all this, but it’s an appealing notion.

At the end of October my partner and I spent time on the Blackwater Estuary in Essex. It’s become a favourite haunt – out east beyond the London fringe, the strain of M25 traffic, the crush of industry and towns with bad reps, out towards the flat miles and North Sea – where I meet a friend twice a year for a day’s walk round Old Hall Marshes. I wanted more time here, and booked a cottage nearby for a week. These days felt like ceremony or rite out on the coast, with the year finally turning bonfire colours, Ginny’s birthday, and the brent geese in from Artic colds. We went to embrace the solstice.

FullSizeRender (5)
Looking across to West Mersea

Seen from above or on a map, the estuary’s mazing channels, more complex here than anywhere along the Essex coast, appear like the brain’s lobal crevices, or a nutmeg cut open to reveal its woody fissures. The saltmarsh shares these intricacies, secrets. Its bewildering waterways belong to the birds and seals.

It is surely this foreignness of marshland that makes it most alluring. Either side of the seawall at Old Hall, the land at times can feel thrillingly treacherous: dense, shifting reedbeds on one side, and thick, clutching mudflats on the other. Although managed and shaped by humans for centuries, these spaces still retain a sense of the un-human and impenetrable, and can still be reclaimed by unpredictable tides, as they were in 1953. The birds match the mystery of their lands. Bearded tits are most often unseen in the depths of their close, vertical world, and the bittern is so accustomed and coloured to this environment, imitates its home so well, it is remarkable no origin myths have passed down to tell of how the bird sheared from reed, ripped up from the very same material in which it skulks.

FullSizeRender (6)

From the other side of the seawall, curlews and redshanks call in darkness. I fancy their songs sound desolate. They are not. But they are of the saltmarsh entirely, estuarine substance, coming to me along double-hidden creeks – out of view and under dark.