Night Thrushes

On clear still October nights when the air is cool, dense and less turbulent, it’s possible to hear the faint calls of redwings as they migrate high up in the darkness. I’ve always assumed they’re heading westwards, possibly towards Ireland, but I’m not really sure. There have been local reports of a few redwings in recent weeks, and even a couple of fieldfares, but we shall have to wait for much colder weather before the big winter flocks of these very smart thrushes arrive.

Here in the western lowlands, and on the coast, redwings usually arrive in late autumn, but if I were to travel just a few miles north into the hills, I would find the first sizable winter flocks, busy at work on this year’s heavily laden hawthorn trees. We rarely get big numbers down here until winter begins in earnest, but a quick snap of cold weather in eastern England can quickly change all this, and push them over to our side of the country. I noticed a report today of tens of thousands arriving in Bedfordshire, so they must be gradually working their way west. The arrival of fieldfares is much more difficult to predict, and even when the weather turns cold, they often don’t appear in significant numbers, and in some years hardly at all.

I’ve noted more blackbirds of late, and they’re beginning to be conspicuous on open green spaces such as playing fields and golf courses. They also migrate from their Scandinavian breeding grounds, joining our resident birds in winter, and in some years are remarkably common. Cold weather usually arrives late on Gower, and it will be some time yet before I can count five species of thrushes in our village; only then will I know that winter has properly arrived.

Mustn't Grumble

On warm autumn days, when the sun shines, and the calm sea is Mediterranean blue, the place to be is on the cliffs.  West of the lighthouse, the cliff path is relatively gentle, and busy with couples out for an afternoon’s stroll.  Mediterranean gulls winter in Bracelet Bay, and a just few venture west along the cliffs to Langland, but they rarely seem to get as far as Caswell Bay. A beautiful pure white adult seems to accompany me as I walk towards Langland; there’s nothing special about this, but you never know what you’re going to find round the next corner.  In flat light, and just a few yards below me, a lone and very late juvenile black tern fishes close inshore.  To see one on the coast is not that unusual, but at this time of year it should really be much further south.  A winter plumage guillemot pops up a few yards away. Although some do stay inshore during winter, this too is somewhat out of place, and most will be far offshore in the Atlantic by now.

Everyone looks happy on this lovely day, and I’m quietly amused by the exchange of comments from the smiling walkers as we cross on the path; ‘lovely afternoon’, ‘nice day’, ‘aren’t we lucky’, but best of all ‘mustn’t grumble about the weather today’.  What they’re actually saying is that our weather is usually awful, and we have to be thankful for the few fine days we get each year - all very British.

Rainforest

I’ve heard it said many time that Welsh woodlands are similar to temperate rainforests, and after heavy rains, our local wood does have that feel about it.  Walking along the slippery path, there’s a constant squelch underfoot, and it’s hard to keep balance, as I make my way down to the sea.  The wood is dark, the trunks of many trees are ivy-covered, and thick carpets of bright green moss cover most fallen branches.  Epiphytic ferns grow in the moss, which oozes water when pressed, and with more on the woodland floor, and a faint smell of decay in the air, the sense of a rainforest is very real.

October is fungi season, but there’s not a great deal about this year.  They need warm, wet conditions, and although it’s been wet of late, the temperature has fluctuated, and we’ve had some cold nights already. I reach the bottom of the valley where there’s a sheltered beech wood, which is always beautiful at any time of the year. There are several old fallen trees, and covering an exposed stump, honey fungus, which can kill healthy trees, is at work eating away at the roots.  After the rains, its beautiful mushroom shapes glisten in the sunlight breaking through to the woodland floor.  I take a picture and search for more. I find waxcaps, which as usual I can’t properly identify, but a fine blushing bracket on an oak is much easier, and gives me another photo-opportunity.

Greenland Race

Before the industrial revolution Swansea Bay must have been an absolutely wonderful place for wildlife.  Two significant rivers flow into the bay and between them great areas of wetland have gradually been ‘improved’ for man’s use.  A still expanding sand dune system connects the two rivers; it’s been growing since Victorian times and contains many high and stable dunes.  Although a great deal of the original wetland has been lost to development, there’s lots left, and the sand dunes contain much treasure.

The dunes fizz with small flocks of goldfinches, linnets, chaffinches and greenfinches, and smaller parties of skylarks and meadow pipits, but it’s the merlin on a fence post that gets my adrenaline going.  This tiniest of British falcons sits patiently watching the flocks before darting off, low to the ground, and at great speed to attack the finches.  I watch several attempts, none of which succeed, and am torn between the fortunes of the hunter and hunted.  A full fifteen minutes elapses before she gives up and disappears from view, most of her potential victims by then having made a sensible exit.

Hares are uncommon in these parts, and one in the dunes is a real bonus as I head for the beach.  It's  high water and the shore is alive with waders.  Oystercatchers, sanderlings and ringed plovers in hundreds, together with lesser numbers of curlews, bar-tailed godwits and dunlins, suggests that this relatively undisturbed side of the Swansea Bay is now the most important place for waders. Decades ago, most congregated at Blackpill, but over the years, human disturbance and natural changes in the sediments have changed this.

Offshore, a dozen or so great-crested grebes hint of winter to come, and a few late swallows hurry off around the bay towards their jumping off point for the Devon coast at Mumbled Head.  Back in the dunes a wheatear looks large, and I wonder if it’s from the Greenland race.  They’re easy to tell in spring with rich orange breasts, but this one is a juvenile, and I’m not sure.

Bound to the Sea

There’s dampness in the air as dawn breaks, but no rain, it’s just the first sign that summer is coming to an end, and the season is changing. A robin sings a thin song as I leave the cottage and head for Worm’s Head.

In Wales the best place to find grey seals is the west coast of Pembrokeshire, but we have them off Gower as well. Late September and early October is the time to see pups, but I need to cross the causeway to find them. No matter what time of year, the crossing from the mainland to Worm’s Head is tricky. Having done it scores of times, I choose a well-known safe route. The first part is easy, as my boots crunch on thick carpets of broken mussel shells, but I then need to be more careful, as I gingerly make my way over the slippery rocks. In the thin morning sunlight, excited oystercatchers rise from their hiding places in the newly exposed rock pools, and invisible curlews, now beginning to increase in numbers as winter approaches, call evocatively from the distant shore. Amongst the blues and browns of mussel beds, perfectly camouflaged turnstones fly away noisily when I get too close. The calmer waters in the lea of the island will attract wintering divers soon, and the whole bay will be alive with common scoters.

As I scramble up the sandy ledge onto The Worm, a wheatear disappears in a flash. I head away from the main footpath, taking the more treacherous northern route, where I know the seals hang out. I’m alone on the island, large curious eyes peer at me from the rocks below, and white pups look up at what could be their first sight of a human. Hauled out on the rocks at low tide, these pups can only be few days old at most. I’m filled with a mixture wonder and privilege to be so close to such wonderful wild creatures, and realize once again my island heritage, and how bound I'm to the sea.

Splash Zone

The cliff tops are mellow now. Autumnal colours of dark greens, with splashes of purple heather and yellow gorse sprinkled amongst the rich browns of dead bracken, create an atmosphere of change. Blackberries, sloes, and rich-red rose hips, add to an end of season landscape, and a few red admirals feed on the ripening fruits.

The splash zone between sea and land has always fascinated me. In just a few yards the vegetation changes, as do the animals that live there. I settle down to watch the birds exploiting this special habitat. Rock pipits, wrens, stonechats, robins, pied wagtails, linnets and turnstones all turn up to feed in one way or another. Later in the year during cold weather, when the splash zone remains unfrozen, others too will find precious food here. Purple sandpipers, meadow pipits, blackbirds, song thrushes, and now and again, a wintering black redstart will use this temperate world between land and sea.

There’s always something of interest on the shore, and today it’s the pied wagtails that attract my attention. They’re beginning to flock now, and I’ve heard reports of up to 60 already this autumn. The sandy beach has its usual strand of kelp along the high water line, and the wagtails busily feed on the abundance of flies and sand hoppers in the rotting brown mat. In winter they find food by either travelling around in flocks, or as the ones below me, by defending temporary feeding territories. Just four birds are involved this afternoon, each working a small strip of kelp, defending it against any other who dares to venture too close. When competition gets much, or they’re disturbed by gulls, they reposition themselves onto different territorial strips. This behaviour could turn out to be vital when food is short in deepest winter.

Succession

A really beautiful autumn morning finds me wandering along the beach at Oxwich Bay. The luxury of only a handful of local walkers on the vast expanse of sand reminds me once again why I live here. A few crows and gulls are the only birds on the shore, but this only adds to the tranquillity. I watch a common gull trying to crack open a shell by dropping it onto the hard sand from a great height; it needs several attempts, but eventually succeeds.

At the far end of the beach the narrow river meanders out from the reed beds through an oxbow into the sea, and is usually busy with bathing gulls and feeding wagtails. Today’s emptiness is striking, but unpredictability is what makes the natural world so fascinating. Turning landward at the end of the dunes the lapping sound of the shore fades, and I watch a shoal of fish-fry darting from my shadow in the stream and hope for a kingfisher, but it’s the kind of morning when wildlife is scarce. Undaunted I sit and wait. There’s always something to grab one’s attention, and today it’s jays. There are lots about at the moment, as they arrive for the winter from Scandinavia, and I can hear their scalding calls disturbing the silence of the woodland behind the marsh. A small flock appears, then singles here and there, flying back and forth from the woods to the dunes, each carrying an acorn to be stored for winter food. Not all of these will be found, and the fruits of their labour are the young oaks quickening the succession from marram-covered sand dune to mature woodland.