Climate Change Winners

It’s difficult to say exactly how many pairs of Dartford warblers breed on the peninsula - before last winter’s cold weather it could have been up to 20. There are probably fewer pairs this year, but the good spring weather this year may have ensured that these have done well. They breed mostly in the extensive gorse on the cliffs along the south coast, but are slowly taking to the commons. The gorse has to be just the right age to attract them, and about four to five feet high seems to be best. It takes time to find them, and I sit for quite a while before there are any signs. I usually hear them first. They sound a bit scratchy, rather like whitethroats, but the call is distinct. Seeing them is not so easy, but there’s a family party in the gorse below me, and I get reasonable views as they skulk and flit quickly through the vegetation. They often associate with stonechats, which is sometimes a good way of finding them, but unlike stonechats they rarely perch on the tops of gorse, and getting a good view is always a bit of a lottery.

Typically a bird of warmer parts of Western Europe, the Dartford warbler is one of the winners of climate change. In the 1960s they were restricted to very small populations on the south coast of England, and severe winters reduced the number of pairs in 1963 to just 11. Since then they’ve spread throughout southern England, and are now well established on the south coast of Wales, with the British population now estimated to be in the thousands.

Do-gooders

Most of us have a local patch near home where we walk and know well. Our green is a well-manicured area where children play, and all ages play football in winter and cricket in summer. Just a short distance across the road from the green is ‘my patch’. Like the green itself, it's common land, but this area has been mostly left to its own devices for generations, and is now fast reverting to woodland.

Until about a decade ago there were areas of scrub and open grassland here containing lovely wildlife features. Gorse and wildflowers attracted birds, butterflies, lots of bees, and a few small trees added to the variety of wildlife in our village. A couple of local community council do-gooders thought differently, and decided it would be a good idea to create more baron green open spaces. They removed the scrub, mowed the ground incessantly, and canalised the little stream to drain the land. It was of course a thankless task, and in the end they gave up. Nature abhors a vacuum, and in no time at all the wildflowers and scrub returned, the drainage tiles they used were crushed and blocked, and we have the birds and bees back again.

Walking through my patch this evening I’m struck by the size and density of the trees. Nature is taking its course quickly, and already this part of the common resembles mature woodland. Massive sycamores reach skywards, and there are oaks, horse chestnuts and willows getting ever taller by the year. The damp understory is lush with bramble and bracken, and buzzes with hoverflies. There are a few white butterflies too, and a late breeding blackbird comes close with a beak full of food for young I can hear in the undergrowth. The beautiful soft dappled light catches just the tops of willow herbs and foxgloves, playing tricks on the eye. It was not like this a decade ago, and I know my patch will be mostly mature woodland before very long.

Never Completely Green

A singing yellowhammer makes me stop the car in a lay-by above the village of Ilston. The lovely song sends a chill down my spine, it’s part of my soul, and their demise saddens me beyond words.  July is the best month for them, and there are still a few left breeding on Gower cliffs and commons.

It’s been hot of late, and already some grasses are turning brown. Gower commons are never completely green. By mid-July, grasses and bracken are greening, but as the weather warms, carpets of browning grass seeds appear, mixing with swaths of dancing cotton; it’s as though high summer is never able to get a grip on the land. Cattle sit chewing cud, some in the centre of the road, and all ignoring the traffic slowing down to a crawl. Ponies too gather by the roadside, but there are no sheep, they’ve probably been transported to far away pastures for the summer, or perhaps they’re in nearby fields hidden by high verdant hedges.

I look for butterflies and find only meadow browns. I’d earlier walked through the wood from Ilston Church to Parkmill, and  here too butterflies were rare, with just a couple of speckled woods in a sunny glade, and some meadow browns in the churchyard. It will take more than a spell of hot weather to redress the balance.

No Heart

The old village of Penrice is set high above Oxwich Marsh and commands a magnificent view over the bay. The six cottages clustered around the stocky limestone Norman church of St Andrew, with its wonderful medieval grotesques, are in immaculate condition. The Penrice Estate gradually bought them back after hard times, and they’re now used as holiday lets throughout the year. There are no permanent residents around the green now, and the heart has gone from the village, some say there is no village. Up to a generation ago, Penrice was typical of many old Gower villages with its own post office, now Bay View Cottage, and shop, now Rose Cottage. The old flat red George V post box is still in use in the wall of Bay View Cottage, but is probably used only for the occasional holiday postcard.

We often come here for a picnic on the bench in front of the church to enjoy the peace, the view of the distant sea, and the wildlife. Swallows feed young from a second brood in a nest in the front porch of Sea View Cottage, dropping faecal sacs as they leave. Great-spotted woodpeckers are busy behind the enormous yew tree in the churchyard. A very pale looking robin, starting its annual moult, bobs about the hedgerow, and a beautiful pair of bullfinches allow me a good five minutes viewing as they preen amongst the fuchsias around the arbour in the garden of Bay Cottage.

Best of all though is the peace of this place. The few people that walk through the timeless village are looking for the same thing as us, but the bench in front of the church is ours for the moment, and they walk on.

Waking Up

From the beach at Oxwich, the contours of Cefn Bryn are lost in early morning mist. There are few holidaymakers about at this time of morning, and just a couple of dog walkers far away at Nicholaston Pill spoil the view of the pristine beach. The only sound is from the gentle lapping of waves and a skylark above the dunes. I’m virtually alone again in this magical place.

I need to look carefully beyond the pill for the famous cliffs at Three Cliffs Bay. The Bay is used in many tourism brochures for Wales and Gower, with photographs usually taken from the main road, from high up on the bryn, or if you are prepared to get your feet wet, from the sea. I can hardly make out the cliffs in the mist, but even on a clear day, the celebrated view looks insignificant from this angle.

It takes about fifteen minutes to reach the pill. A few non-breeding gulls loaf about in the brackish water fanning out over the sand, and the usual pied wagtails dart about catching flies on the sand; otherwise little else moves.

It’s not yet 6am, but out to sea, boats, probably from the marina in Swansea, head west for a days sailing. Some may anchor at the western end of Oxwich Bay and spend the day here, others will venture further afield to Port Eynon and beyond. But it’s too early in the day for the sea bikes to be about. These raucous machines have become popular in recent years, causing noise pollution and disturbance in what should be a peaceful place.

Just a few yards from the pill and I’m in the sand dunes; waking up after a clear still night they’re utterly peaceful. The sweet early morning dew is intoxicating, soaking my boots as I walk gingerly along the path trying not to step on the myriad of delicate grasses. Some bumblebees are out early, and the warming rays of the sun allow a common blue butterfly to take to the wing. It’s best to just sit, look out over the old salt marsh and Nicholaton Wood beyond, and watch the world wake up.

Lots of Summer Left

We get wind here, lots of it, but during the summer, mostly just sea breezes. Even when it’s perfectly still inland, there’s usually a breeze on the cliffs, but evening frequently brings with it calm and peace. There’s a slight chill to tonight’s breeze, and from on my perch high above the sea, there are signs of high summer waning, and the new season creeping in. The purples of heather are beginning to emerge and mix with remnants of yellow on the low-lying gorse, forming a glorious natural carpet typical of some parts of the Gower cliffs in autumn. Elsewhere swaths of mature bracken hide the seeds of nettles and docks, and open patches of tall grasses sway fawn-coloured in the wind. Teasels are mostly left with only purple tips, but great and rosebay willowherb are still in full flower. Blackberries have both flowers and red berries, and the one black berry I taste is still hard and very sour. Buddleia is in full flower in the gardens along East Cliff, but not much-visited by butterflies again this year. There are a few newly hatched red admirals being blown about in the wind, but on this summer evening, there are no other butterflies to be seen.

Stonechats, now independent of their parents, are beginning to lose their spotted plumage and show signs of rusty breasts. It’s the time of year when small birds are difficult to see in the dense vegetation, and even though there are lots of juveniles about, most stay hidden. Many adults have started their annual moult and will stay under cover avoiding predators.

Above Bacon Hole a pair of choughs feeds a noisy full-grown chick, and below, fulmars still wheel about above the sea. There are early signs of autumn, but there’s still a lot of summer left.

King of the Feeders

A couple of nuthatches returned to the garden this morning. Creeping up and down the branches and trunk of the willow tree, they found the peanut feeders in no time at all. They rarely come during spring and early summer, spending this time breeding in the nearby woods. It’s always a welcome sight when they reappear, and they’ll probably visit us each day now until late next winter.

It’s interesting to see their interaction with the other birds at the feeders. Great-spotted woodpeckers are kings, using their sword-like bills to repel all others at the peanuts. However apart from loosing out to the odd grey squirrel, jackdaws and jays, nuthatches do pretty well. Like the woodpeckers they use their dagger-like bills to easily deter any small bird that dare to approach. Larger birds aside, only blue tits seem to have the guts to land on the feeders when the nuthatches are around, but they’re immediately seen off. Other tit species also don’t stand a chance, and greenfinches, chaffinches and house sparrows lack the courage to even attempt a landing, preferring to hang about on the ground below with the robins and dunnocks, picking up the bits hacked out by the energetic nuthatches.