Kingfishers in Oxfordshire 13th February 2019

This year in my own fair county of Oxfordshire I have had the good fortune to discover a bird hide overlooking a large pool which is visited by two very special birds and have so far spent a number of happy hours in the oft deserted hide watching the irregular comings and goings of a pair of Kingfishers.

Oxfordshire with its slow moving rivers, streams and quiet lakes is prime habitat for Kingfishers which like nothing better than to sit above the sluggish water on a handy perch and await an unsuspecting fish or aquatic invertebrate to betray itself.

The River Thames is literally a few metres away from the pool and the Kingfishers commute from the river, where they will soon excavate a hole in a mud bank in which to raise their young, to the pool and doubtless they visit other areas of still or slow moving water within their territory.

I got there early in the morning but had made a grave miscalculation concerning the weather.The forecast was for a pleasant sunny day but clear skies overnight and a consequent plummeting temperature resulted in a heavy frost the next morning and worse, the pool was frozen over when I arrived. The sun was slowly rising and would eventually melt the thin layer of ice but it would be some time before it did. Fortunately the water below the Kingfisher's favourite perches in an alder tree by the pond was still ice free due to a pair of Mallards swimming around in  it, so there was still hope the Kingfishers would come.

It was numbingly cold in the hide, several degrees colder than outside. I opened the hide door and  all the viewing slats to allow some warmer air to permeate the spartan interior but it made little difference. I sat on the hard bench, hunkered into my goose down jacket and awaited developments. Two bird feeders hanging from the alder were attracting a lot of attention from Great and Blue Tits, Goldfinches and Reed Buntings whilst underneath other Reed Buntings, Chaffinches and a female Pheasant were making a good living from picking up the seed falling from the feeders above.

A Great Spotted Woodpecker swooped in and played peekaboo around the trunk and thicker branches of the alder before commandeering the peanut feeder, scattering the smaller birds in the process. A Green Woodpecker called distantly in the cold still air and two Muntjac deer, their winter coats dark brown, nibbled at emerging plant shoots in a field of rough grass beyond the pool. 

Slowly the sun crept across the stands of dead reeds, transforming the close packed stems to gold and I could hear a gentle cracking sound as the sun's warmth began melting the ice covered water within the reed bed.  Drips kissed miniature circles onto the open water below the alder as the hoar frost melted from the tree's branches, twigs and catkins.

The plan was to sit quietly in the hide and await the appearance of a Kingfisher, male or female. They usually announce their high speed arrival with a piercing shrill whistle, a streamlined call, not unlike that of a speeding steam train, and land near to the hide on a horizontal, narrow branch of the alder, conveniently overhanging the waters of the pond. 

Both the male and female Kingfisher initially visited but the female was by far the more frequent. They were rarely seen together apart from one high speed circuit of the pond, as, like two shining blue missiles, they rocketed around in close formation, beak to tail and then cleared the surrounding trees and headed for the river.

Male Kingfisher told by its all black bill

Two hours passed before the ice had finally gone and although the Kingfishers had visited during that time they were obviously dissatisfied with the situation and quickly departed for more suitable unfrozen waters.

Eventually a Kingfisher returned and with the water now defrosted remained to fish.

Female Kingfisher told by the fact it has a mainly red lower mandible

There was a brief interlude as the Kingfisher, after landing in the tree first faced one way and then the other on the branch, finding a stance and position that it was comfortable with. A few brief bobs of the head followed, as if sizing up range and distance, a flick of its tiny blue square of a tail, then it looked intently down at the water, its long bill held at a downward angle, ready to plunge into the shallow water on sighting a small fish or water beetle. 

It dropped like a stone into the water and returned to the narrow branch to eat the captured prey, its orange breast feathers still with tiny droplets of water adhering to them, and then sat for a short while before flying to another perch across the pond to repeat the exercise.

On a couple of occasions the Kingfisher descended from its perch to hover just above the water's surface, holding its body vertically on rapidly whirring wings for a brief spell, its short tail and large head bent slightly forwards before it dropped into the water.

It rarely failed to seize whatever had caught its eye. I saw the female catch a small fish once but mainly she seemed to be catching water boatman beetles.

The female Kingfisher has caught what appears to be a water 
boatman beetle

Note the mud on the tip of the female Kingfisher's bill which 
indicates she is already excavating a nest hole

Sometimes the Kingfisher chose to perch in the reeds on the further side of the pond, the thin reed stems are bleached to beige by winter at this time of year but within their close packed stands, the azure blue of the Kingfisher's back shone like a miniature vivid lightening bolt,  jewelled bling in the bland washed out colours of the myriad reed stems. 

So light is the Kingfisher that the thin reed stem on which it was perched only bent slightly as it bore the weight of the Kingfisher's compact form, before, with another shrill whistle, the Kingfisher departed, flying away through the surrounding tree's with incredible dexterity and speed,  towards the nearby river. 

It was gone.

For long periods the pond was deserted and the Kingfishers were nowhere to be seen and it became tedious to be sat on the hard unforgiving bench in a cold unprepossessing hide but the anticipation of one or both of the Kingfisher's next arrival kept my spirits up, knowing that when I heard that shrill whistle I would be once more energised and primed for another imminent but all too brief audience with this avian crown jewel.

There is nothing I can add to the cascade of words and poetry that has been written in praise of the Kingfisher over the centuries it has been known to man, even Aristotle wrote of it, and so I sit and wait until it once more comes close to me if only for a minute or two.

That is all that is required. All that I ask.

Bumbarrels 10th February 2019

Bumbarrel is an old country name for the Long Tailed Tit and somehow encapsulates both the personality and appearance of this delicate and engaging member of our British avifauna. Flocks of roving Long tailed Tits are a common sight in woods and hedgerows and, increasingly, are becoming so in gardens too.

Recently my peanut feeders have been regularly visited by Long tailed Tits which despite their minute and supposedly delicate bills seem able to chip away at the peanuts and obtain fragments of nut to consume. A whole nut is beyond their capabilities but small flakes of the nut seem manageable although their diet normally only consists of invertebrates.

This afternoon I noticed that a single Long tailed Tit was persistently hanging around the peanuts which is very unusual, in that they are rarely seen alone but usually seen in  the company of at least one other of their kind while at this time of year they are more often in a small flock. They are also normally only interested in the peanuts for a very brief period, just a minute or so before moving on. 

This Long tailed Tit sat on the bare stem of a rambling rose entwining a pergola waiting until the other tits vacated the feeders and then flew down to chip away at the nuts. It was a bit of a trial as it was constantly being chivvied and threatened by both Great and Blue Tits and only had a chance few seconds to feed from the peanuts before conceding its position on the feeder to its larger and more aggressive cousins. Rather than fly away it retreated a few feet to the back of the pergola and sat there quietly amongst the rose stems awaiting another opportunity.

Watching from my window, no more than a few feet away, I could study it at leisure as it perched quietly. In fact I became worried about its state of health as it sat with eyes half closed and feathers fluffed as if something ailed it. Maybe it had caught some infection from the feeders although I am careful to clean them regularly.  For fully five minutes it remained this way and I became ever more anxious as it is so unusual to see this hyperactive species so completely still. But my concern was misplaced as I could see its head was constantly moving, observing everything going on around it. Even though motionless it was fully alert  and then it flew  away strongly. I thought that was that but ten minutes later it was back, this time in its usual hyperactive form and attacking the peanuts only to once more be pushed off them by the larger tits.

It was, however, a persistent little thing, maybe riven by hunger following the cold spell and flew no more than a few feet away to await another opportunity and the other birds around showed no aggression towards it, unless it was on the peanuts. They are pretty little birds and their tiny retrousse bill and vole like black button eyes in a large, rounded head, make them totally enchanting. It is impossible to look at them and not be influenced by their endearing and innocent charm.

Their plumage has, unlike the other tits, no trace of yellow or green and is a mixture of white, black and shades of pink, the domed head and round body looking like the business end of a lollipop stuck onto the end of their very long tail. Occasionally and almost unbelievably, considering their size, some cross the North Sea to spend a winter in Britain. Such birds are very rare and often have pure white heads and if it is possible appear even more delightful than our native birds. They are affectionately known as 'Snowballs'.

A 'Snowball' showing the distinctive all white head. One of a pair 
that I saw at Aldeburgh in Suffolk in 2010

Eventually the lone Long tailed Tit was joined by another of its kind, then another and yet another until collectively there were five which is a more usual circumstance. Now emboldened by numbers they swarmed over the peanuts and the other tits gave way but it was not long before their restless nature persuaded them to move on, departing as ever with an incessant trilling conversation, clinging acrobatically, upside and downside, swinging from the twigs of large bushes as they progressed, studiously searching for the minute invertebrates on which they normally survive. Then one departed further onwards up high into a large tree and as night follows day so the others followed, with tiny whirring wings, in a straggling, haphazard procession of excitable delight. 

It will not be long now before such flocks split up to  form pairs and begin building a nest, for they are very early breeders, commencing often in the middle of February, placing a nest which is an avian marvel of moss. lichen, cobwebs and feather construction, in a dense blackthorn bush or bramble. Sometimes a pair will receive assistance from another or others, usually a close relative. This bond is maintained after the breeding season and often a flock will consist of the nesting adults and their offspring as well as 'aunts' and 'uncles' that have helped in raising the young.

Prolonged cold spells hit this delicate bird hard and the population can be reduced by up to 80% but they have a large number of young and provided the weather is benign in following years they soon restore their numbers. In winter, especially when it is very cold, they will huddle up together at their night time roost, forming a feathered lump to warm one another, lined up on a sheltered thin twig, deep in a bush. When seen like this I defy anyone with a heart not to feel totally captivated. 

Shoveler Salvation at Otmoor 7th February 2019

A morning of immense frustration dealing with estate agents and solicitors concerning a pending house move put me completely out of sorts and required some rapid therapy in the form of quiet and solitude.

Despite a forecast of heavy cloud the weather by the afternoon was bright, with welcome sunny spells, enough to persuade me that Otmoor might be just the place to sit and get my scrambled sensibilities back into some sort of order. I reasoned that Otmoor on a mid week Wednesday afternoon was hardly going to be popular with my fellow birders. And so it turned out to be.

Drawing up in the car park I found myself parked next to David, the Reserve Manager who cheerfully told me 'It's pretty quiet'. Normally this would be the kiss of death but today was different. It did not really matter as birds came second to my desire for some peace and quiet. However if birds could be involved that would surely be therapeutic too.

No matter what, there is always something to take one's interest when birding, even in the most unpromising of situations.

The air was absolutely still as this part of England was currently languishing  between weather fronts. Tomorrow promised high winds but on this afternoon, a sepulchral calm hung over the wide expanses of Otmoor as I walked along the bridleway.

My vague plan, if I had any, was to make the long walk out to the second screen to sit there in solitary contemplation and look out over the reeds and lagoon, letting my mind go into freefall. There was also the alluring chance of encountering the stonechats that have been a feature at this spot over the last couple of weeks.

Walking out I encountered no other birder but at least three volunteer wardens! Strolling up the track from the first screen to the second screen I came across a flock of around a thousand Golden Plover and in the company of about half that number of Lapwing, all feeding in one of the grass fields adjacent to the track. The Golden Plovers, their dull gold plumage harmonising with the winter grasses, were keeping up a constant wheedling of reedy calls, bunched in a close congregation, whilst the Lapwings, their contrasting black and white colouring making them much more evident, were more spaced apart.

A female Reed Bunting perched in a hawthorn waited, as I approached, until the very last minute before her nerve failed her and she departed in a fluster of streaked brown and white outer tail feathers.

Female Reed Bunting

On getting to the second screen I was, as I hoped alone, and with no sign of any stonechats I sat and looked out to the far hills across the muddy lagoon. Some Gadwall drifted out of the reeds and then drifted back. A male Common Pochard  appeared and submerged for a brief spell of feeding but then thought better of it and rejoined his duller female, lurking with the Gadwall around the reeds. A Cetti's Warbler, its song more an exclamation than anything harmonious and prolonged, announced its presence from the reeds across the lagoon.

A Peregrine hurtled over the screen, low, with violence on its mind and disappeared over the lagoon's bund, its onward progress announced by a squall of Lapwing rising rapidly into the sky away towards the distant village of Oddington.

I sat for an hour and as equanimity was gradually regained I headed back along the track to the first screen. Looking out on the lagoon that lay before me from the first screen, all was calm and still, the surrounding reed beds lit golden by occasional shafts of sunlight. A Marsh Harrier, drifted slowly across the furthest reed bed and then side slipped with graceful ease, dropping down into the reeds and out of sight not to re-appear.

The view from the First Screen

The still waters of the lagoon before me were punctuated by many Shoveler, over fifty, the majority being males. Individual males were snug in the edge of the  reeds, betrayed by their startling white breasts, the brown streaked female with them, much less noticeable, almost part of the reeds.

Male and female Shoveler

The majority of  the Shovelers were, however, out on the water, a preponderance of dazzling coloured drakes. Their plumage of dark green head, chestnut flanks and white breast so very pleasing to the eye and at this time of year, perfection in both feather and form, the males made even more striking by the contrast of their bright plumage with the muted colours of their winter surroundings. 

I remember years ago, having just gone to Grammar School, how with a couple of like minded boys we formed a bird club and our first outing was on a Saturday to St James's Park to look at ducks other than our local park's ubiquitous Mallards that we were so used to. In our innocence it did not matter if the ducks in St James's Park were captive or not. They were different!  I can still recall my excitement, as on entering the park my eyes alighted for the first time ever on a pair of real live Shovelers. The drake, to an eleven year old schoolboy, possessing the most extraordinary bill you could imagine, twice as wide at the tip as at its base (the celebrated nature writer Mark Cocker described its bill as 'de Beregerac like.'),   and displaying a plumage of an almost unbelievable exotic combination of colours. It was such a tremendous thrill to see such a duck that, up to that moment, had only been possible to admire in dodgy bird books and dreamed about. 

Since then I have seen many Shovelers but to this day they still send a thrill through me and here were fifty plus disporting themselves right in front of me. Watching them it became obvious some sort of collective display and courtship was taking place amongst the assembled throng, as a number of unpaired drakes congregated around already paired females, obviously looking to usurp the female duck's current partner. As a male teal whistles and makes a noise like a cricket so I heard a strange and repeated guttural 'took'  sound come from the male Shovelers, a bit like the calling of a distant cock pheasant. Never having encountered this sound before or seen Shovelers collectively displaying in the way they were, I was, as mentioned earlier, fortuitously observing and learning something new, evidence if needed that if you are prepared to sit quietly for any period of time you will often be rewarded with the unexpected.

The male Shovelers paired to a female took great exception to the unwelcome intrusion of the unpaired males that were brazenly trying it on with any female that came close. It was a Shoveler variation of speed dating and there were many encounters where the paired male rushed through the water at any amorous suitor who took liberties and came rather too close. The inevitable result was that the suitor took to the air to avoid any conflict with the paired male dashing at him in a churn of water and thrashing wings. In the air yet more beauty was revealed as each of the fleeing male's spread wings showed a lavender blue forewing and emerald green speculum. 

On taking off the wings also made a curious and quite noticeable drumming sound. Something I have not heard or noticed before.

The Pursued!

The Pursuer!

Don't panic!

Despite this the amorous males did not seem to get the message and continued their attempts to muscle in on the pairs. Flying in a circuit over the reeds a displaced male would return to land on the water, and after a quick flap of its wings set about trying his luck again with yet another female. Obviously this was a way of sorting out the optimum pairing, the best drake for the best duck but as far as I could see there was no change in any of the existing pairings.

This behaviour carried on for quite some time with a constant activity of drakes rushing after one another across the water and flying around to escape the outraged partner of a female but at some unnoticed signal all the drakes seemed to decide it was time to call a truce and accept the situation and forming a close packed flock of both males and females, commenced feeding in harmony.

By watching the amorous Shovelers I had been absorbed into their world for an hour and on returning to my world found the anxieties that had beset me were far less than I had imagined and I left Otmoor musing over what I had seen and learned this afternoon  rather than suffering any further angst about the events of earlier in the day.

I was at one with the natural world once more. 

 

Postscript

I was curious about what I had observed of the Shoveler's behaviour at Otmoor and did some research in the literature. I learned that this gathering of so many Shovelers was a communal ceremonial display where they were in the process of commencing forming pairs before breeding later in the year and this communal display can often be so fragmented as to be easily overlooked. From what I could see this afternoon most pairs had formed but maybe this was not the case.

I also learned that the 'took' call I heard the drakes giving and the wing drumming as they took off were also part of this communal display.

.