Swifts Personality of the Year

One of my favourite Summer birds is the Swift.

It has featured in several Imperfect and Tense blogs over the years, most notably "Air on G's Tring" in May 2009 and "Sleeping with Swifts" in May 2011. They even had a mention in September 2009 via a Peatbog Faeries track that featured their screaming calls as a backing 'vocal'.

But today, I was saddened to read of the tough time they're having this year, following all the wet weather that has occurred in late Spring/early Summer. The article was on the BBC News webpage, under Science and Environment, and can be found here.

And to really bring home the message, a great friend and follower of Imperfect and Tense, John Day, appeared on BBC Radio 4's Farming Today programme this morning, explaining in his own inimitable way, just how difficult a time these birds are having.

Thanks, JD, from me and the swifts. We appreciate all the efforts that you and your colleagues are putting in.

May Day celebrations

Not having a herd of cattle, or indeed the requisite two bonfires to drive them between as a rite of purification, I decided to give this year's Beltane ceremony a miss. For the last century or so, many cultures have seen the 1st of May as more of a commemoration of workers' rights, but to this scribe, May is all about fresh green growth and abundant birdsong, with its first day being a dead cert for damsels and dragons.

The weather forecast wasn't great, there'd not been a confirmed sighting of Odonata in the county and our pond was refusing to give up its secrets, so I wasn't as chipper about May Day as I could've been. This notwithstanding, whilst my usual partners in crime were otherwise engaged, I decided to head down to the local reserve for some sensory overload of a green and verdant nature.

At this point, I should confess that I wasn't actually alone, as these days when I'm out wildlife watching, Wrong Len always seems to be hanging around. He's not a criminal, he doesn't have an evil bone in his body, he will always try to do what's best, he's just Wrong Len.

To explain, he is the optical equivalent of someone with schizophrenia, a camera with a split personality. Sometimes Len is "normal" (18-55mm) and sometimes he's "larger than life" (70-300mm), but invariably, which ever one he is, it won't be appropriate for the occasion.

All this was far from my thoughts when I arrived at the reserve and stood by the bridge beside the study centre. For there, amongst several manic Crane Flies, was a slightly bigger, fluttering insect with a longer, thinner body and a pale red colouration. My first Large Red Damselfly of the year. Gender unknown, but probably taking its first ever flight after a year as an aquatic larva.

As I walked through the reserve, listening to all the species of warbler to be heard, Blackcap, Garden W, Chiffchaff, Willow W, Whitethroat, Lesser Whitethroat, Sedge W, Reed W, Cettis' W and Grasshopper W, it crossed my mind that that's "insect-eating warbler", isn't it. Oh bugger, not such a great day to be the only damselfly in the place! Oh well, that's Nature, the food chain isn't a chain if you remove any of the links, a fact that I occasionally regret when Springwatch show footage of "those darling chicks" being fed beakfuls of damselflies. Or as a species, we humans often forget, when we wipe out whole ecosystems for short term gain or illegal purposes.

Let's drag this blog back to a happier place for the time being. The bees were busy amongst the newly-flowering Comfrey and apparently doing stunts for the camera...

Out on the lake, the resident male Mute Swan had his hands, er... wings full with about 35 non-breeding Swans, and he spent the morning paddling furiously up and down trying to persuade them all to leave. It was like the antithesis of One Man and his Dog, trying to disperse as many large white creatures as possible in the longest time. Not great telly, but you get the idea.

After nipping home for lunch, I returned again to record another teneral damsel, this time, fortuitously, in the car park. She was definitely a lady, with many more dark markings on her abdomen, as I spotted her flutter from a nettle bed to some brambles.

Back in the hide, I was watching the continuing battle of the swans, when I noticed a vixen hunting on the bund. Wrong Len then put in an appearance, so all I have to show for it is this...

                             

Once our lass had finished work, she was keen for a breath of fresh air, so I had my third trip of the day to the reserve. Whilst watching a flock of Swifts, which was another first for the year, we were treated to a flypast by a male Cuckoo. Then we had our obligatory viewing of Swan Wars, before Her Outdoors spotted a Curlew, an Oystercatcher and several Little Ringed Plovers.

I love May!

Think Pink

This morning, I am aroused from my slumbers by a sweet sound. It is not yet dawn and through the heavy drapes of the room it is not possible to detect an increase in light level, only a lessening of the darkness.

I lie there trying to resolve what my ears are telling me, wondering if I'm still asleep and dreaming.

The dawn chorus is well underway, in fact, as I regain consciousness, I realise that it is predominantly every male blackbird in the area. But behind their joyful song is the peeling of church bells. Ah, yes, Easter Sunday. This is most surreal. A combination of sounds that is as familiar as it is strange. Then understanding slowly rises over the horizon of my mind. Pink Floyd.

High Hopes from Floyd's The Division Bell album is framed by a Song Thrush and a tolling church bell, (as well as a piano, but that would be too strange at 05.54 on a Sunday morning). Intro and outro. It's simplicity belies the emotive power it stirs.

Other rock tracks spring to mind, Mike Oldfield's Tubular Bells 3 that ends with a Robin and a Wren; Faerie Stories by PBF, with its Swifts and a Robin; and more humbly but increasingly rarer, House Sparrows on the intro to Xanadu by Rush. "Increasingly rarer"? That must be a contradiction, surely?

Bird song, bells and rock music, a heady combination. I think we know who are the real Priests of the Temples of Syrinx. I am sorry Geddy, Neil and Alex, but that little piece of anatomy that allows birds to flute and warble to such beautiful effect deserves a better press.

All is quiet now, except for the occasional Robin, a Wren here, a Song Thrush there, the bells are silent once more. Man and Nature have both welcomed the new day in a manner they see fit.

At least I know why the birds were singing, their devotion to their faith is bound to the seasons and the wheel of life.

Of mustelids and meals

Where did those two weeks go? I'd just about got the hang of trolling along, maintaining the correct work/life balance, when blogging upset the apple cart and I'm back to Square One.

Despite extracating myself from behind my desk for a few days, being sat on top of a 12 storey building in the middle of a city wasn't an utter naturefest, would you believe? A dozen or so Starlings on pre-roost and a family of Mistle Thrushes were the sum total of the wildlife distractions. Apart from the Swifts of course. Swifts? In late September? W-e-l-l, kinda. The title song from the Peatbog Faeries "Faery Stories", strangely called "Faery Stories", has Swifts as the backing track. What a glorious thing to do and it certainly cheered up my drives up and down the M6. That and the early mornings with atmospheric patches of mist and the low sun flaring off the autumn colours on the trees.

We've finally been on our anniversary weekend jaunt, combined with a "visit the family" trip to County Durham, Land of the Prince Bishops and Cricket County Champions. We booked into a country hotel in Croft on Tees, Clow Beck House, and what a sumptuous place it was. Us simple folk aren't used to complimentary slippers! The food was fab, with as many veggie options as meatatarian ones and the staff were so welcoming and helpful. We'd barely had time to recover from the evening meal, when it was time for the cooked breakfast. After we'd checked out on the Sunday morning, we ambled around their garden, taking in the sights, sounds and smells of early autumn and were surprised to spot a weasel. Amazingly, it was doing that stuff that you normally only ever see on Springwatch, leaping around like a mad thing and performing crazy back flips, without ever being too perturbed about our presence.

We met up with my brother and his wife for lunch in the sleepy village of Stapleton. Sleepy, that is until the pub opened and the population of Darlington decamped to the carvery, leaving their cars all around the village green. If the local football team had that amount of support, they wouldn't be in such financial straits. Sunday roast came with dish after dish of vegetables, and we all had to admit defeat and forego dessert. No, really!

Air on G's Tring

Out of the wind, it is a pleasant, warm evening. Unfortunately, it is difficult to avoid the cold blasts of a chilly Easterly, but a walk in the fresh air has been prescribed. Our route takes us beside a patch of scrub that has designs on being open woodland. The wind swirls through the young trees, whose branches and leaves whip to and fro with each gust.

Suddenly a flock of hirundines swoop down, feeding on insects that have been thrown into the air. We stand and stare as Swallows, House Martins and Swifts expertly use the buffeting breeze to catch an easy meal. These birds are so agile on the wing and they are using their aeronautical abilities to good effect.

I must confess that I do miss living in a home that is not shared with House Martins (for once, I will forego the musical reference). We have often stayed in a cottage in Shropshire, where their mud nests are tucked under the eaves above the bedroom window. I find it most relaxing to listen to their neighbourly chatter of twitters and chirps. Perhaps this is why I feel that the House Martin is often unfairly overshadowed by the flashy Swallow with its red mask and long, forked tail. In comparison, much like the Hawker Hurricane always played second fiddle to the Supermarine Spitfire. Just as successful and hard working and deserving of praise, but not so cemented in the national psyche.

Following the analogy, I guess the Swift is the larger but equally manoeuvrable stablemate to the Spitfire, the de Havilland Mosquito, designed around the concept that it was so fast it didn't need armament.

This reminds me of an incident two years ago, when we were on a birding trip to Tring reservoirs. The weather deteriorated during the day, so that by the time we reached the dam head of Wilstone reservoir, we were caught in a thunderstorm. In retrospect, probably not the best of places to be. Soaked to the skin, but glad to be alive, we watched the storm clouds roll away. Then, without warning, we found ourselves in the middle of a flock of swifts, feeding off the insects driven into the air by the strong wind as it hit the dam head. I had never experienced such a large gathering of these birds, never mind at such low altitude and close quarters. As they scythed through the air around us, catching their prey, we could even hear the snap of their beaks. A dark, streamlined, looming death. Predictably, this proved difficult to record with a camera, this being my... er... best shot.

I was just so glad that the initial concept was "no armament"!