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.

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. 

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.