We’ve booked to go out for lunch, and with a couple of hours to kill before our appointed time, we decide to treat ourselves to a spot of birdwatching. Straw’s Bridge Nature Reserve was once home to a sewage works and an opencast mine. It doesn’t sound promising, but in recent decades the local council has done a good job of restoring it as a wildlife habitat and local amenity. The locals call it Swan Lake, but the Reserve has plenty more besides the eponymous Mute Swan to tempt nature lovers.
On arrival we’re surprised to see that the Straw’s Bridge lakes are frozen in places. Instead of swimming elegantly across wide expanses of open water, the Mute Swans are reduced to an ungainly waddle and appear in mortal danger of ending up flat on their beaks at any moment. Meanwhile, Black-headed Gulls huddle together miserably on the ice, as if bemused by the sudden meteorological change that has turned their familiar surroundings into an unwelcome skating rink.
As we set off to walk a series of trails around the lakes we spy a robin sitting atop a rubbish bin. Like many of his species, our red-breasted friend seems unperturbed by proximity to humans, even as Mrs P creeps ever-closer in pursuit of the perfect, full-frame photo. She snaps away merrily, the robin sings lustily and I take a bit of video footage. Contentment reigns supreme!
A bit further on we watch an unexpected face-off between a Grey Heron and a mob of Mute Swans. The heron has staked its claim to a section of ice, and although they have a whole lake to choose from the swans evidently decide that the ideal place for a family gathering is the precise spot on which it’s standing. They close in on the heron, which eyes them warily. I train my video camera on them all, expecting to see feathers fly. But the heron clearly thinks better of it, and goes slip-sliding away from the mob in search of a swan-free life. Good luck with that at Swan Lake, my friend.
We continue our stroll around the lakes, revelling in the golden colours of the winter reedbeds. Despite the glorious sun beaming down at us from a clear blue sky, it’s a bitterly cold morning. But we’ve come prepared, wearing so many layers of thermal clothing that we feel comfortably toasty. In the leaf litter beneath a small stand of trees, a solitary redwing – a refugee from Scandinavia, where winters are much colder than our own – searches energetically for anything edible. Meanwhile, in the far distance we spot a flotilla of mallards and coots circling in a patch of open water, while a buzzard scans the landscape hopefully from its vantage point at the top of a nearby tree.
And finally, we happen upon the star of this morning’s birding expedition. It’s another Grey Heron, this one sitting amongst the dead vegetation at the edge of an ice-free section of the lake. The bird is indifferent to our presence as we creep ever closer, and looks majestic in the soft midwinter light.
Thoughts inevitably turn to my Mum. After Dad died in the mid-1990s, we started taking her out on birdwatching excursions with us. She got to love it, and the bird she loved most of all was the heron. The tall, long-legged, long-billed wader fascinated and enthralled her, and was her highlight of any outing to a wetland habitat. Such happy memories!
Far too soon, it is time to head back to the car and drive a couple of miles down the road to where we will be taking lunch. There’s one final surprise in store – in the lakeside car park we see a Pied Wagtail cavorting across a car bonnet, presumably in search of its own lunch of splattered insects.
It’s been an uplifting morning. As reserves go, Straw’s Bridge is hardly spectacular, its list of regularly occurring species totally unremarkable, and yet this is a truly wonderful place to chill out with Nature. We’ll be back again very soon, although next time I hope we can manage without the thermal underwear!
Last Saturday, 21st January, was Squirrel Appreciation Day. Who knew? Not me, that’s for sure, until it was mentioned in passing on Winterwatch, the BBC’s seasonal wildlife programme. I think the presenter referred to it as Red Squirrel Appreciation Day, because – and let’s be brutally honest about this – nobody here gives much thought to grey squirrels. Reds, however, are an iconic species in the UK, universally loved and widely regarded as a national treasure.
Grey squirrels are everywhere, impossible to miss and, for some, difficult to love. Red squirrels, however, are altogether more elusive. Brownsea Island, located in Poole Harbour on the south coast, is one of the few places in England where a sighting of red squirrels is pretty much guaranteed. Also guaranteed, if you visit at the right time, is a sighting of Boy Scouts, a reflection of the island’s special place in the history of the scouting movement.
The origins of Squirrel Appreciation Day lie in the USA. In 2001, wildlife rehabilitation specialist Christy Hargrove founded National Squirrel Appreciation Day in Asheville, North Carolina. Her aim was to encourage positive attitudes towards, and practical support for, her local squirrels. It’s perhaps ironic, therefore, that it is American squirrels that are responsible for the collapse of our own native red squirrel population.
It’s difficult to believe that here in the UK grey squirrels were once regarded as an exotic species. Some wealthy landowners thought it would be a great idea to brighten up their estates with wildlife superstars from across the Atlantic, and grey squirrels seemed like the ideal candidates. Adaptable, resourceful and tougher than the native reds, the greys soon began to out-compete them. Worse still, the greys were carriers of a disease – squirrel pox – which did them no harm, but was lethal to the reds.
The first recorded release of grey squirrels in the UK was in 1876, at Henbury Park in Cheshire. They thrived, as did other greys that were released elsewhere. Before long, the red squirrel population was in steep decline as greys spread rapidly across the country. Today, Brownsea Island, which is protected from a grey invasion by the waters of Poole Harbour, is one of only a couple of places in southern England where red squirrels still run wild.
Brownsea Island is tiny, just 1.5 miles (2.4 km) long and 0.75 miles (1.2 km) wide. It consists of around 500 acres (200 ha) of woodland and heathland, and a brackish lagoon. The island is owned by the National Trust, and much of it is actively managed for the benefit of nature. As well as squirrels, the island is home to a wide variety of bird species, including dunlin, kingfishers, common and sandwich terns and oystercatchers. A major conservation project is currently underway to improve habitats for wildlife, focussed on woodland management, heathland restoration and the removal of invasive plant species.
The island is also notable for having played an important part in the development of the International Scouting Movement. In August 1907 Robert Baden-Powell, its founder, held a week-long camp there to test out his ideas. The experiment was deemed a success, and the following year he published his seminal book Scouting for Boys, thereby kick-starting a ground-breaking organisation which thrives to this day.
Boy Scouts and Girl Guides continue to camp on the island, but none were evident when we took a trip out to Brownsea a few years ago. But that didn’t bother us, as the purpose of our visit was to go scouting for squirrels. We were not disappointed. The red squirrels for which Brownsea is justly famous were present in large numbers, and not at all camera-shy…I guess the feeders, well-stocked with tasty and nutritious nuts, probably had a lot to to with that. Mrs P snapped 335 pics of squirrels that day, some of which are featured in this post. Oh, the joys of digital photography!
Over the years we’ve been lucky to watch red squirrels in several parts of the UK where they are still gamely hanging on, but nowhere have we ever had such wonderful views as those we enjoyed that day on Brownsea Island. I think it’s probably time for a return visit!
I have been in reflective mood this week, looking back on a road-trip around Newfoundland, Canada exactly five years ago. We were there a month, covering the length and breadth of what the locals fondly refer to simply as “The Island,” driving around 6,500 km (4,000 miles) in the process.
I wish I could tell you it was the best holiday we’ve ever had, but sadly it wasn’t. Although the icebergs were impressive and most of the people were friendly, many of the roads were cratered with pot-holes that wouldn’t have looked out of place on the moon. The food was largely uninspiring, and while there were some undeniable scenic highlights, we had to drive past one hell of a lot of tedious fir trees to find them. And, to make matters worse, I got a spectacular (positively Vesuvian!) dose of food poisoning.
There’s a lot about our visit to Newfoundland that I’d rather forget, but reading back over my blog of the trip there was plenty of good stuff too, much of it quirky and some of it pretty damned memorable. So today I thought I’d share some of the better moments with you, the readers of Now I’m 64.
Quirky Newfoundland (1): Bilbo Baggins and the Warhol Prophecy
Andy Warhol famously suggested that in the future everyone will be famous for 15 minutes. By extension it might be argued that everywhere will be famous too, that each and every place under the sun will become known for something, albeit most probably something rather insignificant.
A case in point is Huntsville, Alabama. Passing through the city a few years ago we were surprised to discover that Huntsville is, according to the people who decide these things, the Watercress Capital of the World. Now, pleasant enough as watercress may be in a mixed-leaf salad, it seems rather desperate of the city elders to fly their colours from this particular mast, not least because the same city boasts an outstanding space museum, including a genuine Saturn 5 rocket.
Huntsville’s dubious claim to fame came to mind again yesterday when we drove into the small town of Elliston, which, as signage at the side of the road indicates, styles itself as the Root Cellar Capital of the World.
For the uninitiated, and I guess that’s just about everyone other than the good burghers of Elliston, a root cellar is an underground vault in the garden in which you can keep your root vegetables, and other produce, cool and fresh. The British aristocracy had their ice houses and, not to be outdone, Elliston folk built rutabaga (turnip) larders that work on a broadly similar principle. It is a must-have garden accessory around these parts; every home should have one and indeed, in days gone by, most of them did.
There were hundreds of root cellars in this area of Newfoundland at one time, and although most have fallen into disrepair some are lovingly maintained. The best look as if they’ve come straight off the set of a Lord of the Rings movie, giving the impression that at any moment the door will open and a hobbit will emerge, puffing contentedly on his pipe. ‘Hello’, he says, ‘my name’s Bilbo Baggins, pleased to meet you I’m sure.’
‘Well, hi there,’ replies Andy Warhol, ‘that’s a fine root cellar you have there. I’m pleased to tell you, Mr Baggins, that one day you’re going to be famous. But only for 15 minutes.’
Quirky Newfoundland (2): When did you last see a vegetable?
You’ll be familiar with the painting. A small boy dressed in blue stands in the centre of the picture facing to the right, where his inquisitors are seated at a table. His family look on, anxiously. The canvas depicts an imaginary scene from the English Civil War, and was painted by British artist W. F. Yeames in 1878. Its title is “When did you last see your father?”
Skip to Newfoundland, July 2017, where a new interpretation of the painting has been commissioned. The venerable Platypus Man stands in the centre of the picture, facing his inquisitors. His head is bowed, his shoulders hunched. Tears flow from sunken eyes, cascading down his deathly-pale cheeks. Mrs P watches, her face contorted with pain and suffering. The title of the painting is “When did you last see a vegetable?”
You see, vegetables are in short supply around here. To be fair, we’ve eaten up-market two or three times during the trip, and on these occasions veggies have been available. Although at those prices I should bloody well think so.
Mostly, however, we’ve eaten “cheap and cheerful.” Until yesterday this meant that just about the only vegetables we’ve eaten have been potatoes of the chipped persuasion. Newfies apparently feel the same about healthy eating as Roman Catholic bishops feel about contraception – they’re vaguely aware of the concept, but have decided it’s not for them.
Yesterday, however, we experienced a bona fide miracle. We ate “cheap and cheerful” again, and got both broccoli and carrots. Now you have to understand that I’m not a big fan of broccoli. I once heard a comedian on television refer to it as Satan’s Fart-weed, but didn’t even crack a smile – I mean, what’s funny about the patently obvious? But yesterday, so grateful was I for something – anything – green, that I ignored the ghastly intestinal consequences and wolfed it down ravenously.
And as for carrots (also not my favourite veggies, on the grounds of being too orange to be taken seriously … a bit like Chris Evans and Ed Sheeran, I suppose), Peter Rabbit himself couldn’t have made quicker work of them.
However, we’ve discovered in northern Newfoundland over the last couple of days that some locals have seen the light and taken matters into their own hands. They’ve fenced off areas of land by the side of the road, miles from the nearest town or village, and planted veggies there.
Around here settlements are invariably on the coast, where neither climate nor soil are conducive to the growing of vegetables. But by moving inland along the main roads, conditions for horticulture are improved. Every weekend the “owners” drive out to tend their little allotments, lavishing love and care on them that would put celebrity gardener Alan Titchmarsh to shame.
Apparently anyone living here can, quite legally, drive a few miles out of town, put up a bit of fencing to keep out the moose, and claim a parcel of land to set up a vegetable patch. Ownership of the roadside gardens is respected – no Newfie would dream of nicking his neighbour’s carrots – and nobody pays rent or tax on the land that has been thus acquired.
This all sounds wonderfully progressive, and could work well in the UK. I think I’ll drop Keir Starmer an email and suggest it for inclusion in the Labour Party’s next election manifesto. I have my eye on a nice patch of ground next to the A38, slightly north of Derby, that’s just crying out to have vegetables grown on it. I won’t even have to worry about the moose.
I will, however, definitely give broccoli a miss when sowing my crop. After all, a man should follow his gut instinct.
Quirky Newfoundland (3): Ticklish names and monstrous squid
With apologies to Lewis Carroll ("The Walrus and the Carpenter")
Today we ventured to the coastal village of Leading Tickles. Yes, that really is a place, not a dubious seduction technique that I once employed in my pursuit of Mrs P! In these parts a tickle is a narrow strait, so narrow in fact that it tickles the sides of your boat as you sail along it. There are plenty of other tickles to be had in this neck of the woods, including Dark Tickle and Thimble Tickle. Boringly, the latter is now known as Glover’s Harbour. Less boringly, it’s a place of world renown…if cephalopods are your thing, that is.
In 1878, the world’s biggest known squid, weighing in at two tons, 17m (55 feet) in length and with an eye that had a diameter of nearly 41cm (16 inches), was washed up here. It has received the official stamp of approval from the Guinness Book of Records, so we can be sure it’s kosher. Given that there is absolutely nothing else that a tiny, isolated place like Glover’s Harbour is going to become known for, the locals have latched on to it. The squid has achieved celebrity status; there is a decent interpretation centre, and a life size model which really does bring home what a monster it was. Although, sadly, climbing on it is strictly forbidden!
On the way to visit Squiddly Diddly we took time out to visit the Grand Fall Salmon Interpretation Centre, and view the salmon ladder. Historically, salmon were unable to progress upstream beyond the 30m (100 feet) high waterfall located here, meaning that less than 10% of the entire watershed was available for breeding. However a fish ladder comprising 35 steps has now been constructed, enabling them to by-pass the falls and continue their journey upstream to the spawning grounds.
Watching the fish leap up the steps was mesmerising; some got it right first time, others failed multiple times before finally perfecting their technique and progressing to the next level. We were also able to watch from a glass-walled underwater viewing deck, enabling us to see them from side-on at very close quarters. Some carried flesh wounds caused by mishaps on their journey upstream, though others were unblemished and beautifully marked.
While some of the salmon were modest in size, others were huge. These have probably done the journey multiple times before. Unlike Pacific Salmon, the Atlantic Salmon does not die after breeding, so most of the fish we saw today will return to the sea after mating, and will hopefully make the same intrepid journey again next year. Here’s wishing them a safe journey.
Memorable Newfoundland: Picturesque places, beautiful birds and wonderful whales
For the past week we’ve been in the far west of Newfoundland, but this evening at 4.30pm, we’re booked on a whale watching trip departing from the town of Bay Bulls on the east coast. We therefore have a hard day’s driving ahead of us, hundreds of mind-numbing kilometres in which to contemplate the majesty of the fir trees lining our route. We can hardly contain our excitement [overseas readers please note that the English are famed for their ironic sense of humour! A man can see too many fir trees, and today this man will.]
At least it’s no hardship to leave our current accommodation. We suspect the innkeepers received their training from the Basil Fawlty school of hotel management, from which they were evidently expelled for failing to meet the required standard. They don’t say goodbye when we leave, but this isn’t really a surprise as they didn’t say hello when we arrived either (although they did get their assistant to collect our money pretty damned quick).
As soon as breakfast is eaten we’re on our way, whistling the theme tune from The Great Escape as we drive out of the car park. Within a couple of minutes we’re on the Trans Canada Highway (TCH), Newfoundland’s equivalent of the M1. Joy of joys, just like our own M1, the TCH is being widened and chaos is therefore in the air, which doesn’t improve my mood. It’s a nightmare, but after much misery we finally leave the mayhem behind us. I slip the car into cruise, settle back and prepare to watch the kilometres sail past.
A couple of hours later I’m going stir crazy. We decide to leave the TCH for an impromptu side-trip to the coastal village of Salvage. It’s an inspired decision. Salvage turns out to be one of the most picturesque places we’ve visited all trip. The fishing shacks and associated paraphernalia are particularly fine, hinting at a way of life that it is completely alien to us. Mrs P loves photographing them, and snaps away happily until it’s time to hit the road again.
Suitably refreshed by our unscheduled visit to Salvage I put my foot down, and we reach Bay Bulls in good time for our whale watching trip. The boat takes us first to a small offshore island where seabirds nest in their thousands. The skipper brings us in close to the shore, giving us great views of the birds on the cliffs and rocky outcrops. Gull Island boasts a colony of handsome guillemots. There are also some puffins to be seen on the island, while others swim past our boat or fly overhead with beaks full of little fish with which to feed their chicks.
Bird watching over, we move on to Witless Bay, reputedly the best place in Newfoundland to get up close and personal with humpback whales. For once the hype is fully justified, and within a few minutes we find ourselves surrounded by a group of between 15 and 20 humpbacks, all gorging themselves on fish that congregate here to breed.
The skipper kills the engine and we sit still in the water, mesmerised by the whales all around us. The humpbacks patrol the bay, breaking the surface as they swim sedately along, then diving suddenly in pursuit of their quarry, then surfacing again with a loud “blow” of exhaled air and water-droplets.
A couple of times we see them lunge-feeding, exploding from the deep with huge gaping mouths that have, in this single manoeuvre, made short work of thousands of tiny fish. Occasionally we spot one spy-hopping, raising his head slightly above the water’s surface to watch what we’re up to. They approach within metres of the boat, sometimes lying motionless at the surface like floating logs, as if winded by the sheer volume of fish they’ve just swallowed. Encrustations of barnacles are clearly visible on their skin. The humpbacks are compelling, awesome creatures, and time seems to stand still as we revel in their majesty.
Today could have been a pretty miserable day, but it turns out to be one of the best we’ve had in Newfoundland. Yet this is a strange place, and Newfies march to the beat of a different drum. After the whale watching is over we retire to a nearby restaurant that specialises in fish. The waitress welcomes us warmly, says we can sit anywhere we like and have anything on the menu…except fish. Unsurprisingly perhaps, in a part of Canada where Basil Fawlty sets standards that some locals find unattainable, it appears that the fish restaurant has completely run out of fish.
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POSTSCRIPT: If you’ve enjoyed these random memories of our trip around Newfoundland, why not check out my 2017 blog of our holiday. There are a few laughs, plenty of surprises and loads more excellent photos by Mrs P, like this one of picturesque Quidi Vidi harbour.
Finally, after more than two years confined to barracks by the pandemic, we’re back on the road again. Not overseas: the timing still doesn’t seem right, and in any case the burning desire to visit far off foreign parts has cooled a bit. Maybe the passion will return in due course, maybe not, but unless and until our outlook changes there’s plenty to keep us occupied here in the UK.
The county of Norfolk is one of our favourite English destinations, and it was the obvious place for us to take our first proper UK holiday (that’s “vacation” to you guys in North America!) since summer 2019. And every time we visit Norfolk we make a point of spending a day at the wonderful Pensthorpe Natural Park.
Pensthorpe started out as a large gravel extraction enterprise, with over 1 million tonnes being dug out and carted off to who-knows-where. But instead of becoming a permanent scar on the landscape the site has been sensitively transformed into something of real value to the local community, and to visitors from further afield like Mrs P and I. Today it’s a bit of an oddball mixture, part old-fashioned waterfowl exhibit, part nature reserve, part conservation hub, part sculpture park, part kids’ activity centre. There’s something for just about everyone at Pensthorpe Natural Park.
The Park is run as a business, which in principle sits a little uncomfortably with me. In practice, however, the owners – Bill and Deb Jordan, top dogs in a family-owned breakfast cereal company – appear genuinely committed to the restoration and protection of the natural world. There’s nothing to suggest they put profit ahead of sound conservation practice, and I’m therefore relaxed in saying that they get my vote.
Bill and Deb win further brownie points from me for setting up a charitable trust, the Pensthorpe Conservation Trust, to work with their commercial operation. Established in 2003, the Trust aims “to establish a centre of excellence, habitat management and restoration alongside conservation of wetland and farmland bird species through captive breeding programmes in national conservation partnerships.” Corncrakes, cranes, red squirrels and turtle doves are amongst the species currently benefitting from the Trust’s activities.
Our return visit to Pensthorpe last month did not disappoint, even though the management has yet to erect a commemorative plaque at the spot where I broke my ankle in a fall on a snowy winter’s day in 2013! The lakes and woods teemed with wildlife, and although there was nothing exceptionally rare to be seen on this occasion it was great to get back into natural world after the miseries of Covid.
It was also great to bump into a former work colleague, albeit totally unexpected given that we were around 120 miles (nearly 200 km) from the office and had not seen each other since she moved on some eight or nine years ago! Amanda is a lovely lady, passionate about sport, physical fitness and wellbeing, and – as I now discovered – birdwatching too.
Amanda explained that she is currently working on the government’s Green Social Prescribing project. The initiative enables doctors to help improve mental health outcomes and reduce health inequalities amongst suitable patients by prescribing “nature-based interventions and activities, such as local walking for health schemes, community gardening and food-growing projects.”
I was previously only vaguely aware of Green Social Prescribing. But hearing Amanda talk about the initiative as we sat together in a bird hide, gazing out over a tranquil lake where ducks, geese, and swans were going about their daily business and squadrons of swallows whizzed happily overhead, it now made perfect sense.
I felt more at peace on our day at Pensthorpe, and during the visits we made the same week to several other Norfolk nature reserves, than at any time since Covid hit. For me there is no doubt that getting back to nature – close to wildlife and wild places, distant from the stresses and strains of 21st century urban life – revives the spirit and nurtures the soul.
Before our visit last month it had been around three years since our last trip to Pensthorpe. But guess what – we’ll be going back real soon!
So, follow our example and get back to nature, guys. You know it makes sense!
Here’s a question that I know has been on your mind for ages: when is a goose not a goose? The answer is, quite simply, “When it’s an Egyptian Goose.” Despite its name and goose-like appearance this bird is actually a type of duck, most closely related to the Shelducks. And to complicate matters even further it’s not strictly Egyptian either, being native to large swathes of Africa and not just the land of the pharaohs. The Egyptian Goose is plainly a bird suffering a full-scale identity crisis!
This non-goose species appears to have got the first part of its name because it featured in the artwork of the ancient Egyptians, who considered it sacred. It was first brought to the UK in the late 17th century, when its pale brown and grey plumage, with distinctive dark brown eye-patches, made a striking addition to ornamental wildfowl collections. Some of the captive birds soon made an understandable bid for freedom, and the escapees established a small feral population in the county of Norfolk on the east coast of England.
Numbers remained tiny for centuries, the British climate proving to be a bit of a challenge for a species that is native to sub-tropical regions and habitually breeds in January. The bird remained stubbornly confined to Norfolk, so when we encountered one at Rutland Water – just 50 miles (80km) from Platypus Towers – around 20 years ago I refused to believe that the creature in front of us could possibly be an Egyptian Goose. Mrs P stuck to her guns, however, and was eventually proved correct, something I am never allowed to forget!
Indeed, this sighting was a sign of things to come. After being static for so long, numbers of Egyptian Geese in the UK have expanded rapidly in the last three or four decades. The reason for this sudden change is uncertain, although the finger of suspicion inevitably points at climate change.
While Norfolk remains the Egyptian Goose’s UK stronghold, it has now spread widely – and is breeding successfully – across eastern and southern England. We regularly see them at the nearby Attenborough Nature Reserve in Nottinghamshire, and have encountered them at several other wetland habitats in our region. The RSPB tells us there are now around 1,100 breeding pairs in the UK, with an overwintering population of around 3,400 birds.
Plainly, the Egyptian Goose – the goose that never was – is here to stay.
According to the Chinese calendar, a few days ago the world transited from the Year of the Ox to the Year of the Tiger. At Yorkshire Wildlife Park (YWP), however, it’s always the year of the tiger. Or, to be more precise, the year of the Amur Tiger, three of which currently call the Park home.
The Amur Tiger, also known as the Siberian Tiger, is one of six tiger sub-species, and is the largest big cat in the world. Adult males may weigh up to an impressive 200kg (440lb). These are majestic, iconic animals, and YWP visitors can often be seen gazing in awe at Vladimir, Sayan and Tschuna as they prowl around their ample enclosure.
Our consciences may be troubled at seeing such magnificent beasts living behind a fence, but the sad truth is that those tigers are lucky to be alive at all. In the 1940s the Amur Tiger was teetering on the edge of extinction. Fewer than 50 individuals remained in the wild at that time, after decades of political instability that had seen Russia bloodily reborn as part of the Soviet Union.
The Soviet Union had a wretched reputation in the latter half of the 20th century. Those of us who lived through the Cold War, wondering anxiously when the Kremlin’s missiles might come a-calling, don’t have particularly fond memories of the Soviets. On the face of it, theirs was not a regime that would be expected to place much emphasis on wildlife conservation.
But when it came to saving the Amur Tiger, the Soviet Union certainly stepped up to the plate. In 1947 they gave full protection to the tigers living within their borders, the first country in the world ever to do so. Killing tigers was outlawed and hunting of their main prey species, boar and deer, was restricted.
Government intervention came just in time and numbers have recovered, albeit very slowly. By 2005, the population of wild Amur Tigers had reached 330, and according to a recent report in the Moscow Times is now estimated at over 600.
So successful has the recovery been in Russia that a few Amur Tigers have now crossed the border into north-east China. The Chinese government is encouraging the process through the creation of two new nature reserves, one of which (the Tiger and Leopard National Park, or TLNP) is 50% larger than the USA’s wonderful Yellowstone National Park.
Meanwhile zoos throughout Europe, including Yorkshire Wildlife Park, are participating in a European Breeding Programme which acts as an insurance policy potentially supporting numbers and genetic diversity in the wild population.
In 2015 one of YWP’s females (Tschuna) gave birth to three cubs called Harley, Hector and Hope. The youngsters are now grown up, and have been dispersed to zoos in other parts of the world as part of the ongoing species breeding programme. This all happened some time before I retired from work and so, sadly, Mrs P and I never got see them. But we’re regular visitors to Yorkshire Wildlife Park these days, and are hoping for another similarly “happy event” very soon.
One day, maybe, such captive breeding programmes will be unnecessary, and the encouraging news emerging from Russia and China offers some cause for optimism on this count. In the meantime, however, it’s good to know that places like Yorkshire Wildlife Park are doing their bit to protect the future of this magnificent species of big cat.
You can enjoy some film of YWP’s tigers by clicking on the link below to my short video on YouTube.
The third Monday of January is known to some in the UK as Blue Monday, supposedly the most depressing day of the year. The theory was first espoused in 2005 by a “life coach,” which immediately raises a vitally important question: what the hell is a life coach? Stage coaches – definitely! Football coaches – maybe. But a life coach – really? Surely life’s complicated enough already without total strangers waltzing up to tell us how to do it better. Dear god, why do we insist on doing stuff like this to ourselves?
But I digress! According to believers in Blue Monday, on this particular day we’re likely to be regretting the impact of Christmas excesses on waistline and wallet, and will already have miserably failed to stick to our New Year Resolutions. Daylight hours will be short, the weather inclement and television schedules probably packed with unwatchable rubbish and unwanted repeats. And Mondays are, of course, loathed by anyone with a traditional Monday-to-Friday work pattern.
It’s nonsense, of course, total bunkum. Even the guy who first came up with the notion is reported to have subsequently disavowed it, describing Blue Monday as a self-fulfilling prophecy that “is not particularly helpful”. But, just to be on the safe side, this year Mrs P and I decided to banish the Blue Monday blues from our lives by doing a spot of birdwatching.
The weather, as it turned out, was perfect, one of those crisp, cold and gloriously sunny midwinter days that make you feel glad to be alive. So we quickly got togged up in our thermals, grabbed cameras and binoculars, and headed off up the M1 to Hardwick ponds.
Hardwick Hall in Derbyshire is one of our home county’s most significant stately homes, and its impressive parkland includes several large bodies of water that are a haven for a variety of wildfowl. We try to visit Hardwick ponds several times each year, and are never disappointed.
On this occasion both of the larger ponds were partially frozen. Black-headed gulls, wearing winter plumage and puzzled expressions, stood awkwardly on the ice contemplating this unexpected turn of events. The ducks and geese, however, were having none of it and instead sought out those areas of the ponds that remained ice-free.
Most of the usual suspects were there, including Canada Geese, Mute Swans and a Great Crested Grebe. A single Grey Heron, perched high in a tree, surveyed events below with magisterial disdain. Nothing remarkable in any of this, of course, but what really caught our eye was a gang of good-looking Goosanders.
Goosanders are streamlined diving ducks, fish-eaters that use their long, serrated bills to catch and hold on to their slippery prey. They are members of the sawbill family, which also includes the similar-looking Red-Breasted Merganser. To add to the confusion Goosanders can also be seen in the USA, but there they are known as Common Mergansers!
Whereas the Red-Breasted Merganser is most commonly seen around the UK’s coastline in winter, Goosanders favour freshwater. Their summer habitat is the fast-flowing upland rivers of Northern England, Scotland and Wales, where they nest in holes in riverbank trees. In winter they move to gravel pits and reservoirs, as well as lakes or large ponds such as those at Hardwick.
In common with most species of duck, the Goosander displays a high degree of sexual dimorphism. Adult males have a white body and a black head which sports an iridescent green gloss. The have a black back, and a grey rump and tail. Females are largely grey, with a distinctive reddish-brown head, white chin, and white secondary feathers on the wing.
The Goosander is a relatively new arrival in the UK, having first bred in Scotland in 1871. Its numbers slowly built up there for a century, until in 1970 the species crossed the border to begin colonising England and Wales. There are now thought to be close to 4,000 breeding pairs across the UK as a whole, with the wintering population numbering around 12,000 birds.
At least a dozen members of that wintering population were present at Hardwick ponds on 15 January, many more than we’ve ever encountered before at a single viewing. It was a delight to see them, and all the other birds that were strutting their stuff that morning. You can catch a glimpse of the Goosanders – and some of Hardwick’s other avian residents too – by clicking on the link below to my short YouTube video.
Blue Monday may have come calling for us last week, but I’m pleased to report that we were very much not at home!
Yorkshire Wildlife Park has plenty of iconic critters that are certain to impress visitors. The black rhinos, polar bears and Amur tigers, for example, are guaranteed to provoke appreciative oohs and ahs from delighted punters. But there’s other stuff too, animals that are pretty much unknown to all but the most dedicated wildlife geeks, animals that are maybe a bit more difficult to love. Warty Pigs, for example. I mean, whoever heard of a Warty Pig? And who cares?
I care! It’s true that Visayan Warty Pigs aren’t obviously cute or charismatic, but so what? All living things are intrinsically valuable, worthy of our respect and protection regardless of their looks or lifestyle. And there’s a reason why we’ve never heard of them: they’re all but extinct in the wild, and hail from the Philippines, a little known and unglamorous part of the globe that few of my fellow citizens could locate on a world atlas even if they’ve heard of the place at all.
The Visayan Warty Pig is classified as “critically endangered.” It is endemic to six of the Visayas Islands in the central Philippines, but is believed to be extinct on four of these. Their natural habitat is the rainforest, but between 95% to 98% of it has been lost to commercial forestry and slash-and-burn farming. With their natural food sources severely depleted, the pigs have resorted to raiding cultivated land, and are consequently persecuted as agricultural pests. They are also hunted for bushmeat.
There seems little doubt that, without a major conservation effort and captive breeding, the Visayan Warty Pig is doomed to extinction. Fortunately, there are many programmes, both in the Philippines and in zoos across the world, that are dedicated to saving the species.
And here’s where Yorkshire Wildlife Park is doing its bit. We’ve visited YWP several times over the last couple of years, and have been pleased to see a decent-sized group of adult females and youngsters going about their business in the ample, wooded Warty Pig enclosure. They are feisty, entertaining animals and you can enjoy some of their antics by clicking on the link below to my short video on YouTube.
The adult male – which boasts impressive facial warts, as well as a stiff, spiky crest of hair – lives next door to the main family group, replicating behaviour in the wild where males live apart from the females most of the time.
The male plainly knows his stuff, and his managed encounters with the females have produced multiple, humbug-striped piglets. My brief research on the internet confirms that other zoos are having similar breeding success, suggesting that Visayan Warty Pigs can thrive in captivity. Hopefully, one day, some of their descendants can be reintroduced to the wild, where they rightly belong.
We first visited Yorkshire Wildlife Park (YWP) a few months after I retired, and have returned several times since I have some reservations about keeping wild creatures in captivity (don’t we all?), but the place seems OK. The animals are plainly well cared for, with plenty of space to roam. Importantly, the Park supports a number of conservation initiatives to breed highly endangered species in captivity, and seeks to educate visitors about their plight. I’ll write more about some of these conservation projects later in the year.
To help raise the money needed to care for its animals YWP is always looking for new ways to encourage visitors. Last year we’d planned to visit the Park’s Light and Lantern Festival held around Christmas, but Covid restrictions got in the way. This year the restrictions have been, well, less restrictive…but the weather was miserable throughout December, so we gave it a miss.
Finally, last week, conditions improved and we made the decision to hot-foot it 45 miles (72km) up the M1 to the outskirts of Doncaster to catch the Festival before it ends in mid-January. It was definitely worth the trip, as Mrs P’s photos show. With the exception of one hyena, which was racing madly around its spacious enclosure like Usain Bolt in his prime, living animals were notable by their absence. I suspect they were all sleeping peacefully in their dens and nests, blissfully unaware of the numerous visitors trekking round the Park, ooh-ing and aah-ing at the spectacular illuminations.
The lanterns celebrate many of the animals living at the Park – including lions, leopards and okapi – and some that don’t. A T-Rex and sundry other dinosaurs paid homage to animals that none of us will ever see in the flesh. Let’s hope that the conservation initiatives supported by YWP, and similar bodies throughout the UK and beyond, mean that the species currently living there won’t suffer a similar fate to that of the dearly departed dinos.
I hear them long before they become visible. Starlings are gathering over the hills to the south of the estate where we live. It begins as an avian whisper, barely audible above the ambient sounds of wind and distant traffic. And then it starts to build, unseen birds chattering excitedly with one another, shouting, squawking, screaming joyously. A wall of sound, the call of the wild.
The cacophony echoes all around me. I scan the sky in the direction from which I know they will appear. Still nothing. But it’s only a matter of time. They will be here. At this time of year they fly over our estate every day at around 4pm, heading towards their roosting site. Today will be no different.
At last they start to arrive. First a lone outrider, silent and determined, appears from behind the house at the rear of our garden. It passes over me and disappears into the distance. Then two others, calling to one another as they fly.
Seconds later the main flock arrives, hundreds of birds in close formation. A deafening, spellbinding squadron of starlings, known to science as a murmuration, fills the sky.
Although the birds clearly have a destination in mind, they briefly break off from their journey to swoop and swirl above my head, like a bunch of boastful aviators flaunting their skills at an air show. The murmuration takes on a life of its own, sketching ever more complex and beautiful patterns on the canvas of the evening sky. The noise is louder than ever, drowning out everything else.
And then, as suddenly as they arrived, they take their leave. The flock heads off to who-knows-where, and the sound of their relentless chitter-chatter fades. A few laggards appear from the south, flying swiftly in pursuit of the main flock, keen to catch up with their buddies before they roost for the night.
Seconds later they too have gone and I’m left alone with my thoughts, marvelling at the extraordinary event I have just witnessed.
* * * * *
In some parts of the country murmurations at this time of year can number several hundred thousand birds, occasionally more than a million. By these standards, the aerial display that takes place above our garden every winter’s afternoon is tiny. But to me it is far from insignificant.
What a privilege it is, to stand in our modest back garden on our boring suburban housing estate in the unremarkable, overpopulated East Midlands of England, and experience the call of the wild. It is a moving, mesmerising experience, and the wonder of it fills me with joy. Long may it continue.