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.

Worrying Times

At this time of year a couple of days of warm weather can bring a real change to the countryside.  Plants suddenly spring into life and insects appear from nowhere.  Buds are now visible on some trees and flowers are slowly emerging, with common whitlow grass, dandelions and bell heather all  looking wonderful.  There are celandines on the cliff paths, daisies are spreading on the golf course, but I’ve found no violets as yet.  Tiny flies dance in the sunshine in the shade of our willow tree, a honeybee was in the garden this morning, and there’s been a report of a small tortoiseshell butterfly on the wing.

It’s a special time of the year for me when the sticky bugs of horse chestnuts burst, revealing vibrant green leaves; all seems to be in order again this year.  But this spring I worry how our ash trees will fare when the extent of ash-dieback disease is known.  There’s been a recent report of infected trees from Ceredigion to the west of here, but so far I’ve heard of none from Gower.  On west Gower oak and ash predominate, and there are some remarkable old trees in some of our mature woodlands; ash-dieback could dramatically change the landscape.  Elms were more or less eliminated a generation ago when Dutch Elm disease struck Gower.  I fear a similar catastrophe for our ash trees.

Snipe

The sheep and pony tracks across the soggy common make excellent routes from which to flush snipe.  They’re so easy to find; walking will usually put them up, but a sharp handclap invariably sends one or two twisting away low over the grass.  They always call, but I rarely see them before they flush, or after they land. Perhaps four or five rise every 50 yards; I wonder how many there are on the vast common, certainly hundreds, maybe more.

A little stream in a hollow provides some shelter from the stiff, cold, easterly wind.  I huddle low, watching a smart male reed bunting picking at leftover seeds by the water’s edge.  Is it the same bird as last year?  It’s hard to say, although his jet-black head markings and white collar look familiar.  Males vary, and can be very distinctive, and I’m convinced the same bird has taken this territory for the last two years.  He doesn’t sing; maybe it’s late in the day, or too early in the season, but he’ll soon take up his familiar position on a favoured isolated willow and advertise for a mate.

The little warmth from the sun attracts pairs of circling buzzards searching for elusive thermals, the males tumbling as they try to impress; they’ll soon build nests in the woodland on the edge of the common.  On the ground a meadow pipit braves the chilly wind, I suspected they were here, but like most things are keeping low in the still desolate dead grass.  I had hoped for a first wheatear, but that would have been a bonus.

Rooks

There’s something very British about the sound of a rookery; in a way it defines the countryside in early spring.  When the weather allows me to sleep with the window open, waking to their raucous calls is a delight.  Before the leaves obscure the nests, sitting underneath the one in our village has become a ritual.  Winter gales have destroyed most nests and looking up through the bare branches, I count only nine so far this year; it will be some time before I can be confident of the final total.  These early nests are beginnings, just a few twigs, but there’s lots of activity; birds arrive noisily with sticks often looking far too big, but somehow arrange them into place; there’s stealing from neighbours too.  Other pairs sit around preening, but always communicating; it’s the sound that creates the wildness.  I don’t have the same affinity with carrion crows; rooks are somehow different.  Is it their gregarious nature, perhaps the mysteries of rook parliaments, or just the way they’re woven into our folklore?  Whatever the reason, sitting under the nests this morning moves me again; they’re a great addition to the life of the village and somehow make it complete.

Although large long established rookeries seem stable, many smaller ones are not, and move around.  Satellites form, last a few years and disappear. Ours arrived in the village about a decade ago and has stuck at about twenty nests each year.  Although confident that they’ll return each year, I’m always a little nervous until I see them back. 

The warming sun has cleared a light overnight frost, softened the earth, and made life easier for the few remaining redwings still waiting for the severe weather in continental Europe to moderate.  They’ll be off soon, leaving the village and the rooks to welcome the spring arrivals from the south.

Fairwood Common

At this time of year Gower commons can seem lifeless, even desolate, but there’s a feeling of expectation.  It’s been very dry of late, giving time for the boggy ground to dry out a little.  Although the sun is finally out, there’s a keen wind from the north, ensuring that it will be some time before any spring migrants arrive.  Deep footprints of cattle and ponies hardened by recent frosts make walking difficult, as I head off the path looking for signs of spring.  On leggy gorse, clumps of yellow flowers promise spring, but there’s always some out in every month.  I flush a snipe; there are lots here in winter, but they’ll be gone from Gower shortly; sadly none breed here anymore. 

The lane behind the Gower Wildflower Centre on the edge of Fairwood Common is protected from the worst of the weather, and there are more signs of life.  The hedgerow is bare, but moss and lichen forming perfect carpets of green, coat limestone boulders left over from an ancient stonewall.  Contorted horizontal hawthorns, remnants of a hedge laid years ago are also covered, some with tiny shoots of ferns, which have survived winter in this sheltered spot.  Here and there small clumps of snowdrops peep out, and I wonder how long ago this land was woodland.  A chaffinch and a robin sing, I disturb a buzzard by the hedge, and a wren gives out a loud blast a few yards away.  There are blackbirds and a song thrush in the fields, but it seems that the recent relatively mild weather has cleared out the redwings and fieldfares.  Spring is not too far away, but as ever, it’s a waiting game.

Beach Huts

The line of about 80 beach huts along the sweep of Langland Bay dates back to the 1920s.  All tastefully decorated in white and green art décor style, they’re a feature of the bay.  Owned by the city, they are leased to local residents and much sought after.  Set a couple of meters above the curving coastal path, and fronted by occasional mature palm trees, they give a real English Riviera feel to the bay; I could be south Devon, or even the Mediterranean.  There’s a long established programme of restoration and maintenance, and in lovely early spring sunshine, a small team of painters are hard at work touching up these lovely wooden structures.

I head westward past the golf course to Snapple Point.  A constant stream of walkers along the path has made robins very tame here, and they’ll sometimes take crumbs from an outstretched hand.  Sheltered from the weather, celandines are in flower by the path, my first for the year, and garlic leaves a good six inches high are beginning to colour the ground with a new rich green.  At the Point, ten empty ‘In Loving Memory’ benches look out over a hazy sea.  I pause for a while on one facing due west towards Oxwich Point; there’s no horizon, just bright grey-blue light over a glistening sea.  Onshore a yellow carpet of gorse flowers not yet fully out, stretches to Whiteshell Point and beyond.  It promises a good gorse spring, and the cliffs could be a riot of yellow a month or so from now, but I never seem to predict this accurately.

The tide’s up, there’s just a gentle swell lapping against the rocks, and on the sea just a few gulls.  Many black-headed gulls, such a feature of this coast in winter, have donned summer plumage now and departed for their breeding grounds.  The walk to Whiteshell Point is sheltered and in some places windless, and I pick up the soft coconut-like scent of gorse; spring is just around the corner.

Living Decoys

Teal are easily spooked; even at this distance I have to be careful to keep out of sight.  They fly in, land in a flash of green wings, and head straight for the cover of the reeds; the South Pond at Oxwich is silent again.  I keep out of sight, but they know I’m here; shovelers, mallards, gadwalls sit motionless like decoys, eyes fixed.  One step into the open, and they scurry across the water to resettle at a safer distance.

Below the bent and broken stems of last year, and virgin shoots of yellow flag and phragmites break through the murky waters of the reed bed.  It will be some time before the watery green carpet of spring appears properly, but I’m content with the vibrant mosses and lichens on ancient willows and alders.

There are threatening clouds over Oxwich Beach. It’s warm, and apart from a few distant walkers, the great expanse of sand is deserted.  At the mouth of Nicholaston Pill, a motley collection of gulls loaf about and bath in the shallow water as it gently creeps into the sea.  There’s a grace and softness to the common gulls, reminding me of the gentle nature of kittiwakes, very different from the severe looking herring and black-backed gulls sitting on the wet sand by the tide line.

Overcast skies clear, the blond-coloured marsh lights up in a rosy evening glow, and I listen in vain for my first spring chiffchaff in the wood beyond the stream.  Excited greylag geese shatter the peace, honking loudly as they crash into roost; more arrive, settling in pairs ready for breeding in the weeks ahead.  Silhouetted grey herons float gracefully towards the alder wood by the Middle Pond, soon to be a hive of breeding activity.  A snipe flies up almost from beneath my feet, twists and turns, and disappear into the twilight. In the diminishing light, a thin reddish line appears in the sky over Oxwich Wood, the plaintive, distant song of a mistle thrush near the village fades long before a nearby song thrush, and both gradually merge with the tawny owls calling in the near darkness.