The Most Yellow of Yellows 1st May 2018

Farmoor can be a singularly inhospitable and depressing place on some days but at this time of year it comes alive with spring migrant birds and nothing brings it more to life than the regular passage of Yellow Wagtails that appear in a brief seven or eight week window in April and May. Mind you this late and cold Spring with its almost continuous strong winds is certainly testing my resolve and possibly that of the wagtails.

Yellow Wagtails are widespread and breed as a contentious and bewildering number  of sub species over a vast range, covering Europe, Asia and Africa. The Yellow Wagtails at Farmoor are the sub species Motacilla flava flavissima which is found breeding in Britain, southwest Norway, Helgoland in Germany and coastal Netherlands, Belgium and France and is part of the wider western European population that spends the winter in northwest and sub saharan Africa. Other summer breeding eastern European populations winter in northeast Africa and western parts of Asia. The European breeding population as a whole is in gentle decline and has been so since the 1980's due to habitat loss and degradation, although the population in 2004 was still estimated at between 3.9 and 7 million pairs but may now be less. In Britain, sadly it is in rapid decline, the population having fallen by 75% between 1967 and 2013, which is not good news.

To see Yellow Wagtails really well and know a reliable place to find them in Britain is not that easy these days but Farmoor provides one such place, and the grass bank by the waterworks and concrete banks of the central causeway usually harbour a number of Yellow Wagtails, which with care can be approached relatively closely.

The first to arrive at Farmoor are the males which are, to my mind, very much under appreciated. Their bright yellow plumage is simply sensational, bringing something of the sunny and warm climes where they spend their winter, and their Latin name Motacilla flava flavissima, translates as 'most yellow of yellows.' As they are such a small bird they can often go un-noticed or are only given a casual glance but look closer and stop for a while to study their brilliant yellow heads and underparts, their green upperparts also suffused with yellow and their closed wings with a corporal's two stripes. This lovely amalgamation of colour and pattern is finessed by a black bill, legs and tail, the latter sporting white outer tail feathers.

Male Yellow Wagtails

There is much variation in the plumage of the males, some, especially when the sun shines, show almost luminescent yellow heads whilst others, at the other extreme, have duller, greener tones on their head especially the crown and ear coverts.The females also exhibit much variation and again some can be quite bright but others are dull and more pale green than yellow on their heads and upperparts and insipid  lemon yellow on breast and belly.

Female Yellow Wagtails

For the last three years the 'normal' Yellow Wagtails at Farmoor have been joined by a beautiful hybrid male wagtail,  the progeny of a pairing between 'our' Yellow Wagtail Motacilla flava. flavissima and the Blue headed Wagtail Motacilla flava flava, the latter being found breeding as close as the northern coastline of France in conjunction with flavissima, hence the nickname Channel Wagtail being given to hybrids. Studies in 1998, 2000 and 2001 around Calais, Dunkerque and Cap Gris Nez on the northern coast of France have shown that  the majority of the male Yellow Wagtails there showed intermediate plumage characters between flava and flavissima and this may well be the origin of the male hybrid at Farmoor. 

For more detailed information see Alstrom P. & Mild K. 2003 Pipits and Wagtails of Europe, Asia and North America. London

The plumage of the Farmoor hybrid appears virtually identical to a male flavissima Yellow Wagtail apart from the head which is not yellow at all but a subtle shade of blue grey, forever changing in tone in the variable light and with a bold white supercilium and white chin.This variation gives it a certain elan amongst its all yellow headed companions but the blue grey head can be surprisingly hard to discern at any distance without the aid of optics.

Male Channel Wagtail

Invariably the male Yellow Wagtails are the first to arrive at Farmoor and it is some time later that the females join them and never, it seems at Farmoor, in the same numbers as the males.

Apart from lovely plumage they also have the engaging personality that all wagtails possess, constantly active, prinking up and down in search of the flies that hatch forth in their billions on the reservoir and calling a bright cheery note to match their bright colour as they fly around.

Although such a dazzlingly yellow bird would be thought to stand out they can be surprisingly difficult to pick out in the grass as their small size and greenish upperparts provide an effective camouflage. If they sit still in the grass, which they sometimes do when uncertain about my approaching them or sheltering from the strong southwesterly winds which often beset Farmoor, they can appear as no more than a bright yellow spot amongst the grass as their yellow heads and breast are all that is visible but even here they can be camouflaged as much by deception as colour, for they are sharing the bank with numerous low growing dandelion flowers which are almost the same colour, if a slightly richer golden yellow.

I try to visit Farmoor as often as possible to see them, knowing that I only have a limited period of time in which to see them at their best and before they depart to breed in central and eastern Britain or further. Sometimes I do not bother to wander far from the grass bank but just sit on the wavewall, content to enjoy watching them going about their lives. 

My most recent visit was in a very strong southwesterly wind and the wagtails had abandoned the unsuitable windswept grass bank to feed on the more sheltered concrete bank of Farmoor One, the smaller of the two reservoirs. I sat on the wavewall and watched a male and female feeding amongst their more numerous close relatives, Pied Wagtails. They had much trouble with the wind and found their feathers and tail blown asunder by the gusts coming over the water, which caused them to promptly turn and face into the wind

A windblown female Yellow Wagtail

While I watched, the male Channel Wagtail arrived at the water's edge and his grey head turned palest blue in a burst of sunshine and then back to grey as the sun was obscured by a cloud. 

It is such a beautiful bird and although dismissed as a hybrid, to me it is much valued and the highlight of any trip to see the Yellow Wagtails at Farmoor. 

A Green Heron in Pembrokeshire 30th April 2018

News came through on Sunday 29th of April about a Green Heron being found in far distant Pembrokeshire in Wales, at a place called Llanmill. It was only the eighth to be found in Britain, so in twitcher parlance was a mega and judging by the photos on social media, like all its predecessors, it was showing off and very approachable.

Green Herons are normally inhabitants of North and Central America, ranging from southern Canada to Panama, with northern populations migrating south in autumn. It is around thirty eight centimetres/seventeen inches in size and is one of the few species to use a tool. They will use bread  crusts and insects as bait which they drop on the water's surface to attract fish. When a fish comes to the bait the heron seizes the fish.

I have already seen three Green Herons in Britain, the first at Red Wharf Bay in Anglesey, also in Wales, way back in November 2005, the second on The Royal Military Canal at West Hythe, Kent in October 2008 and the most recent at The Lost Gardens of Heligan in Cornwall, which remained from October to December 2010, so I was not too worried about this one.

However, as the time passed, and more superb photos were posted on the internet my resolve weakened and I gave my birding buddy Clackers a call on Sunday afternoon to enquire if he was up to coming to Pembrokeshire with me on Monday. It has been a while since we have been on a twitch together, for various domestic reasons, but to my surprise he was up for it provided Mrs C could come as well which, as far as I was concerned, was fine.

I decided that a late departure for Wales, just after the morning rush hour would be appropriate this time rather than rising in the wee hours. The Green Heron looked like it was going nowhere and I could check that morning on RBA (Rare Bird Alert) that the heron was still around, as surely someone would have reported it before we left Oxfordshire. If all went to plan and it was still there we could make a relatively leisurely and anxiety free drive to Pembrokeshire, safe in the knowledge that it had not flown off.

Of course no news arrived about the heron on Monday morning, so I  drove to Clacker's house resolving that if a report did confirm that the heron had gone we could always turn back, having hopefully not got too far on our journey.To my relief at just after nine the first report of the heron came through confirming it was still at Llanmill.

Having collected Mr and Mrs C from Witney we embarked on the three and a half hour journey to Llanmill. Oxfordshire was dull and grey as we left but the forecast for Wales was for sun all day and  heading west the clouds dispersed and we were soon driving in very pleasant sunshine. Once past Cardiff the traffic became noticeably lighter and in the bright sunshine even Port Talbot, officially the worst town in Britain for air pollution, managed to look slightly less depressing and unwelcoming than usual. Once past Swansea we were in rural Wales and the rapid onset of Spring was manifested in the wooded valleys and rounded hills, all now clothed in various shades of green.

En route through central Wales I asked Clackers to check RBA (Rare Bird Alert) for news about the heron and there was a further update. The Green Heron was still present but was proving very elusive by hiding in reeds.This put something of a damper on our high expectations, as for the previous two days it had been showing itself really well but now it was not being so co-operative. There was little we could do but hope it might change its ways by the time we got to Llanmill so we drove on, our mood a little more subdued than previously.

Finally we turned off the main road and took to some very narrow lanes leading us up, down and around the rolling countryside towards Llanmill. The lanes were sunken and high grassy banks rose well above the car as we descended into a timelessly beautiful river valley. Llanmill is no more than a hamlet with a scattering of cottages and some larger houses, most of which have been renovated to a high specification and look to be second and/or holiday homes. The whole area is very beautiful and rural Wales today, in the Spring sunshine, could not have been more beguiling.

The parking was very limited by the lane that we needed to walk along to where the Green Heron was, so as instructed on RBA we drove on uphill to the crematorium and parked here along with a host of other cars but most of these seemed to belong to people attending a cremation rather than to birders.

It was about a half mile walk back  downhill to the lane we had passed but it was not unpleasant as we sauntered down between the high steep banks. full of wild flowers that guarded the narrow road, admiring all the commoner wildflowers adding their colour to the grassy banks. Truly indigenous wild Bluebells mixed with yellow Primroses whilst pink Geranium Cranesbill and Red Campion and the white starry flowers of Greater Stitchwort were also much in evidence. We even found the tiny and delicate white flowers of Wild Strawberry. It was positively idyllic as the sun shone down on us and a joy to be alive at this, my favourite time of year.

We turned into the lane and an obviously hastily erected cardboard sign directed us to follow the lane until we came to the very last house. We crossed another stream and walked uphill on a rough track before descending to the last house. Walking around the end of the large and imposing house we came across a small group of birders standing on a grass terrace overlooking a stream and a small reed fringed pond. Whoever lived here was indeed fortunate as beyond the wild garden with its pond and gurgling stream running past mounds  of golden flowered Marsh Marigolds betwixt bank and stream, was a view into the distance of fields, hedges, trees and rolling hillside uninterrupted by any human habitation. It truly was an amazing and picturesque spot.

The pond was where the Green Heron was to be found but not at the moment, as the reeds on the far side of the pond were currently concealing the now secretive bird. A fellow birder told me it had not been seen for over thirty minutes and even when he had seen it the views were distant and obscured.

This was a little depressing to hear after our long drive but the reed bed was hardly extensive and after about ten minutes the heron could be seen, just about, as it hunted for newts and fish. The views were hardly satisfactory as only parts of the heron were visible at any one time rather than the whole bird. I first saw its rich chestnut brown neck, upper flanks and cream striped breast, then a minute later its greeny grey back and finally its head with staring yellow eyes and a formidably large, dagger shaped bill. It walked left and was hidden once more by the reeds, then it caught two  newts in quick succession, swallowed them whole and walked the other way, only to be hidden from view once more. We waited to see if it would ever come out of the reeds but it looked unlikely. It was very small and I marvelled at  how well it could conceal itself in the small clumps of reed blades rising out of the water. Time drifted by but I still felt some optimism about the heron eventually showing itself fully. From previous experiences I knew that small herons like this often move position periodically and this might prove our chance to see it well, and so it came to pass as the tiny heron emerged from cover and stood in front of the reeds.

Like all of its kind, its movements were eternally slow and deliberate. Nothing was done in haste and it remained immobile for long periods although its eyes were constantly moving and scanning the water for unwary prey. After some time just standing, it slowly made its way along the edge of the pond, on enormous yellow feet, towards a small tree hanging over the pond, which it then flew up into and scrambled about in the branches and twigs before endeavouring to perch at the edge of the tree so it could survey the water below.

It soon decided this was not to its liking and was unlikely to bring any success in capturing any of the fish or amphibians in the pond and scrambled back into the heart of the tree, before suddenly flying out from the tree and towards us, landing on a small isolated log in the pond, one end of which stood proud of the water and right in front of us,

Here, at last was our chance. And what a chance. The Green Heron was now fully out in the open and completely exposed but was totally focused on fishing and ignored us completely. Cameras went into overdrive as about fifteen birders took the opportunity to  record this extra special bird.

The log the heron had landed upon was hardly the best or most convenient perch from which to look for prey but the heron contorted itself with its huge yellow feet gripping the log tightly so it could look over the water to seek any unwary fish or newt. It sat there for quite a while virtually immobile but with its eyes, as ever, constantly scanning the water for any sign of movement below.

It noticed something moving in the water and extended its head and neck parallel with the pond's surface, its head and formidable bill pointed purposefully at whatever was  attracting its attention. It was like a coiled spring, its whole body tense and absolutely motionless as it prepared to strike.

When it did it was a flying lunge, a couple of metres out into the water but whatever it was trying to catch escaped and the heron, looking a little foolish, briefly floundered in the water before swimming back to its log and, after a good feather shaking to remove the water, resumed its hunched hunting posture.

It extended its head and neck several times over a period of some thirty minutes, looking each time as if it was about to strike but there was no successful outcome.

Then a very strange thing happened, for the heron slowly extended its neck upwards until it was pointing its head and bill, with neck now fully stretched, towards the heavens.Not only that but its body feathers were compressed and it stood with its legs fully extended making it look remarkably attenuated. I have only ever seen a Bittern do this when they are taken by surprise or are alarmed

The Green Heron looked  as if it was making itself as inconspicuous as possible, imitating by its attenuated appearance, the spikes and stems of the reeds that surrounded it in the pond. Possibly it did this because of its exposed position on the log which was well away from any cover, such as the reeds at the edge of the pond. I can only assume that it had noticed something in the sky above which alarmed it, maybe a passing raptor or possibly a much larger Grey Heron, which we had seen flying over earlier. Watching the Green Heron closely I could see its eyes looking upwards following whatever was passing above it but by the time I diverted my attention away from the Green Heron whatever it was that had troubled it had gone and the heron slowly relaxed and resumed its hunched stance on the log.

We carried on watching it as, every so often, it continued to get excited by a movement in the pond but each time it proved a false alarm and nothing came of it. Then without warning it flew closer to us, landing in a narrow band of reeds below the near bank of the pond, which from our position made it virtually invisible.

The show was over and according to others around us, who had become familiar with its behaviour over the past two days, it would be a couple of hours before it re-emerged. We waited some fifteen minutes, just enjoying the atmosphere of this lovely place and chatting to other birders around us.The heron was now partially visible again and caught a Great Crested Newt but decided it preferred to fly to the reeds on the far bank to consume it, and on landing in front of them purposefully and deliberately walked into them and was gone from view.

More than happy with what we had seen and experienced we took our leave and commenced a leisurely walk back to the car.

The house and gardens where we observed the Green Heron belong to one Simon Hart, Tory MP for Carmarthen West and South Pembrokeshire. I did not know at the time of our visit that the house owner was Mr Hart nor was I aware that he was, from 2003-2010, Chief Executive of The Countryside Alliance, supporters of fox hunting and other blood sports. He is still paid £30,000 per year by The Countryside Alliance for eight hours work a week. Nice work if you can get it! He also had put a bucket out for donations to Songbird Survival, another dubious organisation keen on killing raptors, disguised in the name of conservation. I felt honour bound not to put a penny in the bucket.

Whilst grateful to Mr Hart for his generosity in allowing us onto his property to see the heron and even providing free tea and coffee if you wanted it, I am glad I was unaware of his association with The Countryside Alliance at the time of my visit as I do not think I or my fellow birders would find much to agree on as he is very much pro fox hunting and badger culling and also a critic of the RSPCA.

Mr Hart wrote an account for RBA, of how he found the Green Heron whilst mowing the grass and in the process flushed the heron from the reeds on the edge of his pond and subsequently got two local birders to identify it. I had to chuckle when he went on in his account to recount how he saw the Green Heron catch and swallow several small Rudd from the pond. This, in the same week that a much larger fish, also called Rudd (Amber), instigated her own demise from the current Conservative Government.

You really could not make it up!

And a Nightingale Sang .......... 28th April 2018

                         
                               
                                   So sweet, so shrill, so variously she sung,
                                   That the grove echoed, and the valleys rung;
                                   And I so ravished with her heavenly note,
                                   I stood entranced, and had no room for thought,
                                   But all o'erpowered with ecstacy of bliss,
                                   Was in a pleasing dream of paradise ........

                             Anon, late 15th century. Adapted by John Dryden, 1700

I cannot survive a Spring without hearing the song of a Nightingale at least once. Here in Oxfordshire they are rare and somehow do not fit my mood even if I find one. Probably I am biased as I first became familiar with their song in Sussex, where I lived many years ago, standing in bluebell woods on warm evenings and nights or during Spring days when the winds were still chill as the Nightingales sang constantly, night and day, from the impenetrable and mysterious depths of bushes and brambles below the South Downs.

It therefore seems appropriate to take myself back to Sussex each year to listen to them once again and indulge myself in a bitter sweet melancholy about the happy times I spent in Sussex. Collecting Moth at 5am we set off for the RSPB's reserve at Pulborough in West Sussex. The longed for sunshine was conspicuously absent and it was a grey and overcast early morning, even raining occasionally, as we made our way south. Not the best weather in which to seek out this famed bird or lift our spirits.

Nightingales are on the extreme northwest of their range in Britain and are declining due to loss of habitat and were once far more common in Britain than they are now. The national population has declined by ninety percent in the last fifty years to around four thousand pairs.They are abundant in the Mediterranean, and Spain, Italy and France where each still have expanding populations of up to a million pairs. In Britain they are confined south of a line running from the Humber to the Severn and in recent years have retreated  southeast, so that most pairs are concentrated between Hampshire and Norfolk. They are extinct in Wales and have never been recorded breeding in Scotland or Ireland. 

Thankfully Sussex still holds reasonable numbers.  

The continuing threat to the Nightingale is currently being made only too apparent as Medway Council in Kent, despite a petition from twelve thousand people objecting and having had their original plan rejected. have defied national planning rules and gone ahead and included Lodge Hill, which is recognised as now the best site in Britain for breeding Nightingales and is a Site of Special Scientific Interest, in a new draft local plan that continues to designate Lodge Hill as being suitable for thousands of new homes. I despair, I really do.

We made good time in getting to Pulborough and arrived at the reserve at around seven. At this time the reserve was virtually deserted which was our reason for getting up so early as we could try and find a singing Nightingale without having to negotiate the many visitors that were bound to come to this popular reserve on a weekend.

We walked down the damp track to a little wooden bridge over a stream where traditionally a Nightingale is usually found singing in most years. Nightingale's are notoriously skulking birds and difficult to see as they sing through the day from a hidden perch deep in their favourite habitat of dense scrub and bushy thickets. The birds sing both night and day and it is said that they sing best at night but this may be because there is little competition from other songbirds and the Nightingale's song consequently sounds all the purer. 

Pulborough has developed something of a reputation for harbouring Nightingales that are more willing to sing in the open than is usual. Today, however, there was not a sight or sound of a Nightingale. The songs of Common Whitethroat, Blackcap, Chiffchaff and Willow Warbler were the only birdsong we could hear thus far.

The reserve was forlorn looking in the grey morning light and a little depressing after the overnight and early morning rain, and grey clouds loomed low and oppressive over the reserve.We walked back a little way up the track and stood to listen at another favoured spot but still there was not a Nightingale singing. And thus it remained for some while until, finally, a brief few seconds of Nightingale song came from a dense patch of bushes and tangle a little way off the track. Just a few notes came but they were unmistakeable. So loud and rich, quite unlike anything else that can be heard in the woods of Britain. A Blackcap had been singing close to us, its song loud and pure but on hearing the Nightingale you realise that here is a higher dimension of song altogether and just how much more powerful is the sound, the notes with an acoustic equivalent of rich treacle that seems to flow through the wood, an extraordinary depth and luxuriousness of sound which reduces the Blackcap's short melodic warble to relative insignificance. In fact a Nightingale's song can reach ninety five decibels which is the equivalent to standing twenty five feet from a passing motorbike!

Eventually the Nightingale sang for a prolonged period and then the fabled notes came fast, typically always in short phrases of exquisite beauty, each phrase with a considered silence in between as if the bird is reflecting on what it has just sung or contemplating what phrase to sing next. Most heart rending were the extended, almost beseeching single notes given three, four or even five times in succession and left hanging in the air, as it commenced to sing after one of its brief pauses. These notes seem to contain an emotion that comes from the soul, troubling even, and that touches something within that is almost too poignant to contemplate.

The Nightingale's song. which can contain up to two hundred and fifty different phrases, surely should  not belong here, in the marginal tangles and scrubby places of small trees, scattered hedgerows and nettle patches in which it chooses to nest but in the Nightingale's winter home of deep tropical forests where everything is gigantic and fecund. African forests, untouched and untrod by any human, dark and mysterious, hot and steamy with heat rising from the depths of loamy rainforest floors. But no, the Nightingale cares not a jot. Its song by chance of evolution is magnificent and is, like every other bird that sings, its way of advertising itself and it is us with our superior intelligence and consequent capacity for emotion and imagination that place such store on it. But I nevertheless rejoice that it is so.

The Nightingale  we listened to remained invisible so I suggested we walk further into the reserve to other places where I had seen Nightingales in years past. A Cuckoo called and flew across a field as we followed a winding track and we met a man with a camera coming the other way who told us he had just received a call from his wife about a young Tawny Owl sat in a large Oak tree by a small track near the West Mead Hide. This was too good to pass up and we followed him and came across his wife who pointed out the owlet sitting steadfastly on a large bough above us and just a little way in from the path. 

Juvenile Tawny Owl

It remained perched here with eyes firmly closed and did not move as we took its picture. Perhaps there was a slight inclination of its head in response to our chattering below but if so it was hardly discernible Still with a lot of grey fluffy down adhering to its feathers we could see that its wings were almost fully formed although probably not capable of permitting it to fly strongly and they had the brown and buff marbled colouring of a fully grown bird. Brown patches elsewhere on its body indicated other adult feathers would soon be evident. One of its parents had been seen nearby earlier but had now disappeared although presumably it would come back to feed the owlet during the following night. 

It has been a long time since I have seen a newly fledged Tawny Owl so we spent quite some time with it. Young owls such as this often lack the innate instinct of adults to hide themselves away and can often perch openly. Having spent the first few weeks of its life in a hole with probably others, it is understandable that it would want to move to more congenial surroundings and it also makes sense for the brood, once they are capable, to disperse to various points nearby so as to reduce the risk of predation. 

We tried, unsuccesfully it has to be said, to get a photo of the owl without some annoying leaves and twigs getting in the way. Unfortunately the young owl was not inclined to move an inch and remained stoically rooted to the bough so we made the best of it.

With the owl statuesque there was little point in remaining and we left it to itself and returned to the Nightingale which was now singing more regularly and eventually showed itself but was always careful to remain partially hidden, perched on a spray deep in the tangle of branches and twigs that it had made its summer home. There was not to be the brazen exhibitionism of its kind that I had encountered in previous years at Pulborough (see below).

Nightingales at Pulborough in 2016

Nonetheless by being patient we managed to locate the Nightingale each time it flew up into a bush or small tree to sing and on some occasions it gave reasonably good views although always partially obscured by the odd branch, twig or leaf. 

They are non descript birds, about six inches long, slightly larger than a Robin with russet brown upperparts and a similarly coloured, slightly broad and rounded tail. The underparts are a dull buff grey completing a plumage that suits very well its habitat and the fact it feeds and nests on the ground.

It sang for short periods, interspersed with absences and silence. Occasionally it would reveal its invisible presence by uttering a frog like croaking alarm call and later would begin to sing again.We watched as two birds chased each other at high speed, virtually tail to tail, around and around the centre of a small tree, their wings flicking, dodging between the twigs with a dexterity that was truly amazing. It looked like the male was displaying to a female, as he fanned his russet tail and partially opened his wings, following the female to where she disappeared into a bank of nettles under some thick bushes by the track, while he remained perched on a branch watching. After a short period he recommenced singing.

We left the Nightingale once more and walked around the entire reserve, following the trails to the various hides, admiring the bluebells, violets and primroses that lined the banks and edges of the trails. Our walk revealed another three singing Nightingales but none of these were visible, all hidden deep in tangled vegetation. We returned via the path that ran under the Oak tree providing a temporary home to the young Tawny Owl  and as far as I could see it had not moved an inch.

We returned to the Nightingale and realised quite some time had passed un-noticed, as now the reserve was getting populated and a noisy group of children made the Nightingale shy and although it carried on singing intermittently afterwards, it remained invisible, retreating further back into the sanctuary of the trees and bushes.

We headed back to the Visitor Centre and after a coffee set off for home.