Replenished

As the soft rain soaks slowly into the landscape, the grasses and shrubs that lie in vacant patches between construction sites and farmland unfurl themselves, reaching out to taste the water. The streets are empty but not eerie, just peaceful, and as I walk in total solitude, the wind blasting fine droplets of water into my face dampens the distant sounds of traffic and machinery to a whisper. I find myself close to smiling, muscles relaxing, revelling in this hint of autumn and the relief from the beating sun that draws out crowds of chattering people, barking dogs, the bright colours of their beach towels and windbreaks, the roaring of car engines. All of that can be pleasant for a time, but like the dry heat of the past weeks, it’s gone on too long and left a thirst for change.

Against the heavy grey clouds above the fields, a kestrel – devoid of detail in the gloom but recognisable from its pointed wings and long tail – glides in a straight line and is carried away swiftly on the breeze. The next day when the rain has cleared, she’s perched on a telegraph pole, eyeing clumps of long grasses for signs of voles. A blackbird and her two speckly fledglings dash nervously from the bushes into a tall tree where they can keep an eye on the falcon, while two unremarkable brown birds which could be juvenile stonechats keep a lookout standing on the ends of stalks of dried up wildflowers. In a cavity dug into the centre of a field that’s meant to collect excess water and houses the only grass that has remained lush and green compared to the parched yellow of all the other nearby fields, a large flock of young goldfinches drink and bathe gratefully in the recently formed puddles.

Goldfinches bathing

Poppies

At six this morning, the sun is already high and warm in the clear blue sky. I take an early walk from the cliffs at West Pentire down to the sheltered Polly Joke cove. On the beach, the tide is almost in, and the low waves slosh gently against the rocks. A stream trickles over the sand to meet the ocean. Looking for wildlife, what stands out most this morning are wrens. Usually a shy and flighty species, today the males stand brazenly on gateposts and sprawling branches of shrubs, loudly proclaiming ownership over their territories. Nearby, a male stonechat is clicking far more modestly. A noise overhead alerts me to a group of four Canada geese flying over, heading north. Jackdaws perch on jutting rocks halfway up the cliff faces. Just across the water on the other side of the cove are signs of a recent cliff fall: a jagged edge cut away into the clifftop and bare sandy soil exposed above a cascade of rubble that has come to rest on the cliff slope.

Wren; Jackdaw

At the top of the cliffs are fields of poppies in their thousands, with many still yet to bloom – their heads nod in the gentle breeze, with translucent petals illuminated like lampshades by the strong sunlight of the early morning. Other flowers grow among them, including a white form of campion. At one of the field borders, where poppies have given way to oilseed, two rabbits chase each other; they look carefree hopping in circles with their white tails bobbing. The poppies and long grasses must also be providing shelter for skylark nests – all around, the birds launch into the sky to sing at length, one of the mainstays of the soundtrack of summer.

Poppies

Remedy

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  Foxgloves and red campion grow at the sides of the path

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  Sea campion

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  Buzzard mobbed by herring gull

Late afternoon I have driven to Park Head for a walk in the breezy sunshine that ends an otherwise rather grey and drizzly week. The footpath down to the sheltered cove seems narrower than usual as it is now bordered by sprawling wildflowers – cow parsley, campion, bluebells, and tall pink foxgloves. The songs of warblers fill the landscape: whitethroats, blackcaps, chiffchaffs and reed warblers – they call out loudly, yet these tiny birds remain nearly impossible to see, hidden in dense shrubbery. Over a bridge, and then the lush greenery gives way to the grassy cliff paths. Pale sea campion grows at the edges with an understated beauty that contrasts starkly with the more colourful wildflowers further back.

The soundtrack on the clifftop comes mainly from the half dozen skylarks climbing the wall of blue sky to sing as high up as their small wings will take them. They are not the only ones using the breeze to propel them upwards; a buzzard uses it to hover, steadily scanning the gorse bushes below – it begins to take a dive, but is ambushed by a pair of herring gulls that scream at it, driving it away from presumably a nearby nest. A young rabbit pops up, just in time to see the buzzard soaring away.

A mixed flock of corvids picks through the short grass – smart carrion crows, bossy jackdaws and rooks with ragged wings that rustle as they take to the sky. A wheatear pelts out of the scrub with another hot on its tail; meanwhile, stonechats flick and click and squeak from on top of piles of brambles growing on stone walls. On my path back to the car through fields of long grasses, butterflies including speckled wood and painted ladies rest a couple of seconds on wildflowers – among the jumble of colour, a lone red poppy stands out tall like a crimson soldier.

Then I am back driving along the undulating coast road – still blissfully quiet with only hours to go until an influx of half term holidaymakers – the high summer sun still beating down over the glittering blue sea and beaches dotted with the bright colours of people playing and surfing: this landscape is an antidepressant as good as any pill, yet this remedy is free of side effects or cost.

Drizzle

Today the garden has been drenched by much-needed rainfall after the unusual dryness of April. From memory, this is at least the third exceptionally dry spring in succession, which follows another relatively dry winter. The blackbird pair that visit the garden regularly are grateful; they are clearly feeding a nest of young in a nearby garden, as they are back and forth all day gathering worms, today’s rain making their job much easier as the ground has softened and their prey has risen nearer to the surface. I watch the female tug a very long worm from the ground, but before she takes it with her, she breaks it up into pieces, making it easier for her young ones to swallow.

I take a walk down the local farm tracks; in just the last couple of days, larger numbers of swallows have arrived, a little later than normal. They zigzag over the fields, collecting the insects that bother the young cattle grazing there and zipping across the paths at head-height as I’m walking along the field verges. There is a flurry of activity from other small birds too; goldfinches twitter from their perches on top of shrubs and brambles; dunnocks shoot back and forth from hedgerows; a great tit calls loudly for ‘teacher’ from the top of a tree. I also spot some stonechats, which I don’t see so often on this route – a male and a female, likely also with a nest somewhere. A song thrush is singing, and high up above, a kestrel soars and then stops to hover for a few moments, but then moves on again.

On my way home I skirt the edges of the construction site, and am crestfallen to see that more scrub has been cleared – now, in the peak nesting season. With some forward planning, this could have been done in winter so as to minimise disruption to nature. As the drizzle rains down, a soggy-looking buzzard sits hunched on the fence nearby, perhaps having scavenged on the contents of any nests that have been displaced.

Swallows

Weekend wandering

The days this weekend have dawned chilly, and slowly warmed to muggy afternoons where the air feels thick with humidity, though the light breeze offers a cool breath of relief periodically. On Saturday afternoon I walk from my front door to the beach, along footpaths made narrow by the tall cow parsley springing up on both sides, as insects buzz all around. Though it may be St George’s Day, the St Mark’s flies are emerging; in all directions these peculiar jet black insects waft lazily through the air, in no hurry to go anywhere. I carry on down towards the beach, where its tranquillity stands out in contrast from the hustle and bustle of the last couple of weeks of school holidays, and continue up to the headland, where I stand on a bridge for a while gazing at crystal blue waves which lap against the rocks as gulls soar above.

Sunday morning, in light drizzle, I venture further afield to St Agnes Head to see what wildlife can be found there, with a slight hope of spotting emperor moths which should now be beginning to appear amongst the heather that is starting to flower. However, on that score I am out of luck and the coast path seems very still and almost lifeless this morning; mostly linnets and stonechats bustle about, while wrens sing and jackdaws call their name from the tops of buildings. The air is thick with gnats, however, which must be providing the birds with some decent meals. On the ground, tiny violets grow in sprawling clusters, while clumps of thrift here and there add a blush of pink to the landscape. I glance under the piles of heather for signs of more adders, which have been very active in the area recently, but am quietly relieved not see any as I have my small dogs in tow and wouldn’t want them to stumble upon one.

Linnet with thrift

Reflection

On the north coast, the sea and sky mirror each other’s expanses of clear blue, though the sea’s shimmering surface breaks into large waves that roll towards the shore, folding over themselves before they meet the base of the cliffs. Rainbows hang in the air above them momentarily as the sunlight permeates the spray they send up.

The afternoon is pleasantly warm, but being so early in the season the coast path remains almost deserted – of people; skylarks and stonechats flit busily between piles of gorse and heather, their songs filling the still air. Taking a rest on a bench, I watch two jackdaws scrubbing around on the ground selecting the strongest sticks to take back to a nest they must be building, perhaps nestled between the brickwork of the defunct engine house that overlooks the steep descent down to the sea.

Signs of spring

The arrival of March has brought a dip in the temperatures, with nights once again close to freezing, but that isn’t deterring the wildlife from commencing their spring activities. Birdsong is now a constant presence outside, particularly in areas near trees, where the choruses of chaffinches, robins, dunnocks and great tits all compete for attention. Our garden blackbird has added a third act to his dawn serenade to complement his owl and car-alarm imitations – a two-note whistle perfectly mimicking the sound a person might make calling a dog back. Daytime in the garden brings flocks of sparrows and starlings down to the lawn. When they’re not picking newly planted seeds out of the planters, they’re gathering nesting material – after seeing less rain than average this winter, there’s a good amount of dry grass to be found. The starlings are taking their finds into the roof of our garage where they must be working on the nest – they go in above the insulation so we can’t watch their progress, but at least it keeps any mess they might make separate from everything else, if hard to clean out once they’re done. While driving recently I spotted more signs of bird nesting: a jackdaw picking out limp brown leaves from beneath a spiky palm tree, and a gang of rooks squabbling over ownership of old nests in a line of tall trees by the roadside.

Starling with nest material

This morning I walked along the headland near Fistral beach in dazzling sunshine, and the choppy ocean below was a rich shade of aquamarine. Suddenly a skylark flung itself into the sky, its jangling tune filling the air with intense sound. Staying closer to the ground, colourful male stonechats attempted to outdo the skylark with their alternating choruses of chirps and clicks. Ahead on the path, a black-headed gull had already transformed into its breeding plumage, now living up to its name, in contrast to their nearly all-white winter attire. Jackdaws and ravens tussled in the air, cursing each other as they competed for territory. Bees have also emerged, hovering around the plants springing up in sheltered areas of the coast path. There is much to look forward to as the days continue to lengthen and grow warmer.

Spotting birds

This weekend I’ve taken a couple of strolls down the nearby farm tracks. The variety of habitats – dense shrubs, tall trees, fields and industrial areas – make the area home to many common species and a worthy local patch for birdwatching. At the start of the track where some land is being developed, I spot white flashes of the wing feathers of chaffinches as they climb around on a heap of dirt. A male stands at the very top, his head feathers forming a visible crest, and the sun highlights his rainbow plumage with shades of rose, grey-blue and green.

The stones that make up the pathway crunch underfoot but distantly I can hear calls of geese and a coot from a secluded valley at the bottom of the hill, though I am unable to get a view through the shrubs from my position on the path. These small trees also house many small songbirds and the bare branches of winter make them easily visible. Today, a male great tit is perched high up on a branch, singing his two-tone song as loud as he can muster. Below on the marshland, two stonechats are perched on the stalks of tough grasses that sprout from the wet ground.

Above the fields, gulls swoop and soar. A redwing, blue tit and goldfinch are all startled from their perches on the top of a tree as a buzzard glides in to circle over the area. Further along is an area of tall trees which are favoured by woodpigeons; their wings clap as they take off from the path ahead, heading for the safety of the branches. A flock of redwings is also using these trees; they take to the air as a group, making circuits overhead as they decide where to land next. Around another corner, a female kestrel dives from a tree as I approach, shooting across the field and out of sight in seconds. A keen eye is needed to spot the dunnocks, wrens and blackbirds keeping out of sight under the cover of the undergrowth; meanwhile making no attempt to be inconspicuous, a robin sings exuberantly from a treetop above them.

Finally, on my way home, I pass through a small park where jackdaws are scouring through the grass. One of the group, which has been digging around the base of a tree, finds something and calls out sharply to the others. It takes off with the other birds in tow before I can see what it is they’ve found, but I do spot a small black and white feather on the path ahead of me. The pied wagtails darting around the area give away its origins.

Great tit, stonechat, redwing, goldfinch

13 November 2021

It’s one of those grizzly, unwelcoming afternoons – though the calm breeze and static grey clouds are actually rather tame by the standards of Cornwall in autumn, which usually decides to hurl gales and torrential rain around at least six days a week this time of year. Despite this it’s hard to get going and drag myself out for exercise, yet as on most occasions, I’m rewarded almost straight away, today by a gathering of around twenty jackdaws all lined up on a fence around the corner from home. I am aware of their shrewd grey eyes assessing me as I approach; a few decide to fly away, but the rest flutter down to a patch of bare earth the other side of the fence to forage for worms. Some rock pipits are among them, too – small brown birds with streaks of brown on their bellies – and a group of sparrows chatters in a hedge nearby. I wander down the farm tracks, flushing a couple of blackbirds and stonechats, and a flock of goldfinches, and around the next corner come across a buzzard perched on a fence, this bulky bird looking huge from a distance, though it isn’t really much larger than a herring gull. Spying me, it spreads its broad wings and lets the breeze lift it up into the sky, where it soars out of sight, but I catch sight of it again when I’m walking past a field of inquisitive cows, the hawk sitting on top of a telegraph pole gazing down at the scene. It takes off into the pearly sky again as I approach, circling over the backdrop of green hillsides and rows of houses. I walk the remaining stretch of the loop around the farm fields, noticing how the fallen leaves are now turning to mulch underfoot, the start of that mucky time of year where things decay in order to regenerate in the spring. Some of the trees already have new buds on them, little parcels of life ready to emerge next year – or perhaps sooner if the mild weather keeps up. Nearing the built up streets again, a robin, with bold orange breast puffed out, twitters from a hedge beside me as though giving a parting salute.

Autumn afternoon

This afternoon brings a welcome gap in an onslaught of heavy rain and hail showers, although the blue sky remains cluttered with bundles of dense cloud ready to bear the next downpour. Having been soaked the last two times I’ve left the house, I seize the opportunity for a dry walk and take to the local footpaths to see what wildlife I can spot also taking advantage of the respite from the intense weather.

First I observe a couple of stonechats, which seem to be bickering over territory, clacking and flapping at each other. When a kestrel soars overhead, their argument is quickly forgotten and they dive undercover. I try to take a look at the falcon above, but the sun is dazzling above me in the sky and I lose sight of it, noticing instead how red admiral and small white butterflies are still making the most of the warmth that lingers in the short moments when the wind drops.

I round a couple of corners in the track and then the kestrel is suddenly in view once again, hovering low in the sky just above the path ahead of me. My binoculars bring me even closer to her and I watch as she holds her head still and steadies herself with decisive beats of her wings to keep herself level in the sky despite a strong breeze. Then she folds her wings in close to her body and dives to the ground behind a patch of sorrel, but moments later she is up again, empty clawed. She repositions herself above the neighbouring field; I am trying to keep out of her way so she has a clear view of the grass below, so I make my way behind her, though she soon decides this is not the right spot and lets the wind carry her further away, out of view behind some hedges which hold clusters of red berries. Below these sits a white mushroom with a broad cap, though something has nibbled holes in it. As I continue along the path, I startle a magpie and some crows which had been foraging in the nearby field; as they take off the crows’ wings flash dark blue in the sunlight. A soft call draws my eye back to the hedgerows and I notice a wren skulking behind a clump of pink-coloured blackberries which are still yet to ripen. It’s tempting to sample the black ones that hang nearby, but better to leave them for the animals who may need their nourishment should the coming weeks turn cold and harsh.