The Scolopax chronicles

New life and swift death

2011-06-30T03:50:00.000-07:00

Mists before dawn promised a clear day, a window in the relentless procession of grey, wet and windy days that seem to have characterised this early 'summer'. On the way to the reserve I looked out over the mudflats to where the rising sun had set the sky to glowing with metalic pinks and peaches and had lit up the smoke from the distant power station with delicate shades of lilac. Yes this promised to be a sweet summer day.

In front of the car a green woodpecker took flight from the ground and banked away over a field filled with ragwort, the green and gold of the bird matching perfectly the green and gold of the flowers. Further on I spotted shapes moving in the mist soaked grass of an old orchard. Rabbits were quietly feeding alongside two juvenile green woodpeckers. It's easy to identify the juveniles of this species because, much like our own youth, they are covered in spots! One of the youngsters flew off into the trees but the other remained and went back to feeding. It kept a wary eye on me, stooping to feed then raising its head in a strangely snakelike way to peer over the grass at me.

Off to the side of the road at one point is an alien looking landscape, like something imagined by a science fiction writer as the surface of a distant planet, there is a field filled with hundreds of strange mounds, wound about with tendrils of mist. These are known as 'Emmett humps'. They are the work of colonies of yellow meadow ants over years, 'Emmett' being an old word for ant.

Despite the rising sun the Swale retained a thick blanket of low lying mist, the result of a hot and humid night of unsettled sleep. I stopped on the road at the entrance to the reserve to give the sun the time to warm the ground a little and allow the moisture to rise away and return to the sky, before I continued on to the farmhouse and the access track. The farm buildings were dripping with water and a surfeit of starlings. These noisy scoundrels filled every available edge and ledge. Those that survive will go on to make up some of the numbers of the enormous flocks of Autumn that are such a magnet for predators like the Merlin and the Peregrine.

At the apex of one barn though there were no starlings. This was due to the presence of a family of kestrels that have bred in the barn's roof rafters this year. The youngsters are on the very edge of fledging now but still can't quite tear themselves away from the familiar safety and security of their birthplace.

When the mist cleared and the sun was still low in the sky it created a glorious effect of light through the seed heads of the grass. They lit up against the green and waved gently like a vast hoard of people bearing golden flamed torches.

When I reached the car park I saw the unmistakable form of a barn owl hunting out over the grazing marsh. I positioned myself where I could see the nest box and at the entrance were two, well grown youngsters who, like the kestrels, were not far from fledging. I watched over the course of an hour or so and during that time the adults brought in four prey items, field voles from the look of them. The youngsters though didn't seem overly interested in the meals. This is good news, it means that they are well fed and the frequency with which the adults were returning with prey backs this up.

Watching the barn owls coming in with bundles of protein clutched in their eager talons it's easy to view the story from just one perspective; The new life of the owletts is sustained by the numbers of prey and the parent birds' hunting abilities. But there is a flip side to this, the voles' lives are abruptly ended to provide food for the growing birds. There is no moralistic slant to this, it is simply the way it is; Life for some comes at the price of death for others.

I was reminded of just how swift and close death on the marsh can be whilst watching a moorhen leading her brood of three chicks around the water's edge. They were quite endearing little creatures, comical almost, nothing much more than blobs of black fluff propelled on impossibly thin legs and ridiculously large feet. They were pootling around, pecking at everything, beginning to learn what is edible and what is not, when, without warning, a lesser black backed gull swept down and snatched one of them. The gull grabbed the chick by the head and its powerful beak crushed the skull of the little bird easily. The gull flew on for a few yards, just to be clear of the startled and aggressive moorhen mother, then it landed and tossed the chick into its mouth, swallowing it in one. It then took off and flew away over the scrape. Death was swift indeed for the moorhen chick, the whole episode lasted less than 30 seconds.

By the time I had to leave the reserve at around 9.30 the sun was blazing hot and there was a shimmering heat haze making a distant buzzard waver and warp in my view through the scope. For once the singing of skylarks didn't seem out of place.

Summer on the reserve just as it should be, the dramas of new life and swift death continuing just as they always have under the heat and light of the sun.

Spring towards summer part deux

2011-05-11T03:48:00.000-07:00

The birds of summer have taken over from the winter visitors. The huge flocks of wigeon are gone and the brent geese have returned to Greenland, Canada, Russia and Siberia to breed. Our greylag geese remain as they are resident, but I always think of them as a winter bird even though I can see them all year round. Their stocky, sculptural build makes them great subjects to sketch.

Brent geese sketches.

Greylag geese sketches.

Little owls are resident here too, although they’re more difficult to see in the summer when the foliage bursts out on the trees. As anyone who has ever read this blog or looked at my website before will know, I’ll always sketch them if I see them, they are such great characters. Another great bird that is difficult to see at the best of times is the tawny owl, in the summer, hidden close to the trunks of trees and obscured behind leaves they are almost impossible to see at their day roosts. Luckily I know of a pair that are regularly in the same group of trees and every year, before the buds break into leaf, I visit them to see them and, hopefully, their chicks once they branch.

Sleeping little owl sketch. Spring tawny owl, acrylic on illustration board.

The lapwing flocks of winter have dispersed and individual birds have paired and are breeding. The first chicks appeared a couple of weeks ago and now all through the rough grass little balls of speckled fluff scurry about, watched over by their ever vigilant parents. The youngsters look like they’re made from woolen balls stolen from the tops of knitted bobble hats from the ‘70s.

Lapwing sketches.

There have been flocks of Mediterranean gulls on Elmley reserve lately, sometimes up to c150 birds. They are a handsome looking gull that used to be pretty scarce in the UK. Indeed, up until around the 1950’s it was a decidedly rare bird. Their range has been expanding rapidly over the past twenty or so years and now, at times, they seem to outnumber the more familiar black headed gull. They’re very welcome as far as I’m concerned, the sound they make is distinctive and, as I said, they are a very handsome gull.

Black headed gull sketch. Mediterranean gull (front) and black headed gull (rear).

The scrapes are now totally dominated by the avocets and the sound of their constant bubbling chatter fills the hides. In the early morning the sunlight slants across the water and the strong shadows it makes help to describe the avocets’ delicate forms. Avocets are a really beautiful bird, elegant and refined to look at, all flowing lines and smooth curves. But their personality belies their looks, they are aggressive and irritable and, at breeding time, they won’t tolerate any intrusion from any species it seems.

Avocet sketches.

Amongst the best of the delights of summer on the marshes are the abundant yellow wagtails that flit around in the grass, on the road, and on the gates and fences that pepper the grazing fields. When the sun hits them from a clear blue sky they glow the brightest and purest of yellows. Less welcome for me are the swarms of mosquitoes that gather over the water or over my head! The wagtails must love them though as they represent a copious and ever present food for them and their chicks.

Sketches of the first yellow wagtails of the year and a male in strong sunshine from last week.

Yellow wagtail and mosquitoes,
acrylic on illustration board.

Spring towards Summer

2011-03-24T15:36:00.001-07:00

At last it seems that Spring is breaking free from the shackles of Winter.

Just this week I have seen the first Bumble Bee of the year bumbling around the garden looking for a suitable nesting place and in London I watched as a brimstone butterfly fluttered around in the sun as if it were the height of Summer. In the garden the blackbird is singing and protecting his lady, the sparrows squabble for dominance and the starlings are gleaming and glossy. On the marshes the lapwings are displaying, swooping down and up with a loud ‘peewit’ and the rush of air through primaries, joining in ritual overhead battle with rivals. Avocets have returned to the scrapes and they are chasing anything that dares to land on their island claims.

I have seen the mating of urban peregrines, brief encounters high on the office rooftops. I have been lucky enough to have been watching one pair since last summer. All through the winter they have been resident on a girder that runs the length of an ugly, ‘60s designed block, lending a grace and beauty that only comes when nature invades the grey spaces of the city. It seems that the pair may have relocated to another place to lay their eggs and raise their young though as they have been absent for some while now. It’s disappointing for me but I wish them well wherever they’ve gone to.

Summer this year will be different for us because, for the first time in six years, we won’t be going to the farm in Norfolk. Instead we will be flying off to Singapore for three weeks. To say that I’m excited by the prospect would be something of an understatement! Exotic birds and wildlife await and there is a sketchbook tucked away ready for its moment in the sun. We’ll miss the farm though, as will our friends who’ve accompanied us for all those holidays. As a little reminder I’ve painted one of our friends in a favourite spot where she likes to paint by the fishing lake.

Summer on the marshes can be wonderfully peaceful, with the sounds of a million insects humming along to the songs of skylarks. Herons stalk the shallow dykes among the reeds and rushes, barely disturbing the surface of the water until, in a lightning fast strike their heads dart in to capture some unwary fish or perhaps a frog or newt. It’s this hazy, hot, still, summer’s day feeling that I have tried to capture in my latest painting ‘Summer Heron’.

Two crows and a hawk

2011-03-02T13:33:00.000-08:00

Last week’s trip to Elmley was made despite some of the greyest, coldest weather we've yet seen this year, plus the prospect of a low tide and no birds on the scrape.

I think the weather was too cold even for the birds to want to venture out onto the mud of the Swale though and there was some activity in front of the hide. After scanning the flocks of wigeon, shoveller, mallard and teal I put the scope to the far shore where snipe hide in the scraggy rushes and grasses and their cryptic plumage with its stripes and flecks can render them invisible.

I got a couple of crows in the scope and watched them as their attention seemed caught by a particular clump of dead grass. I managed to make out a bundle of feathers lifting in the wind and at first I thought the crows had found a corpse, but the feathers moved and resolved themselves into a young male sparrowhawk, obviously on a kill which interested the crows.

They circled the spar like Native Americans around a wagon train in an old John Wayne movie. All the time the spar kept a wary eye on them until he'd had enough and he made a jump at one of the pair which convinced them to stay back a bit and let the feisty little raptor get on with his business in peace for a while.

So there he sat, sometimes hidden, but turning around on his kill so that he came back into view from time to time. After a reasonably lengthy sketching session of 15 minutes or so the crows returned and this time the spar made a break for it across the scrape carrying what was left of his prize (possibly a starling as it was small and dark). He went into cover with the crows in hot pursuit and I lost sight of him. Whether the spar was able to hang onto his kill or whether the crows won the day I’ll never know but at least the diminutive hawk had had the time to eat some of his kill.

I then went back to scanning the reeds and finally saw a group of at least eight snipe all well in the deep cover and only betrayed by their occasional movement and one bird on the fringes, not quite as well hidden as the others. Into the sketchbook he went. By this time though my hands were numb with cold and I think some of my bones were beginning to crack so it was time to call it a day and return home for a large mug of coffee and a slice of toast.

But the trip had been a success despite my initial misgivings. There’s always something new to see!

Not long now

2011-02-13T14:51:00.000-08:00

Elmley was bleak this morning and it was cold. Not the crisp, clean cold of deep Winter, but a dirty, grey cold, one that no amount of layers seemed able to keep out. Across the grey landscape grey clouds scudded, ripped and torn to shapeless shreds by an urgent and insistent wind racing in from the grey Swale, laden with the tangy scents of salt and mud. Drizzle driven by the same wind was flung into my face, it felt like fine sand and made my eyes water with emotionless tears. The cries of curlew whined out across the marsh and even the bubbling laughter of little grebes seemed more mournful than cheerful.

But perhaps it shouldn't have sounded so. Perhaps their laughter should have had the ring of hope. Because these are the last days of the season, these are the last days of the dour hand of Winter that brings the grey rain and the spiteful winds.

Spring is trying hard now to shake Winter's grey mantle and begin colouring the days. Cleaning the drab olive grass to a bright and luscious green. Scouring the grey from the skies, polishing them to blue and decorating them with a dash of fresh cotton white.

Hares are gathering together, the females are tetchy and will soon begin to fight off the advances of the increasingly excitable males. There are coots brawling in the grey and choppy water and I have seen great crested grebes presenting gifts of vegetation to each other and dancing on the surface together like lovestruck teenagers. Geese are pairing off and blackbird males are becoming aggressive in defence of invisible but solid boundaries. Feisty blue tits have started chasing rivals and staking their claim to the nestboxes. Out on the Fleet the teal males raise their crests, flick their tails and bow to the, as yet, indifferent females. I watched a pair of peregrines playing together on the grey winds, treating the sky as a playground, riding the turbulent air like a toy.

Spring is here, but it awaits its moment to burst through and clear away the last dismal stutterings of a stubborn and belligerent Winter.

It won't be long now...

The painful truth

2010-12-13T03:26:00.000-08:00

I was told it was about time that I updated my profile picture to one that was taken more recently. I'm told that the tired and saggy old bloke to the right is me! I think someone's telling porkies though. I can't possibly look that bad!

Three owls

2010-12-08T05:34:00.000-08:00

Anyone who's read more than one of my posts (Is there anyone?) will probably know that little owls are one of my favourites. I can't resist them and, if I see one it almost invariably goes into the sketchbook or the camera.

Most of the time I like to paint birds as they go about their daily routines, unaware that they are being watched. Often, if viewing through binoculars or a scope, the birds will glance in my direction and decide that I'm far enough away that I don't constitute a threat and they will return to roosting or preening, safe in the knowledge that they could fly away in plenty of time if the situation demanded it. Just occasionally though it's nice to paint that point of contact with a bird, that moment of recognition and silent communication. This guy was perched in a yew tree behind the churchyard in Hucking. I'd stopped a good distance from the tree and scanned it with my binoculars and was lucky enough to spot the light patch of the owl's feathers where the sun reflected off of them. The owl had obviously seen me long before I'd seen him and he was watching intently. No binoculars needed! He didn't move off but he kept glancing at me, just literally keeping one eye on what I was up to, and what an eye!

This little painting is a bit of a landmark for me too because it is the first wildlife painting that I have completed in oils. I've enjoyed the paints and may use them in preference to acrylics in the future, I suppose that will depend on how well the next oil painting goes!

Owls as a group are so gorgeous to me that I sometimes wonder if I should call myself an owl artist who paints other wildlife from time to time. They are certainly a recurring theme in my work. They are not always the easiest of creatures to see though and despite knowing where there is a long eared owl roost it took literally years before I was able to spot this one. Long eared owl had become something of what birders call a 'bogey bird' for me. When I eventually did find him though he seemed content to pose for me almost as if I'd paid him! He was either confident that his camouflage was good enough to hide him or he was just too damn tired to move as his eyes barely opened beyond much more than a slit in all the time I watched him. Useful to me because I had plenty of time to do a detailed sketch which later became a painting.

Of course an owl's life is not all sleeping and roosting and another type of encounter that always thrills is one with a hunting owl. Using sketches done during my hour in a ditch back in May I wanted to show a barn owl hunting in territory familiar to me where I've often seen barn owls. In the early morning the sun is low enough in the sky that it lights up the feathery seed heads of the phragmite beds around the coastal marshes of Elmley and Oare. When a barn owl floats into the scene between the viewer and the sun it sometimes appears outlined in pure, white light an effect known as contre-jour, which is a French phrase meaning literally 'against the day'. A barn owl's body plumage is light enough that it will retain some detail even in these conditions, picking up reflected light from the ground and some of the light that filters through the translucent wing feathers. It is a beautiful and fleeting effect that artists have often exploited and one that I hope I've managed to capture some of in the painting 'Low light, low flight, highlight'.

Merlin defiant

2010-10-12T01:34:00.000-07:00

On the afternoon of September 7th 1940 the phone rang in the dispersal hut at RAF Martlesham. 257 Squadron were scrambled to intercept an incoming force of enemy aircraft. For the fourth time that day Flight Lieutenant Hugh ‘Blue blood’ Beresford raced to his waiting Hurricane and fired up its powerful Rolls-Royce Merlin engine. He was quickly airbourne leading ‘A’ Flight. Out over the Thames Estuary 257 Squadron were vectored in on a flight of 50 German bombers and they met them head-on. As Flight Lieutenant Beresford began his attack an Me.109 fighter escort swept down from altitude to attack the defiant 257 Squadron and defend their own bombers. Flight Lieutenant Beresford frantically called a warning to his comrades below him; “Alert Squadron! Four snappers coming down!” These were probably his last words as he was hit by a cannon shell fired by one of the 109’s and his aircraft fell away from the squadron and plunged earthwards.

On the quiet marshland of Elmley on the Isle of Sheppey the Hurricane struck the ground at Spitend. Impacting nose first the aircraft disappeared into the marshy soil leaving just a small crater and two slashes where the wings had hit and sliced into the soft ground. There was no explosion, no flames nothing but a small wisp of smoke or steam drifting up from out of the hole.

For the next 39 years Flight Lieutenant Beresford remained in the cockpit of his Hurricane, buried 4-5 metres below the surface. Then, in August 1979 a team of volunteers recovered the aircraft and the pilot’s mortal remains along with a few remnants of his personal effects. Hugh Beresford was finally laid to rest, with full military honours, in the Brookwood military cemetery in Surrey.

On the day he died back in 1940 Hugh Beresford was just 24 years old, the same age as my eldest son.

Last year I was on Elmley one quiet Sunday morning in the middle of summer. There were swallows skimming low and skylarks singing high against the azure sky which was broken only by the contrails of even higher flying planes.

As I looked at the patterns of criss-crossing vapour trails the thought struck me that I could have been transported back to the 1940's when the skies above Kent were the scene of fierce fighting as the RAF fought the threat of Nazi invasion and the might of Hitler's Luftwaffe. Even as these battles raged, and brave young men of both sides lost their lives, the birds on the marshes of Sheppey continued, just as they have always done, oblivious to the struggles of men.

In early September this year I was lucky enough to catch up with a merlin on Elmley and the thought of the summer of 1940 returned to me and this painting was conceived. The Rolls Royce Merlin engine powered both the Spitfire and the Hurricane so I thought it would be an appropriate bird to place in the context of the Battle of Britain. The young male sits on a pile of boulders which are not naturally occuring in Kent. They have been brought in to be used in the coastal defences, so again I thought they were appropriate. I have used a little artistic license and the fighter planes depicted are Spitfires not Hurricanes simply because the shape of the Spitfire is more easily recognisable.

CLA Game Fair

2010-07-21T08:06:00.000-07:00

I will be attending the CLA Game Fair at Ragley Hall in Warwickshire this weekend, Friday 23rd-Sunday 25th July. I'll be in the 'Birds, birds, birds' Stand P1213, where some of my work will be on show. If you're at the fair please do come and have a chat, it would be nice to meet anyone who reads this little blog of mine.

Gotta go pack!

Fairy whispers and chasing dragons

2010-07-10T14:19:00.000-07:00

The weatherman had promised cloud after a week of pure blue skies and soaring temperatures. But he was wrong. The sky was clear and the air had the delicious taste of a morning's clarity before it thickens to hang heavy with the sun's heat.

Always at this time of year I hope to see Hobbies on my travels. Those dashing little falcons like miniature peregrines with every edge honed to sharpness. So my first port of call was the old schoolhouse to scan the familiar territory of the resident pair. However there was no sign of them, either on their favourite perches or in the empty sky. I stayed for over an hour and, as the sun worked her magic, the temperature began to rise and the air began to hum and buzz with the busyness of insects. The horizon became a shimmering, ephemeral thing and looking for distant Hobbies through the heat haze was like trying to see through a pane of glass running with the heavyest of heavy rain. The air thickened, as I'd known it would, and took on the heat of those near forgotten dream Summers of my childhood.

As I went down the track that leads back down to the farmhouse the bushes to the sides were moving. Each twig and leaf it seemed was a perch for a smiling, bejewelled, yellow dragon and my passing put them to the air. Their glasslike wings whirred and clattered, maneuvering them to perceived safety on a branch perhaps a foot or so away from their first position. Benign to us but snatching death to their small insect prey, these grinning beauties are superb fliers, twisting, turning, banking and hovering with perfect precision. But even such mastery cannot always save them. The Hobbies that fly here hunt these hunters, grabbing them in swift talons and deftly removing their leaded glass wings before offering them up to the sharp and decisive beak to be devoured in flight with barely an interruption. The yellow dragons (Common Darters) are the most numerous dragonflies on the reserve but there are others there too. Azure damselflies with their needle thin bodies glowing in blue as bright as Chinese turquoise, and delicate, irridescent, green/blue Banded Demoiselles with their distinctive black wingspots always seeking the bottle green and spotless females. And the larger Black-Tailed skimmer, dusky blue and impressive but they are all dwarfed by the massive Migrant Hawker.

Common Darter

Azure Damselfly

Banded Demoiselle

Black-Tailed Skimmer

Migrant Hawker

The heat brought other creatures to the brambles, nettles and thistles; A huge hatch of meadow brown butterflies in even greater profusion than the dragonflies. Understated, velvet-winged and beautiful they adorned the undergrowth in their thousands. As I walked by they lifted and fluttered all around me and I was surrounded by a cloud of Summer with wings as soft as the whispers of fairy secrets. Moving on, the cloud of butterflies seemed to move along with me as some settled and others took their places in the dance. There is only one way to describe encounters like this; Pure Magic.

Meadow Browns

Enchanted by the meadow browns and heady with the Summer I sought out other butterflies and was rewarded with a glorious Small Tortoiseshell basking in the sun. His bright colours shone like sweets in a glass jar against the grey stone gravel of the path. A Large White was busy among the brambles and nettles by the path. As she fluttered from one bramble to another it was almost as if one of the pure white blooms of the bramble itself had taken to flight. And finally atop a giant thistle, a comma, ragged edged wings radiant in burnished copper, he drank nectar with his elegantly caligraphic tongue.

Small Tortoiseshell

Large White

Comma

The Hobbies never did show, but it didn't matter because, like the butterflies, I had tasted the sweet nectar of Summer and, anyway, I knew that they were out there somewhere in the vast open sky...Chasing dragons.

High Summer Hobby

BBC Wildlife Magazine Wildlife Artist of the year 2010

2010-06-07T03:45:00.000-07:00

I was very pleased to find out that my painting 'Too late!' had won the 'British Birds' category of the BBC Wildlife Magazine Wildlife Artist of the year competition 2010. It's a huge honour to have been judged the winner in this hard-fought category and I don't think I've stopped grinning since I heard.

The painting will be exhibited at Marwell later in the year along with the other category winners which include my friends, Tim Wootton for the 'World Birds' category and Nick Derry for the 'Visions of Nature' category. Congratulations to the both of them.

By way of a change-Some paintings

2010-05-12T03:12:00.000-07:00

I thought it was about time that I posted a few paintings here so that everyone can see that I have actually been doing some work.

First up is the most recent piece; 'New neighbours'. Inspired by the return of the yellow wagtails over the last few weeks it shows a resting hare with a somewhat disdainful look as he watches the new neighbour busily searching for insects among the vivid green grass of late spring.

New Neighbours

I have been experimenting with water lately and the next piece, 'Liquid sky', is part of that exploration. It shows a black headed gull floating on some of the bluest water I've ever seen. Water is a reflective surface and on days of bright sunshine and clear skies the intense blue of the sky is mirrored on the open water. This painting is mainly about the patterns that appear as the water ripples and breaks the reflection into fleeting shapes.

Liquid sky

Just as the water reflects the blue of a clear sky it also echoes the grey of cloud cover and this effect can be seen in the next painting, 'Two islands' The wind breaks the reflection into fragments as it ruffles the surface in a completely different way to the last picture. The two tatty little islands appealed to me in some way that I can't really explain and I added the mallard pair sheltering from the wind as interest to others.

Two islands

'Otter House' was a commissioned piece and it shows an otter as she pauses at the end of a garden that backs onto a river. One day I hope to own a property like that! The reflections in this painting are of the opposite bank and are consequently green.

Otter House

Nature provides a myriad of moods. Resting birds seem to embody calm and when water is involved the scene can take on a quietness that we can all relate to and need to experience for ourselves from time to time if only to escape from the babble of modern living. This stillness is the effect I tried to achieve with the next painting 'Still snipe'.

Still snipe

Similarly it is not difficult for us to identify when normally busy birds like the ringed plover in the painting 'A short pause' decide to stop for a while and enjoy the feel of the warm sun on their backs.

A short pause

Other birds will continue on as always, even in the heat of the summer sun. The air shimmers and insects flicker over the dried mudpile that this stonechat uses as a perch completing the 'Sun, mud and stone' of the title. Again, this is an impressionistic painting done to try capturing the feel of the scene as experienced and an exploration of the effects of light.

Sun, mud, stone

Another recent painting inspired by one of my trips to the Elmley reserve is 'The potterer'. Redshank are all staccato movement, short, sharp and very 'birdlike'. In spring they can be seen twitching around in the puddles of flooded fields left by heavy, late winter rains. Tips of grass and dock poke through the puddles in a random array echoing the bird's movement and the bottom of the puddle can be seen through the shallow water.

The potterer

More puddles in the painting 'Proceed with caution'. Like a military patrol this group of four red legged partridges steps carefully and keeps a wary eye open for ambush as they proceed along a muddy track. Perhaps they were previously on the receiving end of the shot from the cartridge discarded in the grass.

Proceed with caution

Finally a more dramatic painting; 'Too late'. I'm lucky enough to encounter wild peregrines fairly regularly and have seen them diving into flocks of lapwing hoping to cause panic and strike the unwary. This lapwing has not been paying attention and it's now too late.

I'm pleased to say that this painting has recently been shortlisted to the final round of judging for the BBC wildlife artist of the year competition. This is the second year that I have had work accepted for this competition and it's an achievement that I am very proud of.

Too late!

An hour in a ditch

2010-05-06T07:06:00.000-07:00

The African safari experience is something I've never had. Quite apart from the fact that I couldn't even begin to afford it, I've always thought that there is an artificiality about game reserves where, once an animal is reported, a dozen vehicles packed with tourists sporting long lenses attached to the latest digital cameras turn up and surround it.

I prefer my wildlife encounters a bit more on the 'raw' side and the humble countryside surrounding my home can provide plenty of that. It's a darn sight cheaper than Africa too!

As part of the drive out to the Elmley reserve I use a road that passes along the edge of the Medway Estuary, mud flats and marsh to one side of the road and livery stables, orchards and fields on the other. I have often caught glimpses of barn owls hunting by the sides of this road. A couple of weeks ago, as I drove along my usual route, I saw the ghostly shape of a barn owl softly sliding along about six feet off the ground with the intense stare down into the grass that only comes when an owl is hunting. He passed by the car and switched direction to glide across the rough grass of the fallow field beyond the row of leafless polplars that act as a windbreak to the winds that sweep in off the estuary. I stopped the car in the next layby and quickly clambered out hoping to find a viewpoint between the trees where I could watch him quartering the field.

The wind was dragging the temperatures all the way back to November and the grey clouds darkened the sky, stopping the sun greeting the day with any touch of a warm spring welcome. I was well prepared though in layers of clothing culminating in an outer shell of army surplus camoflage. Even so the tips of my fingers instantly felt the temperature's bite and the cheeks of my exposed face became unresponsive and numb, something like the hours after a dental operation.

Just behind the line of poplars runs a ditch, it's not a wildlife filled streamlet with frogs and newts hiding amongst the lush green of well established water plants. At least not yet. Perhaps one day it may become so, but for now it is a recently dug, grey/brown gash in the ground with a foot or so of muddy, stinking water lurking unpleasantly in the bottom. It has a small bank beyond, where the detritus from the ditch has been unceremoniously dumped. I crouched and pushed my way through the poplars before kneeling down at the edge of the ditch where I had a view over the two adjacent fields only slightly obscured by the twigs of the trees to either side of me.

I could see the owl quartering the back of the field so I ignored the stinging of the nettles that I'd knelt on and the scratching of the thistle that had found its way between my calf and thigh. I trained my binoculars on the distant bird, clear against the slowly lightening, purple sky. His soft, rounded wings scooped up great gulps of the cold morning air and he floated on them like a giant moth. I watched and stayed stock still, kneeling in the mud and caring not one bit for the state of my trousers and boots. The owl had turned again and was working his way along the line of trees toward my hiding place. As he approached his features became clearer in the gloom and my heart beat faster until he passed within a metre or so taking my breath away with him. He followed the tree line again and vanished from view but I had a hunch that he would be back and five minutes later my hunch was proven correct when he reappeared at the top end of the field, once more along the treeline. I stayed in the ditch for just about an hour, my legs cramped and my face and knees froze. The stinging nettles continued to irritate but I knew that to move would be to risk breaking the spell and losing the moment. So there I stayed.

After a magic filled hour the owl dived down into the grass, swinging his legs forward at the last moment and he reappeared with prey in his talons. He made off in the direction of a group of farm buildings where I suspect he is nesting and at that point my knees could take no more and I decided that as my owl had finally been rewarded for all his efforts and the sky was at last light it was time for me to move on.

It's not glamorous or comfortable kneeling in a vile smelling ditch but the reward for me was an hour spent with a wild creature as he went about the everyday business of survival. I don't think that I would swap that glorious hour spent in the ditch for a moment of 'safari'. Time spent that way is far too precious.

Smoke after fire

2010-02-18T05:26:00.000-08:00

Rising before dawn is easier in the winter, especially so as the promise of Spring becomes clearer. Around 7.15 the sun began to flare below the lowest clouds, a line of fire in the dark. Quickly it rose into a gap between the land and cloud, creating a sky full of orange flame which reflected in the water and ice on the flooded fields and showed as streams of molten red gold against the dark of grass and mud. Abstract art of the highest order created by nature with a palette of earth, air, fire and water.

But the effect was fleeting, as the sun rose higher it vanished behind the low cloud and left behind a landscape of greys and blues where the temperature hovered just above freezing and mists arose out of the marsh like the smoke after the fire of the sky. The land stood in a quiet, cold, stillness, roofed with the open space of a seemingly featureless sky sprinkled with flocks of lapwing, teal, wigeon, starling, godwit and golden plover, accompanied by the solemn call of curlews. The landscape felt timeless, much as it must have felt for Dickens as he described the same mist-laden, bleak marshland in Great Expectations. It was easy to imagine the lonely figure of Magwitch making his skulking escape from the prison hulk and his encounter with Pip in the churchyard.

Frost and ice still clung to the frozen earth dredged from the scrapes in the late summer. But the birds and animals know that Spring is on the way. Hares are 'mate guarding', the males shadowing the females tenaciously. Soon the real boxing of mad March will start as the females turn on their suitors to remind them that it is they who will choose when the time is right and not the over excitable males. A corn bunting sang his jangling song from a frosty mud perch, his soft browns and creams blending perfectly with the dry and broken reeds and their chaotic, upended roots. The winter congregations of coots are starting to break up with the posturing of the males as they chase each other over the surface of the water leaving momentary trails of splashed footprints in their wake.

On the walk to the hides a ghost appeared from the mists to take my breath away. A late hunting barn owl flew directly toward me until I was spotted and she swerved away to vanish below the level of the reeds. I was left with a memory and some perfect examples of why I'm not a photographer!

On the scrape a flat, grey sky was mirrored in the flat, grey water, the expanse only broken by the strip of soft russets, ochres and browns separating the two. The stillness of the water allowed for some delicate reflections of the near drowned islands, their crowns of dead sorrel and dock made a tracery worthy of the finest lace. Wigeon, teal and shoveller snoozed with their beaks tucked warmly away beneath their wings as the temperature dropped with the mist, but at least this week the water was largely unfrozen. Last week a pair of foxes were taking advantage of the ice to allow them access to areas which are usually denied them by the water. They chased one another around, racing over the frozen ground and slipping on the frozen water much the bemusement of the wary sheep.

On the walk back to the car the temperature seemed to drop even further and the mist softened the horizon and helped to create an air of mystery around the lonely agricultural building that sits isolated on the marsh.

Brent geese had gathered to feed, fattening up for the journey they will soon make to the North and East and their breeding grounds on the arctic tundra of Siberia. This unassuming little goose, about the size of a mallard, makes the incredible journey every year to breed further North than any other goose in the world. They travel at night in family groups, flying in the classic 'V' formation.

A group of four black-tailed godwits were feeding by the road and they kept a wary eye on the car as it passed by. The smooth, smokey grey plumage they sport now will soon be replaced by burnt oranges and russets of their breeding plumage which couldn't be any more different, but for now the more subtle colouring seems to suit the mood of the marshes.

The long walk with no badgers

2009-11-24T01:42:00.000-08:00

In previous years at the farm I have encountered foxes on a regular basis. Although there were hunts in the area, this farm had never had them on their land and consequently has a thriving fox population. My first fox of this year was spotted out across the paddock at the back of the cottage. From the shape of the face it looked to me like a male. I watched him as he pounced the classic springing pounce onto some small prey item, perhaps a beetle as he came up chewing on something. As his head came up from the dew soaked grass he obviously spotted me too. He froze and we stared at each other until I got my sketchbook out and he faded back into the wheat crop.

I followed him along the track past the ice house and a brown streak, all legs and ears, shot off in front of me. I've seen hares on the farm before but always away off at the far ends, never this close to the cottages. I hope that it's an indication that they're doing well and expanding into previously unoccupied habitat.

Once again there were deer prints in the sand of the track and, although there were no deer to be seen, they could well have been watching me from the safety of the shadows and the undergrowth of the old orchard. Also on the track were a large number of large, fat, juicy looking, black slugs going slowly about their sluggy business, no doubt enjoying the dampness of the early morning.

Since the little owl tree was once again empty, I made my way to the horse paddocks. Sure enough, as hoped for, way off beyond the dove cote the unmistakable, moon white wings of a barn owl flashed. I adjusted my position for a better view and focused the binoculars quickly on the soft round form. She was very active, moving quickly from post to post, concentrating intently on the grass with the single mindedness of an owl that needs a catch. She hovered briefly and dived, her sharp talons followed her sharp eyes and ears and her legs swung forward at the last moment into position for the deadly strike. Up she came, almost immediately, and flew off in the direction of the road. As she passed by me I could see that she was carrying a plump looking vole. Since she had winged away so quickly and made no attempt to eat her prize I surmised that she must have had a chick or chicks in the nest and a vole of that size would have made an ideal last meal of the morning for them.

Still breathless from the owl sighting I saw an arc of electric blue flash past around the stag oak towards the pond and the dragon log. I chased after. I made a careful approach, using long grasses as cover, and saw that the log was occupied by a wonderful adult male kingfisher. I fixed him in the scope and began to sketch. As I watched, my entire field of vision in the scope went dark and I looked up to see a horse casually feeding right between me and the bird. By the time he moved the kingfisher had disappeared. Such are the frustrations of sketching wild birds!

With the kingfisher and the barn owl gone I decided that I'd make the long walk down into Manor Wood to make a visit to the badger sett and look for signs that it was still inhabited. It's a long walk and I stopped on the path to rest and take a drink. As I stood quietly I saw movement to my right and I wondered if I might be lucky and see a badger out foraging later than usual. It's difficult to stay still and calm when there's a possibility of a close encounter with a badger and I felt sure that whatever was moving in the undergrowth would be able to hear my heart thumping in my chest with excitement. The quiet rustling in the grass moved closer and a head appeared cautiously from the leaves. A female roe deer daintily moved past me, not a badger but just as exciting. It's a mystery why this little bundle of nerves didn't see me but she continued on and tip-toed past without even glancing in my direction until she disappeared back into the brambles two or three yards further on. I stayed stock still and watched, occasionally catching a glimpse of chestnut fur through the leaves. The little deer moved another ten yards or so before turning onto the path to cross into the trees. Once onto the path she stopped to look in my direction, she looked, sniffed and her ears swiveled forwards and back and I stood statue still until she slowly moved off into the wood, apparently unperturbed.

I was finally able to relax and finish my drink and I continued on, round the path, past the badger sett and into the place that I call 'badger dell'. It's a magical place formed by a dip in the gentle slope of a hill. At the bottom of the dell there is a tiny stream, heavily overgrown and, in drought years, virtually dry, and, in the centre, a fallen log covered in luxuriant moss makes a perfect seat from which to enjoy the silence. Directly in front of the mossy seat is an old oak tree that treecreepers love and I made a mental note to return and draw it's cracked and fissured trunk.

The long walk around the outside of the farm takes me along field edges and hedgerows and there are often cattle grazing the fields and meadows. A group of young males were curious about me and they approached the fence cautiously to stand in a huffing, steaming gang by the wire and there they stared at me and I at them. There was no menace to them, just pure curiosity. I like cows so I took their group portrait for posterity.

My boots were soaked with dew and I was ready for a mug of tea and a slice or two of hot buttered toast by the time I got back to the ponds. The heron was fishing, the swallows were gathering above the wheatfield and the sun was starting to show some promise of the heat that we had for the rest of the day. I'd not seen any badgers but a walk is never wasted and I reckoned that, with all the other wildlife I'd seen, the badgers could wait.

Kestrels and memories

2009-10-09T04:12:00.000-07:00

Sometime in the night the sky clouded over and the rain fell steady but light until the morning when I woke at around 4.30. In early August the sky is just beginning to lighten at that time so I opened the top half of the stable door and watched as the pipistrelles flitted and flittered above the walled garden. The remnants of the night's cloud still hung in a soft grey blanket but there was no rain so I set off for a long patrol around the perimeter of the farm.

I was first stopped in my tracks by the sight of a muntjack deer as it dissolved into the trees at the top of the cedar tree field. It was a nice start as deer can be cautious creatures and difficult to spot, although last year I spoke to a horserider who regularly uses the bridleways on the farm who said that deer are relatively easy to see from horseback. Perhaps these nervous herbivores don't associate the horses with danger and don't recognise the riders as human. I moved to the area where I had seen the deer and picked up its tracks in the damp, sandy soil. They were clear and crisp edged which attested to their freshness but the animal itself was long gone.

I moved on to the little owl tree and scanned it's gnarled branches for a sign of the owls without success. I watched the tree for some while as the sun began to remove some of the cloud but still the owls remained absent. I found out later in coversation with one of the local fishermen that earlier in the season the tree had been occupied by a pair of Egyptian geese who had bred there and obviously kept out the much smaller little owls. The geese failed to raise their brood as they were picked off one by one by one of the farm's foxes with cubs to raise.

With no owls to watch or sketch I carried on to the kingfisher pond and saw the young heron take off as I arrived. He circled, calling for 'Frank' all the way before settling into a tree some distance off. Watching herons perched in trees is oddly off kilter with the more usual views of them stealthily stalking the shallows, stabbing at the water with their stilletto beaks. Actually, despite the gangly legs and the size, herons are quite at home in the branches and nest in treetop colonies known as heronries. Close to my home in Kent, on an RSPB reserve, is one of the largest heronries in the UK and it's always worth a visit in the spring.

Above the paddocks a kestrel was hovering, her head perfectly still and her position fixed in spite of the breeze. Kestrels are probably the bird most responsible for my fascination with and love for nature and they are a favourite of mine. I was lucky enough to be brought up in a place which backed onto classic Kent chalk downland and I would spend many happy hours there after school, at weekends and during the summer holidays. In times when children were granted much more freedom that they are now I was free to roam and explore all day and I remember long, hot summers there discovering and watching all manner of creatures. Lizards and slow worms were really common and I took great delight in capturing and handling them. I remember on one occassion I took home a slow worm and put him in a dresser drawer, naively believing that he would simply stay there, covered in a handful of grass, overnight. I was woken the next morning by my Mother's cry of 'Snake! Snake! There's a snake in the bedroom!'. I watched as she fled down the hallway in her slippers and nightie, clutching her dressing gown. I knew immediately what had happened and hurried to rescue my slow worm and reassure my Mum that he wasn't a snake and that she was in no danger from this charming and harmless little legless lizard. To this day I'm not sure if she was grateful to me for rescuing her or mad at me for bringing the hapless creature home in the first place. After that she bought me a small vivarium and various lizards and slow worms lived there for short spells before being returned to where they came from and the tank was turned into a home for a pair of smooth newts. I never did bring home any snakes...

One of my greatest pleasures in those days, other than reptile wrangling, was lying on my back in the grass on one of the steeper slopes from where I could watch the kestrels hunting. I was fascinated with them, particularly that hover, and I would watch them for hours. I remember trying to draw them even way back then. The kestrel hunting over the paddocks dived and came up from the grass clutching something in her hunter's talons. She immediately flew off in the direction of the trees where I had heard young kestrels calling the day before and, since there was no sign of kingfishers on the pond or barn owls in the paddocks, I set off after her. I heard the young kestrels long before I spotted them, they were obviously just recently fledged and still fairly dependent on their parents for food. I tracked them down and found three youngsters in and around one of the oaks that stood isolated in fields bursting with soon to be harvested barley. I settled down to watch and sketch them as they tested their wings in halting and uncertain flight against a sky where, slowly, the patches of blue began to win the battle with the night's cloud. With my back against a tree I rested and soaked up the sun as it rose higher into the new blue. When the sun was high enough and hot enough I could hear the heads of barley cracking in the heat and I could tell that it was the start of a dry summer's day just like those kestrel watching days of my childhood.

I confess that I snoozed there against that tree before returning to the cottage for breakfast.

Tea, cake and a heron.

2009-09-10T05:09:00.000-07:00

On the Friday morning I sat and watched the sky whilst the sun struggled to break through. The early birds were moving against pearl grey skies streaked with white. Wood pigeons reminded me of businessmen hurrying to their breakfast meetings together with their grey clad colleagues. Occasionally collared doves would join them, like beige trouser suited businesswomen would join their male counterparts. It all served to remind me that I was bound for Norfolk and a week on the farm that I love and thoughts of grey suited commuters with their grey exsistances could be left behind for a blissful while.

The journey was a drag but somehow that doesn't matter when you know what's waiting at the end of it. The cottage was as I remembered it and a welcoming cup of tea and slice of cake awaited us as always. Once settled there was time for a quick stroll around to see what there was to be seen. Stark against a now bright sky the upper branches of a leafless and dying oak made perfect perches for a group of fifteen or so mistle thrushes. Although these birds stay with us all year round I tend to think of them as one of the winter thrushes; Not a good omen! Just the day before we left to come on holiday the Met Office revised their forecast for the main part of the summer. The experts backtracked on their assertion that August would see a 'barbeque summer' and, instead, their new promise was for cooler temperatures and periods of wind and rain. A typical British summer then! It crossed my mind that we may have a repeat of the summer of 2007 when the weather was awful for the entire week.

I walked on down to the fishing pond and beyond to the kingfisher pond. As I approached I saw a young heron on the kingfisher perch that I know as the dragon log because of its strong resemblance to a sea monster rearing its head from the water. The water levels seemed low and I imagined that the long, dry spells we'd enjoyed through June and July must have left this legacy.

I sketched the heron onto the first page of my brand new sketchbook and moved on briefly to the paddocks and the fields opposite where the swallows swooped low over the golden, ripe barley crop. There was no sign of any little owls in their usual tree but in the woodland nearby I heard the cries of young kestrels and watched as a female flew directly overhead and into the canopy, clutching some small food item. I made a mental note to return and see if I could identify a nest site. So, as the sky turned to gold and the tops of the barley whispered with light, I returned to the cottage to enjoy a good meal and the first of the week's many welcome glasses of wine, content that all seemed as it should be and that, in the morning, the week proper could begin.

Little owls and little surprises

2009-06-23T04:48:00.000-07:00

Visiting the same place over and over it's possible to get a feel for what will be where. I know, for example, that, at this time of year, the scrapes will be full of avocets and the marshes will be full of yellow wagtails, skylarks and meadow pipits. But it's the little surprises that always give the biggest thrills and make the early weekend starts worth the effort. This week I rose especially early to take advantage of the longer hours of daylight and made my way out to Elmley.

The second tree behind the farmhouse hosts a pair of little owls and I planned to get straight out of the car and head for the viewing platform to scan the oak for them. However, as I pulled into the car park I caught sight of one of the pair sitting on the barn porch, obviously hunting the paddock. It looked over at me as I pulled up with a good angle of view, it was very squiffy parking but, hey, it was early and there was a little owl sitting in the open.

Although it was obviously aware of me it soon settled back to its scrutiny of the grass, carefully watching for a juicy worm or a soft centred beetle. Many people think that little owls would turn their noses up at invertebrates but, in fact, worms and beetles make up the majority of a little owl's diet and they take small mammals less frequently. A little owl pellet can often be identified by the presence of shiny, black beetle wing cases. I watched as the little owl bobbed its head and adjusted its position until, after fifteen minutes or so, it pounced on something and flew off around the barn. I reparked the car and began to pack my gear, quite happy with the sketches I'd made. As I put the sketchbook away the owl returned and perched on one of the buttresses supporting the three sided barn that forms one side of the paddock. It had placed itself perfectly for a painting which immediately formed in my mind. I restarted the car and repositioned again for the best view and started back in with the sketchbook.

As I watched the owl was 'buzzed' several times by the swallows that currently have at least four chicks in the nest in the ladies toilets. The owl, however, seemed totally unfazed and continued its watching. The swallows can't have felt too threatened either as they soon gave up and went off in search of flying insects to feed their own young. I spent another twenty minutes or so just watching, sketching and photographing the owl.

At one point the silence was broken by a loud squealing from behind the car. I turned and was rewarded with the sight of a stoat determinedly pursuing a rabbit kitten. The rabbit jinked and leapt but the sinuous streak that was the stoat stuck to its tail with deadly purpose. The participants in this life and death tag race disappeared into the undergrowth and witnessing the outcome of this everyday drama was denied me. I've seen stoats many times and I've seen them with dead rabbits too, I've even 'squeaked up' a stoat or two in the past but I've never before seen a chase like that one. I feel privileged to have been witness to such a great little surprise.

I stayed with the little owl until it finally flew off and I got ready to walk to the hides. My path took me past the farmhouse and, as I emerged on the other side of the building, I saw a little owl fly up onto a fencepost whilst making a racket, calling loudly. Other birds shouted alarm and mistrust at the owl as it continued to call and bob its head like a demented Jack-in-the-box on its spring. I got the owl in my binoculars and noticed that this one wore a ring on its leg, unlike the owl I'd been watching in the paddock. I wondered what all the noise was for and I scanned the area for a cause but it wasn't until I got the bins back on the owl that I realised what I had missed at the first sighting. Two or three feet beneath the adult was a fledgeling, clinging precariously to the side of the post. I took one or two quick photos and, even though the adult had settled, I moved away quickly so as not to risk stressing the owls. I wondered if the owlet was out of the nest for the first time. Sunday was Father's day so I like to think it was the male that was keeping an intense yellow eye on his offspring.

The walk out to the scrape was accompanied by the sedge warblers singing their ratchety, scratchety song from the reeds whilst the skylarks sang sweet summer from skyperches overhead. As expected the scrape was full of avocets. Some are still sitting on eggs and young and others are still mating and squabbling. Running the gauntlet of the crotchety avocets were a couple of pairs of ringed plovers. They are charismatic little birds and one or two went into the sketchbook. But mostly I just enjoyed being out and watching the comings and goings of daily life on the scrape.

The sun had come out and the skies cleared by the time I made my way back to the car. The blue sky was criss-crossed with the vapour trails of aircraft and, with the skylarks singing and butterflies flying, I wondered if this was what it was like in Kent during July of 1940, skylarks and spitfires, now there's a thought for a painting in the future.

I checked the oaks one last time for the little owl family and, sure enough, both adults were in sight. The sketchbook had to come out again, I love little owls.

Ancient tracks and bluebells

2009-05-08T07:02:00.000-07:00

There really is nothing that can compare to an English wood at bluebell time and I rose before dawn to arrive at the wood early and wander amongst, and marvel at, the beauty.

The sun splashed through the lime green canopy of new growth and the sweet scent of the flowers was complimented by the subtle aroma of damp earth rising up, carried on delicate tendrils of mist. A dazzling carpet of intense purple-blue accented by the dappled light drew the eye and there was birdsong everywhere to delight my ear. Blackcap, wren, robin, dunnock, wood warbler, chiff-chaff, blue tit, great tit, long tailed tit, all chattered away constantly, and then I heard it, the loud, liquid, exuberance of perhaps the greatest of spring songsters and certainly one of the most romantic; The nightingale. It is almost impossible not to stop and listen to that song and, when it finishes, it's as though the whole wood bursts into silence, despite the exquisite efforts of all the others.

As I wandered the ancient drove track I could sense the thousands of footsteps trod here over the ages and I knew that all those who had walked here in past springs, and all those who were yet to walk here, had and would share the same sense of joy and contentment that I was feeling.
It's an all encompassing experience that simply cannot be captured with images or words and has to be experienced first hand.

The foliage tends to hide the birds in spring woodland and most are only glimpsed briefly as they flit from tree to tree and bush to bush. Sketching them is challenging to say the least and, since I was feeling so relaxed, I decided not to even try and I sat in the soft, damp loam at the base of a giant beech and drew the butresses of his brother across the path instead. There are paths here in this part of the wood, tracks trodden by generations of badgers from the sett at the top of the hill, they trundle along them every night in search of worms and other tasty morsels.

I returned home content that I had caught the bluebells at their peak, by next weekend they will be beginning a noticable decline as the thousands of delicate blooms begin to give way to the dry seed heads and I will have to wait a full year before I can drink in the unique experience again.

Easter eggs and remarkable birds

2009-04-05T13:03:00.000-07:00

As Spring advances the scrapes at Elmley become dominated by avocets. They are beautifully elegant birds, black and white, finished with long legs of pale grey blue. They look as though they were designed sometime in the thirties at the height of the Art Deco era. Under that chic exterior though lies a vicious streak, a warrior spirit. During the breeding season avocets will defend their nests and chicks vigorously against all comers, predator or otherwise, real threat or imagined. Last year I watched avocets relentlessly chasing shelduck chicks and their parents all over the scrape as well as watching hastily scrambled squadrons take to the air to ward off the menace of a passing heron or marsh harrier. This Easter the first avocets have begun to settle on nests and the first eggs have been laid, real Easter eggs, a success story. Avocets were extinct in Britain by the 1840s due to marsh drainage, shooting, egg collecting and other pressures but largely because of conservation efforts by the RSPB, (and the reflooding of coastal marsh as a defence against threatened German invasion), by the late 1940s they had begun a return as breeding birds. There are currently estimated to be somewhere in the region of 900 breeding pairs.*

Remarkable birds come in all shapes and sizes, the bee hummingbird for example is remarkable for being the smallest living bird (the clue is in the name). Or the lyrebird, remarkable not only for its extraordinary plumage for which it is named, but also as an amazing mimic, a quick search on Youtube will prove just how remarkable. Not to mention the remarkable plumages of the birds of paradise or the intelligence of the crows that have learned how to use traffic to crack nuts for them in Japan. All remarkable by any standards.

This weekend I have seen my own remarkable birds. The first is a small brown bird whose song is loud and distinctive but not remarkably sweet or unusual. A common bird that can be seen in just about any reedbed in the UK; The Sedge Warbler.

The second is, again, small and common. Its feathers are a mix of dull olive green and a bright, intense yellow, pretty but not remarkable for that in itself; The Yellow Wagtail.

Third is another common bird, this time a deep, dark blue black with a contrasting belly and flanks of warm cream and a throat and face of deep red. That sounds remarkable for colour and it is indeed a beautiful bird but from a distance it appears black and white; The Swallow.

These birds are not remarkable for their rarity or their plumage or their song but they are remarkable to me for two reasons. Firstly they were my first sightings of the species for the year
but, more importantly, they are remarkable for the journey they have just made. They have all returned to the UK to breed having spent the winter in Africa. A journey of hundreds of miles, utterly fraught with dangers of all kinds, predators, the weather, fickle winds and countless others. Yet, every year, they return. The swallows that I watched on Saturday could very easily have been the same birds that I watched in the same place last year, or perhaps the young from the nests that have remained solidly glued to the walls of the farm building. And, remarkably, after a summer working hard to raise a brood of youngsters, they will make the arduous journey once again and return to Africa for another winter until, if they survive, they and their young, return again next spring. It is astounding to think of these small and vulnerable birds making such a trek and it makes them remarkable indeed.

Finally a common bird and this time a resident; The Siskin. Remarkable to me only because I noticed them in my garden as I worked on a painting in my studio. To the best of my knowledge this was the first time I had ever seen this bird, it was a 'lifer' and there it was feeding on my new nijer seed feeder. There is always something new to surprise and delight in nature, even in your own garden.

The first Sedge Warbler of the year.

The first Yellow Wagtail of the year.

The first swallow of the year.

Avocets with easter eggs.

A pair of Siskin in the garden.

*It is an offence to disturb nesting avocets either at or near the nest and it is important to note that my sketches and photographs were made from a public viewing hide and there was no disturbance to the birds whatsoever.

Ghosts

2009-03-16T02:26:00.000-07:00

By the road, atop a weather worn post sat a phantom, a pale ghost visible in the light of dawn. Barn owls send chills down the spine and astonish with their beauty. With the turn of the season the day starts earlier, the sun rises sooner and clearer skies allow light to encroach on their hunting time making conditions ideal for watching these silent spirits. He left his perch and cut across the road behind the car, soon vanishing from sight only to reappear in a field ahead, or was this a second owl, a pair checking the usefulness of the territory around them for the upcoming raising of young?

A merlin showed briefly and thrillingly, and the sun filled the sky with the promise of good weather for the day. The wind has had its teeth filed by spring now and it has lost its bite, its cutting edge blunted so that it no longer slices through layers of clothes to cut at the flesh and bone beneath. It is still cold but it is not the killing cold of winter now, most birds seem to be strong and ready to take up the challenge of breeding, on the scrapes ringed plovers are mating and there's promise of new life everywhere. But not all can survive, there have been casualties along the way. A lifeless bundle of white sat on the mud, the wind ruffled through feathers no longer held close to ward off the chill. Around the corpse ran ringed plovers, at times one of them would stop and regard the dead black headed gull with what looked like curiosity but it would soon move on to continue the urgent business of feeding. When the plovers settled it was at a distance from the body, as if they were worried to be too close to the dead.

Caught in the grass like gossamer ghosts was an ill defined circle of feathers, a wigeon had met its end here. The feathers had been plucked, not bitten, so I suspect the duck had fallen to a bird of prey, perhaps one of the peregrines or a sparrowhawk. The delicate filaments fluttered and some few broke free of the grass to scatter on the water of a nearby dyke where they floated like little fairy boats, tiny echoes of the the bird which once wore them.

It starts with a trickle

2009-02-17T04:48:00.000-08:00

Winter has been reluctant to give up it’s grip this year. We’ve had winds from Siberia bringing enough snow and ice to shut schools and give a bonus day or two away from work for some. Children made snowmen and improvised sledges to speed down any available slope. I walked in the heaviest snow taking a childish delight in being the first to break the smooth white coating. My daughter came with me, released from school for the day, out of the confining classroom to experience the pure joy of a very close encounter with a robin that came within a few feet hoping for a morsel or two. Like a living Christmas card he sat on the snow laden branches and cocked his head to examine her with glittering, bright, black eyes full of charm.

For weeks the cold has made the countryside retreat into itself and huddle in an expectant hush. But now, at last, there are signs that the season of new life is on its way, I haven’t seen a fieldfare or redwing in the last two weeks and the wigeon are gathering in huge flocks on the Swale. Throughout the winter these birds are evident all over the marshes and estuary, their soft, insistent whistles ambient music to accompany every walk. But most wigeon voices in the South of England have Icelandic or Norwegian accents and, come the spring, they will return North to breed and their constant soundtrack will be replaced by the skylarks’ sweeter song. This week I have heard that song and seen a single lark hanging high in the sky, a tentative beginning.

A day spent in the studio this weekend was graced with sunshine that quickly melted the thick overnight frost into droplets and shone through them, creating strings of glistening diamonds that fell from the branches to disappear for ever at the slightest touch of bird or errant, still cold, wind. I haven’t seen a single blue tit in the garden of late, they have been in twos and, I have seen them checking the new nestbox outside the studio window, exploring the possibilities for the coming weeks. Male brown hares are already following the females around the Elmley reserve and soon the boxing will start and I can enjoy the frenetic activity of the mad march hares. In the early morning, just before the dark begins to melt away, blackbirds and song thrushes are singing along with the robins and wrens. On the marsh the oystercatchers are beginning their crazy shouting matches, like bad tempered children on a playground they square up and hurl insults at the top of their voices, egging each other on but reluctant to resort to any real violence.

The signs are subtle, but they’re there, it begins with a trickle and slowly turns into a brook, a stream, a river, and finally a torrent. The season is turning.

An unexpected drama

2009-01-25T11:09:00.000-08:00

The week had been a mixture of temperature and weather, one day bright and cold the next warmer and softer, but always dry. The forecast gave rain for one day; Sunday. And, for once, the forecast proved correct, we had steady rain overnight and in the morning I woke to the sound of tyres hissing on tarmac.

I didn't hold out much hope for the trip to Elmley so I wasn't disappointed that there was no sign of the barn owl, the road was flooded, the fields were flooded, the barn owl's world had changed, disappeared beneath sheets of gun metal water, as impenetrable to him as steel. Prolonged periods of heavy rain can be deadly to barn owls, their soft body feathers soak up moisture like a sponge once the rain penetrates the outer layers, and the resulting chill can kill. And the small rodents that barn owls depend upon can take shelter in their burrows and, if flooded, there they die thus removing much of the owl's diet.

Sitting in the car, listening to the rain as it was driven into the windscreen was uninspiring and the few birds that showed were looking dismal and drab in the grey so, before long, the decision was taken to cut the day's outing short and return home. But nature has a way of surprising you and often the unexpected saves the day.

Some birds benefit from the rain because it can encourage worms and other subterranian invertebrates closer to the surface and that makes them easier prey for probing beaks. The starling is one of the birds that takes advantage of this and huge flocks can sometimes be found in winter rain feeding in open grass areas. The whole flock can appear to undulate across the grass like gentle waves as one bird leapfrogs another to gain a position at the leading edge of the masses. There are advantages to gathering in such numbers, many pairs of eyes are on the lookout for potential danger and being one amongst many lowers the odds on being taken by a predator. Predators though have developed ways of combating the starling's tactics and large concentrations of prey can draw them in like a magnet.

As we drove slowly down the track off the reserve a drama unfolded which made the whole trip worthwhile for me. Seemingly from the very earth, hundreds of starlings rose into the rain streaked air and instantly formed into a giant liquid cloud of tightly packed birds moving as a single entity. The tight ball of birds twisted and shimmered as it smoothly turned like a smoke filled bubble. This meant only one thing; An aerial predator was on the wing and the flocking behavior of the starlings was an instinctual defense response. There, on the edge of the seething mass, a solitary shape dived and swooped at the flock and I knew I was watching a merlin making a determined effort to win her meal for the day. She slashed at the pack, probing the outer edges and the starlings tried desperately to maintain coherence in an attempt to dazzle and confound the marauding falcon. She was not to be so easily deterred and deftly she severed the flock into two unequal parts. The larger part broke off and headed away from the menace whilst she doggedly pursued the smaller and continued to slice it into ever smaller sections by rushing into the heart of the mass repeatedly. She eventually separated a group of only ten or so and locked on to one hapless individual. I saw the chase but not the kill as the desperate group plummeted earthwards with streamlined death at their heels.

The whole drama was over in scant minutes and scarcely five minutes later the starling flock resumed its feeding as if nothing had happened.

The day could not have given me a better end and I returned home still feeling elated at having witnessed a true spectacle in the rain. My current project was put on hold as I simply had to record the morning's drama.

Golden light and hidden treasures

2009-01-12T06:04:00.000-08:00

When I looked out this Sunday the sky was dominated by the fat, full moon. Not many stars were showing and the trees and bushes rattled and shook under the fingers of a striking wind. The grass was coated with icy frost and the last remains of snow clinging to frozen existence after a week without fresh reinforcements. The wind was biting and strong but, despite the effect it had of chilling me to the bone, I knew this was a 'warm' wind. The delicate forms of the ice crystals retreated under it's touch, melting away from sharp tracery to soft rounded near drips. The temperature showed as above freezing for the first time in what seemed like months and the wind carried the promise of clearing the marsh of otherwise stubborn and impenetrable mists. Leaves and debris hurried across the road ahead of the car joined by a mouse who looked somewhat overexcited by the turbulent air.

Out on the marsh the sky was lightening to purple, brilliant stripes of orange and magenta bordered a lighter area of greenish blue. The vapour trail of a jet made a single, discordant purple slash running counterpoint. Like a huge celestial painting, the whole glowed with internal fire and abstract energy.

I checked the box where the barn owl roosts and there, on a branch close to the entrance she sat. She tipped forward and hopped up into the box disappearing into relative comfort to snooze the day away while I began the cold walk out to the hides.

As I walked, the sun started to rise above the horizon, bringing golden light to set the tops of the reedbeds glowing and, as it rose further, it caught the ranks of dry, dead grass on the banks of the dykes. The wind rushed through and pushed at the stalks making them wave and shimmer in the sunlight like fur on the back of some giant, golden animal.

A peregrine passed overhead, setting to flight the mallard, wigeon and teal that rested on the open water between the slowly melting ice sheets that covered most of the pools and dykes. A look out over the scrape from the first hide showed no movement, the shallow water totally frozen over making it an unwelcoming proposition for waders and wildfowl. The prospect of watching a near empty and apparently lifeless frozen pond didn't really appeal so the longer walk out to a hide overlooking the Swale began.

Two shapes burst from the grass ahead, unseen until they took flight, two short eared owls floated out over the sea wall towards the river. Their camouflage was so so good that, had they sat tight, I would have passed by within feet of the hidden treasure and never known just how close I'd been. Further on, small groups of brent geese began moving and gathering together into a larger flock. A group of teal moved towards me in a loose formation that morphed seamlessly from one fluid shape to another. As they passed close by I heard the sound of the wind whishing and sooshing through their wings like the surf on a sloping beach of fine sand.

From the hide overlooking the Swale I could see huge numbers of waders and waterfowl feeding out on the mud before the advancing tide and bobbing around madly on the grey, cold water. There were dunlin, curlew, redshank, lapwings, black headed gulls, lesser and greater black backed gulls, common gulls, mallard, wigeon, teal, pintail, shelduck, grey plover and ringed plover all milling around one another feeding in their own specialist ways. The wind tore in through the viewing slots, straight off the water, trying to rip the skin from my face and freezing my fingertips to numbness. After a relatively short stay I had to give in and retreat back outside where the seawall offered some protection and the activity of walking brought tingling, burning warmth to my face and hands.

Crows and gulls played the turbulent winds above the sea wall effortlessly gliding, twisting and turning. Back towards the car park a lone grey plover sat on the blue ice of a frozen scrape, it's head tucked into it's shoulders and one leg hidden amongst warm belly feathers. It seemed ready to sit out the worst of the wind and cold and even managed to seem calm and comfortable. I left him to it.

Once back home I thawed out with coffee and settled to the rest of the day in a warm studio. I have completed another painting from a sketch made on my holiday in the summer. With 'The woodpecker tree' I wanted to show the green woodpecker as part of his environment, blending with the rotten, lichen encrusted tree where he searches for the bugs and grubs that slowly eat away at the wood.

A Merry Christmas to all

2008-12-24T15:40:00.000-08:00

Just to wish everybody out there a Merry and Peaceful Christmas. I'll be chillin' with my family and, maybe, sneaking a trip or two out!

An owl made me do it

2008-12-08T13:53:00.000-08:00

The frost promised for last week finally put in an appearance this weekend. The skies were clear overnight with stars sprinkled like glitter over velvet. The ground and grass were crusted with white that sparkled in the moonlight and the roads were icy and uncertain. I wrapped up with two hats, cleared the windscreen and set off slowly and carefully.

As I got closer to the Isle of Sheppey the mist gathered in the valleys and hollows, separating the land into layers and flattening features to create a cardboard cutout landscape. A little owl replaced the barn owl, taking his spot on the fenceposts by the road. When I slowed down to take a look the car slipped slightly on the ice and I was reminded to take care. Little owls are lovely birds but if I'd pranged the car just for a view of one I don't think my dear wife would have appreciated the excuse, 'An owl made me do it'!

Mists covered the marsh but I could see the sky overhead and I knew that it wouldn't be too long before the blanket of white lifted and cleared. As the sun rose it worked its magic and transformed the marsh from grey to blue then to purple before burning it yellow, orange and peach for a short while. Whilst this went on the wigeon whistled, the plovers peewitted and the curlews cried. A reed bunting bustled through the reeds close to the car and meadow pipits leapfrogged down the track. Despite the cold, the low sun coloured the birds and reeds with a warm, buttery glow.

The barns around the car park were dripping with starlings, all chattering and chittering. It's a sound that always typifies winter to me. The path to the hide was littered with iced over puddles like pools of moonstone. The ice glittered, swirled and swooped in abstract patterns, portals to a world of beauty in a simple puddle. I recorded some with the camera and left them as I found them but I confess that I couldn't resist stepping on one or two just to enjoy that feeling of boyish joy that came when the ice squeaked and creaked, cracked and finally shattered beneath my destructive boot.

Short eared owls are often seen on Elmley in the winter and most of my encounters with them have been on days like Sunday, cold, clear and icy so I scanned the marsh for them, taking in the pastel landscape. The grass was peppermint green and the sky spearmint blue. Separating the two was a horizon of smoked lilac, all the deliciously sweet colours of sugared almonds. There were pheasants scattered here and there, highlights of burnished copper picked out by the sun.

A slow approach to the hide had revealed a large flock of lapwings resting on the islands in the scrape. I entered the hide as quietly as I could, knowing that one sound or movement too loud or sudden could send the whole flock into the air in a panic of black and white wings. Luckily the windows of the hide were crusted with ice and they disguised my entry as effectively as any bathroom window. I lifted a flap cautiously but, even so, some of the three hundred or so birds lifted to circle before settling themselves down among their fellows. There were no teal on the water at all in total contrast to last week. Indeed, the only other birds sharing the scrape were a small group of skylarks and an oystercatcher that was clearly unfamiliar with the saying, 'birds of a feather stick together. I enjoyed the company of the lapwings for a while, and sketched one or two before the time inevitably came for me to pack up and make my way home and I had to reluctantly make a start.

As part of the defences against the Swale, should she ever turn nasty and try to flood Elmley, an embankment runs around the outside edge of the path that circles the reserve. In one or two spots on the track it is possible to take a sneaky look at the mudflats without disturbing the birds that rest, roost and feed there. In one of those spots a wonderful sight awaited me; A short eared owl sat in the rough grass just on the Swale side of the embankment. All thought of Christmas shopping left me then as I set up my scope and began sketching. The opportunity to sketch an SEO on the ground was too good to miss. I love their catlike features and those eyes! Often as I watched she turned those eyes on me and stared a direct and piercing glare straight down the barrel of the scope as if to say; 'How dare you look upon my person Sir!' Although she kept a wary eye on me she seemed to be remarkably relaxed and she even closed her eyes and dozed intermittently. After a while I simply had to leave her to enjoy her nap in the sun. I was running a little late even before the owl but she had just delayed me to a dangerous degree. Nobody should mess with the schedule of a woman with Christmas shopping on her 'to do' list. When I got home with my tail between my legs I told her;

'An owl made me do it!'

A plan and a surprise

2008-12-06T00:03:00.000-08:00

Duties as the family taxi driver meant an opportunity to get out to Stodmarsh National Nature Reserve on Thursday of this week, a bonus trek for me not to be missed. There is a hide there which has a couple of sticks planted in the shallows right in front of it. The sticks are there to serve as fishing posts for the local kingfishers and they use them regularly. Consequently they have become possibly the most photographed sticks in the whole of the western hemisphere, along with the kingfishers that use them. I planned to add my own photos to the many and to get my eye back in sketching one of my favourite birds.

When I woke the weather was less than promising. Heavy rain and strong winds had settled in over night leaving me thinking that the whole day could turn into nothing more than a damp squib. Not one to be put off however, I made the journey anyway, battling winds strong enough to take the car in unwanted directions and rain driven into the windscreen so hard that the wipers struggled to keep up. When I did get to the reserve the rain had begun to ease a little but the wind remained violent. I waited quietly in the car until I thought I wouldn't drown if I ventured out, and I packed my gear in plastic for the walk to the hide. The wind was bitter and biting, it whipped across the rain soaked fields turning the raindrops into a million little needles that buried themselves into my face, not pleasant, and why does wind always have to blow directly into my face I wondered.

The hide was like a little luxury, somewhere out of the stinging rain. I peeled off some of the dripping outer layers and settled to watch the activity on the pool in front. There was a large flock of teal out on the choppy water, bobbing about like a flotilla of small boats riding out a storm in an uncertain harbour, and once in a while a lone gull would wing past pulled at by the wind. Gradually the rain lessened and the birds began to relax a little. Three redshanks appeared and began feeding over the far side, constantly moving, their long beaks probing the mud and their sharp rear ends in the air. The teal flock moved on and a little egret flew in, amazingly dazzlingly white against the grey water. He settled into the lee of some reeds and began to preen, keeping his crisp, bright whites clean despite living a life closely tied to sticky marsh mud. Egrets are recent arrivals to the UK first being seen regularly in 1989 and breeding here first in 1996. They are now relatively common in Southern Engald and are extending their range steadily northwards. I must admit that because I see them so regularly I often take them for granted but I really shouldn't. They are graceful little birds all floaty plumes and soft white feathers. When they lift their feet from the water they seem to be wearing bright cadmium yellow slippers at the end of long black limbs.

The sun miraculously appered and drenched the reserve in clear, cold, liquid gold light and the bird I'd waited for appeared in a flash of blue and orange low over the water. He perched in the sun on one of the famous sticks and posed for me a while. It was good to get my kingfisher fix and I feel another painting coming on.

After a whole morning of watching from the hide I decided that I should walk the reserve for a while before it was time to pick up my son from uni. The ground was so sticky and slippery that it felt like skiing most of the time. Each time I planted my feet they would slip backwards or sideways and I must have looked comical trying to stay upright with my arms and tripod flapping about like rags in a tree. The reward though was worth the effort. A startled flock of lapwing alerted me to a bird of prey and, as I focussedthe binoculars I recognised the ring of white at the base of the tail that signals a hen harrier. A scarce bird here with less than 800 breeding pairs their numbers are boosted slghtly during the winter by birds coming over from the continent. I see marsh harriers regularly but the thrill of a bird seen maybe twice in a year is hard to beat and I left the reserve a happy man.

Grey

2008-12-05T00:35:00.000-08:00

Grey. That just about sums up the last few days. Near constant rain, from drizzle to downpour the clouds have been abandoning their passengers over the South East corner of England. The damp seeps into your bones when weather like this settles in for an unwelcome stay. Sunday morning promised nothing more than more of the same, a continuing, moisture ridden theme. The dawn was grey, leaden skies heavy with the expectation of sudden downpours deadened the sunrise to a lighter patch of grey on the dark grey horizon. As the day lightened the consequences of three days continuous rain showed as pools of quicksilver against the dripping ground. The mournful cries of curlews haunted the marsh, here and there the harsh rasp of a hidden snipe and the hoarse quack of mallard, a slightly melancholy chorus with just the soft peep of meadow pipits to provide a counterpoint.

Perhaps because of the damp I felt colder this week than in last Sunday's icy snow and I couldn't seem to shake the chill from my body. That was quickly forgotten though when I heard a familiar cry above me; The kek-kek-kek of a peregrine, and there, grey on grey storm, the unmistakeable bow shaped sillhouette tore across the sky. He circled and was joined by a second bird, this time a larger female. Together they continued to play the wind with consumate ease until, at an unknown stimulus, they raced into the distance and the dance was over.
That encounter made me feel considerably brighter, a peregrine is a magnificent bird always guaranteed to send a tingle down the spine and bring excitement to the dullest of days. Already bouyed by the sighting, my spirits were further boosted by a passing barn owl, returnuing to roost in the box behind the car park.

Once again the scrape was dominated by a large flock of teal with occasional wigeon scattered here and there, strangers in the midst of the flock. The wind was a northerly which blew in through the viewing slots of the hide and began to sap the warmth from me once more. The teal fed,stretched, preened and squabbled, turning thier backs to the hide to face directly into the oncoming wind. I made a couple of pages of gesture sketches just trying to capture something 'tealy' on the paper. Flights of wigeon rose and resettled in the distance disturbed by the quartering marsh harriers, or perhaps, an unseen peregrine. Two pied wagtails briefly visited the mud under the hide windows, more grey for a grey day, but by no means drab. I love their characteristic walk with tails constantly wagging and their 'chiswick' calls when in flight.

Time being short this week we made our way back to the car park and a view of the little owl sitting in his tree. The drive home was interupted by the sight of a mixed flock of fieldfare and redwing, there must have been hundreds of them, feeding on the hawthorn berries by the road. Fieldfares are big noisy birds with the look of the bully about them whereas the much smaller redwings seem delicate in a colour scheme of umber, cream and fiery siennas, but the two types of thrush seem always to be together.

I wanted to stay longer with the fieldfare and redwing but the christmas shopping is not yet done...

Snow and high summer

2008-11-26T01:04:00.000-08:00

Sunday I rose before dawn, expecting to see that special glow of light created by a world crusted with white. But there was nothing special about the light seeping through the curtains and no sign of the snow the weatherman had promised. Instead the ground was clear, lacking even a heavy frost. Even so, I wrapped myself up warm under many layers before leaving for Elmley.

After my sighting of a barn owl last week I was alert to the possibility of another encounter in the same area this week and I was delighted to spot it sitting on a fence post in the dark just a few yards from where it was the week before.

Out to the reserve road and the light began to build as the car thermometer warned of temperatures dropping to be low enough for ice. We parked up to watch for the sunrise and weren't disappointed as the sun tore a fiery strip between the land and the cloud. The 'crumph' of shotguns prompted flights of geese, greylag and Canada, to hurtle overhead and into a sunrise that looked like the mouth of a giant, celestial furnace. Eventually the fire was extinguished as the sun rose above the increasing purple cloud layer and the light took on the strange metalic tinge that is always the prelude to snow.

'Merlin corner' lived up to its name this week, the feisty little falcon was resting on the trackway, I wonder if the tarmac retains heat and that's what makes it such an attractive place to sit when it's so cold? The merlin was certainly not going to allow a close approach and he flew off into the morning gloom as we got to within a couple of hundred yards.

Steely grey skies and bitter winds made for uncomfortable companions on the walk out to the hide and, just as I crested the sea wall, the first flakes of the approaching snowstorm began to fall. There was not one bird visible on the semi-frozen scrape but the hide provided welcome shelter from the wind driven snow which soon obscured any view outside much further than a couple of yards. After a while the snowfall thinned and I began to see groups of oystercatchers flying through, emerging from the wall of white briefly before being swallowed up, leaving just the sound of their calls as evidence that they were still in the sky.

A small flock of brown birds flew in low and fast, against the wind, there was no time to get the binoculars focussed on them as they suddenly appeared from the snow only to vanish amongst some reeds, but I thought I caught sight of a crest raised and I dared to hope that I may have stumbled upon some waxwings. However my hopes were crushed when the birds broke cover and began to feed among the snow covered grass on one of the scrape's small islands.
The waxwing impersonators were actually skylarks, a group of seven, one or two with raised crests. Here were birds, absolutely iconic of high summer, foraging like snow buntings in the midst of a snowstorm, crouching low to avoid the worst of the vicious wind. As an artist I am always on the lookout for different ways of representing familiar birds so the somewhat incongruous image was recorded in the sketchbook, despite the numbness in my fingertips, for possible future development.

We made a start on the walk back to the car as the snow eased a little. The wind was still fierce and the small, icy snow tinkled against the metal legs of my tripod making a strange, and beautiful crystalline music. The wind blasted these same crystals to sting against my face and bring numb redness to my cheeks.

On reaching the car park I took one last look out over the scrape in the field behind and as I did so I heard the thin, high-pitched 'seep' of a goldcrest in the bush to my left. I watched it briefly as it searched frantically for enough sustenance to see it through the conditions, a fantastic gem of a bird, a tiny spark to make me feel warm against the ice and wind and a great way to end the trip.

On returning home a mug of hot coffee and a brunch of bacon and egg sandwich was just what was required to fortify me for an afternoon of Christmas shopping. Oh, the joys of the season!

A magic moment or two

2008-11-17T01:01:00.000-08:00

I was on my way towards Elmley RSPB reserve before first light on Sunday, it's not difficult in the winter because it's not light until seven or so. As I drive I'm always on the lookout for early birds, owls in particular. I was pleased to see a barn owl perched at the side of the road in almost the exact spot where I had placed one for my painting 'A moment of magic'. I had imagined him there and here it was, playing out for real, what a great start to the morning. The owl stayed put as I passed by in the car but he slipped silently away when I stopped a few yards down the road, no chance to photograph or draw him, but that didn't really matter to me.

I parked up within sight of the Sheppey bridge and waited for the light. As the sun struggled to make itself known through the cloud strewn sky a flock of greylag geese rose from the fields where they had been feeding, a honking chaos, the whole mass of them passed over the car and I heard the air rushing through their wings as they headed towards the Swale.

The second owl of the day was a winter speciality of Elmley, a distant short eared, hunting low over rough grass its wings longer than the barn owl and flight slightly 'harder'. I watched through the scope as it quartered, after a spectacular turn it plunged down into the grass and the death of a small mammal.

Raggedy groups of lapwings moved around, their flickering flight constantly moving from black to white on background of the wind tattered grey sky. Noisy starling gangs leapfrogged from place to place and everywhere there was the menacing presence of rooks and crows like scraps of bin bag blown by the wind.

A bend in the access road that I call 'merlin corner' because it seems to attract these dashing little falcons, provided another moment of magic as a superb Jack merlin shot through in low level flight typical of his species to strike terror into the hearts of the starling flocks. Again it was a very brief sighting with no time to react either with camera or sketchbook but sometimes it's as much about those things I don't draw as it is about those I do.

On the walk out to the hide a female stonechat popped up onto the skeleton of a large umbellifer, they love to sit on such vantage points and use them as platforms to hunt from. Stonechats are such characterful birds that I couldn't resist sketching her as she dashed from the perch and back again over and over. I spent some time in the hide watching and sketching distant teal as they fed, rested and preened on the far side of the scrape. The tide was out and most of the birds were out with it, feeding out on the mud while they had the chance before the returning tide covered everything once again.

The stonechat, or perhaps another, was perched on one of the gateposts on the walk back, so more sketches were called for. I arrived back at the car park just as a coach pulled in and disgorged it's anorak clad, thermos flask bearing occupants; Definitely time to leave the reserve and head home.

From the end to the beginning

2008-10-30T03:45:00.000-07:00

The final morning's trip around the familiar paths is always bitter sweet. I don't have the same luxury of time as the rest of the week as we have to leave before 10 a.m. and all the packing needs to be done.

In the semi light of a fresh pre-dawn the pipistrelles were again over the pond and garden so I spent five minutes or so watching their erratic flight. I had to move on before I was ready but I wanted to check on the kingfishers one last time. Away off in the top field a young fox was intently scrabbling away at the earth, perhaps digging out a vole or mouse cowering at the end of a burrow, or perhaps he'd seen a large beetle or some other crunchy delight. Whatever he was after he was certainly hard at work and must have been determined that his digging would end in a reward. I left him to his labour with a silent farewell and continued on to the little owl tree. Sure enough he was there, high in the elder bush which has grown as a youthful companion to the venerable oak, helping to screen the little owl's nest site. I sketched him for what I knew would be the last time until he turned his back on me and dived down onto the ground at the far side of the tree. An appropriate last view that reminded me that I was the visitor here and the owl would continue on with his daily life regardless of whether I was watching to record him in my sketchbook or not.

One of the juvenile kingfishers was on the 'dragon log' and I was able to sketch him one last time. He dived and caught small fish which he bashed on the log a few times before swallowing it head first. 'Good for you' I thought, fish of your own and instinct enough to deal with it the proper way. The fledgling king flew off shortly after when the young heron flew overhead.

All then was quiet and calm until the rooks rose from the rookery in a great clamorous cloud against the sunrise. But even this had a certain sense of correctness and, perhaps, a peacefulness about it. With a last backward glance I made my way slowly back to the cottage as one or two swallows began to appear in the sky overhead. I wondered if they would be following me South or if they would enjoy a few more days at the farm. The little owl called from his tree, I answered a goodbye and resigned myself to the fact that this was the end of my holiday.

The homeward journey was uneventful and dull, after a couple of hours in the car it felt good to get home, but I couldn't help wondering what I was missing on the farm. I had my sketchbooks, photos, paintings and memories though. I knew that there were paintings in my head waiting to be made and I could barely wait to start. So far I have completed three paintings inspired by my time on the farm this year and these are a beginning. I'm already working on a fourth and I'm sure there will be many more over the coming months.

An odd couple and a shape in the grass

2008-10-10T07:54:00.000-07:00

The Thursday of the week was my last full day on the farm so I was determined to make the most of it. I got up at around a quarter to five and left the cottage by quarter past five. The sky was more or less clear with only a smattering of pale lilac, grey, white and peach clouds promising one of the warmest and sunniest days of the week.

I rounded the top field to see a fox bounding away between the rows of straw. On the ground there were deer tracks and they were fresh, still crisp around the edges, unsoftened by the light rain of the night. I followed the trail taking care to be as quiet as I could be, watching the placement of every step and moving slowly. The tracks turned the corner by the old ice house and vanished as they turned off into the field. The ice house is barely visible above ground, just a small brick arch covered with soil and blocked by heavy wire mesh with 5 inch holes. Once underground however it is quite an impressive structure, basically a large round hole which in times past would have been filled with ice, insulated with straw to keep the occupants of the manor supplied with ice for their drinks during the summer months and to preserve food. Now it is an ideal roost for bats, invisible in the darkness and secure from disturbance beyond the mesh at the entrance.
I wasn't looking for bats though, my quarry was in the fields opposite. Two dark shapes were clear against the light coloured straw and I zeroed in through my scope. There was the muntjac I had been following and, surprisingly, the second shape resolved into a fox. That made twice I had seen this odd couple together. It seemed a strange partnership to me and the only explanation I can come up with is that the fox was young and curious and the deer was something worthy of investigation each time it wandered close. Or maybe the fox just wanted to play! The fox was soon gone into the hedge but the muntjac stayed for five minutes or so and I simply watched and soaked up the atmosphere knowing that this could be my final encounter with the deer on the farm for the year.

After the deer moved on I wandered down to the fishing pond where the surface of the water was mill-pond flat, perfect conditions to sit and watch the tiny ripples made by small fish feeding at the surface. Occasionally there was a small splash and a flash of molten silver movement as one of the fish broke through the ceiling of its world to emerge briefly into an element not its own. Beneath one of the fishing platforms a huge golden carp snorkled up to make loud sucking noises as it gulped at morsels on the surface. I moved off a short way to get a better look at the stag oak, hoping to see the barn owl roosting there. On one of the bare branches an upright shape attracted my attention and, expecting to see a kestrel, I focused my scope. It was actually a male sparrowhawk, a 'musket'. The term comes from the French word 'mousquette' and it is likely that this is the origin of the name of the firearm. The male sparrowhawk is a dapper little bird, generally about one third smaller than the female and dressed in a wonderful combination of slate grey and burnt orange with the eye providing a highlight of pure yellow fire. They have an impressive armoury of needle sharp talons at the ends of long toes and legs specifically designed to capture, hold and kill small birds in ferocious ambush attacks. Intense is the word to describe their nature and views of them are always thrilling to me. This bird had only paused briefly and I watched him through my binoculars as he darted into the woods beyond the fields. I glimpsed the ghostly white shape of the barn owl as she glided up into the ivy covered branches on the opposite side of the oak and again it crossed my mind that this could be my last sighting of the year.

Having searched unsuccessfully for a view of the roosting barn owl that I knew to be there I decided to stake out one of the favourite kingfisher perches and moved off towards the ponds. On the way I spotted a green woodpecker high on the trunk of a dead tree. Many people when asked what colour the trunk of a tree is will answer 'Brown of course!' with conviction. In reality many tree trunks are a mixture of greens and yellows as they are covered in algae, mosses and lichens. Green woodpeckers can blend perfectly with such tree trunks as they cling tightly to the surface in an upright stance that follows the trunk's direction. The only real giveaways are their bright red heads and the loud, laughing call like raucous laughter, that gives them their country name of 'Yaffle'.

Hoping to get a good haul of kingfisher sketches and photographs I approached the ponds carefully. A blue flash, fast and low indicated that one of the birds was off to try its luck elsewhere. It was half past six and still that curious time when the sun shares the sky with the moon, like brother and sister. Once settled I concentrated on the 'dragon log', an old fallen tree that's shaped like a sea monster rearing its head from the water, and a favourite of the kingfishers. After a fairly short wait one of the juveniles appeared and perched on the log. He stared intently at the water and made one or two tentative dives as I watched. On one occasion he even managed to catch a tiny fish. It was nice to see him fishing for himself and, even though the fry that he caught wasn't too impressive size-wise, it still showed that he was able to hunt and catch successfully. I hope he makes it through the winter.

After a while and a few begging calls the kingfisher flew off in the direction that the earlier one had taken and I sat back to enjoy the early sun. As time drifted by I laid back in the long grass, uncaring of the moisture from the night's rain. Just to rest my muscles which were cramped from inactivity you understand. I closed my eyes for a moment to listen to the sounds of blue tits and longtailed tits sofltly calling as they foraged through the bushes, their mixed flock another small sign that summer was drawing to a close. Small fish made tiny splashes on the pond in front of me and and a soft breeze soughed through the grass....
I woke up sometime later and opened my eyes to see tiny swallows flying through the giant grass stems that arched across my face. They were inky dark against a tie-dyed sky of blue and white. I wondered if the kingfisher had visited while I slept and then I wondered if it really mattered. When I left to return to the cottage for breakfast I noticed that I had left a wildlife artist shaped impression in the long grass. It will stay there forever, at least, in my memory it will.

The majority of the day was sunny and warm and I spent the afternoon fishing with my family, catching occasional glimpses of the real experts as they shot past in a blur of electric blue brilliance. I painted another small en plein air study and later I spent some time photographing cloudscapes, fantastic castles of white and grey, massive etherial sculptures, ever changing and evolving. Swallows filled the sky beneath the clouds and I filled a couple of sketchbook pages with their streamlined shapes.

As the evening meal cooked I sat at the kitchen table and contemplated the week and the morning's parting from the place that has become special to us over the past few years. I didn't want to leave, I wanted to stay in the company of kingfishers and barn owls, deer and foxes. But I knew that it was nearly over and there would be just one last opportunity to revisit the creatures that I had become so familiar with over the week.

Windy morning, landscape afternoon

2008-09-25T07:50:00.000-07:00

Wednesday was a day of wind. I'm used to the strong winds that sweep across the open spaces of Elmley marshes. In the late summer they are welcome as they cool the heat and set the grasses and rushes into motion like waves on the water. In winter they can be bitter, rushing across the marsh with nothing to impede their icy, salt scented progress. On the farm the winds were more broken, scattered by a million, million leaves on the trees in the woods and hedges. Sheltering by the edge of the woods I spotted movement ahead, the wind was in my face, a good thing, as my scent was dissipating behind me. The movement was a young fox which was sniffing about at the edge of a field. I wondered if she was seeking out the tiny frogs that were relatively easy to find in the area, they surely must have made an easy meal in plentiful supply. She stopped sniffing and brought her face up several times and she was chewing each time she did so. Despite the advantage of wind direction the fox soon spotted me with her keen eyes and ears. As she stood and stared at me I expected her to turn and run or slip into the woods and vanish. But she didn't. She stood her ground for a few seconds then, extraordinarily, she began to walk towards me. My heart began to pound as she closed the gap between us and she just kept coming. Not aggressively, she was just behaving as if I weren't there. She moved to my left and passed by, unhurriedly, within a metre of me, continuing on her way with no more than a glance in my direction. Encounters with wild creatures tend to be distant and fleeting affairs so when an animal or bird approaches that closely it feels like a privilege to me. A couple of years ago, on the farm, I had a similar experience with a fox. I had sat at the base of a tree in a quiet spot where I dozed off for a while (I was on holiday after all). I woke up to see a young fox approaching my position from 10-15 yards off and I stayed stock still. The fox passed literally within a couple of inches of my outstretched feet and I couldn't help thinking that my camouflaged clothing had been worth every penny for that moment alone.

From my encounter with the fox I moved on to the paddocks where I glimpsed the barn owl hunting away across the far side. As I moved to one of the ponds I disturbed a juvenile heron from his fishing. He had been on the pond every morning and had always flown off into a potato field where he would wait for me to move off before returning to his spot by the water. The potato field had been treated with sulphuric acid which burns off the material above ground and concentrates the plants' energies into the tubers below. It looks drastic and nasty but the acid dissipates quickly and has little lasting impact on the environment. It does, however, leave fields of grey, dead material, perfect for the camouflaging of a heron. I set up my camera and waited for the kingfishers to return to a favourite fishing perch that I'd identified earlier in the week. Since there was no sign of them I sketched the heron as he faced into the wind. Whilst drawing I glanced up from my scope and pad and there, right in front of me, was a kingfisher hovering. Its wings were a blur as it maintained its position like a hummingbird at a flower. I debated whether to reach for the camera or start a quick sketch and off it went, flying low and fast towards the main pond and out of sight. And so it was that I had missed a brilliant blue, orange and white bird, hovering like a suspended jewel in front of me, in favour of drawing a grey bird in a grey field surrounded by dead plant stalks. Such is life I suppose.

The sun came out as the clouds were pushed off into the west by the wind and swallows began to fill the sky above me. A horse sauntered closer and I could hear his teeth tearing at the grass as he came. I had plenty of time to draw the scene as I waited for the still absent kingfishers. Sitting still and drawing a landscape is a really relaxing experience, far removed from the hustle and bustle of everyday and I decided that I would make the day a landscape day, take out my easel, paints etc. later, set up, record and enjoy. As I drew the landscape in front of me I was aware of birds all around. There were swallows everywhere and three times they alerted me to the presence of birds of prey in the area. Their chattering calls first announced the arrival of a large female sparrowhawk. She was using the tailwinds as an aid to speed but I don't think she had any real ideas of catching swallows as they were quite aware that she was there and sparrowhawks like to hunt by surprise and ambush. The second bird of prey that the swallows spotted before I did was a marsh harrier passing high overhead. Marsh harriers are relatively common on Elmley and if I have a trip there when I don't see one, it's unusual, but this was a first for me on the farm. The final raptor of the day was a fabulous light coloured male kestrel, again no real threat to the swallows but they were taking no chances and they called their disapproval loudly.

The pond seemed quiet and I realised that what was missing was the almost constant 'pipping' of the juvenile kingfishers as they begged for food from their parents. The adults must have started to ignore the youngsters, an approach which forces them to begin fishing for themselves. It seems harsh but they must learn the skills they need to survive, and quickly too. Many will not aquire them in time for the coming winter and, sadly, many will succumb to hunger and bad weather.

Later in the day I tramped out to the fields, laden with all my gear and I settled to paint a landscape. The farm is criss-crossed by paths, tracks and bridleways and I like the idea of including them in my landscape paintings. I always feel it gives the viewer a place to go in their imaginings and creates a certain sense of mystery in a landscape; What's around the next corner along the way?

Monday morning blues

2008-09-10T04:27:00.000-07:00

On the Monday morning I awoke to the sound of rain lashing against the roof window of the cottage. Somehow my sleep fuddled brain had managed to lock onto the fact that it was monday morning and there was a small moment of panic as it went into autopilot; 'You must get up now! You'll be late for work!' ...It was 4.45 a.m...
The comfortable surroundings of the cottage and the warmth of the bed soon stilled the unfriendly thought that had sneaked unbidden, into my mind and I laid back and savoured the delicious moment. This was monday morning, it was raining and I could simply lie in bed until I wanted to get up.

After a few more minutes of blissful sleep I realised that the rain had stopped drumming its chaotic rhythm on the window glass and the urge to get out into the freshly rain soaked fields soon saw me dressed and closing the door behind me. By this time the rain had started again but now it was a gentle drizzle that smudged the landscape and muted colours. I made my way round to the little owl tree and immediately spotted the little guy sitting right out at the end of a gnarled branch like some kind of guardian gargoyle. His usual spot was occupied by a large woodpigeon and the owl really didn't look happy about that. He shook rainwater off his head and gave the pigeon his fiercest glare. The woodpigeon, for his part, glanced back at the owl with a totally vacant expression and then proceeded to ingnore him.

Woodpigeons have always seemed to me to be the dimmest of birds, the very epitome of the 'bird brain'. I have seen them at the feeding station I have set up in my garden desperately trying to work out how they can get from the tray part over to the actual seed dispensers which are designed specifically for birds much smaller than a woodpigeon. They cock their heads a thousand different angles, lean forward and lean back. You can almost hear their tiny little minds whirring as they peer over at the unattainable. If they could make it onto the seed feeders then the small birds wouldn't stand a chance of a look in as the woodies would hoover up the entire seed supply in minutes. Eventually they give up and hop to the ground beneath the feeders. That's when it finally dawns on them that they have entered pigeon paradise where food falls like manna from heaven in an almost constant stream as the sparrows drop seeds while stuffing their own beaks and bellies.

The drizzle was unpleasant but bearable once I reminded myself once again that it was monday morning and here I was sharing time with a little owl in a field in Norfolk rather than sitting in a traffic jam somewhere on the wrong side of the Blackwall tunnel. As I moved down toward the fishing pond there was no sign of either fox or muntjac and I confess I was a bit disappointed when the drizzle began to upgrade itself into proper rain. Monday mornings can be depressing and rain doesn't usually help the situation. This particular morning though I had a different kind of monday morning blues in mind as I headed for the fishing pond and its resident kingfishers. Both juveniles were again perched close by one another but on a branch of a different willow to before. This time they were more difficult to spot. It's amazing that these brightest of birds can be so difficult to see sometimes. They are only small birds though, roughly starling sized and their colours can appear quite dark especially in the gloom of a rainy monday morning. The intensity of their colours is down entirely to the light conditions that they are seen in. This is because the kingfisher's colour is not a result of pigment but irridescence. Light is broken up and refracted as it filters through the structure of the feathers, this is known as structural colour. I sketched the most visible of the birds as the rain upgraded once again from rain to heavy rain until I thought it best to take shelter for the sake of my camera if nothing else.

I tucked myself under some trees and into the shelter of a large ivy covered wall. This is a remnant of the architecture of a manor house that stood on the estate until the 1950s when it was demolished. It was dank and dark under the foliage, a land inhabited by spiders, mites, woodlice and other unspeakably long leggedy beasties. I sat on a rotting log that was relatively dry and comfortable and wrote my notes. The sound of the raindrops as they pit-pattered through the leaves was soothing and I dozed off for a while thinking what a contrast it was to a 'usual' monday morning. I woke as a mother moorhen wandered past with two well grown chicks in tow, they seemed unaware of me and I sat without moving until they were out of sight. The rain had slowed a little and I left the wall for the lighter cover of a guelder rose which was dripping with rain and intense red berries like glace cherries. A movement at my feet caught my eye and I watched a tiny, perfect toadlet as he struggled through the wet grass.

As the rain eased still further I made my way out to the paddocks and was rewarded with some close, but brief, views of the female barn owl as she hunted her way back to roost in the old stag oak. Thoughts of tea and toast were impossible for me to resist and I decided to call it a day and make my way back to the cottage for breakfast. In the sky overhead I heard the frantic chittering of swallows and, on looking up, I saw the reason for their calls. A hobby was approaching across the paddocks like a missile locked onto a target. Against the dramatic sky it powered into an attack run with breathtaking speed. These determined and beautifully streamlined falcons are the only british bird of prey that have the speed and agility to regularly hunt swifts and swallows. The hobby zoomed overhead and swallows scattered and swerved. I saw him jink and tuck into the tail of a swallow too slow to be out of danger. The swallow made a dive toward the ground with the hobby close behind and closing the gap. I saw the deadly talons swinging forward before the two combatants disappeared from view behind the trees. I didn't see the outcome of the chase but I suspect that the swallow won't be returning to Africa.

The rain continued into the morning and my younger son Ben beat me soundly at table tennis. I have always had the upper hand but this year age must be catching up with me and the student has become the teacher. By lunchtime the sun was shining strongly and fishing by the pond was wonderfully serene. The insects buzzed soporific tunes and every so often the kingfishers flashed by to the excited peeps of the juveniles. Dragonflies and damselflies skimmed the water on gossamer wings and they even landed on my arms to soak up the sun with me. By the early evening the clouds had begun to gather and I took my easel, paints and canvas out where I completed an en plein air study of one of the oaks that stand isolated in the fields.

From bats to The Beck

2008-09-04T00:38:00.000-07:00

I was out before dawn again on the Sunday morning. The sky was grey, overcast and uninviting. I came out of the cottage by the stable door that leads onto a walled garden area adjacent to yet another of the farm's ponds. Above me, in the insect rich air, two pipistrelle bats flittered in seemingly chaotic flight like leaves falling from a tree. I stayed to watch for a while and the tiny creatures came close by me several times in their frantic, fluttering hunt. I knew that, despite appearances, and the old wives' tale about bats that get tangled in your hair, there was no danger of them crashing into me. My wife dislikes being around bats and will instinctively duck if they fly within a couple of yards of her, so I'm tempted to think that's one 'old wife' who still believes the myth! The reality is that small bats are supremely agile creatures in the air. They know precisely where they are going and are able to adjust their flight to jink in less than a heartbeat to snatch insect prey from the air. Galumphing great old wives must appear to them as slow moving mountains when seen on their inbuilt radar. There's no way that a healthy, hunting pipistrelle would get tangled in anyone's hair, besides which, my hair is so thin these days that I suspect a whole group of bats could crawl around on my head all day and still not get tangled.

I took a back route that lead me along the edge of some woods at the side of the field with the 'little owl tree'. The owl wasn't to be seen, he was probably off somewhere terrorising the local earthworms and beetles. I headed towards the fishing pond thinking to catch up with the kingfishers and I spotted a dark shape, 20 yards or so ahead of me in the field. I stopped dead in my tracks and stood absolutely still as I recognised the shape as a muntjac deer. She looked at me with beautiful, dark, liquid eyes and cautiously moved closer. I could see she was nervous and suspicious but my outline was broken up by my camouflage clothing and the wind was blowing in my face. I remained stock still, knowing that any movement would send her instantly running for cover. We stood in a solid silence and regarded each other until she decided that I must be some kind of possible threat, even if she couldn't figure out what it was, and she moved off quickly but without panic, showing me the flash of her white tail as she disappeared. Without my noticing, whilst I had been watching the muntjac, a gorgeous, light coloured, almost blonde fox had been in view between the deer and me. Certainly an unusual pair but the fox was no real threat to the adult muntjac. The fox slipped silently into the woods and my last view was of a luxuriant brush as it vanished into the undergrowth. Once in the trees the fox obviously abandoned stealth in favour of speed and I heard him move through the wood to my right. Further down the trail I spotted a second, much darker fox scampering away out of sight.

By now I could see the paddocks beyond the fishing pond and on the fenceline at the far edge of them I caught a glimpse of the ghostly moth flight of a barn owl. I went in search of it, ignoring for now the juvenile kingfishers as they peeped at their parents and begged for food. When I relocated the barn owl and focussed it in the scope I could see that it was a fabulous, white male. I sketched him as he hunted before he moved off, following the road into the distance.

The light was poor and a light rain began as I wandered back to the fishing pond in search of the kingfishers. I checked out a branch of willow which I had earlier made a mental note of. It jutted out over the water and I thought it would make an ideal perch for the brightly coloured little fishermen. I was delighted to find that my hunch had been correct and there, on the perch,, sat side by side, in a picture perfect pose was a pair of juvenile kingfishers. My camera wouldn't do the job quickly enough and one of the birds moved off to disappear in the branches of a second willow further down the pond. I sketched the remaining bird and promised myself that I would set up and wait for the birds to use the perch at another time.

Breakfast was followed by more fishing, table-tennis and badminton until, in the afternoon, my daughter asked if we could go for a walk together. I try very hard not to refuse time spent with my family and children so we took a long walk around the farm and down to the Beck. Beth declared that it was one of the most beautiful places she'd ever seen and I found it difficult to disagree with her. The water rushes under a little bridge and the Beck meanders through the trees, its waters sparkling with the green light filtered through the leaves of the trees. As we gazed, mesmerised into the stream, a family of mallards paddled away, much to Beth's delight. We walked on, up through the woods where we saw the badger sett. I pointed out the trails of fresh vegetation where the occupants had been dragging new bedding into their home. We watched what seemed like hundreds of rabbits, enjoying the afternoon by sleeping, eating or just sitting in the sun. We found hazelnuts nibbled by mice and I lifted Beth over patches of stinging nettles that she was too wary to cross unaided. She held my hand as we wandered the edges of the fields, putting up startled pigeons. Beth did her finest cuckoo impressions (but I don't think any cuckoos were being fooled). As we neared the end of the walk we were surprised by two birds as they burst from the grass practically under our feet. I was amazed and delighted to see that the birds we had disturbed were quail, a bird that I've only ever seen once before. They are fairly rare and always difficult to spot as they rely on camouflage and sneak off into the long grass when they hear anyone approach.

Life really doesn't get much better than that...

A barn owl and a blackberry breakfast

2008-08-28T12:39:00.000-07:00

Saturday was our first full day on the farm. I never really need to set an alarm as I'm almost always awake before dawn and I'm one of those people who can't lie in bed and do nothing, especially when there are 700 acres waiting to be explored right outside the door. So by 5.15 a.m. I was walking down the familiar path through the woods to the fishing pond and the paddocks beyond. The sky was red with a shepherd's warning but what clouds there were didn't look too threatening. From the bushes beside the path came the sounds of a family of wrens and I soon picked them out, scurrying like tiny brown sprites among the undergrowth.

Behind the pond stands a venerable old oak, lonely in his potato field. Just like an old man, much of his foliage on top has long gone. He has raggedy limbs that stand proud from the top like the antlers of some great stag and his trunk is riddled with holes large and small. But still he stands, providing homes and shelter for a million different creatures. I spotted a movement from the corner of my eye and a barn owl drifted silently into view over my right shoulder. She swooped up into the uppermost branches of the stag oak and perched in the early light. Her attention was captured by something hidden from my view by what foliage the oak still has and I watched and sketched as she laddered down through the branches. Eventually she worked her way around to the opposite side of the tree. I didn't see her come out so, after changing my position several times and searching for a glimpse of her, I came to the conclusion that she must have gone to roost in one of the many holes in the old boy's trunk. Last year he played host to a family of kestrels so this year it seems only fair that it should have been the barn owls' turn.

I wandered up to anther of the stag oaks, the one that I know as 'the little owl tree.' There, sitting at the entrance to a perfect owl hole, was a second, grumpy looking little owl. As I watched he moved to the top of his tree, surveyed his territory from the vantage point and enjoyed the golden early light. When I moved on I felt the moisture from the dew as it soaked into my boots. When I looked down I saw a tiny frog, and then another, and another. They are such vulnerable creatures, snack sized for so many, that Nature has had to come up with a breeding strategy for the frog that combats the enormous losses that the young suffer. Hundreds of offspring are produced and this ensures that the fittest and the luckiest survive to continue their line.

The rookery by the church came to life in a cacophany of sound and a myriad of black shapes moved in a chaotic ballet against the rich hues of the sunrise. The early start was worth it for this experience alone, I breathed the air deep and the images imprinted themselves on my mind.

I took one of the longer walks around the farm, up to where the yellowhammers sing their song of bread and cheese from the tops of the hedges. I stopped to eat blackberries, some succulent and sweet, others tart and refreshing, all were dew soaked, delicious and fresh straight from the brambles.

When I returned to the pond I watched a hobby as it powered into an attack on a flock of swallows, swooping, diving, jinking and swerving, it was a stunning display of aerobatics and a suitable point to return to the cottage for (a second) breakfast.

The day was spent playing badminton, fishing, swimming and playing table tennis and the whole thing was rounded off with a barbeque, some beers and some board games. Ahh! What a way to live!

Swallows, little owls and other old friends.

2008-08-25T23:50:00.000-07:00

We got back from holiday on Friday afternoon, tired from the journey but also feeling that we'd had a great week. We arrived at the farm around 3.15 p.m and the sun was shining, just as it had been all day, nothing but toy story clouds in a pure blue sky. Beth and I took a walk around the cottages and down to the fishing pond once we'd settled in and had the first of many cups of tea for the week. The farm and cottage are familiar to us and it felt a bit like coming home since it was our fifth consecutive year's holiday there.

Over the paddock pond we watched a shimmering display as a kingfisher hovered in front of us. I was (as usual) too slow with the camera but I didn't really mind. At least it meant that the kingfishers were around and sometimes it is better to simply enjoy sights and experiences. Above us a large group of swallows chittered and whirred whilst, on the power cables, the youngsters waited to be fed. They'll soon be independant though and starting the long journey south to the wintering grounds of Africa. It's amazing to think of the incredible journey through all kinds of dangers that these tiny, delicate looking birds make. A group of thirty or so goldfinches flashed black and gold amongst the thistles on the fallow paddock. I love the fact that the collective noun for a group of goldfinches is a 'charm'. It's so appropriate for birds as appealing as goldfinches.

As steely grey clouds blew in, bourne by a brisk westerly, the rooks began to gather, darker against dark, ready to return to the rookery by the church. The rain held off though and before tea I had time to drop Beth off back at the cottage and scoot off for a quick check on some familiar features that usually play home to various creatures. I was delighted to find that the first of the little owl trees was occupied, although I don't think he was quite so pleased to see me. Little owls almost always look grumpy with that permanent scowl that they wear, but this one's look was positively thunderous, what great little characters they are! A green woody put in a brief appearance on what I know as the woodpecker tree and stayed just long enough for a quick sketch, then I returned to the cottage for more tea and a much appreciated meal.

I spent the evening pleasantly digesting and chatting in the company of family and friends. It was a great start to the week and, when I eventually crawled into bed, I lay my head on the pillow and fell asleep, happy and full of anticipation to see what the morning would bring.

A beginning

2008-08-12T00:57:00.000-07:00

Hello, I'm Mike Woodcock, a wildlife artist from Kent in the UK, welcome to the Scolopax chronicles.

For some time I've been toying with the idea of starting a blog as a way of recording and sharing some of my experiences as an artist and I guess it's obvious if you're reading this that I've made a beginning! I'll be posting some of my sketches and finished works along with updates on my time 'in the field'.

Next week I'm off on my hols to Norfolk for a week. I'll be staying with my family and some close friends on a 700 acre organic farm in a charming little cottage which has been our holiday destination for the past four years. The farm is criss-crossed with paths and bridleways and it has ponds and woodlands which are home to plentiful wildlife. It's like wildlife artist's heaven to have a virtually private 700 acre nature reserve to wander around and get to know for a whole week. One of the greatest joys of the week is being able to watch the resident barn owls and kingfishers and these two species alone give me enough inspiration for a whole year. When I return I will hopefully have a sketchbook stuffed with ideas and observations to share.

For now I'll just have to make do with a couple of pages from last year's holiday and a finished painting that developed from them. The weather, for my week away last year, was awful and this barn owl was constantly fighting the elements to keep herself and her young supplied with food. Here's hoping for better weather this year...