The Freeze

March 3, 2018April 23, 2018 | Rebecca Gibson

The snow was here again. It descended from the skies in heavy drifts, flakes swirling as they came to rest. All through the night the snow fell, dramatically silent, and when morning came everything was smothered in pristine white icing: irresistible.

Outside there was a chill that tightened the lungs, so cold was the air that even breathing in felt like getting smothered in snow. Each branch was cloaked, giving the impression of an overly enthusiastic artist splashing every bough with thick white highlights. Undisturbed snow on the sides of the track glistened, catching the light and sparkling with wintery luminescence. On the cusp of March, it was more of a spring wonderland than a winter one, and yet it could have easily been Christmas morning.

Up in the trees, a whisper of falling snow betrayed the presence of a blackbird, sending tremors up the branch that dislodged loose flakes. A male, black feathers stark against his festive background, spotted with rich red berries and the undersides of dark leaves. He chirruped softly, his song more melancholy than it should be.

A man passed me on his bicycle, his tyres crackling like static feedback that faded as he disappeared. The landscape quietened again, a deafening silence only found with snow, when the world stops and waits with baited breath for this unexpected phenomenon to pass. It is a time when even nature stands still. Water is stopped in its tracks, defiant of gravity’s pull.

Sloping down the bank to the river was a series of deep tracks, dogs mingled with hopping birds. The ever-falling snow began to repair the damage, forming undulations of half-hidden footsteps with softened edges. A wren sped past, trilling its bold song that seemed too big for its tiny lungs. What must the birds think? Have they anticipated this, read some sign in the climate to help soften the blow? The already challenging task of finding food in winter just became more trying, a test of strength and endurance in such temperatures.

After a while my feet began to grow numb and my stomach rumbled. As I trudged back up the track, curving away from the coursing, white-framed river, I thought how I would snuggle up in my warm house with something to eat. I glanced back over my shoulder and saw a song thrush foraging. It had a snail pinned in its beak, and was cracking the shell hard on a rock. Such work the birds put in, when all I needed to do was open a can of soup and I’d be warm.

Back at the house, I peered outside and saw the feeder swinging empty again. Thinking of the blackbird, wren and diligent thrush, I hurried into the garden and replenished the feeder with rich fatty seeds, sprinkling some on the ground for those too heavy or timid to feed from the plastic perches. The birds needed all the help they could get.

To Spy a Hawfinch

February 26, 2018 | Rebecca Gibson

After our great grey shrike stood us up last week, I was determined to tick a bird off my wishlist. I did some digging and found there were a few good spots for hawfinches down in Kendal. Zahrah and I picked the best day of the week and headed down, this time with Kacper. As usual, when the alarm sounded I was struck by an overwhelming urge to leave the hawfinches to their business and dive back under the covers, but when I snuck a glimpse out the window and saw the bright promise of a beautiful day, I knew we had to go for it.

Despite the rather vibrant sun, a sharp chill met us as we left the warmth of the car, reminding us it was still February. Clutching my fists together in my Sealskinz gloves, we made our way up the track, away from people and towards wilderness. The path wound through a small wood, dappled by sunlight filtering through overhead. What had been squelchy mud was now frozen hard as concrete, and crunched under our footsteps. We were initially prevented from entering the open field due to a very restrictive swing gate. My bulging rucksack got wedged and I had to hold my tripod flush to my chest and reverse through – far from a sophisticated entrance.

The frozen ground stretched further, blades of grass as solid as real blades, and it was strange not to feel the gentle give of soft earth. The sun was trying to warm the landscape, taking every opportunity the clouds allowed it to reach us. Once back in the woods, it was shadier. Muffled conversations sounded in every direction; the proud song of a robin and the chatterings of crows all mingling together. We tried to ignore all of these and listen solely for a piercing whistle. This was the call of our target: the hawfinch.

Hawfinches are beautiful and unmistakable birds with striking colouring and formidable conical bills. Usually secretive and shy, they spend most of their time in the topmost branches, making the UK’s largest finch difficult to spot. Typically found in mature deciduous and mixed woodland, hawfinches regularly frequent hornbeam trees. The bill of a hawfinch is highly specialised to cope with the hard seeds and cherry stones that form much of its diet. Once a bird reaches maturity, its skull ossifies and two hard knobs form within each mandible, which are essential for holding a seed still while it is cracked. Findings from an experiment showed that hawfinches can exert a pressure of 60-90 pounds of force, which isn’t bad for a bird smaller than a blackbird.

hawfinch_male_breedingplumage_1200x675 — Hawfinch (RSPB)

As hawfinches frequent the tops of trees, spotting them can be a challenge, not to mention their timid calls are often lost among those of the more plucky birds. Although I never want to criticise the sun, it was shining at a rather inconvenient angle, so gazing up meant we could barely see the treetops, let alone brown birds. So, we tried to climb as high as possible to get a better vantage point. Soon we found a large clearing that gave us a 360° perspective of the forest. Seeming like a good place to set up shop for a while, we perched on a fallen tree and scanned with our binoculars.

There’s nothing quite like sitting in silence, listening to wildlife. Upon arrival you think the forest is a quiet and secluded place, and it would be to a person used to the thrum of cities and traffic. But to sit still and listen in a wild place is to hear a whole new language. I don’t understand it yet – something I’m hoping to soon rectify – but I could listen to its lyrical beats and rhythms all day. Understanding birdsong brings a whole new dimension to bird watching. Cain Scrimgeour, someone I consider a bird connoisseur, can hear the slightest chirrup up in the trees and tell you who made the sound. Sure enough, moments later that bird emerges. To me it’s magic. I consider my knowledge of British birds to be competent, but to know their sounds as well as their appearances is a truly incredible skill.

I heard a soft crunching of leaves as Kacper made his way towards me.

“What’s this?” He whispered, holding his camera up for me to look at the image on the screen.

My eyes popped and I bit back a loud gasp, “That’s a hawfinch! Where is it?”

He led me back to where he’d been standing and pointed up. Now began the near-impossible task of explaining to a person which tree in a hundred trees you are looking at. After a painfully long-winded ordeal I found where he was pointing, and with binoculars trained I saw my first hawfinch. Females are only slightly less brightly coloured than males, so to my eye I couldn’t tell which this one was. The bird was perched looking straight towards us, feathers hunched up. It was foraging, and I saw it pick a seed from its branch and arrange it in its bill to crunch down with that extraordinary force. The bill almost seemed too big for the bird’s body. It was like a person with a party hat positioned over their nose and mouth, almost comical.

Zahrah was a way off, so I was incredibly patronising (though I believed it was necessary in this occasion) and made several hasty finger clicks to get her attention. Once she’d arrived Kacper explained the bird’s location again and we all watched. I made the mistake of retrieving my camera from its resting place by the log, and when I returned the bird had retreated to a tree further off. It was joined by three more, and although I tried they were too far off to photograph. This, to my shame, was the result.

Not exactly Bird Photographer of the Year

There was another rustling of leaves and we turned to see an elderly man making his way down the bank.

“Seen any?” He asked, knowing exactly why we were gathered there.

“A few!” I replied excitedly, and once again Kacper directed the man’s view to the right tree.

“There were 43 here yesterday, so I’m told,” the man said, “The reserve ranger and volunteers saw them, couldn’t believe their eyes.”

Forty-three hawfinches. For a moment I cursed myself for not thinking to come a day earlier, but as I watched a pair perched way up in the topmost branches I was grateful we’d seen any at all, even if the photos were incredibly dodgy.

After a while the finches flew off. I glanced up in our immediate surroundings, wondering if the elusive birds had gathered directly over our heads – it’s something I would do to birdwatchers if I were a pretty finch – but the branches were bare.

“There’s another good spot back the way you came,” the man told us, “In the clearing. I’m walking back home that way I’ll show you.”

So we headed up the track, which by now had begun to thaw, the mud regaining its sticking power. Back in the open field, we were reminded again of the chilly February breeze, and willed the sun to make a reappearance.

We thanked the man as he went on his way, then we settled down to eat our lunch overlooking the open fields. Every time one of us spotted a dark patch in the treetops, we hastily studied it through the bins. But the hawfinches had headed off, submerged once again in their woodland domain.

On the Hunt

February 12, 2018 | Rebecca Gibson

After watching Chris and Michaela hunt for great grey shrikes on Winterwatch, I realised what stunning birds they were and that I’d quite like to find one for myself. I asked Cain if he knew of any recent sightings and of course, he did. There was one of these beautiful shrikes in a patch of rural Newcastle that had remained in the area all winter. So, early on Friday morning, Zahrah and I set off to try and track the bird down.

As we made our way east towards Newcastle, the combination of pouring rain and sleet filled me with dread. As usual, the weather forecast had gone awry, and I hoped the grisly sleet would clear up by the time we arrived. Luckily it did, and once parked and heading down the track with eyes peeled, we stayed dry. We were looking for a patch of stark white at the tops of the bare trees. Every so often we would stop and peer across the field, binoculars meticulously scanning each tree. Unfortunately, great grey shrikes are not vocal birds, so there was no telltale call we could listen out for. This would be a case of sharp eyes.

We came across a group of bullfinches – a handsome male and two females – as they foraged in the bushes. I have a soft spot for these vibrantly coloured birds, so stopped to take photos, trying to manoeuvre myself to sneak a clear glimpse of the male through a break in the tangle of twigs. This was only partially successful.

As we trudged up the track, the only sound to be heard was the mud as it sucked on our boots. I found it a challenge to survey the trees for signs of movement while keeping an eye on where my feet were landing. After no sign of the shrike, we decided to try the other stretch of track that hugged the same field. At the crossroads we encountered a vast flooded patch of grass. At first glance it seemed empty, but a look through the binoculars revealed a large gathering of lapwing and golden plover huddled together. Further up the track, a hubbub of activity surrounded the bird feeders hanging from a tree. Great tits, blue tits, robins, a ground-foraging blackbird and a special sighting: a willow tit. I’d never seen one so close – a bird that I find indistinguishable from the marsh tit. According to the BTO, the most reliable way of telling these two species apart is by listening to them, as the birds’ most common calls are quite distinctive from each other. While marsh tits make a sneeze-like “pitchu” call, willow tits have a nasal “chay chay” sound.

We had come to the joint decision that our shrike would sadly not be making an appearance today. The needle was well hidden in the haystack, and we made our way back to the car. A little way further out was another reserve that we decided to visit. By this time, unexpected sunlight was filtering through the dissolving clouds, and gleamed on the pond, illuminating a flock of wigeon. They chatted to each other but were otherwise motionless. High up in the trees was a buzz of excitement, and yet more beautiful bullfinches! These ones were silhouetted against the sky, so their smart plumage was diluted in the sun. Accompanying them were great tits, siskin and a few goldfinches. A magpie was perched in the topmost branches, feathers ruffling as the wind caught him.

Before long it was golden hour, where the sun began to vanish behind the pond. The trees took on a shimmering glow, every hue heightened. A group of blue tits fluttered around, barely perching for a moment before swooping in another direction. I thought I saw the fluffy brush of a red squirrel’s tail disappearing between two boughs, but after waiting stock-still for it to emerge, I thought perhaps it was just a trick of the golden light.

Species seen

Blackbird (Turdus merula) Black-headed gull (Larus ridibundus) Blue tit (Cyanistes caeruleus) Bullfinch (Pyrrhula pyrrhula) Buzzard (Buteo buteo) Carrion crow (Corvus corone) Cormorant (Phalacrocorax carbo) Goldcrest (Regulus regulus) Golden plover (Pluvialis apricaria) Goldfinch (Carduelis carduelis) Great tit (Parus major) Grey heron (Ardea cinerea) Lapwing (Vanellus vanellus) Magpie (Pica pica) Mallard (Anas platyrhynchos) Pheasant (Phasianus colchicus) Pied wagtail (Motacilla alba) Reed bunting (Emberiza schoeniclus) Robin (Erithacus rubecula) Siskin (Carduelis spinus) Song thrush (Turdus philomelos) Starling (Sturnus vulgaris) Treecreeper (Certhia familiaris) Wigeon (Anas penelope) Willow tit (Parus montanus) Woodpigeon (Columba palumbus) Wren (Troglodytes troglodytes)

Life in the Forest

January 12, 2018January 11, 2018 | Rebecca Gibson

For my latest university project, I explored the concept of forests and what people have to say about them. By creating a survey, I gathered a range of intimate stories that reveal just how important the forest habitat is to us all, for many different reasons.

Peaceful. Majestic. Timeless. Forests are a vast and highly diverse habitat with a different meaning for everyone, and provide the perfect opportunity to get time and space away from regular life. To find out just how significant forests can be, a recent survey was conducted, uncovering some varied and intimate stories.

“Forests remind me of home. While standing in any other habitat you surround yourself with nature, but the forest is the only one that swallows you.”

Despite our love for woodland, Britain and Ireland are some of the least wooded countries in Europe, even with the presence of approximately 13,000 ancient trees. Some of these have been standing for over a millennium. This, when compared to the human lifespan, seems an eternity.

“Woodland is a much-loved feature of the landscape,” writes Sophie Lake, author of ‘A Guide to the Wildlife Habitats of Britain and Ireland’, “Stepping inside an ancient wood can be a welcome escape from the monotony of the abrasive, urban environment.” For lots of us, forests are holders of secrets and memories, paving the way for personal reflection and relaxation that cannot always be achieved in the bustle and noise of our everyday existence. Forests enable us to lose ourselves, literally and figuratively.

We admire forests for their natural beauty. Most noticeable of all the seasons is undoubtedly autumn, when frost, crunching leaves and a flurry of excitement in preparation for winter really brings them alive. The forest is not just important for the survival of hundreds of forest-dwelling species but also for ourselves. We are nemophilists – that is, we have a deep fondness for forests and woodland – and have childhood stories to tell of long days spent climbing trees, collecting conkers or watching birds.

“I went on aimless walks as a child – my mum and I used to collect pretty sticks and stones. I’ve always been surrounded by forests and even if I wasn’t in them physically, their presence was always there.”

Forests are a place of play, where children dream up kingdoms and magical lands. There is an undeniable magic to forests that we first discover during childhood, but this stays long into adulthood whether or not we care to admit it. We ask ourselves what exactly it is about a forest that makes us shed our deep-set cynicism and embrace childlike wonder again. Perhaps it is the seclusion that the trees provide that prompts a split from the real world and allows our minds to wander, creating a barricade that shields us from reality. There is also the enchanting way that many wild, forested places muffle our connection to technology, rendering our phones useless. We are cut off from the outside world so we must embrace wilderness, and that is when we realise what we’ve been missing.

“I was convinced I was Mowgli and went running off – ducking to make sure I wasn’t seen by any creatures that might be lurking in the woods. I wanted to stay there forever.”

As children we see and savour so much more, with no limits to our imagination. The rumble in the bushes is a prowling tiger, so we pick up a stick and have a sword. By spending time in the forest as adults, we see nature with fresh eyes. Senses that have been dulled by noise and brightness are now reinvigorated to appreciate new marvels – the sound of birdsong, the smell of conifers, the sight of leaves coated in frozen, silver crystals. It is not until we return to a forest that we remember what a surreal place it is, full to bursting with secrets.

After a recent trip to Kidland Forest in the Northumberland National Park, with over five thousand acres to explore, all these feelings came flooding back to me. The forest was silent; listening while others threw sounds into the air. An abandoned tyre swing creaked, a tawny owl called, but the trees stayed hushed. Each one has survived bleak winters, dry summers and overseen a thousand births and deaths. Seeing such colossal larch trees stretching into the sky put into perspective how powerful and significant the forest landscape is.

“A favourite memory of mine is an enormous old oak that I used to play on. Its limbs went on forever – the sheer size was incredible and it’s amazing to think of the memories it might have held.”

Our love for forests must surely be from the respect we hold for these vast, natural structures that have been standing for centuries while generations have come and gone. These unmoving, unspeaking elephants with trunks of bark and thick, deep-set roots have a majesty that is easy to overlook. They begin life as a seed we can hide in our hands, but will eventually, and inevitably, dwarf adults and children alike.

“Spring is fresh and green, summer is full of birdsong, autumn brings the golden colours and in winter it is a stark place, with all the tree branches exposed scratching lines across the sky.”

Forests in November are patchwork blankets of green, orange and brown, where the trees shine like fiery beacons. It is autumn at its finest: an explosion of colour with just the right amount of chill in the air. Arranged in rows like ornately dressed soldiers, trees stand in silence, the sort of hush that comes just before something long-anticipated. The sun shines in slanted shards, illuminating certain branches and leaving others in chilled shadows. The forest is a drug – beautifully addictive. Its costumes are always changing throughout the year. This season: orange is well and truly in.

The forest is particularly wonderful because it never dies. Whatever the season, there is something happening. Come September, the temperatures drop and the rain persists, but new life is always arriving. Leaves fall and curl up into dry husks, but from amongst them sprout fungi, mushrooms of every colour that decorate and cloak the tree roots like nature’s Persian rug. Soon the nights will be cold enough to freeze, and come morning when the weak sunlight breaks through, millions of miniscule ice sculptures cling to every surface, each one unique. The forest is a menagerie of sights, smells and sounds; even with the wind and rain, the last few months of the year bring breathtaking beauty.

“Every Christmas morning my mum and I have breakfast in the forest. The whole place is frozen and beautiful. I remember how big it was and that I’d never see all of it. That just made what I did see more special.”

Christmas is undoubtedly a time of magic, and forests can be the perfect place for festive celebrations. Businesses are using this to their advantage and hosting holidays in wood cabins and yurts deep in picturesque forest locations; with ever advancing technology it is becoming even easier to find the perfect wild spot. If done sustainably, encouraging a greater participation in the forest can only be beneficial. Being surrounded by the winter chill with perhaps a sprinkling of snow is idyllic – the presence of such an enchanted habitat accentuates the beauty of winter.

“It is the ability to put to one side the complexities of modern life and modern living and to escape into a world seemingly untouched by the industrial intervention of man.”

Forests are vast, varied and can accommodate everyone. They offer the freedom to forget the modern world for a while and spend time in true wilderness. Walking through a forest feels like stepping back in time, where nothing is artificial. The forest is vast, yet its size and range never seem ominous. Barren and haunting depictions of woodland always resurface around Halloween, painting a rather commercial picture of a scary place, but a forest in autumn and winter is as enchanting as one in midsummer, perhaps with even more wonder.

“I think forests are irreplaceable and I need to go there regularly to remind myself of what’s important.”

Many people surveyed for this feature revealed that they spend time in forests for meditation, thinking and to enhance creativity. The fact that being surrounded by trees encourages this self-care is truly humbling. In our otherwise hectic existence, minds preoccupied with material wealth, a brief moment spent surrounded by peaceful, green silence allows us to step back and put all of these worries into perspective. And that is worth more than anything money can buy.

The Legend of Jokul Frosti

December 22, 2017December 21, 2017 | Rebecca Gibson

The frost coated everything in sight. Like a shimmering white blanket it lay draped over leaf, twig and soil. The spectacle brought a hush to the usual bustle of early morning; for the brief time that the frost was here, a silence that only winter could bring hovered in the air.

There were leaves scattered over the roots of the trees from which they were shed, curled and dry and chattering every time a breeze stirred them. Jack Frost had traced every vein with white crystal, setting down each cold stone beside the next like lines of silver beads. A knot in the wood of a fallen log had been sprinkled with frost too. The perfect cubes of ice were arranged in clusters like the hidden crystals that form inside a geode, except this display was here for everyone to see.

Frost has been a source of delight for thousands of years. Over the course of a few hours, the sleeping streets are transformed into a stunning white sculpture. Perhaps the most magical of all is how fleeting it is; when the sun rises, the silver art melts, disappearing until the next freeze.

Formed from water vapour clinging to freezing surfaces, the white colour of frost is brought by air bubbles that have become trapped in the ice crystals. Hoar frost is the frozen version of dew, formed when water vapour transforms directly to solid ice. Its magical swirling patterns and shapes are perhaps what sparked the deep-set Norse mythology that gave frost a far greater meaning. According to legend, it was in fact the artwork of a mysterious character we all recognise: Jack Frost.

“Then he went to the mountain, and powdered its crest,

He climbed up the trees, and their boughs he dressed

With diamonds and pearls…”

Extract from “The Frost” by Hannah Flagg Gould (1789-1865)

Hannah Flagg Gould’s poem about Jack Frost is a playful representation. After painting the mountains and trees with an artistic flair, he causes mischief in a house by “biting a basket of fruit”, spoiling the food for the occupiers of the house to find the next morning.

It is thought that the legend of Jack Frost originated from Viking folklore. His modern name is an Anglicised rendition of Jokul Frosti, meaning “Icicle Frost”. The son of the Nordic wind god Kari, Jokul was a nymph-like creature who painted beautiful frosty patterns on windows during the night. He was the personification of the chill that arrived with winter and nipped the noses of children with his icy bite.

While Jack Frost is often depicted as a playful sprite with innocent intentions, other cultures recognised Jokul as a more sombre figure – one that was feared and respected. Scandinavian mythology paints a picture of a frost giant that brought not only bitter cold but the black doom of winter that symbolised the end of the world. In northern Russia and Finland, an almighty deity known as Frostman commanded the weather, and was given sacrifices by reindeer herders to persuade him to lessen the severity of blizzards. The villagers would leave bowls of porridge for the Frostman to ensure their crops weren’t touched by the damaging frost. Elsewhere in Japanese folklore, Frostman was a malicious character, the brother of Mistman, who were both keepers of the frost and dew.

Jack Frost is well known but barely understood in modern culture. Most people envisage the elfish creature that decorates the night with beautiful silver patterns that melt with the sunrise. Over time, he has shed the fearsome demeanour that came with the frost giants of Norse mythology. Something as beautiful as sweeping hoarfrost or delicate ice crystals surely couldn’t have been summoned by a menacing omen of everlasting winter. Frost, like the Aurora borealis, is a natural wonder. Although it may not be as sought after as dancing green skylights, it is a microscopic miracle. Whether it is the handiwork of Jokul Frosti will forever be a mystery.

Winter Flora

December 15, 2017December 13, 2017 | Rebecca Gibson

Chances are, everyone has seen that Christmas is coming. Holly adorns the cards, wreaths hang on the front door and trees are being dragged into the house. Christmas traditions have been part of our culture for many years, but why do we follow them? I wanted to find out, so get yourself another mince pie and discover why exactly certain flora have become such icons of the festive period.

Holly

Holly has been a significant part of Christmas tradition for many thousands of years. The Druids regarded it as the king of winter. It was sacred; while other plants withered during the cold months, holly continued to flourish. As a result, the prickly plant became a symbol of renewal and rejuvenation, maintaining high spirits throughout the difficult winter. Many ancient Europeans brought holly into the home as protection, to ward off ill omens and bring good luck.

Holly also has religious connotations. Early Christians associated the prickly leaves as a crown of thorns and the bright berries as drops of the blood of Christ. According to legends, holly berries were originally white, but were stained red when Christ was crucified.

Ivy

The Druids considered ivy to be the queen to holly’s king. Also an evergreen that endures challenging environments and keeps its healthy green all year, ivy is symbolic of endurance and promise. Thought to possess magical qualities, it was hung in the home to bring luck in the spring.

For a time, ivy was banished by Christians during the festive period because it was able to grow in shade, which was considered a symbol of secrecy and deceit. However, this tradition soon wore off and ivy became a firm part of Christmas culture again.

Mistletoe

Mistletoe has long been regarded as a symbol of freedom – perhaps why it’s suspended rather magically in mid air. Ancient Europeans believed it was a sign of peace, and any time warring Celtics found it in the forests, they would honour the plant and drop their weapons. Today, mistletoe is less of a white flag of surrender, but we still honour it with compassion by sharing a kiss!

Christmas trees

Once again, Christmas trees (typically fir) are evergreens, so were seen as signs of eternal prosperity. They were a symbol of optimism and freshness even in unforgiving environments. By bringing its branches – and more recently, the whole tree – into the home during the Christmas period, it was believed that the evergreen could enliven and invigorate in preparation for the coming year.

So as you are decorating your home with beautifully smelling natural plants this December, remember why exactly they are there and how long these sacred traditions have endured!

Winter Migrations

December 1, 2017November 29, 2017 | Rebecca Gibson

During this time of year, many birds have migrated for the winter. Some, like Partridges, don’t stray more than a kilometre from where they were born, but most birds – at least 4000 species – will migrate to seek new pastures that will see them through the colder months. There are several different types of migration that British birds follow, due to food availability or sometimes their own adaptations.

In an irruption migration, large numbers of birds that do not usually visit the UK arrive in a short space of time. In some years, the population grows too large for the food that is available in the birds’ usual territories, forcing them to relocate. Waxwings (Bombycilla garrulus) migrate in this way; some years we are fortunate enough to see large groups of these striking birds feeding on berries high in the trees, while other years there are none at all.

While many birds travel from north to south or east to west, some make shorter journeys from low to high altitudes and vice versa. Even though this migration may not be as physically demanding, there are still new challenges that come with a change in environment. In the UK, various larks, pipits and buntings are altitudinal migrants, including the Skylark (Alauda arvensis). As well as an altitudinal transition, many Skylarks will change habitat in winter. Having spent most of the year roaming farmland and heathland, coastal marshes become more favourable during the winter months.

Other migrations aren’t as a result of finding new feeding grounds but simply to stay safe. While all birds shed old feathers to grow new ones, species such as the Shelduck (Tadorna tadorna) lose all their flight feathers, making them very vulnerable to predation. In order to increase their chances of surviving while new feathers come through, Shelducks migrate to safer areas in late summer once the breeding season is over. A popular location for Shelducks is the island of Heligoland, situated in the North Sea. This allows the birds to moult with little disturbance.

Northumberland: Day Two

November 24, 2017November 24, 2017 | Rebecca Gibson

When I woke up the blinds were bright. I had a peek outside and was thrilled to see there was a frost clinging to the grass. I hurried into clothes and headed out into the garden. It had been a full year since my last frost and I was eager to capture some macro photos again. Leaves, twigs and thistles were all coated in a fine layer of silver crystals that, when hit by the sun, twinkled and shone like last night’s stars. Soon I had wet knees from crouching in the grass and the beginnings of a crick in my neck from getting as close as possible. My plan was to crop the photos in to create a repeating abstract texture. As usual, I took far more than I probably needed.

After relaxing for a while in the bothy I headed out again, down one hill and up the next. I passed the tyre swing, but the lack of decent light meant the shots weren’t quite what I imagined. I knew I had to photograph the bright yellow and orange larches that had taken my breath away on the drive in yesterday. Unfortunately the sun that I’d wanted to shine was well and truly concealed behind thick clouds; the light was so diluted I could gaze in its direction without difficulty. However, when I began to shoot, the rusty warm hues still popped. I began to experiment with positioning individual subjects like stray grasses in front of the camera, so the trees bled together and created a vibrant background.

The rest of the day was spent writing beside the fire and recording what I’d seen during the day. I had a sneaky look at my photos so far and was pleased with some of the outcomes. Hopefully there’d be more opportunities on our last day tomorrow.

Sightings

Chaffinch (Fringilla coelebs)
Goldcrest (Regulus regulus)
Goldfinch (Carduelis carduelis)
Robin (Erithacus rubecula)

The Beginnings of Winter

November 10, 2017November 5, 2017 | Rebecca Gibson

Before I’d even got to the hide there was a chirruping in the bushes and I turned to see a group of juvenile yellowhammers mobbing their parents, hopping between branches for attention. Three birds flew past overhead and I caught the triangular shape of starling wings as they soared over me.

The lake was quiet – a pair of mallards floated in circles on the far side, while mute swans waddled along the bank. Once I was settled inside, they appeared by the feeders, accompanied by the juvenile swans I’d seen last time. The whole family loitered beneath the swinging seed canisters, mopping up anything dropped.

The feeders themselves were a flurry of activity. As usual, the nearby bushes were full of house sparrows, fighting to snatch a mouthful. Blue tits and great tits waited in the queue and I was particularly excited to see a lone greenfinch among the group too; back home in Hertfordshire these birds are becoming scarcer and scarcer.

After watching the birds feed for a while, I wandered on. It was a lot colder than usual – dew covered the grass but it wasn’t quite cold enough to freeze it, though perhaps this may soon be the case on early mornings. There were other signs of winter too; bursts of red berries and a fat robin perched on the fence. Even though these birds are around all year, somehow a day in early winter feels like Christmas is a lot closer when you spot one.

As I made my way to the wood the only sound was the usual “whizz-burr” of the turbines as they swung. There was a break in the clouds and beautiful streaks of sunlight shone through at jaunty angles. The forest was gloomy but still inviting, and as I walked round I scanned both sides of the path to see if any fungi were sprouting up. The ground was boggy in places, and when drops of water fell in the puddles, the reflected trees twitched.

Suddenly, just as I was looping back round to the gate, a woodpigeon exploded out of the trees and made me jump a mile. Why do pigeons love doing this? It must give them a wicked satisfaction to see me clutch my chest and try to get my breath back to normal.

Once I was back in the open, the chill was even stronger. I wrapped my coat tighter around myself and hurried back to the cafe to warm up.