Brown Huntsman (Heteropoda jugulans) Photo By iNaturalist Australia user: tjeales – https://www.inaturalist.org/photos/100655395, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=116462164

Dear Readers, just because I’ve finished my BSc doesn’t mean that you’re safe from unusual science stories, and  I couldn’t resist this tale of a scientist trying to determine the fastest spider in the world.

The picture of speedy spiders was put together by Shreyas Kuchibhotla at Imperial College London, and involved collecting over 162 species from field work all over the world, plus a number of spiders purchased from pet shops. Each spider was weighed and then measured as it skittered across A3 or A4 graph paper.

To encourage them to run, they were touched gently with a paint brush. However, tarantulas prefer to stay put if challenged, and so had to be encouraged to move with puffs of compressed air.

The current world record for spider speed is held by the Moroccan Flic-Flac Spider (Cebrennus rechenbergi) which can reach speeds of 1.7 metres per second, but several experts feel that this isn’t fair: the Flic-Flac Spider lives on sand dunes, and when alarmed it rolls itself into a ball and basically tumbles down the hill. Hah! This is not comparable with ‘proper’ spider locomotion, at least according to those who like to use graph paper and a stop watch.

Moroccan Flic-Flac Spider doing the Flic-Flac (Photo By Ingo Rechenberg – Ingo Rechenberg, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=33550488)

Christofer Clemente and his colleagues at the University of the Sunshine Coast in Australia found the current winner – the Brown Huntsman spider (pictured at the top of the blog) reached a speed of 3.6 metres per second. Apparently its legs are long, which is good for speed, but its abdomen is relatively small, so it doesn’t get in the way.

I do wonder, though, how far these speeds  were adjusted for the size of the spider. One little chap, the delightfully-named Orange Goblin Spider (Oonops pulcher) is only .1 milligram in weight, but clocked in at over 20 centimetres per second.

“Nothing could have prepared me for how it practically teleported across the arena,” says Kuchibhotla.

It’s a rather attractive little spider too –  it looks to me as if it’s been carved out of butterscotch.

Orange Goblin Spider (Oonops pulcher) Photo By jtch – https://www.inaturalist.org/photos/451684088, CC BY 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=170977570

So, as we move gently into autumn, maybe there’s a case for putting some grid paper on the floor and digging out the timer on your phone? The house spiders are likely to be making themselves apparent soon, so we may as well gather some data 🙂

The New Scientist article is here 

The research paper is here.

Goodness,  Readers, when I was taking my little  walk along the County Roads yesterday I was very taken with how far the Amaranth, that I first wrote about in 2024, has spread. It seems to grow in virtually no soil at all, and pops forth a great crop of surprisingly toothsome leaves, considering that we’ve had next to no rain for months.

It’s difficult to identify Amaranth to species level – my current plant app suggests that this is Redroot Amaranth (Amaranthus retroflexus) but with only 34 percent certainty, so we won’t stick our neck out. Nor can we be sure how the plant arrived in the County Roads (specifically Huntingdon for any curious botanists out there). One theory is that it arrived with sand, maybe used when the EV chargers were put in. Another is that it came with bird seed. Yet another relates to those tasty green leaves, which are known as callaloo in Caribbean cooking, and could well have come from someone’s vegetable garden or allotment. What is certain is that it is happy here, bless it, and is colonising all sorts of unpromising spots.

Each one of those flowerheads (or ‘panicles’) contains 1000 to 3000 seeds, which can be harvested – the seeds have no outer husk and are rich in protein and several dietary minerals. The grains can also be milled into flower, and used for bread or cakes. Furthermore, the plant is extremely drought-tolerant, and can be grown around the panels in solar farms, providing an easily-harvested and easily-maintained crop. It’s already eaten by many communities around the world – in addition to the callaloo already mentioned, it’s eaten with rice and beans in Brazil, as a salad ingredient in Greece, and the leaves are eaten in India, Vietnam and China. The plant, both seeds and leaves, is also widely consumed in various African countries. It’s something of a star, and here it is, growing in a gutter. Clearly, respect is due to this tough, prolific plant. Maybe it’s no coincidence that the name ‘Amaranth’ comes from the Greek word for ‘unfading’.

Dear Readers, the Painted Lady bonanza continues – whenever I look out of the office window I see at least one or two on the Buddleia, which is fast going over, sadly. I cannot get over how fast and agile these butterflies are, with sometimes a couple circling one another at speed. They also think nothing of  shooing a bumblebee off of a particularly attractive flower. In the past few days they’ve been joined by Red Admirals, Commas, Small and Large Whites and Peacocks. It really feels like a bumper year. It’s even been rumoured that Clouded Yellows are present in large numbers along the South Coast, so I’m keeping an eye open. If you see a bright yellow butterfly at this time of year it’s almost certainly one of these migratory beauties (though beware, there are also Brimstone moths around, which are quite different).

Clouded Yellow ( Colia croceus) Photo By Charles J. Sharp – Own work, from Sharp Photography, sharpphotography, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=51144488

It’s a spectacular year for those plants that can survive it – the rowan trees on the County Roads are laden with berries, which the birds will be glad of later in the year I’m sure…

And there are lots of elderberries about too, these from Cherry Tree Wood…

Plus the Crape Myrtles are doing very well…

I am  trying to plant up plenty of drought-resistant  species in the south-facing front garden, so there’s something for the pollinators once the Buddleia has finished. I’m giving Rudbeckia a go, it seems to attract a lot of bees which is always a good thing. I’m also trying the Verbena cultivar which is less leggy than the typical Bodnante variety.

I’ve stuffed the windowboxes with Mediterranean herbs  – there’s marjoram, oregano and some nepeta. Historically, as soon as I’ve planted cat mint some cat has planted themselves on top of it, but hopefully the precarious nature of the windowsill will deter them a smidge.

Is anybody else re-thinking their garden in view of this year’s drought and hosepipe bans? I’m aware that not everybody has had the kind of summer that we have, but all bets are off for the future, I suspect. I was thinking about getting rid of the buddleia, but definitely not now, regardless of what the RHS say. I’d happily plant more natives, but how many are drought-tolerant enough to survive these conditions? Let me know what you think, and how you’re dealing with the challenges that you face – I’m curious not just about the UK, but I know I have readers in other parts of the world who are also facing climate changes of different kinds. Let’s learn from one another!

And in the meantime, a few more Painted Ladies, because you can never have too many…

Dear Readers, I often love the ‘Quote of the Day’ displayed at East Finchley station, but I was stopped in my tracks by this one: it’s my 25th wedding anniversary in a few weeks, so no wonder my thoughts are often turning to what love means, and what home means, and the intersection between the two. For me, ‘home’ is a feeling comprised not just of a location, but of all the people who make that place a home – the local friends, the people who come to visit, the shopkeepers and the road cleaner and the bus drivers, the people who pour our coffee, and the restaurant where I’ll be celebrating my BSc later today (quick shout out for Table du Marché if any East Finchleyites haven’t discovered it yet).

But having someone who has your back, even when you’re being ridiculous, someone who thinks you’re wonderful even when you’re laying on the sofa with a broken leg, well, that’s a special kind of home. It took me until I was nearly forty to find my soulmate – I am a bit envious of people who married their childhood sweetheart, but then again some people never find the person who is right for them. I never forget how lucky I am, in so many ways, but especially in  this. I think I’d given up on the idea of finding someone to make my life complete, and had instead decided that I was perfectly fine as I was. And maybe you have to reach that point so that the person you team up with adds synchronicity, so that you are cheerleaders for one another’s wildest dreams and ambitions. And so the other person is ‘home’, the ground from which you go out and have adventures, the safe harbour that you come back to. Nothing is forever in this life, but I count myself fortunate to have known this feeling.

And walking back along East Finchley High Road from the station, I thought how lucky we were to have the London Plane trees lining the route, bringing down the temperature and shading us as we walk up the hill. So many people were sitting on the wall having a sandwich or a drink under their cool green branches. I often give the tree trunks a pat as I go past, just to show the trees that I appreciate them. It feels like the least I can do.

The Oresteia at The Bridge (Image from https://www.bridgetheatre.co.uk/whats-on/the-oresteia/

Dear Readers, as you know I go to see a lot of theatre, and last week I managed two matinees: ‘The Misanthrope’ at the National Theatre and ‘The Oresteia’ at The Bridge. Both productions were interesting and held my attention – Sandra Oh, the lead actress in ‘The Misanthrope’ was sick on the day that I attended, but her understudy was excellent. Both plays were modern-day adaptations: ‘The Misanthrope’ is based on Molière’s comedy, about a plain-speaking aristocrat who gets himself into trouble by speaking the truth (as he sees it), while ‘The Oresteia’ is based on a trilogy of plays by ancient Greek writer Aeschylus. In the National Theatre production of ‘The Misanthrope’, ‘Alice’ is an author who tells everybody the truth and gets herself into all sorts of trouble, whilst ‘The Oresteia’ focuses on the Middleton family: the father is the director of a company that manufactures armaments (as opposed to King Agamemnon, who sacrificed his eldest daughter in order to get fair winds for the voyage to Troy).

The Oresteia is a bit of a haul (3 hours and 30 minutes with two intervals (I recommend the caramel ice cream with chocolate chips). The performances were excellent all round, and the set is really something (see photo above). However, because some of the scenes are played inside that glass box the sound was sometimes muddy, plus everyone is arguing or speaking across everyone else, so it can be difficult to work out what’s going on. The play is based on the Orestes trilogy by Aeschylus so, as you might expect, there’s lots of bloodshed: the patriarch is killed by his wife, who is in turn killed by her son. But whereas in the classical original the themes are universal moral questions, this really seems to have turned into morie of a soap opera.

However.

I came away, as I so often do these days, with the feeling that both plays suffered from ‘stuff everything  in-ism’. There was sexism, racism, ‘me-too’, climate change, ‘political correctness’ and its ramifications, and a dozen other things besides. There is not a moment of thoughtful silence in either play – maybe understandable in a comedy like ‘The Misanthrope’, less so in something based on a Greek tragedy. But maybe this is to do with the highly stimulating environment that we now live in, with the constant pinging of phones and 24 hour entertainment available to stream wherever we go. I feel as if many playwrights (and film makers, and authors) are afraid that we’ll be bored if they don’t throw every possible theme into a single work.

I am hearing  from a lot of people who are finding it hard to focus when reading, so maybe the same is true of the performing arts. What I’m not sure about is whether this is actually a general trend, or if it’s just my reaction to being over-stimulated. I’ve always enjoyed the space in a performance that allows you to think for yourself, or makes room for a gradual realisation about the implications of an action, or what a character has said. There is room for this and for the over-the-top, crammed shows that excite and stimulate. I suppose that’s why I’m more ready to forgive The Misanthrope for its hyperactivity than I am The Oresteia. But it seems a shame if everything tilts towards too much, all the time, so that the audience staggers out unsure of what they’ve seen.

What do you think, Readers? Are the arts responding to the challenge of instant stimulation by becoming over-stimulated themselves? Or has it ever been thus? Are you having trouble focussing on longer, slower works? And is there an answer?

Alley Cat (Photo by By Almonroth – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=19535369)

Dear Readers, I have been a bit cat-obsessed lately, what with adopting our new cat Abbie. Earlier this week she turned from a sweet old lady into a Tasmanian Devil when I had to pop her into a cat carrier to take her for a vet check – she’s perfectly fine for a fourteen year-old cat, but needs to go onto a ‘sensitivity control diet’ which will cost  me as much as my first born, if I had one. Nothing but the best for my girl, though! And here’s an interesting poem. See what you think….

Another Insane Devotion

By Gerald Stern (1925-2022)

This was gruesome—fighting over a ham sandwich
with one of the tiny cats of Rome, he leaped
on my arm and half hung on to the food and half
hung on to my shirt and coat. I tore it apart
and let him have his portion, I think I lifted him
down, sandwich and all, on the sidewalk and sat
with my own sandwich beside him, maybe I petted
his bony head and felt him shiver. I have
told this story over and over; some things
root in the mind; his boldness, of course, was frightening
and unexpected—his stubbornness—though hunger
drove him mad. It was the breaking of boundaries,
the sudden invasion, but not only that it was
the sharing of food and the sharing of space; he didn’t
run into an alley or into a cellar,
he sat beside me, eating, and I didn’t run
into a trattoria, say, shaking,
with food on my lips and blood on my cheek, sobbing;
but not only that, I had gone there to eat
and wait for someone. I had maybe an hour
before she would come and I was full of hope
and excitement. I have resisted for years
interpreting this, but now I think I was given
a clue, or I was giving myself a clue,
across the street from the glass sandwich shop.
That was my last night with her, the next day
I would leave on the train for Paris and she would
meet her husband. Thirty-five years ago
I ate my sandwich and moaned in her arms, we were
dying together; we never met again
although she was pregnant when I left her—I have
a daughter or son somewhere, darling grandchildren
in Norwich, Connecticut, or Canton, Ohio.
Every five years I think about her again
and plan on looking her up. The last time
I was sitting in New Brunswick, New Jersey,
and heard that her husband was teaching at Princeton,
if she was still married, or still alive, and tried
calling. I went that far. We lived
in Florence and Rome. We rowed in the bay of Naples
and floated, naked, on the boards. I started
to think of her again today. I still
am horrified by the cat’s hunger. I still
am puzzled by the connection. This is another
insane devotion, there must be hundreds, although
it isn’t just that, there is no pain, and the thought
is fleeting and sweet. I think it’s my own dumb boyhood,
walking around with Slavic cheeks and burning
stupid eyes. I think I gave the cat
half of my sandwich to buy my life, I think
I broke it in half as a decent sacrifice.
It was this I bought, the red coleus,
the split rocking chair, the silk lampshade.
Happiness. I watched him with pleasure.
I bought memory. I could have lost it.
How crazy it sounds. His face twisted with cunning.
The wind blowing through his hair. His jaw working.

Common Centaury (Centaurium erythraea)

Dear Readers, you might remember that a few weeks ago I was at Tyttenhanger Gravel Pits with my friend L, and came  across this very attractive little pink plant. This is  what it actually looks like when the sun is out:

By יורם שורק – Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=79723426

Centauries are members of the Gentian family, and in the UK many of them are vanishingly rare or local, so this is the one that you’re most likely to see. It seems to have two variants, one with quite long stems, and one, most often found at the coast, that grows very close to the ground (probably a result of the sea breezes). It’s a very pretty plant, and one that I’d never encountered before: it likes sparsely-vegetated grassland, heath, clifftops etc, which is a rare habitat in East Finchley!

Photo by By Ludwik Polak – https://atlas.roslin.pl/plant/6646, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=93087080

Common Centaury was used by herbalists to control fevers: it has a variety of common names, including bitter herb, feverwort and Christ’s ladder. Suggested ways of using the herb include making a tincture, or making tea from the dried flowers. It’s also believed to support recovery from gastrointestinal disorders, and to help stimulate appetite. However, it tastes extremely bitter: Culpeper described it as ‘very wholesome, but not very toothsome‘, which I suspect is an understatement.

But why Centaury? The herb was believed to have been used to heal the centaur Chiron after he was wounded accidentally with an arrow from his pupil, Hercules.  Chiron was himself a gifted healer, who had taught his medicinal skills not only to Hercules, but also to Achilles, and to various kings and princes. Alas, although the Common Centaury healed Chiron’s wound it didn’t take away the pain, and although Chiron had been granted immortality he gave it up in order to die and put an end to his suffering. He’s remembered in the constellation Centaurus which contains our closest star (after the Sun) Alpha Centauri.

Constellation Centaurus by By Till Credner – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=22441658

Common Centaury also has a variety of magical uses. According to the 1619 translation of a French herbal, all those who mix plover’s blood with centaury, pop the  potion into an oil lamp and inhale the fumes,

“Shall believe themselves to be witches, so that one shall believe of another that his head is in heaven and his feet on earth”

Leave those plovers alone, I say.

The plant can also be used to dissuade the ‘Wykked Sperytis’ from interfering with your life, something we could all do with at the moment.

The bitter taste of Common Centaury has been used to flavour various vermouths and non-alcoholic bitters, especially in mainland Europe (the  plant is found throughout Europe, North  Africa and western Asia). I suspect that its bitter flavour helps to stimulate both saliva and gastric juices, hence its efficacy in encouraging appetite.

And of course, there’s a poem….I rather like this one, by American  poet May Swenson (1913 – 1989) who was the eldest of ten children in a Mormon household. I imagine that getting away to the woods and  riding a ‘horse’ was a way of being alone and of starting to sort out the messy feelings of late childhood. See what you think.

The Centaur by May Swenson

The summer that I was ten–
Can it be there was only one
summer that I was ten? It must

have been a long one then–
each day I’d go out to choose
a fresh horse from my stable

which was a willow grove
down by the old canal.
I’d go on my two bare feet.

But when, with my brother’s jack-knife,
I had cut me a long limber horse
with a good thick knob for a head,

and peeled him slick and clean
except a few leaves for the tail,
and cinched my brother’s belt

around his head for a rein,
I’d straddle and canter him fast
up the grass bank to the path,

trot along in the lovely dust
that talcumed over his hoofs,
hiding my toes, and turning

his feet to swift half-moons.
The willow knob with the strap
jouncing between my thighs

was the pommel and yet the poll
of my nickering pony’s head.
My head and my neck were mine,

yet they were shaped like a horse.
My hair flopped to the side
like the mane of a horse in the wind.

My forelock swung in my eyes,
my neck arched and I snorted.
I shied and skittered and reared,

stopped and raised my knees,
pawed at the ground and quivered.
My teeth bared as we wheeled

and swished through the dust again.
I was the horse and the rider,
and the leather I slapped to his rump

spanked my own behind.
Doubled, my two hoofs beat
a gallop along the bank,

the wind twanged in my mane,
my mouth squared to the bit.
And yet I sat on my steed

quiet, negligent riding,
my toes standing the stirrups,
my thighs hugging his ribs.

At a walk we drew up to the porch.
I tethered him to a paling.
Dismounting, I smoothed my skirt

and entered the dusky hall.
My feet on the clean linoleum
left ghostly toes in the hall.

Where have you been? said my mother.
Been riding, I said from the sink,
and filled me a glass of water.

What’s that in your pocket? she said.
Just my knife. It weighted my pocket
and stretched my dress awry.

Go tie back your hair, said my mother,
and Why is your mouth all green?
Rob Roy, he pulled some clover
as we crossed the field, I told her.

Centaur mosaic from Orange, France, 2nd century BCE

Painted Lady (Vanessa cardui) Photo By Jean-Pol GRANDMONT – Self-photographed, CC BY 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=27747981

Dear Readers, today is a stressful day because later this afternoon I have to wrestle Abbie, our new foster cat, into a carrier and off to the vet for a check-up. It’s always a performance because although Abbie is the sweetest cat in the world she turns into a Tasmanian Devil if someone even  tries to pick her up, let alone put her into a carrier, and for an old age pensioner (she’s fourteen) she’s surprisingly quick. So wish me luck! But for 15 minutes I stood outside as Painted Lady after Painted Lady drifted past. It’s been a phenomenal year for these butterflies, particularly in the south of England, but they are in fact the most widespread butterfly in the world, with populations on every continent except Antarctica. Perhaps it’s appropriate that in North America the butterfly is known as ‘The Cosmopolitan’.

The number of Painted Ladies varies year or year, as these insects are migratory (main routes below).

Painted Ladies have a multi-generational migration pattern – no one butterfly will make the whole trip from North Africa to Scandinavia or the UK, but their children or grandchildren  might. This year’s butterflies may be the offspring of French or Spanish Painted Ladies. Do they ever head back south, though? The answer seems to be yes: in autumn, Painted Ladies have been seen migrating back across the channel, though they fly at such high altitudes that they are rarely witnessed. What probably drives them is the availability of adult nectar resources – they mate and lay eggs continually during migration, sometimes laying eggs on highly unsuitable plants that have lots of nectar. Fortunately, the caterpillars have varied tastes, and will eat anything from thistles to mugwort. As the eggs are laid with little regard for the caterpillar’s welfare, it’s just as well that they’re well camouflaged, and hide in little silk ‘nests’ at the top of leaves.

Painted Lady caterpillar (Photo By Harald Süpfle – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=7529515)

So, do keep your eyes open for these little beauties – they’re easily mistaken for Small Tortoiseshell at first glance, but note the yellow patches on the forewing, and those  blue ‘scallop’ markings. I don’t think I’ve seen a Small Tortoiseshell yet this year.

Small Tortoiseshell (Aglais urticae) Photo By Jörg Hempel, CC BY-SA 3.0 de, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=27756983

So, has anybody else done the Big Butterfly Count yet? I think I might give it a second go in the back garden and see who fancies the Hemp Agrimony.

And now I’m off to catch a cat….

After six years, seven  modules and two subjects (Environmental Science and Biology) my degree is finally finished, and I have a 2:1 BSc. It feels most peculiar: I started the degree during lockdown, not long after Dad had died, and it’s been a quite the journey. I loved the breadth of the Environmental Science, and the way that it encompassed not only science, but politics, economics, sociology, psychology and a lot else besides. Biology was more of a slog: I enjoyed the ecology aspects, but memorising chemical pathways and remembering what the hell happened when was more of a challenge. But I have loved feeling my knowledge grow, and my brain expand.

I’ve particularly loved the practical experiments: I’ve fed magpies on different coloured doughballs twice (and indeed they still pop in occasionally to see if I’m still feeling generous) .

I’ve measured trees, and been quizzed by East Finchleyites to make sure that I’m not from the council with a plan to cut them down. I’ve filled the fridge with strange concoctions, and have read newspaper articles with a more quizzical eye. Who knew that even respected papers could illustrate their stories about bees with photos of hoverflies? Very happy to help out with that one, if any one has any journalistic contacts.

I’ve often  felt distressed at the extent of human destruction and short-sightedness, but have also been inspired by the scientists, activists and researchers that I’ve learned about. While there is still such creativity and empathy in the world, I refuse to wring my hands and give up. We can sort ourselves out, we just need to get a move on.

And I’d just like to say how much I’ve enjoyed the Open University – I’ve loved the course, and wouldn’t hesitate to get stuck into something else at some point. But this year and in 2027 I want to concentrate on my End of Life Doula qualification, which will require a very different set of skills. So, it’s goodbye to all that, and on to the next challenge. Let’s see what the next few years bring!

Robin singing

Dear Readers, there is a very interesting  article in my British Birds magazine this week, about the prevalence of song in female birds, and how understudied it is. I often use Xeno Canto for examples of bird song, but Mark Constantine and Lucy McRobert, the authors of the piece, point out that only 0.01% of the bird songs were labelled as ‘female’ back in 2016. However, Constantine and McRobert’s project, The Sound Approach, has recordings of female sounds for 41% of Western Palaearctic species. There seems to be an assumption that any bird that sings is a male, but this is increasingly being shown to be untrue.

Why do birds sing? It can be done to attract a mate, but it can also involve territorial defence (we know that when a territory-holding male blackbird ceases to sing for more than three days, another male is likely to move in), warning off rivals (the volume and complexity of song can give an indication of the aggression and size of the bird) and pair-bonding (many birds sing ‘duets’).

In Robins, for example, both male and female birds sing, with no difference in vocal performance between the male and female outside the breeding season – females are as adept at the complicated parts of the song as males are. Robins are intensely territorial throughout the year (though it reaches a peak in breeding season) – often a female and a male will hold adjoining territories that are combined when the time to pair off and nest arrives. The Sound Approach team are trying to gather more examples of female song, to see if there are differences in the sounds that can be used to identify the sex of the singer. As male and female Robins look identical, this could be useful in the field.

One interesting case is that of the Alpine Accentor (Prunella collaris), a close relative of our Dunnock (Prunella modularis). In the Alpine Accentor, females sing to attract males, and often solicit copulation as soon as the male arrives, often mating with multiple males. Older females who lay the largest clutches of eggs have the most elaborate songs; having several males who think they may be the father of the nestlings means several sources of food provision and defence.

Alpine Accentor (Photo By Paco Gómez from Castellón, Spain – Acentor alpino (Prunella collaris)-2, CC BY-SA 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=10653904)

In the Greater Painted-snipe (Rostratula benghalensis) not only is the female the principal singer, but she is also the more brightly coloured sex – the male is more cryptically-coloured, and takes care of the eggs and young.

Greater Painted-snipe (female) Photo By Afsarnayakkan – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=81947019

Greater Painted-snipe (male) Photo By Bernard DUPONT from FRANCE – Day 20 : Greater Painted-Snipe (Rostratula benghalensis) male …, CC BY-SA 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=138683408

In the UK, it wasn’t until 2020 that female song was identified in the Barn Swallow (Hirundo rustica). Wilkins et al discovered that females sing at the beginning of the breeding season, and, furthermore, they sing over the top of their mate’s song, preventing him from advertising his availability to other females.

Barn Swallow (Photo By Andreas Trepte – Own work, CC BY-SA 2.5, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=40877458)

And finally, male and female Common Swifts (Apus apus) duet with distinctly different calls, usually at dusk.  It was described by scientist Erich Kaiser back in 1997. Usually, the call consists of a series of short screams, given  alternately by each sex. The higher ‘swee’ sound is made by the female, the lower ‘ree’ sound is given by the male. Amazing! And something to listen out for over the next few weeks in the UK before the Swifts leave to head south. I wish I’d paid more attention when they were zooming up and down the road yesterday.

So, paying more attention to female birds is opening up all kinds of questions, and is starting to help us understand the complexities of the lives of different species, some of them very close to home. I wonder what else we’ll discover, when we  put aside our assumptions and come to look at birds with an open mind?

Common Swift (Photo By Alexis Lours – Own work, CC BY 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=170916976)