Ghosts

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.