Arriving on Scilly

April 18, 2018 | Rebecca Gibson

To truly comprehend how isolated and tucked away the Isles of Scilly are, you have to get there. My travelling began at 4:30am, and after using four modes of transport I arrived on St Mary’s at 1pm. It was a complicated and fiddly excursion but when I finally arrived, eating chips overlooking a vast expanse of ocean, I knew I was really at the edge of Britain.

Passionate gusts of wind blew the smells of salt and seaweed off the coast. The air was alive with birds. If I closed my eyes it was the same as home – wrens belting out their embellished trills, blackbirds speeding underfoot with shrieks of alarm – but as I was watching a dunnock I heard something that I thought at first to be a great tit, but the two syllables were the same pitch. Then, confirming my suspicions, a tiny brown, featureless bird appeared. My first chiffchaff in the flesh.

Later in the day I was struck with another bout of stress and worry. What if the flowers I wanted to photograph weren’t there? What if it rained every day this week? And as I stewed in paranoia I got a sign. I normally pulled faces at signs but this had to be something of an existential signal. As the sun went down the sky was alight with rich colour so I took my camera and headed down to the beach – only about twenty paces from the flat – and started taking photos of the foliage silhouetted against the sky. The sun sank so quickly that in minutes it had completely disappeared, but it was one of the most stunning sunsets I’d seen in months. There were other people taking photos too, and I heard one woman say “This is the best I’ve seen so far this year.” I arrived on Scilly this afternoon, and the day ended with a sky like that. I still felt apprehensive about this week, but my worry was also mixed with a little more optimism than before.

Minimalism in Photography

April 3, 2018April 2, 2018 | Rebecca Gibson

Recently I discovered a photographer called Petros Koublis during research for my photography project. In preparation for my upcoming trip to the Isles of Scilly, I was exploring the theme of isolation, as on Scilly geographical isolation has resulted in extraordinary diversity of both flora and fauna. So, I want my images to convey this seclusion without the subjects looking barren. When I found Koublis’s work I thought how beautifully minimalist the images were, and yet still varied and intriguing. The beauty was its simplicity.

So I set out and tried to capture my own images where the subject looked isolated but was still thriving. Inspired by Koublis’s minimalistic approach, I concentrated on simple colours, repeating shapes and uncluttered compositions. Using my 60mm macro lens, I de-cluttered the frame even more and filled it with my subject while washing out any detail in the background.

I almost always zoom in as tight as I can, especially when doing macro photography. There is a great urge to make your subject as large and detailed as possible, but often I’ve found that this removes all context from the image and it loses some impact. While it’s always nice to have a little mystery in photography, revealing a few secrets can bring even more magic to an image. For example, the lichen on the twig below was only a few centimetres in diameter, but with nothing to compare it to, all scale is lost. Now the image has been taken, the lichen could be any size and the challenge of getting such a tiny plane of detail in focus doesn’t seem as significant. Although the texture is still intriguing, the presence of something more familiar could only have added to the effect.

So on another trip out I began to step back. Although I couldn’t achieve the same crisp detail with more distance between myself and the subject, I could begin to introduce context and place the subject into a scene. An isolated section of this terracotta brick could have been taken in a garden or even at a construction site, but with the border of dry pebbles and the blurred suggestion of ocean, the subject is put in a time and place. As all photography is subjective, those with a fine art approach might say context isn’t necessary, but I like the way this image is clearly of the coast but it isn’t conventional in its composition or choice of focus. It suggests the theme more subtly. Also, the absence of any other noticeable features conveys the isolation I’m interested in showing, and shallow depth of field draws the eye immediately to the subject.

I’ve always been interested in shapes and lines in photography. Although perhaps a beginner’s cliche, a leading line is undeniably pleasing to look at. Here, the point of focus is the very centre of the image, with the tide line leading the viewer directly to it. It is loosely symmetrical, a technique I like to use to show balance and calmness in a scene. Here, there are two clear halves; one is almost completely lacking in detail except thin lines of movement from the tide, and the other has extensive detail. To emphasise this contrast even further, I desaturated the right half so even colour was absent from the water. I never excessively manipulate my photos as I like to replicate the true scene as much as I can, but subtle changes like this (when the colour of the water was almost grey anyway) can draw attention away from certain aspects in the frame to others.

My Scilly expedition is fast approaching. I can’t wait to see what opportunities arise during my week’s stay on such a diverse archipelago. I think practice shoots like these will help broaden my creativity in preparation for a whole new environment.

The Avian Orchestra

March 22, 2018May 3, 2022 | Rebecca Gibson

There is an overwhelming quiet that comes with winter; a hush descends over the landscape that only adds to the bracing chill. As the season turns, the first few tentative voices break the spell of silence and before long there is an overpowering variety of diverse voices filling the air. While in the height of spring there can be hundreds of songs reverberating through the trees, there are a select few who can be heard again and again, reliable as the seasons. I took it upon myself to begin to tune in to this soundscape, a treat for the ears. Learning to birdlisten not only unlocks the ability to distinguish birds by song, but is also very useful as advanced warning for the reveal of the bird itself.

Robin (Erithacus rubecula)

Perhaps the most significant voice is that of the robin, mainly because he never left the scene when other, less hardy birds took off for warmer climes. Even through the dark, bitter winter the robin endures, his lone song often the only consistent sound during the colder months. In spring males and females pair up and defend their breeding territory, often the first to start singing and the last to finish.

The robin’s song is a delightful melody; a high, twittering burble heard from all around. Although varied in its range and tempo, the robin’s voice is almost unmistakable – high, thin and soft but still richly diverse. Hear the robin and he won’t be far away, perching in plain sight and puffing up his red breast as he fills it with air. He is a proud bird, often chasing other robins from his patch, but with a voice as pretty as his, who can blame him?

Wren (Troglodytes troglodytes)

Another commonly heard voice belongs to a rowdy bird that makes up for small size by belting out a piercing song for everyone to hear. The wren can often be seen speeding bullet-like through knee-high bushes. The wren sings like it’s scolding somebody; a furious round of high, loud chirrups with a distinctive trill at the end of some phrases that sounds like a miniscule machine gun. If you hear a very loud song wait for the trill, as it will inevitably come sooner or later and you’ll know you have your wren. Scan the lower branches and before long a stout brown bird holding its tail up like a stiff flag will appear, giving you a fierce reprimanding for something or other.

Great Tit (Parus major)

If robins and wrens are violins in the avian orchestra, the great tit is percussion; not quite as dazzling but just as important. In early spring, a two-toned call can be heard among the other singers, with emphasis on the first syllable. I like to think of it as the sound of a saw – effort on the forward stroke, then quieter on the draw back. After a few strokes of the squeaky saw there is a pause, and then the great tit sings it again, very resiliently as if rousing the troops to join in.

The great tit has other songs in its repertoire, including a “churr” call that reminds me of the chatter of a magpie, but a little faster and far gentler. This is the great tit’s alarm call, a sign of agitation that indicates something has disturbed it.

Blue Tit (Cyanistes caeruleus)

With a lot of birdsong, it can help to adopt a Morse code approach when it comes to deciphering the rhythms of some particular species. Take the blue tit. A common little bird with splashes of blue, green, yellow and white with a fetching black goatee. The blue tit’s song is similar in tone to the great tit but gentler. Among its quite varied repertoire is a particularly distinctive melody, consisting of two clearly separated notes followed by two or three much faster ones. In dots and dashes it would look something like this:

– – . . .

Imagine, perhaps, that the bird is saying “I’m. A. Pretty Bird”, putting particular emphasis on the first two words.

If you like this, have a read of this post and find out where my inspiration to start birdlistening began.

Living off the Scilly Land

March 19, 2018March 19, 2018 | Rebecca Gibson

For my final major project at university, I am journeying to the Isles of Scilly for a photography project on this wildly diverse archipelago. My focus is currently the unique wildflowers of the islands, some of which are not found anywhere else in the UK such as the dwarf pansy. However, to broaden my understanding of Scilly (and also because it recently snowed there which has made me question my chances of seeing wildflowers next month), I have been researching how the first human residents used the land and its resources, which in some cases are vastly different ways to today.

During the Neolithic period, tribes were known to mark their presence on the islands using large stone monuments known as megaliths. These were for ritual or territorial purposes.

A megalith at Castle Down, Tresco *(Source: The Megalithic Portal)*

Wars and disputes subjected the inhabitants of Scilly to poverty and famine. One method of surviving such lean times was to forage seaweed. In 1684, production of soda ash from seaweed began, a material used to make soap, bleach and glass for the mainland. This practice lasted well over a century, and must have had disastrous impacts on wildlife.
The Bronze Age saw the first permanent populations arrive from west Cornwall. They fished, farmed, hunted and scavenged all sorts of foods to make their living. Birds such as razorbill, guillemot and even ravens and swans were hunted for their meat. Seals and the occasional whale were hunted to supply oil used for lighting.

Fishing was a vital source of food all year round, and once caught the animals were dried by the wind or salted for preservation. A vast amount of limpet shells suggests they may have been used as bait, and scallop shells to hold lighting lamp oil.

By the time of the Roman invasion of Britain in AD 43, red deer had disappeared and dogs and rabbits were introduced. The birdlife grew in variety, suggesting the environment was changing. New bodies of water attracted fowl such as bittern, heron, snipe and more excitingly, evidence of chough. Remains of what are believed to be these birds and dating back to the 2^nd century AD were discovered on St Martin’s.

The Duchy of Cornwall was established in 1337, when the title of Duke was granted to the Black Prince. Payment for a ledger dating from that year was 300 puffin, giving the impression that these coastal birds were a lot more abundant than in modern day. The puffin was highly valued, considered a fish instead of fowl, which allowed it to be eaten during Lent. Five hundred years later, although the monetary value of Scilly hadn’t been altered, the exchange rate for puffin had surged by 600% to fifty birds.

Incidentally, all of my photos in this post were taken in Scotland, but here’s hoping next month I’ll be capturing some Scillonian versions!

Spring Beginnings

March 10, 2018March 4, 2018 | Rebecca Gibson

For many wildlife enthusiasts, spring is perhaps the most eagerly anticipated season of the year, especially for birdwatchers. Migrants arrive from their wintering areas and settle back into their breeding grounds. After the cold of winter there is suddenly a buzz of activity, especially for males hoping to attract a female.

While some bird displays leave something to be desired, other individuals put in great effort. As we move into March, birdsong is elevated both in volume and intensity. Greenfinches have a particularly impressive display that involves large bursts of activity. The male, dressed in his finest vivid green plumage, circles in wide loops with emphasised slow wing beats, looking more like a butterfly or a bat than a bird. During these theatrical acrobatics, the males constantly call out to the females with twittering phrases that finish with a long, nasal “dzweee”. If the female is won over, the new pair often perch high in the trees, with the male always in the open to ward off any other potential new suitors.

The arrival of March also brings in the sand martins, one of the UK’s earliest arriving migrants. The smallest of the European hirundines (swallows and martins), sand martins have arrived from Africa, crossing the Sahara desert to reach their nesting colonies and excavate tunnels in sandy vertical banks. Over the past fifty years, populations of sand martins have crashed twice because of drought in their African wintering grounds, which makes protecting their breeding sites in Britain even more important.

Elsewhere in the arrivals gate are chiffchaffs, and from late March to April these plain-looking birds can be heard calling their name in woodland copses and shrubby undergrowth. A tiny warbler no larger than a blue tit, chiffchaffs have spent the winter in the Mediterranean and western Africa. Breeding begins in April to May, when the female builds a domed nest that lies very close to the ground. Incubating eggs and rearing the chicks are solely the female’s responsibility. Chiffchaffs usually leave the UK in September, heading south towards France and occasionally on to West Africa.

Despite the recent snowfall that has smothered the emerging snowdrops and crocuses, keep an eye and ear out for the arrival of spring migrants who will hopefully find some warmth as they prepare to settle in for the breeding season.

Learning to Birdlisten

March 5, 2018March 4, 2018 | Rebecca Gibson

Today marks the beginning of a new project: learning to birdlisten. It’s a much-used cliché but I have been an avid birdwatcher since I was a child. I’d sit out in the garden, hold as still as I possibly could, and after a while birds would begin to show, hopping out from under bushes and descending slowly from the treetops. This gradual emergence, the steady drip-drop of birds, was so exciting to me. The species would usually be very common – robin, dunnock, blackbird – but occasionally a blue tit or great tit would appear, and to my amateur eye these were very special indeed.

As my knowledge gradually improved, I began to notice more species and although the trusty robin and dunnock never grew boring, they lost their shine among more colourful or charismatic varieties. One by one I added birds to my repertoire, and although I didn’t notice my mental list growing, soon I could identify a wide range of species. Although waterfowl and waders had their charm, my favourites were always the passerines, or “perching birds”.

Passerines include a subgroup of species we call songbirds but are more accurately named oscines – birds that establish their territories by means of musical vocalisations. It never occurred to me why the singing birds attracted me most, until I turned my attention to listening for birds instead of looking for them, and then it became abundantly clear.

Birdsong is the soundtrack of nature. Even for me, a keen bird enthusiast, birdsong had blurred into the background of my time spent outdoors, nothing more than a pleasant backing track that accompanied my attempts to birdwatch. Why on earth did I let birdsong become such an unimportant feature of the landscape, no more significant than hold music? It was high time that I paid more attention to it, instead of letting it wash over my ears without acknowledgment. It is so true that we see but don’t observe, but it is also the case that many of us hear but don’t listen.

Author of “Birdwatching With Your Eyes Closed” Simon Barnes points out that understanding birdsong allows us to see around corners. There’s a bird hidden up in the canopy somewhere, but unless you know its song you’ll never know what it is. I’ve had this frustration many times, when I see the distorted outline of a bird but no characteristic features that give it away. If I hadn’t neglected my auditory senses, I wouldn’t have been disappointed when the bird hopped further out of view.

And so begins my journey to learn the language of birdsong. It seemed a daunting prospect at first; to my untrained ear all chirrups and whistles sounded identical. However, like any problem, it is imperative to break it down, and that makes it far less intimidating.

I have already made progress. First was the robin: an unmistakable bird in appearance, and a good place to start when learning birdsong because of its presence all year round. During the usually hushed winter months, the robin still sings, an isolated soloist filling cold air with thin, gentle melodies. Spring is by far the most frustrating time to begin birdlistening, so to hear the robin on a chilly February morning with no other avian distractions allows us to begin to tune into this new world I for one took for granted.

The wren also sings in winter, but has a far louder song bordering on rowdy. For such a small bird, the song bursts out of hedgerows, with a telltale trill at the end of some phrases, like a twirl of icing atop a cake. Then there is the two-note song of the great tit, like the squeak of a saw being pulled back and forth.

And so on. Already my ears are filling with birdsong and I’m really listening this time. Acquiring the skill of understanding this rich and varied language will not only help me become a better birdwatcher, but it will pave the way to a clearer understanding of nature as a whole – appreciating nature’s vibrant soundtrack.

Signs of Spring

February 3, 2018February 1, 2018 | Rebecca Gibson

Here is a piece I wrote for ‘A Focus on Nature’, the UK’s Youth Nature Network, where I’ve already met some really interesting writers, photographers and artists. I’m also very proud to say I’ve just been shortlisted for the AFON Pictures of the Week 2017. If you’d like to vote for my photography, follow the instructions on this link. Thank you!

“It is a moment of quickening, of rebirth. The old, lovely story: life surging back, despite everything, once again. However spring finds you – birdsong, blossom or spawn – it is a signal: the earth turning its ancient face back to the sun.” Melissa Harrison

One afternoon as I arrived home from a university lecture I stood at the living room window and peered out into the garden as I always do. As usual, the birdseed I had put out the evening before had already gone, polished off by jackdaw and sparrow alike. Today, however, there was a crucial and very welcome difference – the appearance of the first snowdrops of the year. They were very young, still curled up tight in stiff buds, but I knew before long they would be hesitantly opening, their petals tiny white flags signalling the slow beginning of spring.

As January draws to a close, the temperature lifts and although the winter rains usually persist, our gardens are brightened by the tentative emergence of wildflowers. Bold snowdrops have led the way, but soon to follow are yellow and early (purple) crocuses, bringing a splash of colour to the repetitive greens of the lawn. Amongst all this emerging beauty is perhaps the true star of spring: the bluebell. A delicate flower more violet than blue; even one alone is a welcome sight after the biting winds and downpours of winter, but a carpet of bluebells is enough to take your breath away.

Two years ago, back home in Hertfordshire, I was stood in a patch of woodland that had long been heralded as a haven for bluebells. I surveyed the scene from a respectable distance, knowing I’d cause significant damage if I strayed from the worn path. The ocean was vast, spanning far in each direction. Together, the bluebells looked like a single blue blanket coating the tree roots, but up close each bell waved independently, and my romantic imagination gave them the quiet tinkling chime of their namesake.

Aside from wildflowers, there are plenty more indications that spring is almost here, from birds to bees to rather odorous plants.

The gathering warmth of February rouses overwintering insects, such as the greenbottle fly, whose unappreciated beauty is something quite wonderful to see up close, even if they’re not always welcome buzzing around indoors.
Early breeding birds such as rooks will be seen gathering nesting material in preparation for the arrival of their broods. The first eggs will appear around early March, so be sure to look out for rookeries high up in the trees and listen for the constant chatter of busy parents-to-be.
One of my favourite spring sounds is the buzz of a busy bumblebee. As wildflowers expose their nectar, bees are quick to make use of the opportunity to gather it in the early part of the season.
The heady scent of wild garlic will soon be filling the air. A walk through my local park often includes a good whiff of this pungent but flavoursome plant. Note: wild garlic is similar in appearance to lily of the valley, which is poisonous, so if in doubt please do not forage to eat.

Spring is undoubtedly a time of rejuvenation – an opportunity to shake off the January blues and be inspired by the emerging life outside. As many of us live in towns and cities, it can be difficult to notice these subtle changes in such busy urban environments. This only emphasises how important it is to stop and look, just for a moment, and you’ll notice that however our world changes, nature will always persevere.

Filming Red Squirrels

May 3, 2017March 10, 2020 | Rebecca Gibson

It’s been a mad couple of weeks, with my second year at uni finishing this week: three deadlines in four days. The last – and for me the most challenging – is a five minute documentary on anything we can think of. The vagueness could seem like a blessing, but when you have the whole world as your subject matter, it seems impossible to think of anything to fill five short minutes.

After the racking of brains and chewing of fingernails, I decided to combine my project with my first visit to Eskrigg Reserve in Lockerbie. It was infamously known among Wildlife Media students for its resident red squirrels; I’d been meaning to go for the whole two years I’ve been living in Cumbria, and only now with a deadline looming did I decide to visit. I headed up the road mid morning and by late afternoon I was perched in front of the hide, sharing a small open clearing with four foraging red squirrels!

Jim Rae, the Reserve Manager, is one of the nicest people I’ve met, and incredibly passionate about wildlife. Upon arrival he welcomed me like an old friend, giving me the tour of the reserve before settling down in the hide for the interview. He had prepared four typed pages of notes, and when I sat outside later to film the squirrels he brought me a nutcracker and a box of hazelnuts for me to feed them. I couldn’t believe, after only just seeing a wild red squirrel for the first time in Chesters two months ago, I was now spoilt for choice of animals to film.

It is not difficult to see why people get so attached to these creatures. A lot smaller than the greys and with delightful little ear tufts, they bound across the grass like furry chestnut bullets – trying to keep them in frame was a nightmare. I’d get one in perfect focus as it paused to claim a nut, then it was off and I was filming empty grass again. I’d never been so challenged as a photographer, but their nippiness provided an excellent opportunity to test my reflexes.

I could have stayed for hours, but I had a film to edit and countless clips to go through, 90% of which were squirrels. As of today I’m just making the finishing touches ready for the deadline on Friday. Eskrigg is a gem of a reserve, and somewhere I will definitely be revisiting over summer!

Have a watch of the finished documentary here:

Exped in Miniature

April 11, 2017May 3, 2017 | Rebecca Gibson

Last week Heather and Cain dropped into uni for a mini exped around the local area. I welcomed any chance to learn more fieldcraft from them and it was also good to spend time with Zoology and other Wildlife Media students – there are fewer and fewer of us wildlies out there so it’s great to meet up every once in a while!

We began following the river through the park, spotting the first sand martins of the year swooping over the water. A jay darted into the small wooded copse in front of us and cormorants zoomed up the river, wings flapping furiously.

As cities go, Carlisle is one of the few that still has many pockets of wilderness nestled amongst the urban landscape features. It’s that combination of having everything I need close by but still being able to escape to a new wild place is what attracted me to studying here. I never thought I could see roe deer with a Virgin train zooming past in the background, but I’ve been proved wrong by wildlife encounters like these all year.

We carried on, walking along the Eden as it snaked through the golf course and reached the suspension bridge. Here we went off-road and found some truly amazing discoveries. On a sand bank tucked away from the heavy footfalls of regular dogs and their owners, we found a wildlife metropolis. There in the sand, perfectly imprinted, were dozens of tracks, bird and mammal alike. There were the broad irregular squares of mallards, tiny pin lines of grey wagtails, even tinier fingers of brown rats and the very dog-ish prints of otters! I practically jumped down into the sand to photograph them – not only were there prints but also a lonely otter spraint, deposited in full display of every visitor as an indication that this territory was claimed. It was fascinating to see just how many species had paid this relatively small sand bank a visit. I vowed to return very soon with a camera trap and see if I could get better acquainted with them!