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Birds, Ecology, Hill Farming, Uncategorized

Faux Christmas?

A friend of mine has just returned to the UK having lived for several years on the other side of the globe. She explains her disorientation in time and space on the disruption to her seasons (I have no excuse!). It’s mid-summer here and mid-winter in New Zealand, where those who suffer from European nostalgia have a pretend Christmas.

Here on our smallholding in Mid-Wales we do something similar — opening our gifts on one particular day. It’s exciting. It’s bird-ringing day! Not their necks so that we can roast them with pigs-in-blankets and plum pudding, but counting all the year’s baby birds, catching the fledgelings that are about to leave their nests and, in particular, those in our nest boxes and ringing them. A right of passage — a birdy Bar Mitzvah — we should have a party!

At a time when we feel we will be overwhelmed by the sheer fecundity of our temperate rain forest, it is good to have some positive feedback for our efforts for wildlife. We are engulfed in 8 foot bracken and torn at by wildly flailing tentacles of bramble that reach out across the tracks to grab us as the mower clogs and stalls yet again, which is just as well as it is overheating.

The cloud of buzzing flies that pursue us fails to reassure us that our local biosphere is healthy or that forswearing insecticides was a good idea. But counting birds does.

Jon and Jan

The stalwarts from the Habitat Protection group have made their annual visits and this year has been very good for blue tits — 52 chicks from 5 nest boxes. How’s’at for productivity! It represents a lot of caterpillars! Lots of work from this top-of -the-table, enterprising species.

A better year for our “target” species, the more endangered pied flycatcher. They produced 24 chicks from their 5 nests. Up 20% but one of their nests failed completely last year — we suspected a great spotted woodpecker. It’s harder for pied flycatchers as they are migrants and have to co-ordinate their arrival with the weather and the caterpillars, not to mention competing with the locals for nesting sites and finding each other again as the males arrive first.

Pied Flycatcher

There was only one nest of great tits but they produced 7 chicks.

Great tit fledgeling

Three of our 14 boxes were empty; today I noticed a great spotted woodpecker squarking a warning to its own fledgelings — wildlife is a balance.

They also ringed a treecreeper fledgling hopping about and keen to be included. They tend to nest in the holes between the roots of the oak trees and in the deep splits in trunks, we watched one earlier this year taking lots of spiders to a nest on the hill.

So, inspired by all this avian fertility, we bash on with re-establishing the tracks to maintain some sort of access to our wild areas and woodland and uncover the diversity that is appearing and a weighty crop of rowan berries and wild cherries that are already keeping the blackbirds and thrushes busy.

This is the time of the year when we regularly lose our well and it is quite important that we find it in its nest of horsetail ferns and overgrown by all this burgeoning diversity. Here it is and it’s full.

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Good year for Barn Owls!

Earlier this year more than 150 barn owl chicks were ringed all over this area of Mid and North Wales by those tireless volunteers that monitor the population. Our box yielded 4 (3 female and one male). Now safely fledged and flying. Today I disturbed a magnificent young bird sheltering from the heavy rain in our barn, perhaps assessing the suitability of the new box we put there, waiting for a tenant for next year.

I’m no carpenter! But watch this space!

Female barn owl, about 7 weeks old.

Maturity assessed by measuring the second flight feather. Females have speckles under their wings.

What beautiful birds they are.

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A Glimpse of 16th Century Cirencester

This chap looks bemused as well he might — an erstwhile Abbot of Cirencester whose image was smashed and buried in the ruins of his once rich and powerful Abbey — his name forgotten.

This was the Dissolution of the Monasteries which was not just about getting rid of King Henry VIII’s infertile wife. Like everything else it had a lot to do with money, and the reformation and getting rid of rich and decadent priests. It was a re-organisation — a re-directing of resources into education and defence — sound familiar?

Cirencester was a town doing well — wealth and opportunity based on farming and the wool trade. One man who benefitted from the demise of the Abbey was John Coxwell.

John Coxwell (1516-1618) pictured here at the age of 98!

John was a local entrepreneur, from humble beginnings he was surprisingly socially mobile, rising to the gentry, he had made a lot of money in the wool trade and bought much of the Abbey land. Like many driven men he had a robust constitution living until he was 101.

This was not the rule.

One young man’s three young wives lost in childbirth.

What you needed in those days was a good doctor.

Richard Masters, physician to Queen Elizabeth I and richly rewarded for good service with Abbey land and this silver gilt chalice the Boleyn Cup. He has a certain je ne sais quoi, don’t you think. He was a generous man and made many bequests in the town and gave his cup to the magnificent Parish Church of John Baptist.

Nothing like a grateful patient!

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Not Political — But…

Things are not necessarily the way the BBC leads us to expect — Today I awoke to radio warnings of major disruption — most generalised and widespread strikes for many years. Looking for excitement I set off with my camera to record this mass political action in an East Midlands post-industrial town. Firefighters, health workers, railway workers and teachers — all out?

Fire Station — Fire engines having a lie in — No picket line, no muscly men and athletic young women gathered round a brazier… Disappointing

Railway station quiet — should have pictured it for my friend Steve it as it is a fine example. Next stop — General Hospital…

Very quiet — no picket line — I walked all the way round — I saw 4 ambulances waiting peacefully to be deployed (both crew in the cab and not looking after patients in the back).

Sorry everyone — not very exciting. But wait! What have we here?

Two friendly lads in disconcerting ski masks practicing to be stunt men… That’s better! Sorry boys I should have got your names and asked if your teachers were on strike!

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Large, detached family home!

One careful resident, since refurbishment in 1603 — the Sackville family, who still live there though it is now owned by the nation and managed by the National Trust. Literary note: yes, Vita Sackville-West lived here for a time and was visited by her lover, Virginia Woolf, who wrote about the house in Orlando (1928).

NT Information board picture displayed by the cafe.

It was always said to be a Calendar House, with 365 rooms, 52 staircases, 12 entrances and 7 courtyards, P G Wodehouse added that it also had [only] 20 bathrooms! Modernisation has removed some staircases and added some yards, but it is certainly substantial — the footprint is 4 acres!

Before the dissolution of the monasteries, it was home to a series of archbishops of Canterbury, here is the tithe barn. Henry VIII put pressure on the last one, Archbishop Cranmer, to swap his splendid archbishop’s palace at Knole for various abbeys and monasteries between Canterbury and Dover. One wonders if the fine deer park was a factor — they say not.
A survivor of the hunting, but still uneasy.

Some of you know my preoccupation with drains and plumbing generally. One of the things that impressed me at Knole was the Jacobean leadwork — the magnificent ornamental rainwater heads with turrets and fretwork. Other examples have initials, dates, chequers, stars, chevrons and bartizans.

Thomas Sackville set his order of the garter from ERI on the pipe collars
Arms of Sir Thomas Sackville, 1st Earl of Dorset KG. Rs-nourse — own work CC BY-SA 3.0
Thomas, 1st Earl of Dorset
Lead Cistern in one of the courtyards. Initials LD, the arms of the order of the garter and half a date 17… Lionel Sackville received his in 1714. Became 1st Duke of Dorset in 1720…

But wait — I’ve found another photo.

1749 — what happened then? Can’t find out — maybe they just renovated the plumbing! Does anybody know?

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Happy New Year!

At last the cloud has lifted. We have said good-bye to all our covid-tested Christmas visitors — family now gone home leaving that empty anti-climax and separation sadness. But wait! — It is the beginning of the nature-watchers year!

This kestrel feels the same!

We’ve been up to Rutland Water, up before dawn and seen 46 different bird species for the first time in 2022 — including red kites and kestrel, 2 avocets —

There were 4 great white egrets, 3 curlews and lots of pintail ducks (this one with tail sadly depressed).

Several beautiful smew were enjoying the unseasonally warm weather.

There were more golden plover than you could shake a stick at and anyway I have given up my stick as my new knee is now fully commissioned!

We looked high

and low!

And we listened to the yaffle of the green woodpecker and the piping of the widgeon.

The RSPB rat, cleaning up under the bird feeders, came to say hello — I have a soft spot for rats!

We witnessed the ferocious battle between two cormorants as they wrestled for possession of a large fish which eventually got away. One bird attacked from the air, dragging the other below the surface of the now turbulent water, they were gone for a few moments then erupted again and again with more splashing and flailing of wings — what mastery of their elements — how silly… They lost the fish and sailed off in opposite directions looking embarrassed.

Great white egret — like some of the other illustrations, this was not actually taken today — spot the seasonal inconsistences!
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Fair Do!

Have you ever wondered why robins have such iconic status at this time of year?

It’s because they raise our spirits on miserable days — coming close as we garden in the winter rain. This week we have been excavating the old farm dump — decontaminating! Guess whose been helping? Actually (Bill points out) they use us (turn over this clod for me, will you?) They seem to like our company but they want our help (can you move this log?) They make us feel useful and you’ll catch yourself chatting to them as they flit about picking up the creepy crawlies that your digging uncovers. They used to sit still when we sketched them or painted them and now they come in close when we want to photograph them. You don’t need a great long lens to snap this little chap. He may be a cliche but he is most obliging!

Merry Christmas!

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Bats!

When you have lived in a place for a long time you can become accustomed to its variety, even as its flora and wildlife change week by week. Showing it to someone new is an opportunity to throw off that familiarity that blunts your perception and see through refreshed eyes.

We have been playing with a new bat detector — a little gizmo that lowers the frequency of the otherwise inaudible echo location calls of bats into the audible range producing a sound we can hear and a pattern we can recognize and use to identify the species of bat as it flashes past.

Around our house in Wales we have recently identified pipistrelle, common and soprano, and noctules. The sopranos have higher pitched calls peaking at 55kHz, common ones at 45kHz. The detector makes one much more aware of their presence especially in the trees where there is much more activity than we had thought. It helps to demonstrate just how many and how busy these airborne insectivores are.

To aid identification one individual stopped by in my bedroom. He seemed very torpid and I was able to transport his sleeping body to the woodshed where he rested for a suspiciously long time.

Further investigation confirmed his extremely poor state of health and we buried him.

The following week the local bat group came to look at the colony of bats that have recently occupied our neighbour’s log cabin. They came armed with state of the art bat detectors, deck chairs, counters, tea, coffee, biscuits and insect repellent.

445 Soprano pipistrelles exited the roost that evening which led our neighbours to seriously ponder the possible toilet arrangements of their new tenants.

Thus, despite our own personal experience, soprano pipistrelle bats would seem to be thriving, at least in Wales.

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Humour, Uncategorized

Sunday Craik – the pity of it all

God spends quite a lot of time in the pub — sometimes he’s there when he’s supposed to be at chapel — that’s what I say to friends who ask where we are bound on a Sunday afternoon when the good folk are heading down the valley to the chapel.

Yesterday there was an added incentive (for the pub, not chapel) — Liverpool were playing Man. City in the League Cup.  It’s not that Alan supports Man. City (he would warm to anyone in competition with Manchester United  — it’s an underdog thing.  The landlord is an avid Liverpool supporter which adds to the fun enormously.

‘Can we have the Rugby on?’ asks Alan as we arrive.

‘There isn’t any!’ snaps the landlord.

‘Wasps are playing against ‘Quins on BT Sport,’

‘Can’t afford BT Sport with the pitiful amount you drink!’

‘Do Wasps have a ‘B’ team? asks Ikey, ‘Bee team’, he repeats, at which point a man in an overcoat, a knitted Balaclava and thick scarf runs into the bar and sexually assaults several ladies, it is the muffled titter running around the room — a tribute to My Dad — it was the only joke he knew!  No one takes any notice — they never did.

The landlord asserts himself by switching on the commentary.  That way he can follow the action despite all the distractions we can throw at him like the full glass of Stella I knock across the domino table due to the excitement of a penalty — it misses Alan almost completely.

As the match progresses the joy of winding up the landlord is irresistible — people who normally have no interest in football whooping with every Man City  tackle and berating the ref for every decision that favours Liverpool —  carried on a wave of affectionate teasing — warmed by our own mass action.  But Liverpool were never meant to lose.

If we want any more beer we had better shut up — during the penalty shoot-out there is a respectful silence — we have probably already gone too far.  The instant the winning Man City goal hits the back of the net the sound is switched off and program turned to Countryfile and someone says how Adam is a ‘really good farmer’ so everyone, relieved to change the subject, can discuss why he never has mud on his boots and where the puddles might have gone and why doesn’t he get a move on and swing that lamb.

 

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From Omaha to Hiroshima.

He wasn’t a hero.

Young GMB in uniform

He was a bookish boy with an academic interest in anything and everything to do with flight – that’s flying not running away. His father and uncle had been World War One aviators – the uncle was a hero (MC and DFC) and died. The father, whose wits were very quick and eyesight very good, was not a hero but survived and after the war produced the boy whose eyesight was poor and who took after his mother who was of a nervous disposition.

When the next war broke out the boy volunteered for the Royal Air Force, not to fly but to serve in the RAF Regiment as an officer on the ground, building runways and keeping up, just behind the lines, with all the logistics of flight – that’s flying not running away.

Unusually for the time, he had spent his childhood holidays, between the wars, in France and while a studious boy at Highgate School , had been paired with a German Jewish refugee boy (Gerard Hoffnung) – the one to learn English the other German – it worked.

On D-day +1, about a week after he had married my mother, a serious young man who spoke French and German was running up Omaha Beach in Normandy under fire, soaking wet and more terrified than he could ever have imagined. His kit was lost and returned, rotting in sea water, to his young wife in London; the family thought he had been lost but she would not believe it (she washed his spare uniform repeatedly until it smelled fresh and she had had news that he was safe — well not exactly safe… He went on (with others) to fight through France, Belgium and Holland, where he lived with a young Dutch family facing horrible hardship.  Later he went on to use his languages (he’d added Dutch and a smattering of Russian), and his unit’s bulldozer to bury bodies, in Belsen and help process displaced persons, survivors from all over Europe..

Just when he thought that the nightmare was over (or was he really alive for the only time in his life) he was ordered to embark for the War in Japan — a war without the niceties of the Geneva Convention or Red Cross parcels, where capture could mean starvation or summary beheading.

He sailed through the Suez Canal and was half way across the Indian Ocean when the Allies detonated the atom bomb over Hiroshima (6th August 1945), and three days later, over Nagasaki; Japan surrendered; the war ended; my dad – Geoffrey Mitchell Buck (1922-1991), who was not a hero, survived and was re-routed to the North where, armed with a copy of the Koran and assisted by a Muslim bearer, he was seconded to the Indian Air Force to witness the partition of India and the death throes of British colonialism.

When I was a child my father used to scream in the night. Once he was showing me how to sail a dingy in Norfolk and I pointed out a duck — Duck! He threw himself into the bottom of the boat and went pale, with perspiration on his top lip. Then he got cross with me which didn’t seem fair at the time.

Last week I found and read a book of his (signed and dated 1947). It was Hiroshima by John Hersey, It contains first-hand accounts from survivors of the bomb – everyone should read it – it feels like a latter-day gospel about the sacrifice of people for the sins (and future) of others.

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