Tuesday 28 February 2017

Wild Daffodils

I know just a few places on Gower where I can find wild daffodils.  There are not many left and even where they occur, only small clumps hang on.  A few woodlands have them and there’s a place at the edge of Pengwern Common where I can be certain of finding a few.  Although this month has been cold, I find a clump in flower on the soggy bank of a stream shaded by woodland.  A remnant of how it was before the commons were cleared for grazing, this relic wood is also home to flowering snowdrops, primroses and emergent garlic leaves.  It feels ancient here.  Walking upstream past willow and hazel catkins, I flush a grey wagtail and disturb frogs courting in tiny ponds, probably made by cattle sheltering from winter weather.

I’ve timed it just right at Fairyhill.  The wooded gardens, surrounded by old limestone walls, are awash with daffodils.  This charming 18th century house, set in mature grounds, is delightful; I knew it well years ago, before it was tastefully restored and converted into an upmarket hotel.   I walk the grounds amid the thousands of blooms.  Most daffodils are cultivated, but some look wild.  Multicoloured crocuses, snowdrops and primroses also light up the woodland floor. I’m alone and it feels special.  The old house is a riot of Virginia creeper in summer, but even now the tangle of branches weave beautiful patterns on the south-facing wall.  A pair of domesticated white ducks loaf about by the edge of the pond and the rippling sound of a small stream completes an atmosphere of peace, wellbeing and affluence.  It’s certainly an expensive place to drop in for lunch, and I have dined here on rare occasions, but the flowers are free, making my coffee on the terrace feel like great value.

Sunday 26 February 2017

Slow spring

Cold weather has held back the onset of spring.  Snowdrops, crocuses and primroses have all been a little late this year and although some birds are starting nest building, there’s not much bird song yet.  Daffodils are normally in flower by St David’s Day and although some are out on shaded roadsides, the majority are still in bud.

In the woodlands, trees show signs of the awakening spring.   Carpets of new garlic shoots are beginning to spread over woodland floors, fighting for light amongst the dull greens of last year’s ivy leaves.  Hazel catkins and their attendant little flowers have been out for a couple of weeks already and the soft catkins of goat willow shine in a rare shaft of sunlight.  Green alder catkins, with tints of brown hang in clumps from branches, they too catching the morning rays of the sun.  There are closed buds on most trees, but horse chestnuts are showing signs of breaking out.

In some field margins and hedgerows, a few early meadow buttercups and common field speedwell flowers have appeared in the last week, and the odd coltsfoot gives another dash of yellow to an otherwise drab wintery picture. 


There seem to be lots of blackbirds about at the moment.  Six males in the garden this morning was unusual, and the fields by the wood is dotted with them.  I wonder if they are winter visitors preparing to move back to the Continent.

Saturday 25 February 2017

Early Bumblebees

It’s not unusual to have an odd day or two of warm weather in late February, which can often bring out early insects.  There are buff-tailed bumblebees and honeybees in the garden and, in the sand dunes down by the bay, a tortoiseshell butterfly was on the wing in early afternoon.

Bees and their demise have become a part of life in recent times, as the issue of neonicitinoid pesticide poisoning has gained more profile.  My friend Rosemary has played a central role in the fight against this, not only locally, but also as part of a worldwide campaign to ban these most lethal of pesticides, which are almost certainly responsible for much of the demise of our wildlife in recent years.   In an attempt to redress the balance, Rosemary and Palle turned a field behind their house into a wildflower meadow.  Over a few years the meadow gradually changed into a riot of flowers in summer, attracting a myriad of pollinators.  Hay was taken off at the right time in summer and in a traditional way, leaving seeds for winter birds.  The whole enterprise was inspirational and showed what can be done with common sense and effort. Sadly in the end, their effort was to no avail, the poisons won out and the all the flowers  died.


I call Rosemary.  Yes, she has a couple bumblebees in the field today and butterflies too, but she’s more occupied with the campaign and making sure that the Select Committee taking place in Westminster at present, has sufficient information to persuade politicians to ban these insidious pesticides before it’s too late.  Rachel Carson’s ‘Silent Spring’ could pale into insignificance if the pesticide industry wins out and these silent killers are allowed to persist.

Friday 24 February 2017

Horse Cliff

It’s the sea that does it for me.  I know I’m not alone in this, but after almost half a century living by its side, I can’t imagine a life inland.  It’s not just any sea that’s the magnet; it’s these wild western coasts that have a special hold on me.  There’s a feeling of mystery and awe about the Atlantic rollers as they crash against the rocks at The Knave below Horse Cliff.  I rarely venture out to this remote spot in winter; there’s not much wildlife at this time of year and it’s usually too wild, windy and cold, but something in my soul draws me to what is one of the most beautiful Gower views.  Looking west from Horse Cliff towards Worm’s Head has got to be a view that ranks with any in the world.  I’ve been lucky enough to see the Grand Canyon and California’s Big Sur and many other grade 1 views; this certainly compares and is a secret shared only by a discerning few.

In winter it’s different; no soft green sward on the cliff top, just a flat rabbit-grazed light brown mat, with no sign of summer flowers.  On the rocks below the sea boils, seeming not to bother the grey seals looking up at me with a puzzled gaze.  There are sheep here, some grazing the only green bits of turf left in sheltered spots on what look like dangerous ledges.  Rock pipits are just audible above the roar of the sea, and a flock of linnets keep low to the ground searching for seeds between scattered gorse bushes on the cliff top.

Out to sea, gulls commute east and west, and the usual shags sit drying wings on the rocks just south of The Knave.  Under the cliff face fulmars, not long back from mid-Atlantic, gracefully patrol their breeding ledges, but don’t land. I realise that this wonderful place is as beautiful in winter as in high summer, but at this time of year the land is rich in shades of brown rather than green.

Wednesday 22 February 2017

Wild Flowers

Gower is noted for its wild flowers, particularly those that grow on the limestone cliffs.   Away from nature reserves, the hinterland flora is less rich, the result of years of intensive farming and pesticides.  Each spring I grow wildflowers from seed in the garden in an attempt to remember the wonderful meadows of my childhood.  More and more wildflower seeds are available now, and they are easily purchased over the Internet. 

I prefer to buy seeds from a splendid venture set back from the road at Blackhills on Fairwood Common.  The Gower Wildflower Centre not only sells wildflower seeds, but also has a small field, which is sometimes a riot of colour in late spring and summer.  There’s a little gem of a restaurant here too, providing good organic food, a shop offering local honey and the like, and the whole venture generates a feeling of affinity to the natural world.

I’m here today to buy my seeds for this year.  I take a mix of poppies, oxeye daisies, corn marigolds, corncockles, cornflowers and a few more.  I won’t plant them until after the last frosts; they’ll then grow quickly, and each year the results are marvellous.  It’s not only the joy of the flowers that’s so rewarding, but I’ll have the buzz of bees and other pollinators in the garden once more by the end of May.

I head off home with my small packet, eager to put the final touches to the flowerbeds and plant pots.  I’ve turned this cold, dull day into one of sunshine and summer.


Tuesday 21 February 2017

Still

Today everything is still again; no branches sway, even the blades of grass are motionless.  We’ve been stuck in this dull, cold weather for days, but at last the temperature is finally beginning to climb just a little.  The only sign of movement in the wood down from the cottage comes from birds high in the canopy.  Redwings, blackbirds and a few song thrushes cause branches to swing, but the small tit flock has little effect on this static world.

I sit and listen to the sweet song of a robin perched on an ivy-covered tree stump.  It moves closer and I try to imagine a world without this bold little creature.  Just a couple of weeks ago it was the only song in the wood, but now others have joined in; great and blue tits, dunnocks and the odd wren.  A distant great-spotted woodpecker rattles away on a hollow tree, and I can make out the plaintive song of a distant mistle thrush.

We’ve had little rain for a while, the footpaths are firming up again and overnight frosts take time to melt.  Deep in the valley the ground is still white, making the air fresh.  For many years, an old man put out seeds each day on a moss-covered log by the path.  This attracted a multitude of small birds including marsh tits, which I think just about hang on in the wood.  I haven’t seen him, or a marsh tit for a long time, and there are no birds at the log today. 

A small community of families live in basic wooden houses in Holt’s Field on the valley floor.  They live a simple life, very close to nature and are despised by many.  But how forward looking they are, living a greener life, with a minimal carbon footprint.  Their lifestyle doesn't suit everyone, but they’re an example to us all, telling us that consumption is one of the main causes of the demise of the natural world. They also carve wonderful natural history features on old trees and fence posts, adding to the feeling of a simple woodland life. 

Sunday 19 February 2017

Magpies

I’ve spent the last few days rescuing the garden from the winter.  There’s not really much to do, I just gather up fallen sticks from around the willow tree, scarify the flower beds and plant pots in preparation for the wildflower seeds I’ll plant once I’m confident the last frosts are behind us.  As usual the garden robins help to ease the pain.  They’ll soon start to build a nest somewhere in the tangle of vegetation I leave for wildlife, or perhaps in a hole in the brick wall of what was once a stable block.  The blue tits have already lined the nest box, but will wait for warmer weather before laying eggs.

As every year, there’s a pair of magpies building a nest at the bottom of the garden.  The nest is high in a mature bush and  their presence this spring will again be bad news for the other birds that try to raise young in the garden.  The pair has taken control of the garden; they don’t seem to mind small birds, but any unsuspecting jackdaw or rook is soon dispatched.  Magpies are controversial and there are many would destroy the nest.  I prefer to let nature take its course; after all they’re such magnificent birds, and would not look out of place in the most exotic tropical location.  They also have the added advantage of helping to keep killer cats at bay.

Saturday 18 February 2017

Silverbacks

There are subtle changed afoot.  I sit looking at the black-headed gull flock by the lighthouse, trying in vain to count accurately the Mediterranean gulls amongst them.  There seems little change since last week, but a few black-headed gulls are beginning to acquire their brown heads.  Only one has completely changed, but the transformation is under way, and it won’t be long before most will be wearing their smart summer garb.  Mediterranean gulls are changing too; a very tame and stunning summer plumage bird a with jet-black head obliges a photographer from London who can’t believe his luck.

Other birds are showing signs of summer; jackdaws with shining silver-grey necks and glossy black caps remind me of silverback gorillas.  Starlings too are loosing some winter spots, glinting iridescent in the sunshine.  Woodpigeons sport neck-patches as though decorated with brilliant white paint; I wish we still called them ring doves.

In the bay I check out the oystercatchers; all still have winter white neck-collars, which will disappear before they disperse to northern breeding grounds.  I detect no changes in the other waders too; curlews, dunlins and sanderlings all look wintery and an amazingly white little egret looks superb in the bright sunshine, also telling me nothing.  The glossy green back of a lapwing reminds me that we used to call them green plovers.

Back in the garden I look closely at male chaffinches.  Like many other small birds, they acquire breeding plumage by gradually abrading their crown feathers.  As if by magic, dull blue-brown hues turn into the bright electric blue of summer.  Most other small garden birds are just getting smarter; blue tits, great tits and coal tits all look brighter and male blackbirds have striking yellow bills.


Friday 17 February 2017

Stealth

I try hard to move silently along the edge of Fairwood Lake.  There are always ducks here in winter, but getting close is not easy.  It’s just after first light, and through the trees I can make out shapes on the water; definitely mallard and teal, and I think gadwall as well.  It takes just one snap of a twig underfoot to send moorhens scurrying away from the bank, and spook the ducks.  They don’t fly far, just to the other side of the pond behind the island, but destroying any hope of a decent photograph.  I try to sit perfectly still and wait, hidden in the middle of a willow tree by the edge of the pond.  It takes time, but slowly the mallard drift out again to the centre of the pond, followed by the gadwall, but the shy teal stay hidden by the bank.  As the light improves, shovelers, a pair of tufted ducks and several moorhens inch closer, but all seem to be aware of my presence, and keep a safe distance.  My only chance is a little grebe, diving continuously only a short distance from the shore.  He seems not to know I’m here, but my photographic skills aren't good enough to catch the moment when he bobs up, always in an unexpected place.  It’s not just the water that holds life here; there are birds moving about in the willows and alders by the lake.  I sit motionless as they pass by, mostly blue and great tits, but chaffinches too.

The light gradually improves, the moorhens settle and  finally get closer, and at last I'm able to get my hard-earned photograph, which in no way compares with the dozens of amazing shots taken by by son Chris.

To my right a lichen covered wooden fence marks an old field-boundary, and I hear a rustle among a tangle of hawthorns; a fox that had got close before seeing me, was off like a flash.  I’m not sure who was the most startled.

Thursday 16 February 2017

Irish Mist

On old friend at university often told me that he loved to walk in the rain on the cliffs; not the heavy stuff, just warm west-coast drizzle.  He came from County Cork in Ireland and so I suppose had even more opportunity to do this than even here on the south west coast of Wales.  On days like this, I often think of Brian, put on some waterproofs, and get out.

It’s not cold, there’s no wind and a gentle rain drifts in from the sea as I head out across Port Eynon beach towards Sedgers Bank.  There’s always interest here, especially in winter, when waders and gulls feed on the exposed rocks at low water.  The ruins of the sixteenth century Salt House, now an ancient monument, was saved from the sea about twenty years ago.  It produced salt until the mid seventeenth century and is thought by some to have been a cover for smuggling.  It’s deserted today, save for a grey wagtail searching for food in the shelter of it’s old limestone walls.

Sedgers Bank is covered by the sea for most of the time, it’s owned by the Wildlife Trust and valued for it’s marine life and winter waders.  Too wet to linger and seek out elusive purple sandpipers, I turn westwards and head for Salt House Mere just a couple of hundred yards to the west.  Grey seals watch as I walk into the drizzle, and a few cormorants stand on rocks in the shelter of the headland hanging their wings out to dry.  On days like this it’s not really the wildlife that stands out, just the feel of living by the sea and touching the elements.

Overton Mere over the next rise beckons.  There’s still a long way to go before I’ll need to turn away for the sea, head up the cliff path and through Overton village to get back to the car.  I make haste passing the National Trust sign, knowing my supply of hot coffee is dwindling fast.  The weather can change so quickly in this maritime world. As is usually the case, Overton Mere is deserted and seems devoid of wildlife, but I know that when spring and summer arrive, its slopes will be alive with wild flowers.

Wednesday 15 February 2017

Ron's Cottage

The Garden Lane at Oxwich Marsh, leads to the back entrance of Penrice Estate. I have often wondered what it was like centuries ago, but my first real recollections of this little road date to the early 1970’s, when I was ‘hard at work’ studying reed warblers in the freshwater marsh.  At that time, willows and alders, just above head-high, lined each side of the lane, making it the perfect spot to catch birds with mist nets.

Beyond the wrought iron gate at the end of lane, ‘Ron’s Cottage’ as I always called it, stood alone and was occupied by the retired gardener from the estate. I remember well conversations with Ron about tales of life on the estate in the old days, and about the to and fro of illustrious visitor.  Other, possibly embellished stories of goings on in the village, were also a constant source of delight during my early morning coffee break. Alas Ron is no more, but I can’t help thinking of this real old-fashioned countryman, whenever I look down the lane.


The lane has changed much in recent years, the lines of trees having gradually grown to form a tunnel, and work is now under way to clear some the most invasive ones. Ron’s cottage, renovated and looking splendid, is now a holiday let, but has not lost any of its character.  It remains a magical peaceful place, sitting on the edge of the marsh as it has done for centuries.

Tuesday 14 February 2017

Doyen of Gower photographers.

I’ve known Harold Grenfell for very many years, and for all this time, he’s been THE Gower photographer.  Gower through and through, he’s been photographing since an early age, and although his interest takes him outside Gower to other parts of the UK, by far the majority of his work has concentrated on local subjects.  His early shots of birds and other natural history subjects soon gained him a fellowship of the Royal Photographic Society, with work comparable to the greats of British natural history photographers such as Eric Hosking. For decades, acting as the official photographer of The Gower Society, he has amassed a collection of thousands of wonderful images of life on the peninsular - a treasure trove of history, hidden away in his house overlook the sea in Mumbles.

His photographs of birds and insects in flight are a marvel. With the advent of new digital technology, it is now very much easier to take a ‘good’ photograph, and with a decent camera, most people can obtain a satisfactory picture. However there remains something very special about a moody, artistic, black and white shot produced by a master such as Harold, who innately catches the spirit and magic of Gower in his work, expressing his love and feeling for this special place.  He continues to do so in this modern colourful, digital age and remains to most, the doyen of Gower photographers. 


Sunday 12 February 2017

Magic Carpet

It’s that time of year again when we look for the first signs of spring. Climate change has clearly upset the balance of nature in recent years, and spring arrives a little earlier each year now.  Although there’ve been a few crocuses out under some trees on the village green, and daffodils are beginning to shoot up, for me it’s the snowdrops that herald the true promise of spring.

There are a few dotted around in gardens and under hedgerows, but to get my annual fix, I always head for a secluded patch of ground tucked away between the graveyard at St Andrew’s Church in the old village of Penrice, and Church Cottage.

A gentle breeze sways a small clump of these so delicate little flowers near the hedge, but the white carpet almost covering the small wall-sheltered piece of land is perfectly still and stunningly beautiful. Climbing over the ancient limestone styIe, I need to tread carefully to avoid standing on these marvels of nature. I retreat, realising that it’s best to stay by the wall to enjoy one of Gower’s little secrets, and remember one special year when they flowered with snow on the ground.

They won’t last long, and I’ll visit again in a few days time, but in all the years I’ve been coming here, I’ve never bumped into anyone else looking over the wall at this magic white carpet.


Friday 10 February 2017

Wood Carvings

Early February is the time siskins appear at our garden feeders.  It’s a bit hit and miss, but a couple have arrived  and taken up residence.  Like goldfinches they sit quite still, taking the niger seeds and adding to the untidy mess on the grass below.  The BTO’s Garden BirdWatch tells us that they peak in gardens from now until early April, when food is scarce in woodlands.

I learn that a friend’s garden is awash with them.  Inspired, I head for Millwood in the centre of Gower. Elegant wood carvings decorate the gated entrance to a mix of larch, pine, spruce and native trees, that was once a part of the Penrice Estate and is now managed as amenity woodland by the Forestry Commission.  With a vague hope of otters and kingfishers, I walk along the stream past the old restored trout hatchery, but am content with a motionless grey heron.  A favourite log under the alders is the place to peer up and watch siskins. Twenty or more are busy amongst the cones in the very top branches, and I’m reminded of aching necks in the USA looking for warblers. There’s less chance of finding redpolls, but they do winter here.

 The circular walk from here can be long or short; I opt for exercise.  This is where the redwings are hiding; probably a hundred or more deep in the foliage, stripping away at the abundant crop of ivy berries. Blackbirds abound and encouraging numbers of song thrushes are here too, no doubt a legacy of the influx during the bad weather.

Apart from robins, occasional blue tits, coal tits and scalding wrens, silence is my only companion on parts of the walk as the birds flock and move as one through the woodland.  I find no redpolls, but the glimpse of a fox amongst the trees compensates.  Nature is always unpredictable.


Thursday 9 February 2017

Early Birds

It’s typically grey outside, some would say depressingly so, but the Brits can always find something to be happy about.  Is it temperature, lengthening days, or time of year that stimulates birds to begin singing in early spring?  Maybe it’s a combination of all of these, but as the temperature returns to normal and nightfall gets gradually later, a blackbird and song thrush have joined the ever present singing robin in the garden over the last few days.  The frogs too are in full song, especially after dark and the pond is writhing with activity; it should be full of frogspawn in the next few days.

Away from the garden, I hear great tits and dunnocks; not many, but more than the odd snatch of song.  Coal tits with their bright uplifting calls are starting too, and the song of ever present wrens appears to be getting louder by the day.  Mistle thrushes are early nesters and have been vocal for some time and the noisy rooks are settling in across the road.

Reports are beginning to emerge of early nests; a collared dove sitting on eggs in ivy-covered hawthorn, and house sparrows carrying feathers into a hole under the eaves of a house.  There are worrying signs that many British birds are nesting earlier each year, probably another indication of climate change.  Analysis of nest record cards collected over many decades by the British Trust for Ornithology has shown that for example, robins and chaffinches are laying eggs a week earlier than in the 1960’s, and others such as blue tits, great tits and swallows are showing similar patterns.


We are promised good weather, but winter could return in a flash and all this early activity could be in vain.  These early birds could be fooled and wasting their time.

Tuesday 7 February 2017

Foggy Amphitheatre

On days like this when the cloud reaches the ground, and mist rolls in from the sea, I can hardly make out the fence at the bottom of the garden. There are birds on the feeders, but I need binoculars to see that they are. But it’s mild, and means that even though I won’t be able to see far, I can get out and peer through the fog towards the lighthouse at Mumbles Head and listen to the sea.

There’s no wind, and I can sometimes just make out the lighthouse, which constantly appears, then disappears, in and out of the fog. The sound of the sea is different through fog. Gentle waves caress the shore, sending a soft hissing sound around the car park at Bracelet Bay. Gulls fly fleetingly into view, and I wonder how they navigate in such conditions. The foghorn from the lighthouse sounds near. No longer a horn, its modern note still conjures up danger, as does the occasional more gentle sound of the bell from the invisible Mixon buoy.  There are no tourists here, just a few locals sitting in cars peering out into the dull, grey wall.


I walk to Limeslade Bay a short distance to the west. Down on the beach it’s fog-free, but above is a ceiling of grey, creating the feeling of a strange, covered, outdoor amphitheatre.  The rocks are wet and slippery, and from the bench at the head of the beach I still can’t see the sea. What a joy is it to live by the sea, which is never the same, and always a delight, even on the dullest of days.

Sunday 5 February 2017

Goldfinches

Days of dull, cold weather can be depressing, but there’s always something in the natural world to lift the spirits.  I can always rely on the goldfinches on our garden feeders, which even on the dullest of days, shine like beacons.  Although it’s only February, and they breed later than most small birds, they’re in wonderful breeding plumage already.  On really cold days they stay in the garden all day, but even when the weather gets warmer, they’ll be in and out all the time. 

There’s very little doubt that goldfinches are much more common on Gower than a generation ago.  Maybe it’s the result of a change in climate, or perhaps more people are feeding birds in gardens than ever before, but the change is clear to see.


A friend who lived close by and has moved away now, kept finches in an aviary at the bottom of his garden.  He had greenfinches and goldfinches, which he kept for their song, together with lots of other exotic species.  I could never understand why he didn’t simply invest in a bird feeder and some niger seeds.  He could then have had the real things in his garden.

Saturday 4 February 2017

Old Rectory

Even though there’s low cloud and a soft warm drizzle brushes my face, I can see for miles from the high spine of Rhosilli Down at the west end of Gower. The famous golden sands stretch out along the curved bay below, and on a clear day, I can see five counties from up here. This part of Gower gets little snow, and even during the recent extreme blizzards, only a little fell on these salty west-facing slopes. Often when much of the county is covered, west Gower is snow- free.

I pause briefly at an Ordnance Survey trig point. These stone-made truncated pyramids, once a feature of many high points in Britain, are gradually becoming redundant in the age of satellite communications. Although still used by some, they’re a vital ingredient in the production of the ever-improving OS maps, which delight walkers and country lovers alike.

 The National Trust owns the lonely old rectory perched on the raised beach below. Now an upmarket holiday let, it attracts rich visitors from across the world. I hear it costs an arm and a leg to stay there and is occupied throughout the year, and smoke from the chimney suggests that's right. I wonder if those inside are aware of the pair of choughs searching for insects on the closely cropped turf just outside the window, or the pair of displaying ravens, croaking high in the sky above the rectory.


I’m alone save for the company of sheep, airborne gulls, and waders on the beach far below. It’s such a contrast to the summer months when surfers and sun worshipers descend on the bay. Perhaps they don't know that now is the best time to be in this magical place.