A moody view towards Canary Wharf

Dear Readers, it has been a difficult start to the year for several of my friends, including the person that is usually my buddy when we visit Walthamstow Wetlands. My friend is off looking after her mother, who is in her nineties, and is trying to sort out carers, finances, and all the many, many things that go with trying to look after someone you love when you normally live several hundred miles away. And so, this Saturday I went for a walk to see what was going on, but my heart goes out to my friend, and I hope that soon she’ll be back and we’ll be exploring together again.

You might not think that there’s much going on at this time of year, but just look at this board, showing recent sightings!

However, don’t get too excited because we saw none of these on this visit, though I was very pleased to see whatever chose to show itself.

First up were some very fine hazel catkins. I think the ones in the bottom photo look like little people, but maybe it’s just me.

Signs of spring are everywhere in spite of the gloom – I love the new growth on the weeping willow reflected in the reservoir.

And you can tell that it’s spring when the coots are getting antsy, and bobbing around like rather ferocious black shuttlecocks.

The gorse is in flower, as it usually is (isn’t the saying that when the gorse isn’t in flower, kissing’s out of fashion?)

And look at this tiny critter! It’s a little grebe (otherwise known as a dabchick), and it lives up to its name by being only about half as big as a tufted duck. I spoke to one of the London Wildlife Trust volunteers, and she said she thought this species was her favourite – so little and so determined. Here one minute and gone the next, they have been called ‘floating rabbits’ because in better photos than these, they have a fluffy tail.

The better-known great crested grebe was also about – these birds are such a success story, and are much commoner than they were when I was growing up in the 60s. Such elegant birds!

A pair of Egyptian geese were getting very over-excited, and defending their territory against all comers, including the much larger Canada geese. I

There was a female pochard…

and lots of tufted ducks, including this female…

and a tree full of cormorants…

and great tits were much in evidence, along with robins and blue tits and long-tailed tits and all manner of tiny birds.

I thought that this bird (please excuse the blurry photo) was a great egret (and in fact there was one on one of the islands, but it was keeping a low profile). However, the black beak means that it’s a little egret. It didn’t look all that little from where I was standing, but it’s hard to judge sometimes.

So there is a definite sense of life stirring and of the pace picking up. I wasn’t sure if this coot was gathering material for a nest, and neither did s/he – when s/he got to the side of the lake she dropped the leaves, picked them up and dropped them again, before having a half-hearted nibble.

I love the Wetlands at this time of year – there are interesting reflections everywhere, like this one of a willow with its new growth…

..or this one of the Coppermill building.

And here’s a visitor who probably isn’t very welcome. I love cats, but there’s a lot of vulnerable wildlife here. Hopefully this feline is just popping in for a look around.

I’ve been having one of those low weeks – winter feels never ending sometimes, we’re in the throes of year end at work and the news is as sombre as ever. But there is much to be said for getting out into nature in order to get some perspective.

Grey seal and pup by Walter Baxter from https://www.geograph.org.uk/photo/6676496

Dear Readers, I always like to feature a success story and there was a very fine one in The Guardian today. The grey seal (whose Latin name Halichoerus grypus means ‘hook-nosed sea pig) was reduced to a population of about 500 individuals by the beginning of the 20th century – they were often hunted, and were seen as pests by local fishing communities. Today, the UK population has reached no less than 120,000, which represents 95% of the grey seals in Europe, and over 40% of the grey seals worldwide. The main reason for their rise seems to be the ending of persecution (they’ve been protected by law throughout Great Britain and Ireland), but there is also some thought that they might be benefitting from the fish that cluster around the artificial reefs created by wind turbines, in a nice display of the law of unintended consequences.

Photo by Walter Baxter at https://www.geograph.org.uk/more.php?id=6616479

Grey seals are such big, curious animals, always popping up from below the waves to see what’s going on. They can live for up to 40 years, and often return to the same beaches to breed. The pups are born at various times around the UK coast, from August to January. They are fed with their mother’s rich milk for a few weeks, and then the females leave, to feed and to get ready for their next pup. By now, most of the pups will be thinking about braving the waves and going it alone for the first time. You can see grey seals at any time of year though – just take a boat to the Farne Islands, or Skomer, or walk along the beach at Donna Nook in Lincolnshire or the cliffs at Flamborough Head, and keep your eyes open for that retriever-shaped head. I have a great love for marine mammals of all kinds, but seeing a seal on a grey, blustery day is always a real tonic. The Wildlife Trusts have a list of places to see seals here.

Grey seal pup by Patrick Baldwin from https://www.geograph.org.uk/more.php?id=2815165

The pups are very chunky creatures (as well they have to be – it’s cold in the North Sea and the Atlantic, and they need to be well upholstered). The pups are a bit prone to wandering once they’ve been left alone by their parents, and one was recently rescued from outside a kebab shop in Hemsby, Norfolk. As they can weigh up to 45 kg they can require quite a bit of muscle to move – they are usually loaded onto a stretcher and then two strong people carry them back down to the beach, which can be hundreds of metres away. One pup was found behind a closed gate in someone’s garden, which was a bit of a puzzle. Yet another one had swum up the river Ribble and ended up in a farmer’s field. Fortunately there’s something about these animals that people seem to love, and there are many people who act to rescue lost pups, and to act as volunteers when the pups are born, keeping onlookers at a safe distance and helping them to learn about the seals.

Incidentally, seals are quite closely related to dogs, and can catch diseases such as distemper, so please be very careful not to allow your hound to approach a seal, even if s/he is only being friendly.

Londoners don’t have to go quite so far from home to see seals though – grey and the smaller harbour seals are regularly spotted in the Thames, with the former being seen as far inland as Putney Bridge. Let’s hope that the deteriorating water quality of the past year (thanks for the sewage, water companies!) doesn’t affect them too much.

Mike Pennington / Grey Seal (Halichoerus grypus) pup, Easter Lother, Fair Isle

And, since it’s been a while, here’s a poem by Gillian Clarke. I love the image of the milk in the water, and the pup in his ‘cot of stone’. See what you think.

Seal by Gillian Clarke.

When the milk-arrow stabs, she comes, water-fluent, down the long green miles.

Her milk leaks into the sea –

blue blossoming in an opal.

The pup lies patient in his cot of stone.

They meet with cries, caress as people do.

She lies down for his suckling,

lifts him with a flipper from the sea’s reach

when the tide fills his throat with salt.

This is the fourteenth day.

In two days, no bitch-head will break the brilliance listening for baby-cries.

Down in the thunder of that other country, the bulls are calling

and her uterus is empty.

Alone and hungering in his fallen shawl,

He’ll nuzzle the Atlantic and be gone.

If that day’s still, his moult will lie a gleaming ring on the sand,

like the noose she slips on the sea.

Oyster Mushroom (Pleurotus ostreatus)

Dear Readers, what could be more delicate and enticing than an oyster mushroom, with its frilly gills? They look to me like a troupe of ballerinas, and also turn my thoughts to frying them up in a bit of butter and garlic. Who would have thought that these fungi are nematode worm murderers? Well, buckle up because this is an astonishing tale, and makes it clear that mushrooms and toadstools are much more complicated than we ever thought.

Apparently, it’s been known since the 1980s that oyster mushrooms are carnivorous – they kill and digest microscopic nematode worms, But how? They can hardly knock them over the head with a stick, and the thought of oyster mushrooms prowling through the undergrowth is too much for even my imagination to comprehend.

What they actually do is far more interesting. Scientist Yen-Ping Hseuh discovered that the fungi produce little lollipop-shaped structures that break open when the nematode worms bash their heads against them.

‘Lollipop’ structures on the hyphae of oyster mushrooms (Photo byYi-Yun Lee, Academia Sinica, from the New Scientist article linked below)

These innocent-looking structures release a toxic nerve gas called 3-octanone – it triggers a cascade of calcium ions in the bodies of the worms, which induces paralysis and death. Fortunately, it’s only the hyphae (the parts of the fungus that live underground) that contain the toxin, rather than the fruiting bodies (which are the bits which end up in stir-fries).

Having dispatched their victims, the hyphae then grow into the bodies of the worms and digest them from the inside out. Lovely.

But why? I hear you asking. After all, most fungi make do with vegetable matter. It appears that the soils that the mushrooms grow in are particularly deficient in nitrogen, which is such an important element, and so difficult to access, that this fungus has turned to nematode-hunting. If we ever needed a hint that fungi are more closely related to animals than to plants, this is it.

You can read the whole article here.

Bewick’s Swan (Cygnus columbianus bewickii)

Dear Readers, the Bewick’s swan spends its summers in the Russian tundra, but in winter it heads south, and graces Ireland and England with its presence (the whooper swan is more likely to be seen in Scotland). This is a smallish swan (about 120 cms long, compared with the mute swan’s 152cm) and is usually seen in pairs or, later in the year, in family groups. Swans are monogamous and faithful not only to their partners, but to their breeding sites: in the British Trust for Ornithology’s ‘Into The Red’, Eileen Rees mentions being a Research Assistant at Slimbridge, and how she got to know the birds individually (the pattern of yellow on their beaks is different in each individual, as discovered by Sir Peter Scott). The volunteers and workers at the reserve would wait with anxiety for the return of the particular birds that they had grown to know and love. It’s very hard to watch as an animal you’ve grown fond of heads off into the unknown – no wonder we talk about children ‘leaving the nest’, and fear ’empty nest syndrome”.

An excerpt from Sir Peter Scott’s book of paintings of Bewick’s swans

Incidentally, Bewick’s swans are named for the artist Thomas Bewick, whose book of woodcuts of British birds is full of wonderful observation, strange folklore and the most beautiful illustrations.

Heron from ‘Bewick’s British Birds (1847)

Bewick’s swan is on the red list because of a decline in the non-breeding (winter) population. Is this a case of the bird now ‘short-stopping’ as is the case with many other species? In this phenomenon, birds that used to come all the way to the UK from other parts of Europe now settle down somewhere more close to hand (wing), because climate change has made some winter habitats less severe. Or is the bird in decline across its range? One thing that seems to be clear is that it’s the survival of the birds that is key, rather than their breeding success – they have just as many cygnets when the conditions are right, but fewer of them survive. This points to poorer conditions on their wintering grounds (maybe less food availability or more disturbance), and possibly to the impact of more extreme weather events. Whatever the reason, the population of swans in north-western Europe has fallen from almost 30,000 birds to less than 18,000. Several organisations are researching and ringing the birds, in the hope that more information will provide a way to protect and nurture these beautiful birds.

And here they are in flight. If you’re unsure if you’ve heard a whooper swan or a Bewick’s swan, note that the Bewick’s generally ‘honks’ twice, the whooper swan three times. Doesn’t this just sound like the music of the wild?

Bewick’s Swans in flight (Photo by Bouke ten Cate)

Goat Willow (Salix caprea)

Dear Readers, I hope that you will forgive my preoccupation with goat willow this winter, but having read about what an excellent plant it is for bees, I thought that it deserved a few moments of our attention. The plant apparently gets its name from Hieronymous Bock’s Herbal, in which the tree is seen being browsed by goats. In some Northern countries, flutes are made from goat willow, and that immediately makes me think of Pan, the god of the forest. In fact, I rather remember seeing a sculpture of Pan having sex with a goat at the Royal Academy a few years ago, and being rather surprised – apparently the Romans would have plonked this in their dining room or courtyard garden as a talking point. I imagine it would certainly have got the conversation going. I shall leave you with a rather more sedate illustration.

‘Pan Reclining’ by Sir Peter Paul Reubens

Goat willow has the reputation as a rather feral plant, but it’s also a favourite with children and flower arrangers because of those gorgeous catkins. Goat willow has male flowers on one tree, and female flowers on another – the male catkins mature with yellow pollen, the female ones mature to a green colour, and apparently both are great for the pollinators.

Like all willows, goat willow likes it damp and disturbed, and is a true pioneer of ‘dodgy’ environments. It’s found right across Europe and Western Asia. As some of you will remember, I recently bought a Kilmarnock Willow, which is a goat willow made a bit more user friendly – it’s a male clone grafted onto another willow, which controls the size. You can get a female version called a Weeping Sally.

Kilmarnock Willow

Buds on the Kilmarnock willow

The timber of goat willow is not widely used, owing to its propensity to crack (rather like the related species Crack Willow (Salix fragilis).However, it’s big claim to fame is as a food plant for  ‘His Imperial Majesty’, the purple emperor.

Purple emperor (Apatura iris) Photo by Charles J.Sharp

The caterpillars of some very interesting moths feed upon goat willow, including some of the clearwing species. I think most people would look at this animal and assume that it was a wasp. What excellent camouflage! It’s only the antennae and the lack of a wasp waist that give it away.

Dusky clearwing (Paranthrene tabaniformis) Photo by Graham Wenman at https://ukmoths.org.uk/species/paranthrene-tabaniformis/

And finally, willows of all kinds have been the subject of songs and poems, from Desdemona’s song in Othello to the ‘Tit Willow’ song in the Mikado. But here’s something to cheer us all up on a miserable January afternoon – Steeleye Span’s ‘All Around My Hat’. Enjoy!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AxhjBiUE87A

‘Maelstrom’ on the roof of the Metropolitan Museum in New York in 2009(Photo by Allison Meier)

Dear Readers, I have a great fondness for artists who are influenced by the natural world, and so I was most impressed by American artist Roxy Paine (b. 1966). He calls his trees ‘dendroids’ – they’re based on the growth patterns of real trees, but are clearly something else. Paine describes them thus:

‘I’ve processed the idea of a tree and created a system for its form. I take this organic majestic being and break it down into components and rules. The branches are translated into pipe and rod.’

‘Graft’ by Roxy Paine – Photo by Ron Cogswell

‘Inversion’ by Roxy Paine. Photo by צילום:ד”ר אבישי טייכר,

‘Neuron’ by Roxy Paine – Photo by Seligmanwaite at https://www.flickr.com/photos/seligmanwaite/36240135843

I love the way that these ‘dendroids’ are clearly trees, but are also both alien and somehow mechanical. The more I learn about trees, and indeed about life in general, the more it’s clear that it’s the collection of simple chemical reactions, coupled to make incredibly complex systems, that are responsible for any of us being able to get up in the morning. Paine’s dendroids are meant to resemble not just the natural branching structure of a tree, but also all the natural and unnatural systems that resemble it, from the blood vessels in our bodies to the electric wiring in our homes.

‘Ferment’ by Roxy Paine. Photo by JoLynne Martinez at https://www.flickr.com/photos/inannabintali/50763546908

I love these sculptures – to me the combination of branches and metal and silver makes something both ethereal and slightly menacing, as if Tolkien’s ents had gone space-age. And I found out about them via another Christmas present, a book called ‘A Tree a Day’ by Amy-Jane Beer. It’s full of all sorts of wonders, and comes highly recommended – it isn’t just a march through tree species, but comes at them from all sorts of angles. Anyhow, let me know what you think!

Dear Readers, it was a bright, clear day today, and after all the chocolates that I ate for my birthday yesterday it felt as if a walk was a good idea. We were rewarded very quickly by views of the kestrel on the part of the cemetery closest to the North Circular Road – we’ve seen these birds there before, and I suspect that they might keep an eye open for road kill. There are lots of small rodents in the cemetery itself, though, and this bird spent a lot of time sitting in the ash tree and looking intently at the ground for signs of movement. At one point, a crow took exception to the kestrel and tried to chase him off, but he is astonishingly agile, outmanoeuvring the crow at every turn and even turning to chase him. I think that the crows are not quite as determined as they are in summer, when they have youngsters, though kestrels don’t generally hunt other birds. I imagine that the crow’s tactic is to mob first and ask questions later.

There are still flocks of redwings about, and the sound of great spotted woodpeckers drumming – at one point there was quite a duet, with two males clearly trying to out drum one another in different parts of the cemetery. We saw two woodpeckers chasing one another like miniature white and red rockets. It really is all kicking off, even though January is a bit early for any serious breeding attempts yet. In one tree, two woodpeckers were chasing one another round and round a horse chestnut while a pair of parakeets sat serenely, one in a hole in the tree, another on a branch close by, as if to say ‘aha, you should have been a bit earlier’.

The sunlight coming through the trees is so lovely at this point in the winter – the sun is so low that I’m careful when stepping out on to our local  zebra crossing, as I’m sure the drivers are having trouble seeing what’s going on.

And look at the snowdrops! They’re so nearly open. In some places, it’s clear that they were planted on a grave that has since disappeared, and now just the flowers remain. In other spots the snowdrops have naturalised across untrodden paths and neighbouring graves. They always feel so hopeful, the first real sign that spring is actually on the way.

And look, someone has given The Scotsman some carnations (although, looking at the photos I’m wondering if they might be artificial poppies).

And finally, as if to remind me that there’s always something new to see however many times I come here, there are some tree roots draped over these graves, rather like strangler figs in the tropics. How come I’ve never noticed them before? Maybe there was foliage in the way, or maybe I just wasn’t looking. I suppose that the ‘roots’ might be ivy, but if so it’s extremely robust. No wonder the Victorian graves often disappear underneath the sheer weight of nature, and are never seen again, and maybe that’s not such a terrible thing. After all, it’s what we all go back to, in the end.