May 2018 -- Pied wagtail and the common primrose

Primula vulgaris

Up to now this spring has been largely devoid of pleasant weather. The rain, the bitter cold  and lack of sunlight have made one long for change.

    At the farthest end of the R.S.P.C.A centre grows a fine colony of the common primrose (Primula vulgaris) some plants having spread into the small United Utilities facility next door. This humble flower has over many years been developed by hybridisers into a variety of brightly coloured forms, and yet the pale yellow original has a simplicity and charm which for centuries has held the attention of poets and artists. The primrose once grew in some profusion in the countryside and a late Victorian book on wild flowers tells of the plant’s popularity among people displaced by the industrial revolution. ‘Great numbers of the roots are transported each spring into London and other large towns, and in many a back street and squalid alley the pot of primroses is a link between the present and the past, and recalls many an association with the bygone days to those whose lot now confines them to very different surroundings.’

    As peace and quietness become ever more difficult to find, local reservoir sites offer tranquillity and stillness. On a dull morning recently I was walking by Denshaw reservoirs, the all-pervading greyness seeming to subdue any sense of colour, when a black and white bird landed on the fence. It was a Pied Wagtail — not a species to attract attention when pecking around on the ground — but in the misty light it appeared smart and interesting like a good monochrome photograph.

Pied wagtail

      The upper reservoir there is indeed a tranquil spot and a venerable Sycamore tree slightly overhangs the water. Still bare of leaves it looked beautiful. The pitted trunk, plastered with moss and lichen looks as if it would fit perfectly into a Japanese temple garden. Walking back to the road it was reassuring to hear the rolling call of the Curlew and as the sun briefly shone a skylark burst into song.

      The common small birds of Strinesdale are now very active, Great Tit, Chaffinch, Dunnock etc., and after such a vicious blast as the Beast from the East one wonders what their survival strategies are. Today I was pleased to hear (for me) the first Blackcap of spring.

April 2018 -- Cyclamen coum and a fieldfare

Fieldfare

Last month I wrote about the tiny Goldcrests feeding by the R.S.P.C.A. Centre and I wonder if they were able to survive the fierce storm known as the Beast from the East. Despite more bad weather, things are moving towards spring. Today at the pond in the King’s Meadow low prolonged croaking sounds, like the muted roar of distant motor cycles, could be heard as frogs thrashed about and mats of spawn covered the surface between the reed-mace plants.

     As the Beast receded a striking thrush appeared on the apple tree in our back garden. This was a Fieldfare — a winter visitor from Northern Europe — more often seen in large flocks. Somehow this chestnut and grey bird had recognised that fallen apples lay beneath the snow. As the snow thawed the Fieldfare vigorously drove a sharp beak into the over-ripe fruit, continuing for three days, and when last seen looked in very good condition as if strong enough to re-cross the North Sea. I once saw a large number of Fieldfares feeding in a derelict cider orchard near Hereford.

     I always enjoy watching (and hearing) our native Mistle Thrush. They are early nesters, strong and energetic and can be seen bounding about in local fields. I saw one the other day hopping along the top of a drystone wall with characteristic straight-ahead urgency.

Cyclamen coum

     I have had little success in the garden with the oft recommended winter flowering Cyclamen coum. Our bought plants died but left behind a cluster of minute seedlings. These were potted up last year and placed in the greenhouse.
Disconcertingly the leaves withered away in the autumn, the whole lot coming close to being thrown away, but within a few weeks fresh leaves appeared
followed by delicate pink blooms. Patience required.

April 2015 -- Greenfinches and a grey wagtail

I always find that the arrival of spring in our region is signalled by two distinct occurrences: the drumming of the Greater spotted woodpeckers and the spawning of frogs. For a few days now, the amphibians have been producing large quantities of spawn in the culvert draining from the Little Sea and small heads are visible above the water, amid faint grunting and bubbling sounds.

Greenfinch

     The highly attractive black, white and red woodpecker is increasing steadily, being found wherever there is reasonable tree-cover. Their presence is often indicated by a shrill yelping call, and as I walked along the other morning, one glided overhead emitting a loud staccato chatter. The bird appeared white from below and was presumably a male on a mating display flight. Another bird answered from nearby.

     I love the clear colours offered by Nature at this time of the year. Yellowish-green greenfinches wheeze from upper branches and goldfinches burst into 3-D and glorious technicolour. At the quieter end of the spectrum, I never tire of the flawlessly elegant

Grey wagtail

grey wagtail.

Every so often, I repair to the scenic Castleshaw Reservoirs for some quiet birdwatching. On Sunday 22nd March, though, the approach road held many cars as a marathon-run finished at the study centre. AS the supporters applauded exhausted runners, I walked to the upper reservoir and it was not long before a dainty grey wagtail appeared on the stones at the water’s edge. Following the movement of this bird led to a redshank pecking with great energy between the stone setts. Watching at close range here, it was possible to admire the dark streaks and speckles of the brown plumage. One of the long orange-crimson legs was fitted with a ring. Other wading birds could also be heard. A pair of oyster-catchers circled over the water, their piping sound evocative of the sea-shore, and the magnificent rolling call of a curlew echoed somewhere in the background. A pair of goldeneye ducks could be seen at a distance. Tough little things and low in the water.

     As I walked back down the lane, I happened to glance over the wall to see a slow-moving pair of great-crested grebes. In breeding plumage, they were sedate and lovely on the water, with the ear-tufts up and chestnut neck frills fully displayed. Surely one of our finest species.

March 2015 -- a Mistel thrush and Galanthus nivalis

When I haven’t seen a kingfisher for some time, I experience a feeling that something is missing. One day a few weeks ago, however, at 4:40p.m., I peered over the low wall flanking the culvert in front of Strinesdale water treatment works. As the light began to fade and a salmon-hued wash coloured the sky towards Oldham, a small olive-brown bird sailed into flight and shot away round the curve of the stream. What distinguished the bird and made it special was the diamond-shaped panel of blue light adorning its back – it was a kingfisher.

Mistel thrush

    Another common yet elusive gem was visible near the lower reservoir recently. Goldcrests re usually highly active, so it made a welcome change to gain a prolonged view of one. The overused adjective ‘exquisite’ is perhaps the best descriptive term for Northern England’s smallest bird. As I watched it pecking for insects on the bark of a young willow, the head was lowered to reveal a clear yellow stripe, identifying the bird as female. According to Collins Guide, the male has some orange in there as well as yellow.

    During the frosts of January, the longed-for advent of spring seems somewhat distant. As February proceeds, though, signs of new life are heard. A blackbird sings hard at 6a.m., demonstrating subtle and inventive variations, while the minor twitter of Christmas-card stalwart, the robin, is heard everywhere. A Mistle thrush heard in the distance is repetitive but with a golden quality, and afternoon song thrushes are almost at full throttle. Or should that be throstle?

    If increasing birdsong foretells the coming of spring, the humble snowdrop signals that winter is half done. I was admiring some in the lower reaches of Greenacres Cemetery, planted on or around a few graves, and thinking how well thes3 small waxen blooms had come through the cold and snow without damage. Remarkable, in this over-busy age with its thunderous traffic and digital communications madness, there exists a frenzied enthusiasm for growing them. A modest number of species has given rise to dozens of named varieties, each having an individual and distinctive charm.

Galanthus nivalis

While these sometimes command high prices for a single bulb, the ordinary species, Galanthus nivalis, is as good as any. The name translates as ‘milk-flower of the snow’. John Sales, a retired gardens advisor to the National Trust, grows 250 different sorts. Having discovered a sturdy snowdrop which flowers reliably at the beginning of the year, he has playfully named it ‘January Sales’.