Nearly February, and although spring feels very far away, the birds know better and are starting to sing. Click here to hear the calls and songs of 13 common garden birds.
In Sir Edward Grey's wonderful 1927 book 'The Charm of Birds', he notes that February 5 is the date on which he usually expects to hear the first chaffinch of the year, and that, later in the month, one may find the first blackbird singing, the start of their brief but wonderful four-month stint.
Until then, we must make do with robins, great tits, blue tits, coal tits and wrens for company.
January 30, 2012
January 15, 2012
Bloody foreigners
An interesting piece from The Guardian here, about invasive non-native species that are threatening some of our British plants and animals. The usual suspects are all present and correct: harlequin ladybirds, grey squirrels, signal crayfish, water primrose. And it's hard not to worry in the face of such gloomy predictions for the UK's unique habitats and local ecosystems.
Yet plants and animals have moved around the globe for millenia, particularly in mainstream Europe, and have naturalised perfectly well in their adopted countries: neither rabbits, nor apples, nor horse chestnuts are truly local to the UK, after all, but we treat them as 'honorary natives'. So isn't there the merest whiff of jingoism about our current horror of being... invaded?
My guide, as in many ecological issues, is Richard Mabey, whose breadth of knowledge and astuteness of understanding take some beating. "The fact is, there is no absolutely clear line between native and introduced species, or between their effects," he says. "Most exotics aren't especially pushy, and prosper only if they find a vacant niche – as did, for instance, the little owl (introduced from the Continent in the 1870s) and the collared dove (arrived under its own steam from south-east Europe in the 1950s)."
He goes on: "What is disturbing is an ideological opposition to introductions simply because they are foreign; and a conviction that conserving biodiversity means fossilising species, turning habitats into isolation wards, ecological theme parks. Biological diversity evolved by exactly the opposite process, by species mutating, developing, cross-breeding and radiating out." The fact that we are an island nation should not, I think, lead us to attempt to halt that process in its tracks.
Two recent attempts to curb 'invasive' species spring to mind, neither of which are very edifying. A hedgehog cull in the Western Isles of Scotland provoked outrage: after all, these charming animals have fallen in numbers on the British mainland by nearly 90%. And the ruddy duck, a lovely blue-billed waterfowl, was recently deemed to be interbreeding with the white-headed duck, and within a few months was all but eradicated from British waterways.
Is this approach either ethical, or sustainable? I'm not sure. Perhaps it's worth looking at our own role as 'invasive species', and the damage we as humans do to fragile ecosystems worldwide.
Yet plants and animals have moved around the globe for millenia, particularly in mainstream Europe, and have naturalised perfectly well in their adopted countries: neither rabbits, nor apples, nor horse chestnuts are truly local to the UK, after all, but we treat them as 'honorary natives'. So isn't there the merest whiff of jingoism about our current horror of being... invaded?
My guide, as in many ecological issues, is Richard Mabey, whose breadth of knowledge and astuteness of understanding take some beating. "The fact is, there is no absolutely clear line between native and introduced species, or between their effects," he says. "Most exotics aren't especially pushy, and prosper only if they find a vacant niche – as did, for instance, the little owl (introduced from the Continent in the 1870s) and the collared dove (arrived under its own steam from south-east Europe in the 1950s)."
He goes on: "What is disturbing is an ideological opposition to introductions simply because they are foreign; and a conviction that conserving biodiversity means fossilising species, turning habitats into isolation wards, ecological theme parks. Biological diversity evolved by exactly the opposite process, by species mutating, developing, cross-breeding and radiating out." The fact that we are an island nation should not, I think, lead us to attempt to halt that process in its tracks.
Two recent attempts to curb 'invasive' species spring to mind, neither of which are very edifying. A hedgehog cull in the Western Isles of Scotland provoked outrage: after all, these charming animals have fallen in numbers on the British mainland by nearly 90%. And the ruddy duck, a lovely blue-billed waterfowl, was recently deemed to be interbreeding with the white-headed duck, and within a few months was all but eradicated from British waterways.
Is this approach either ethical, or sustainable? I'm not sure. Perhaps it's worth looking at our own role as 'invasive species', and the damage we as humans do to fragile ecosystems worldwide.
January 12, 2012
Green shoots
Two robins sang nearby, one from a young sycamore and the other perched on a litter bin, their fluting, reedy notes the battle cries in a struggle for territory that, unlike other birds, goes on all winter long.
Having been silent for so long the wheezy, unmistakeable sound of a great tit somewhere overhead was, like the daffodils, a much more reliable harbinger of spring.
January 03, 2012
We are being battered by a winter storm, with winds gusting to 80mph, hail and lashing rain. Our garden fences have finally collapsed, and in Palace Road Nature Garden a young silver birch has come down.
There's hardly a bird to be seen outside; most are sheltering from the wind and rain. With no leaves on most of the trees they put up less resistance to the wind and are better able to stay upright, but provide less cover for birds, which need evergreens, shrubs and ivy to hide in at this time of year.
Hopefully the storm will pass before it gets dark; birds that miss an entire day's feeding at this time of year may well not survive the night.
There's hardly a bird to be seen outside; most are sheltering from the wind and rain. With no leaves on most of the trees they put up less resistance to the wind and are better able to stay upright, but provide less cover for birds, which need evergreens, shrubs and ivy to hide in at this time of year.
Hopefully the storm will pass before it gets dark; birds that miss an entire day's feeding at this time of year may well not survive the night.
December 23, 2011
Birds of a feather
 |
| Image courtesy RSPB |
In winter many birds flock together to feed. Without the need to defend territories for breeding, there is safety in numbers, and winter flocks often consist of several different species all seeking food together. Goldfinches love thistle seeds; I don't think we have any in the garden, but perhaps they found some other seed-bearing plants to feast on.
In contrast, robins will defend a territory all year round – both males and females. Last night I was walking our dog at dusk, just as the street lights were coming on. On every street, it seemed, the liquid notes of a robin filtered down from a leafless tree. Some people say their song is less strident, more melancholy in winter, and last night I was inclined to agree.
December 11, 2011
Birdstrike
A bang from the back of the house the other day, and alarm from the dog, her body language making it clear that something unusual had happened. Yet I could find nothing out of place – until I saw, on the French windows, this faint, powdery impression:
The breast feathers are clearly visible, as are the two upraised wings. But it's the feathered legs that really give it away as a bird of prey – probably a sparrowhawk, swooping down to try and take one of the pigeons that patrol for dropped seeds beneath our bird feeder, then rising out of its stoop and attempting to fly into our living room. I looked around, but the bird itself was nowhere to be seen, so I presume it wasn't badly injured by hitting the glass.
Not all birds produce the powder that leaves these impressions, but most birds of prey do, which is why they seem to hit our windows more often; other species simply leave no trace. More birdstrikes can be seen here.
The breast feathers are clearly visible, as are the two upraised wings. But it's the feathered legs that really give it away as a bird of prey – probably a sparrowhawk, swooping down to try and take one of the pigeons that patrol for dropped seeds beneath our bird feeder, then rising out of its stoop and attempting to fly into our living room. I looked around, but the bird itself was nowhere to be seen, so I presume it wasn't badly injured by hitting the glass.
Not all birds produce the powder that leaves these impressions, but most birds of prey do, which is why they seem to hit our windows more often; other species simply leave no trace. More birdstrikes can be seen here.
December 03, 2011
The silent season
At this time of year it is the birdsong I miss. On an hour's walk around the South London streets this morning I heard only a gull crying to its mate above the rooftops, a blackbird's alarm call and the distant twittering of what I suspect were long-tailed tits, invisible in someone else's garden.
There was no robin's silvery trill, although they do still sing at this time of year; no thrush's rattle or repeated notes, no wood pigeon with its comforting coo. And, of course, none of the summer migrants: no swifts screaming high overhead, no chiff chaff singing its own name. Even our great tits won't shout 'teacher! teacher!' again until spring.
There was no robin's silvery trill, although they do still sing at this time of year; no thrush's rattle or repeated notes, no wood pigeon with its comforting coo. And, of course, none of the summer migrants: no swifts screaming high overhead, no chiff chaff singing its own name. Even our great tits won't shout 'teacher! teacher!' again until spring.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
