Thursday 30 March 2017

Two Worlds

Tucked away along an overgrown path in the Penrice Estate is a tiny remnant of a lost world.  Hidden by trees on all sides, the Jack Pond is a secret, neglected place, and on this spring morning is silent.  Out of sight in a sheltered corner of the marsh, little wind gets in.  Everything is still save for a delicate chiffchaff fresh in from the south. Flitting quietly to and fro amongst fallen logs low over the water, he’s searching for emerging insects.  It’s magic.

There’s real peace here; a forgotten place, known only to the few who know Oxwich Marsh well.  On a low branch above the water, a cormorant rests drying its wings, but little else moves.  There are otters in the marsh and this looks like the ideal place to get lucky.  I’m reminded of a similar pond in Scotland last year, where I was shown beavers; the Jack Pond would seem to be the perfect spot for any reintroduction to Wales.

I ponder the name.  Who or what was Jack?  I’ve known this special place for decades, but have always forgotten to ask at the great house.  Like the origins of so many local names, there’s always an answer.


It’s just a short walk around the back of the pond, and I emerge from the reeds in front of a proper lake.  In an instant I loose the feeling of intimacy.  The North Pond looks raw, uninviting, and manicured.  A cool wind whips across the surface and I’m in a different world.  Distant cars move along the road towards the beach at the far side of the lake, and I hear voices.  Here are two worlds centuries apart, separated by just a few strides.

Tuesday 28 March 2017

Author’s Stone

There are many King Arthur’s Stones in the UK; ours sits just below the ridge of Cefn Bryn, plumb in the centre of Gower.  The view from here can be superb, but I see no panorama through occasional sheets of very fine drizzle slowly drifting up from the estuary below.  This Neolithic burial chamber dating from about 2,500 BC is a magnet for tourist on fine days. I sit in peace, sheltering under its huge stone from the threatening rain, and listen for the bubble of a curlew; I come up here each year at this time more in hope than expectation.  Curlews bred on the bracken-covered common below in the past, but I fear they may never return.  They’re in decline everywhere now, and I must go to the uplands of central Wales to find them in summertime. 

The sporadic rain of recent days has forced migrants to the ground, especially wheatears.  The male feeding just a few yards from my ancient hide is oblivious of his watcher; he won’t breed here, there will be too much disturbance, but these rocky outcrops in this open country would be ideal.  Skylarks are returning to the common to breed, no song on this soggy morning, but some flutter above the flat bracken, perhaps in pursuit of females.  Meadow pipits are active too, one even attempting half-hearted song-flights in the cold, damp air.


Down below on the plain to the east sits Broad Pool, another Wildlife Trust reserve; there’s no shelter here, but no rain either.  A little grebe trills from the cover of the far bank, but it’s the sand martins, swooping low over the water, that speak of spring.  Almost never silent in flight, I wonder what insects they find on this cold day, and how they survive the sudden changes of temperature in our ever-varying weather.

Sunday 26 March 2017

Beginnings

I don’t need to go far from our cottage to see the first signs of spring.   Each day I’m more confident that winter is finally behind us; there are new beginnings everywhere.  It’s been a while since the last frost, and wherever I go birds sing, and plants are wakening.  Snowdrops and crocuses are more or less over, and even though daffodils were late this year, they too are fading.  In sheltered spots a few dog violets are out, and dandelions are joining the seemingly ever-present daisies on the edges of fields.

Horse chestnuts shoot lemon-green leaves, and brambles begin to spread their tentacles in hedgerows.  We’ve passed the equinox, and with the sun getting higher each day, I can feel real warmth cutting through the canopy as I walk the sheltered path down to the beach.  There’s a carpet of shining fresh ivy on the woodland floor, and by the path, garlic looks as though it will flower soon.

Finding spring on the beach is not as easy. Rock pools look the same as they have all winter, with one managing to trap a starfish waiting for the next tide. There’s emerging life in the splash zone above the high tide line, and around the headland in a hidden inlet, the fleshy leaves of sea pinks peep through the gale-flattened sward of winter. There are no flowers yet, but they’ll soon cover the cliffs above this little cove.  On the beach, sand hoppers, having just emerged from their winter state, jump from warming kelp on the high tide line.  Kelp flies dart about, chased by hungry rock pipits, beginning to settle in for the breeding season.

Offshore, an early season holiday yacht makes steady progress against the westerly breeze; there’ll be many more when the weather improves.  It’s too cold and early in the season for the groups of sea bikes which, particularly at weekends, buzz noisily from Mumbles to Oxwich Bay, causing much annoyance to those seeking peace on the cliffs.

Saturday 25 March 2017

Mewslade

The narrow well-worn and hedge-lined path down to the cliff tops above Mewslade Bay is muddy.  Through the gate at the end of the lane is a world of finely rabbit-cropped grassland, gorse, flattened brown bracken, and limestone vistas, framed above with open sky and a blue-grey sea.  Wind-bent hawthorns, their branches covered with golden lichen, sprout tiny raspberry-coloured buds, one providing the perfect perch for a chiffchaff.  The little yellow bird sits preening, then singing, as if announcing the coming of spring.  Ancient limestone walls, now part of the fabric of the land and sometimes lost in the turf, support stunted trees just large enough to provide a pair of magpies support for a nest.  Along the path last night’s badger scrapes are fresh; I wonder if the government cull will ever reach these hidden setts.

Below, the straight slade down to the sea is deep, and open only to southerly winds, its steep sided crags of yellow gorse and lichen pointing to the golden beach beyond. I look for little owls which used to nest in a hole high up in a large limestone outcrop by the path, but as usual don't find them. The top path through newly shooting bramble and gorse, meanders to the cliff edge.  Carpets of newly opened celandines, some with attendant bumblebees, shelter on the leeward sides of walls, where a tortoiseshell butterfly searches for warmth.  Stonechats frequent this place in normal years, but last winter’s weather has ensured there are none here today.

Away from the peace of the valley, the cliff top is a noisy world of sea and pounding surf.  Ravens croak, circling herring gulls mew above the din, and the shrill cries of choughs pierce the wind as they enter their nest hole at Devil’s Truck.  Bravely a rock pipit parachutes down to the rocky shore, but is probably unheard by any potential mate in the cacophony of sound.

Turning landward the domed shape of an 18th century limestone kiln is clearly visible, and like the old stonewalls, is gradually being swallowed up by the landscape.

Friday 24 March 2017

Summer stars

On the cliffs the light turns from dark and threatening to light grey, the rain stops, clouds pass and, like throwing a switch, the sun bursts out.  Within minutes blue sky is painted with thin wisps of racing clouds, bumblebees become airborne, robins, dunnocks and blackbirds respond with song, and long-tailed tits as if from nowhere, search the tips of an isolated willow for insects.  At this time of year, I always hope in vain for a ring ouzel on the coast, but can’t recall the last time I was lucky.  I remember ringing my first and only one on the Pembrokeshire island of Skokholm in the early 1970’s.  Caught on spring migration in one of the Heligoland traps, they are regular visitors to the island during March and April. I read on the Internet of their arrival in ones and twos, but finding real ones is much more difficult.

It will soon be time to take to the hills north of Gower in search of three summer stars; wheatear, whinchat and ring ouzel, but there has been worrying news about all three in recent years.  With wheatears well down, the range of whinchats contracting and the number of ring ouzels causing real concern, the chance of finding them all on the same day in the mountains is looking slim once more.  However it’s not all doom and gloom in the uplands.  The first results from the BTO’s Upland Breeding Bird Survey provided some better news; although its early days, after a long period of decline there are signs that ring ouzels may be holding their own and meadow pipits, red grouse, buzzards and merlins have all increased.  Who knows we may have turned a corner, but it will take a real optimist to hope that all of these would breed on Gower.

Thursday 23 March 2017

Out of Africa

After a morning of heady rain, clear watery light on the newly painted lifeboat house at Mumbles greets the arrival of the kittiwakes to the pier. They won't start nesting for a while, but having them back makes the heart beat a little faster.  Sparkling in clean summer plumage, more than a hundred rest and preen on the iron superstructure ready for the long summer ahead. It's a time of change. Most black-headed gulls have gone, and those that remain have brown heads. Turnstones, still in drab winter garb, roost between tides on the boat slip, but will be off north soon. A brimstone butterfly looking lost, flies over the sea and a bee collects pollen from the stamens of a  crocus flower in a pot by the pier restaurant. 

There are millions of birds moving out of Africa at present, and the headland by the lighthouse is a first landing on Gower from across the Bristol Channel for a male wheatear. They're arriving in good numbers now, but I hear disturbing news of this smart trans-Saharen migrant. The BTO reports that Wales has lost at least a quarter of its breeding wheatears in the last 15 years, and there have been significant reductions in Scotland.  This first wave of arrivals will be followed by the larger Greenland race, these true long distant travellers migrating a full 5,000 miles. The plight of wheatears is not unique; many of our small summer visitors are also in serious decline, and the reasons are complicated.

Tuesday 21 March 2017

Equinox

Today marks the vernal equinox in the northern hemisphere; the official first day of spring.  It’s warmer, the countryside feels a bit more spring-like and chiffchaffs sing, but spring is late this year.  After a decade or so of early springs, this one has come as quite a shock.  Yellows are finally winning through, daffodils and celandines are in full bloom, and marsh marigolds are beginning to flower under sheltered willows in Oxwich Marsh.

It’s very likely that grey herons and kingfishers will have suffered from the hard winter.  I climb the fence into the mature wet alder wood. The familiar raucous calls of the herons are muted, and only a few birds bring sticks to nests.  Last winter’s long freeze must have had a heavy toll, and they may struggle to bring off more than a handful of young this year.  This old heronry has a long history and is part of the fabric of Penrice Estate.  The demise of elms forced the herons from an island in the great lake to this new spot decades ago, but their numbers have never really recovered.  Little egrets have thought about breeding here during the last few years, but have yet to succeed.  They too will have had a bad winter and maybe won’t show up at all this summer.


On north Gower, above the slope of a small valley, a pair of buzzards play effortlessly with the thermals, watched by a pair of interested ravens on nearby North Hill Tor.  A distant skylark, not even a dot in the sky, celebrates the turn of the seasons, and a much nearer meadow pipit parachutes down to an isolated hawthorn by the edge of the salt marsh.  There’s a feeling of nascent energy craving for release.  We will surely and finally get our just rewards for this long winter in the next couple of weeks.

Sunday 19 March 2017

Sunday Morning Special

The walk along the cliff footpath from Limeslade to Langland Bay is never the same.  There’s a breeze from the north, and ahead a cold clear blue sky stretches beyond Oxwich and Port Eynon Point to the horizon; overhead grey clouds have still to burn off.  With no firing of gorse along this part of the coast in recent years, a blaze of yellow covers the cliffs, promising even more when spring finally arrives.  No boats spoil the seascape, and apart from the occasional cormorant, the surface of the sea is a blank canvas.  It’s high tide, the sea laps gently against the rocks below, and I hear no pounding surf.

Many ritual Sunday morning walkers, some exercising dogs, are cheery and pass the time of day. ‘Good morning’, ‘what a lovely day’, reminding me of a special Sunday morning some time ago when Wales beat England in the Millennium Stadium to win the Six Nations Championship.  Even this far away from the event, big matches in Cardiff affect us here on Gower.  Rugby international bring prosperity; hotels and restaurants fill, and golf clubs get day visitors.


Joggers too pass, some so fit they seem not to feel the steep rises in the path.  I rest on a bench and look out to sea.  A rare Dartford warbler pops up from inside the gorse a few yards away and drops down before I can lift my binoculars.  The coast here is special, and the walker and joggers know it, but they probably don’t know about the very special resident they’ve just passed on their Sunday morning amble along the path.

Saturday 18 March 2017

Bovehill


There is little left of Bovehill Castle, just the remnants of the old 15th century walls of what is thought to be a fortified manor house standing high on a shelf above Landimore Marsh in north Gower. Mature sycamores grow from the ivy-clad limestone walls that still mark the boundary; there's a strong feeling of history here. The castle is marked on maps, but even so is difficult to find, and I guess most holidaymakers don’t give it a second thought. The walk through the farmyard and along a lane of stony banks covered with moss and golden lichen, passes hedgerows just beginning to show a hint of greening. The first female flowers of hazel squeeze from buds, and a few yellow forsythia flowers burst in the farmhouse garden. I come here not only for history, but also for the view, which is quite exceptional and it is shaped by the tide. High spring tides fill the estuary, and low water creates pools and meandering rivers, forming a mosaic of glinting light. There is a peace and isolation up here. The sound of ewes and lambs is broken by rooks from the wood to the west and a raven heading to its ancient nest site at North Hill Tor.

Sheep and ponies dot the green marsh far below. Remnants of the great winter flocks of ducks remain, but distance defeats my attempts at identification. Wader numbers too will soon be depleted, but oystercatchers still make music on the far shore and there is always the sound of redshanks. Shelducks, in pairs, are vivid against the wash of green, their nests in the adjacent woodland a mystery to most. The warm air brings out buzzards floating upwards in the thermals; there must be half a dozen territories left and right. Winter attracts big flocks of lapwings to the marsh, but only a few display below, and I wonder if any will stay to breed this year.


In the ivy-covered stonewalls of the remnant castle a wren is busy nest-building. Such activity. In rapid succession, long pieces of grass, many times the length of the little bird are taken in. It’s the male that builds the nest, and he will build more than one for her to choose from. He takes no notice at all of my presence, unlike a female blackbird, who cagily takes nesting material into the hedge. It really feels like spring is here.

Friday 17 March 2017

Adders

A few hours of weak spring sun brings out adders on the sea wall at Oxwich. This is a favoured place to find them in the summer months, when I can usually guarantee to find several basking on the sandier patches on top of the wall. There are never many, and when disturbed, quickly move into the cover of the grass.

The sea wall, built at the end of the 18th century, has survived well, and is still more or less watertight. Originally built to keep out the sea, and provide grazing land, it now encloses a large reed bed, which is fast turning into woodland. Some of the original enclosed ponds remained until recently, providing nesting sites for black-headed gulls, but these are mostly silted up, and apart from a few reed and sedge warblers, the marsh is now of little natural history interest.

By the sluice gate at the eastern end of the marsh, mature blackthorn provides a perfect nesting site for a pair of long-tailed tits busily adding feathers to the inside of their delicate nest. What a marvel of nature this little nest is.


Marsh tits have become very scarce in recent years, and I hear one singing in Abraham’s Wood not far from the lower footpath. I wonder if this will be the only one I find this year. The mixed wood has matured a great deal over the last few decades and although some thinning has taken place, looks in need of attention, but still remains a favourite walk for locals and visitors alike.

Thursday 16 March 2017

Dry Ford

Like most of the Norman churches on Gower, St Teilos’ at the head of the Bishopston Valley has a sturdy castellated tower. A neat black clock-face with golden painted hands and roman numerals tells me it’s just before one o’clock, but the hands don’t move. I wonder if they'll correct it for summer time.  There’s no great yew in the old churchyard, just a vast Wellingtonian dominating the church; I dread to think of the damage it could do to the beautiful old building in a big storm.

Two grotesques are missing from the sides of one of the church windows, but six remain, mostly in fine condition. I wonder at their meaning, but have no clue. Such a feature of old Gower churches, they add mystery to this place of worship shrouded in centuries of history.


There’s been no rain for at least two weeks, and the stream running in front of the church is bone dry; it’s fed from Fairwood Common, and comes and goes at this point depending on rainfall. There’s just a small murky pool below the parched old cobbled ford, and the wagtails that usually patrol this spot are nowhere to be seen. The path down the valley starts at the ford and follows the dry bed of the stream for a while, before disappearing underground, before emerging again down the valley. There's moss everywhere, and wild garlic decorates the green carpet underfoot. It’s a good two miles down through the valley to the beach at Pwll Du, but it’s cold, and I decide to head back to the tranquillity and shelter of the churchyard; summer’s the best time for this walk.

Wednesday 15 March 2017

Fritillaries in Bud

Winter doesn’t want to let go.  Although it’s clear and sunny, there’s still a nip in the air.  Apart from a few horse chestnut leaves, most large trees remain tightly in bud.  Hedgerows are trying to wake, and bright ivy and patches of greening hawthorn slip by as I drive west to the Penrice Estate.

Inside the Estate, moles have been active; it’s that time if year.  Their earth mounds litter the sheep-grazed meadow, dotted by celandines and daisies.  In the formal gardens, the last snowdrops hang on, peeping out amongst extraordinary carpets of purple crocuses.  Under great beeches even more crocuses, and clumps of primroses, many growing around limestone outcrops, compete with a mass of brilliant yellow daffodils shining in the late morning sunlight.

The Serpentine Lake is free of lilies, and the winter wildfowl seem to have left.  It’s that inter regnum period between the end of winter and the beginning of spring.  There’s very little sound, it’s more or less silent; I hear the squeaking wings of a ravens as it passes low above the canopy.  In a sheltered spot a few violets look feeble; they’ll be out in force here once the weather turns warmer.  In front of the old orangery, snake’s head fritillaries are in bud; I’ll need to come back in a week or so to see these most wonderful flowers at their best.  Inside the orangery, withering fruits of oranges and lemons from last year hang from small pot-bound trees, but already new green ones are getting ready to ripen in the months ahead.


By the Garden Lane, the blond marsh is silent.  New shoots of reed and yellow flag are starting to show, and the green leaves of marsh marigolds creep along the edges of pools, and under the shade of willows. I have the feeling that when spring arrives it will be quick.

Tuesday 14 March 2017

Changeover

On the South Pond at Oxwich little grebes seem to have quartered the lake into territories, their constant bubbling a feature that will last well into the autumn.  Necks in unison, the resident pair of mute swans performs a silent, graceful ballet, in contrast to the raucous sounds from a pair of shelducks.  Quiet mallards, teal and shovelers travel about in pairs too, their courting much more discrete.

There’s a sense of changeover in the marsh, an overall mood of preparation for the new season.  Overhead, a carrion crow carries lichen to an almost finished nest high up in an alder, and the song of resident birds increases now at every visit.  Cetti’s warblers sing all year round, but there seem to be more now, their explosive song echoing over the marsh.  I hear woodpeckers drumming in Abraham’s Wood, and a melancholic mistle thrush has a territory somewhere near the village.


It’s not just birds that herald a changeover of seasons, many flowers are already out, and the green shoots of yellow iris and reeds show above the water line in the still golden-coloured marsh.  Woodland trees are decorated with buds waiting to burst, with willows, alders and hazels showing off their catkins. Blue tits, their heads dusted yellow from the catkins, feeds avidly as they move along the Garden Lane dragging with them a goldcrest and a tree creeper.  This could be the last winter flock I see till autumn, as everything changes into breeding mode very soon.

Sunday 12 March 2017

Taken for Granted

The view across Hunts Bay to the limestone headland is spectacular, one of a myriad I can choose round here.  Every few yards along the path the changing angle subtly varies what I see; only a few yards makes such a difference.  Wherever I walk on the cliffs I’m confronted with magnificent vistas; I never tire of living here and fail to understand how some take the coastline for granted.  Emergent yellow gorse contrasts the bare winter browns of bracken and flattened grass, a reminder of how hard this winter has been.  Little grows on these dead looking slopes in early March; a bare canvass that nature will soon paint with washes of greens decorated with multi-coloured flowers insects and birds. 

The choughs are busy again at Bacon Hole; there’s much toing and froing in and out of the cave. It’s not clear if the neighbouring pair by Boscoe Lane will nest, but we sometimes have two pairs each year at this end of Gower.  The peregrines are much in evidence and will start nest building on the cliff face across the Bay very soon.  Stonechats should be singing by now and the pair on the slopes below is the first I’ve seen since the snow.  They suffer from bad winters, but will recover in time.  On the rocky shore it’s still winter, oystercatchers, curlews, turnstones and a few purple sandpipers root through rock pools, and the usual grey heron stands alone.


Daffodils are at their best in sheltered gardens above the cliffs, these warm sunny days with frosty nights have brought them on, and they should produce a blaze of yellow in the next week or so.  Horse chestnuts are one of the first trees to burst into bud, and some south-facing branches have turned bright green, probably this very morning.

Saturday 11 March 2017

After the Gale

We can get gales here at any time of the year, and they’re still common in March. This one was quick, and as is often the case, came in and out with the tide; it lasted just six hours, and was gone by noon.  From reckless surf at the height of a gale, to flat calm when it’s all over, the sea can change dramatically in such a short time. On the cliff path, everything is wet and fresh, below pure white surf boils against the rocks, but the distant sea is already calming. There’s still a sense of energy from the gale, but this will die soon. I watch in awe the force of the Atlantic.

The recent mild weather has brought more colour to the mass of gorse on the cliffs. New vibrant yellows show up against the duller ones of winter. Molehills dot the path on each side, and further along, badgers have been busy overnight. The year’s first delicate violets are appearing, beautiful against the limestone, and from under low-growing blackthorn, their delicate flowers reach for the light. The sun appears in a watery sky, the sea turns quickly from grey to blue, but along the coast the small coves are still shrouded in mist.

Friday 10 March 2017

Garden Changes

Warmer days has set off spring in the garden, and there are gentle changes afoot.  The grass is shooting up, the willow tree will burst into light spring-green soon, buds are showing on the St John’s wort, and flowers have appeared on the heather by the pond.  Winter redwings are long-gone, the garden is now left to resident blackbirds and a song thrush that pops in from time to time.  Goldfinches sing front and back, but only a few take seeds from the feeders, with the large winter flock now out and about in the surrounding countryside.  Greenfinches wheeze in the conifers, but as yet I see no song flights.  Chaffinches come and go, males looking quite beautiful now, with one singing daily at the bottom of the garden.  Dunnocks sing more, midges fly, frogs are active in the pond, and bumblebees visit.  Cold days can put everything back, but as the equinox gets closer, spring is gradually winning.

I lift the lid of the nest box to find blue tits have been busy; the nest is not complete, but already a soft green lining of moss is in place.  There won’t be any eggs just yet, it’s just a message to spring that they’re ready to go.  Robins too have started building, the nest as usual in a hole in the brick wall of the old stable block.  I can usually find these early nests, but they’ll defeat me later when the leaves are out.


Soon I’ll need to rescue the garden from winter, clear away fallen branches, take out the lawn mower, cut back the shrubs, and begin the never-ending task of trimming hedges.  I can then settle down, wait for the house martins to return, and the first hedgehogs under the night-light by the willow.

Thursday 9 March 2017

Common Fires

The little rain that fell overnight might help to keep the vandals at bay from killing the wildlife on our cliffs and commons again.  At this time of year, and every year before the end of March, it seems as though its open season for anyone with a box of matches to set fire to the dry grass and bracken, causing untold damage to the flora and fauna.  Commons and cliffs should be alive with invertebrates, but these annual fires have ensured that many of them are impoverished.  Some selective burning is beneficial, especially when the gorse gets too leggy, but uncontrolled fires burn deep into the ground, and make recovery very slow.  The loss of biodiversity and carbon cost is incalculable.

Large areas of Wales are ablaze, with fire crews wrestling to keep fires under control.  Forests are at risk, and each year hundreds of hectares are lost to vandals; even lives are in danger when fires invade urban areas.  Our local common and cliffs have escaped so far, but there are still two weeks remaining before burning becomes illegal; I keep my fingers crossed, hope for rain, but the forecast is for perfect fire-raising weather.


Powerless, I retreat to the beach away from the plumes of smoke inland.  A natural smoke-like flock of dunlins tempers my anger, and a male wheatear, my first for the year, heralds hope for the season of renewal ahead.

Wednesday 8 March 2017

Egg Collecting

My earliest recollection of being interested in nature was sitting by a cauldron of pigswill in the cool of an evening being taught about the natural world by an old man who kept a smallholding.  Mr Felton kept pigs and a few chickens, and we talked about how to look after them, but what he taught me about nature, set me along a road that I have never really veered away from.

I was about ten or so and I collected bird’s eggs.  In those days it seemed that all young boys did, and we didn’t give conservation a second thought.  We were told to take just one egg from a nest, and I think I kept to this rule most of the time.  I had no sense of breaking the law, which at that time was before even the 1954 Wild Birds Protection Act.

I’m reminded of all this as I hear a Dartford warbler singing in the gorse on the cliffs at Heatherslade.  Modern day legislation gives these rare residents maximum protection; it’s even an offence to visit the nest, let alone take an egg.  The same goes for the choughs, which nest in the caves to the east of me.  They too are rare, and would be a target for modern day egg collectors.  I’m not sure if Gower is targeted any more, but there are species here that would feature high on many a collector’s list of ‘must haves’.  Thankfully the practice is now rare, and only a few hardened individuals brave the law, which over the years has been strengthened, whilst at the same time being backed up by stiffer fines and even prison sentences.  We’ve come a long way since my boyhood days with Mr Felton.