Superb Fairy Wren fledglings (Photo by Patrick Kavanagh at https://www.flickr.com/photos/patrick_k59/50754327287)

Dear Readers, it’s probably no surprise )to those of us who spend time watching our garden birds at least) that different species of birds react to one another’s alarm calls. I’ve watched birds scatter at the cacophony raised by a blackbird, or by the chinking call of a robin. However, scientist Will Feeny and his colleagues at the Doñana Biological Station in Spain have discovered that 21 different bird species react to a very specific vocalisation – it’s a kind of whining call which indicates the presence of a cuckoo or other brood-parasite.

The species who react one another’s calls include the Fairy Wrens of Australia, the Tawny-Flanked Prinia in Africa, Hume’s Leaf Warbler in Asia, and Greenish Warblers in Europe. All of these birds are targeted by different species of cuckoo, and the last common ancestor of these birds lived about 53 million years ago. And yet, they have all retained this particular vocalisation to warn of the danger.

Tawny-flanked Prinia (Prinia subflava) Photo By Bernard DUPONT from FRANCE – Tawny-flanked Prinia (Prinia subflava), CC BY-SA 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=39582043

As Feeny explains, brood parasites attack eggs and nestlings, but not adult birds. On hearing the ‘whining call’, adult birds flock together and start to mob the cuckoo, attempting to drive it away. Often, birds of several different host species will gather together to see the intruder off. Feeny found that when the alarm calls of species from other continents were played, the behaviour was the same – adult birds gathered together in ‘mobbing’ behaviour.

Greenish Warbler (Phylloscopus trochiloides) Photo by By Dibyendu Ash –  CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=33466390

Was it that the ancestor of all these different birds suffered from brood-paratism, or is there just something about this vocalisation’s pitch or quality that is is especially useful when combatting cuckoos? The jury is out, but this is an interesting example of how birds can communicate not just within their species, but with other species as well, even if separated by thousands of miles.

You can read the whole article here.

Hiran Abeysekera as Hamlet at the National Theatre

Dear Readers, I must have seen Hamlet half a dozen times – I’ve seen Derek Jacobi play the lead role in pink tights, humping Gertrude in a very Freudian manner. I’ve seen Jonathan Pryce playing both Hamlet and the Ghost of his father simultaneously. I’ve seen Benedict Cumberbatch taking his shirt off. Every staging I’ve seen brings something new to this play that is so full of what now feel like clichés, but which were new minted when first performed. So I was looking forward to this production, which is the first season from Indhu Rubasingham, the new Director of the National Theatre. It was great to see a packed house for a weekday matinee, which always adds a certain frisson to the occasion.

Hiran Abeysekera plays Hamlet with a lithe, energetic, one could almost say manic style. He can be very funny, but I think he’s at his best when he slows down a bit. ‘To be or not to be’ is rushed through, whereas ‘Alas poor Yorick’ is allowed to breathe, and is all the better for it. It’s as if Hamlet grows older, wiser and more thoughtful through the play.

Polonius is played for laughs too, but then he is a bit of a windbag. At one point he launches into his ‘Never a borrower nor a lender be’ speech, and both his children join in with him, affectionately. What is moving about this version of the play is how dearly loved he is by Laertes and Ophelia, which makes her ‘mad’ scene after Polonius is murdered all the more moving.

And let’s talk about Ophelia. What a thankless role this is! And yet Francesca Mills takes the role and shakes it up – she is feisty, intelligent and, in the end, brings a true note of tragedy. Watching her mourn her dead father was the one point in the play that brought tears to my eyes. She is a little person, but there is nothing little about her performance. I would say that it’s worth the price of entry to see her alone.

Francesca Mills in Hamlet at the National Theatre

And so, an entertaining afternoon at the theatre. Although the play is 2 hours 50 minutes long, it didn’t drag – I shall have to have a look and see if anything was missed out. There is always something new to see in Hamlet, and I welcome the way that the National is continuing to embrace a whole range of actors who can bring their own unique takes on these roles. If this is a taste of what’s to come, I’m very excited.

On the uses of flags. This about the stars and stripes, but it resonates with the UK experience  too. Ada Limón is the US Poet Laureate, and I love her work. See what you think…

A New National Anthem

By Ada Limón

The truth is, I’ve never cared for the National
Anthem. If you think about it, it’s not a good
song. Too high for most of us with “the rockets
red glare” and then there are the bombs.
(Always, always, there is war and bombs.)
Once, I sang it at homecoming and threw
even the tenacious high school band off key.
But the song didn’t mean anything, just a call
to the field, something to get through before
the pummeling of youth. And what of the stanzas
we never sing, the third that mentions “no refuge
could save the hireling and the slave”? Perhaps,
the truth is, every song of this country
has an unsung third stanza, something brutal
snaking underneath us as we blindly sing
the high notes with a beer sloshing in the stands
hoping our team wins. Don’t get me wrong, I do
like the flag, how it undulates in the wind
like water, elemental, and best when it’s humbled,
brought to its knees, clung to by someone who
has lost everything, when it’s not a weapon,
when it flickers, when it folds up so perfectly
you can keep it until it’s needed, until you can
love it again, until the song in your mouth feels
like sustenance, a song where the notes are sung
by even the ageless woods, the short-grass plains,
the Red River Gorge, the fistful of land left
unpoisoned, that song that’s our birthright,
that’s sung in silence when it’s too hard to go on,
that sounds like someone’s rough fingers weaving
into another’s, that sounds like a match being lit
in an endless cave, the song that says my bones
are your bones, and your bones are my bones,
and isn’t that enough?

The Biscuit Kits, McVitie and Jaffa

Dear Readers, our foster cats McVitie and Jaffa were re-homed on Sunday – they’ve gone to an absolutely perfect home, with people who are going to love them every bit as much as I did. It’s always sad for me when the kitties go off, but it’s also so great that they’ve gone from some little flu-raddled waifs to the confident cats that they are now. Plus, I got a box of very nice chocolates to say thank you, so that’s all good. And we got some photos of the kittens in their new home last night, and they look as if they’re already ruling the roost, which is just as it should be.

And now, we have our new ‘kittens’, Goblin and White-tip. Clearly there have been a lot of kittens through the RSPCA this year, and someone decided to name them after sharks. I suspect there’s maybe a Hammerhead and a Great White out there somewhere.

Goblin

White Tip

It would be a mistake to describe these guys as ‘kittens’ – they might only be seven months old, but they are real bruisers. We’ll be keeping in them in a small room for a couple of days, but I suspect they’ll soon be rampaging up and down the stairs like lunatics. White Tip came out from hiding within seconds of smelling food, has already given me a kiss and climbed on my lap, and spends the whole time purring like a small train. Goblin is a bit more reserved, but has also been out for a stroke. 

We only have four weeks until I go off on my mystery holiday, so fingers crossed someone will fall for these lovely guys as soon as possible. It would be a real shame for them to have to go back into the shelter. I’ll post a link as soon as they’re on the RSPCA rehoming website, but do let me know if you’re in the London area and are suddenly interested in a pair of friendly boy cats (already neutered and vaccinated!)

European Praying Mantis (Mantis religiosa) Photo By Charles J. Sharp – Own work, from Sharp Photography, sharpphotography.co.uk, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=122275476)

Well Readers, a while back I was having a ruminate about what I thought could be the next mainland  European insects to arrive in the UK, and one suggestion was that the Praying Mantis could turn up – there are already breeding populations on the Isle of Wight and the Channel Islands, but this year two were found in Cornwall, one in Truro and  one in Mousehole. However, I am a little surprised at all the excitement, as in 2020 a colony of Praying Mantis  were found in a garden as far north as Oxfordshire. Maybe that  occurrence was found to be the result of escaped insects from a pet collection, rather than a ‘real’ colonisation, but nonetheless, it seems that Praying Mantis are increasingly at home in our gardens.

Female Praying Mantis (Photo By AlaskaDave – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=20804648)

The breeding habits of Praying Mantis are well-known – females often eat the males during copulation, which provides them with lots of nutrition for their eggs. However, it’s been noted that males aren’t necessarily happy about this, and will actively try to avoid being eaten by approaching females who are cleaning themselves, eating or otherwise distracted. A male can continue to copulate even after his head is removed, which gives a whole new meaning to the phrase ‘losing your head’ over someone.

Incidentally, females are larger than males, and have a black mark close to their ‘armpits’ as you can see in the photo above.

Praying Mantises mating (Photo by By I, Zwentibold, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=2382243)

Females then lay an ootheca, which contains 100-200 eggs. When the mantises hatch, they are tiny replicas of their parents, but are only about one tenth of the size.

Ootheca (Photo by By Ryan Hodnett – Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=36274081)

As the European Praying Mantis has a very wide distribution (including being found in North America) it’s maybe not surprising that it’s made the short hop to the south coast of England. It’s not certain whether the animals here have travelled in luggage, escaped from a pet collection or flown here. Yes, Praying Mantises can fly, particularly the males, who tend to be more active, and are much lighter than the females.

Male European Praying Mantis (Photo by By Abalg – Own product, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=5108294)

So, I guess it’s only a matter of time before these impressive insects become part of our  native fauna. It’s not thought that they’ll have a deleterious effect on other insects, and they are harmless to humans, though they do look very impressive, particularly with wings spread and ‘arms’ raised in a threat display. Climate change continues to throw us curve balls. Let’s see who turns up next.

Dear Readers, today was intended to be a walk through three woods – Cherry Tree, Highgate and Queen’s Wood. However, Mother Nature intervened, and the winds of Storm Amy meant that the latter two woods were closed in case a branch fell on someone’s head – sensible following a fatality a few years ago when a tree fell on a car and killed a poor young woman. Still, Cherry Tree Wood was open and it is very clearly a mast year, for oak at least – the jays and the squirrels will be delighted, I’m sure, but they won’t be able to eat everything, and this is the point – at least some acorns will survive to make little oak trees. Mast years usually happen after a warm, dry spring, and occur every five to ten years – making acorns needs a lot of energy and plentiful resources, so the tree can’t do it every year.

Oak and hornbeam canopy in Cherry Tree Wood.

You may well have noticed a lot of other berries about – hawthorn seems to be having a great year, as do rowan trees, and there are lots of rose hips about too. The birds will have a good autumn, by the look of it.

Hawthorn berries in Cherry Tree Wood

Then we head towards Queen’s Wood, in blissful ignorance of the fact that the place is closed. Still, we pass this poor tree at the corner of Fordington Road and Woodside Avenue. It was cut down because it was unwell (and I think it really was) but still, what a shame….

As we walked up the path towards Highgate Wood, a young woman stopped us to tell us the wood was closed, which saved us a stiff-ish and frustrating climb. So, we decided to head to Muswell Hill for a bagel at Roni’s Bagel Bakery. En route, we passed this amazing hydrangea – it’s been a very good year for them…

We walk up past some allotments and the trees are laden down with crab apples…

I’ve written before about how the bark seems to peel off of at least some plane trees when it’s very dry and hot (I know they always lose some bark, but it’s much worse when the weather is more extreme). Have a look at these…

But I love the bark on these River Birch trees….

We cut through an alleyway to Fortis Green Road. Just look at the colour on this Virginia Creeper, pouring over a wall in a carpark…

And here’s a quick look at this amazing Arts and Crafts building on Fortis Green Road, Birchwood Mansions. I’ve written about this area before, but it’s always a pleasure to walk around….

And then we go into the new bookshop right opposite, and I find this!

It was last updated in 1971, but who cares? I love a ‘New Naturalist’, so much love and attention went into every one of them, and this one features several illustrations of  jumping spiders courting, so that’s me sold….

Anyway, then it’s time to head home.  Look at this magnificent Norway Maple on Twyford Avenue!

And finally, a quick nod to the Michaelmas Daisies. I love these flowers, and the way they offer some of the last nectar and pollen of the summer to bees and hoverflies. Truly, a great plant for late-summer/autumn colour in any garden. There is such abundance of colour and form at this time of year, for those of us in the Northern Hemisphere at least. It’s well worth taking a breezy walk to soak it all in.

Juliana’s Golden Mole (Neamblysomus julianae) Photo by Craig R. Jackson (DOI: https://doi.org/10.11647/OBP.0177

Dear Readers, for some time now we’ve known that some mammals have iridescent fur – in particular the golden moles of Sub-Saharan Africa glint most attractively, These unusual mammals are blind and deaf to airborne sound, but have very well-developed organs in their ears for picking up seismic vibration – as they spend most of their time underground, this is a useful adaptation. But why is their fur iridescent?

A recent study by scientist Jessica Leigh Dobson at Ghent University has picked up iridescence in the fur of a further 14 mammal species, including 10 rodents and the otter shrew (neither an otter nor a shrew). All showed glints of green or purple in their fur when viewed from a certain angle – this effect is seen most commonly in birds such as hummingbirds, and a number of insect species.

Even a common species such as the Vlei Rat turns out to shimmer – you can see an image of the fur here.

But why? The jury is out, but the commonest explanation is that the iridescence is a side-effect of the smoothing of the cuticle of each individual hair. All of the mammals found with this phenomenon so far either live in the soil, or spend a lot of time in water – they theory is that the smoother hairs help the animal to travel through their chosen medium more easily, and that the structure also helps to keep the fur clean.

Some have suggested that the iridescence could be used for communication, as it definitely is with male hummingbirds, who display the changing colours of their feathers to attract mates and to scare off rivals.

Anna’s Hummingbird (Photo by James Marvin at https://www.flickr.com/photos/mandj98/54172229556/)

However, I find this less convincing, when you think that the golden moles can’t see, and they are the group with the widest range of iridescence. However, many of the mammal species with iridescent fur so far discovered can see, and as Dobson points out, there are 2500 rodent species, and only a handful have so far been assessed for iridescence. It will be interesting to see if more species are found, and what conclusions are reached. In the meantime, it appears that even the humblest of mammals are turning out to have a whole range of new characteristics.

Dear Readers, I have a friend who lives in Walthamstow, and so we meet fairly regularly at the Wetlands, for a walk and a coffee. There’s something about walking along the paths on a still, sunny autumn day that loosens up conversation, and so we talked about funeral planning, and where we’d like to be buried, and what we would want for our last days. It might seem a bit morbid, but then I am in training to be a Death Doula (the second part of the Foundation course takes place later this week), and so it’s all good practice. Plus, isn’t it easier to consider these things when looking at a heron, or watching a flock of long-tailed tits working their way through the hawthorn?

My friend and I are both in our sixties, and have both lost close family members over the past few years. Although it’s difficult to contemplate our own demise (existential therapist Irvin Yalom describes it as ‘staring at the sun’), neither of us want to leave a lot of complication and mess for our loved ones, and that does somewhat concentrate the mind. We’ve sat with people who are dying, and, for me at least, that makes it much more real, and somehow less frightening. The paperwork can be frightening, though, so better to get that sorted while we’re happy and healthy-ish.

We got to one of the reservoirs, and I had never seen so many birds here – half a dozen herons, dozens of cormorants, lots of ducks  in their eclipse plumage, gulls by the hundred. By the time I got the camera out, most of them had gone, but here’s a few snaps. I wasn’t going to take any photos because I wanted to concentrate on my eyes and ears (for once), but then I felt a need to share, so here we are.

From a distance this looks like mostly cormorants….

but close up, you can see that there are great crested grebe too…

What a perfect day to be alive! On the way back, we talked about the stories that we tell ourselves about our lives, and about how we can change how we think about things. We can hold grudges, or we can let them go. We can linger on the things that went wrong, or we can incorporate them into our story, and be pleased that we survived them. We can’t change the past, but we can change how we think about it.

My mother had a life that was marred with terrible physical pain. And yet, when asked, she said that she’d had a wonderful life – she had people to love, who loved her. She said she’d visited some amazing places, and had also  been very happy at home. She loved London, and she loved Dorset. She’d been blessed in her neighbours, and she loved her garden. She considered herself lucky, and she was grateful every day. And this was a blessing, not just for her but for the rest of us who were left behind.

We can all be the authors of our story, and choose what the story means to us.

The Return of the Prodigal Son (Rembrandt 1688)

Dear Readers, I featured this poem once before, but I think it deserves a post on its own. Who hasn’t broken, unexpectedly? See what you think. 

Portrait in Nightshade and Delayed Translation

C. Dale Young
1969 –

In Saint Petersburg, on an autumn morning,
having been allowed an early entry
to the Hermitage, my family and I wandered
the empty hallways and corridors, virtually every space

adorned with famous paintings and artwork.
There must be a term for overloading on art.
One of Caravaggio’s boys smirked at us,
his lips a red that betrayed a sloppy kiss

recently delivered, while across the room
the Virgin looked on with nothing but sorrow.
Even in museums, the drama is staged.
Bored, I left my family and, steered myself,

foolish moth, toward the light coming
from a rotunda. Before me, the empty stairs.
Ready to descend, ready to step outside
into the damp and chilly air, I felt

the centuries-old reflex kick in, that sense
of being watched. When I turned, I found
no one; instead, I was staring at The Return
of the Prodigal Son. I had studied it, written about it

as a student. But no amount of study could have
prepared me for the size of it, the darkness of it.
There, the son knelt before his father, his dirty foot
left for inspection. Something broke. As clichéd

as it sounds, something inside me broke, and
as if captured on film, I found myself slowly sinking
to my knees. The tears began without warning until soon
I was sobbing. What reflex betrays one like this?

What nerve agent did Rembrandt hide
within the dark shades of paint that he used?
What inside me had malfunctioned, had left me
kneeling and sobbing in a museum?

Prosto plakat. Prosto plakat. Osvobodi sebya
said the guard as his hands steadied my shoulders.
He stood there repeating the phrase until
I stopped crying, until I was able to rise.

I’m not crazy, nor am I a very emotional man.
For most of my life, I have been called, correctly, cold.
As a student, I catalogued the techniques, carefully
analyzed this painting for a class on the “Dutch Masters.”

Years later, having mustered the courage to tell
this ridiculous story, a friend who spoke Russian
translated the guard’s words for me: “Just cry. Just cry.
Free yourself.” But free myself from what, exactly?

You see, I want this whole thing to be something
meaningful, my falling to my knees in front of a painting
by Rembrandt, a painting inspired by a parable
of forgiveness offered by a father to his lost son.

But nothing meaningful has presented itself. Even now,
after so much time has passed, I have no clue
what any of this means. I still haven’t figured out
whether or not I am the lost son or the found.