A red admiral in January

I was doing some work in my bedroom when I glanced out of the window and noticed a butterfly fluttering outside. Nothing unusual in that, you might think – but it’s still January and butterflies don’t do winter, do they? So I emailed the charity Butterfly Conservation  and had an unusually interesting response. It’s all down to global warming, apparently, and this insect is a clear indicator:

Many thanks for your message and your sighting. We’ve received quite a few Red Admiral sightings during January from across southern Britain. It is normal to see Red Admirals in the winter nowadays, but your surprise is justified because 10 or 20 years ago it would have been extraordinarily astonishing to see one.

Red Admiral butterly by Jim Asher of Butterfly Conservation

The status of the Red Admiral butterfly in the UK has changed over that time from being just a summer visitor and breeding species, which arrived from southern Europe in the spring and departed in the autumn, to being a year-round resident. Some still migrate of course, but there is now a substantial permanent population that stays here during the winter. It is now our most commonly seen winter butterfly, by far. What’s more, Red Admirals continue to breed here during the winter, so there are also Red Admiral caterpillars around right now.

Unlike our other butterflies, which are tucked away in hibernation during the winter, Red Admirals do not go into a proper hibernation. They simply roost on days of bad weather and then wake and fly around when the conditions are better.

Best wishes

Richard Fox

Butterfly Conservation

The other astonishing thing about this is the realisation that these flimsy wings could migrate hundreds of miles…

Goosanders remain amongst my favourite birds, so when I read that there were half a dozen at Woorgreens Lake in the Forest of Dean a couple of weeks ago, I decided to go to see them. Goosanders are like mallards in being ducks in the way that Beethoven is like Kylie in being musicians: none of this tame quacking on the lake shore, goosanders are majestic birds that generally don’t like humans and for food prefer to dive for fish. I arrived at Woorgreens and to my surprise saw a whole flock of them on the far side of the lake – 23 in all, and 19 in the picture below.

Goosanders at Woorgreens Lake in the Forest of Dean (click to enlarge)

It'll be demanding image rights next...

Now I admit my limitations as a wildlife photographer, but just once in a while some creature poses to have its picture taken. What better place than Slimbridge, you might think, with lots of unusual bird species. A pity that the animal in question is a mammal which lacks any rarity value at all…

I don’t often get too excited by video clips on the Internet, but the Russian crow tobogganing down a roof on a jamjar lid is a major exception. Crows are known for clever examples of tool use… but this is a crow using a tool just to have fun. This blows away any notion that birds are concerned only about the grim realities of survival. It’s possible that, when a bird sings, it’s not just trying to attract a mate, or just defending a territory – but actually enjoying itself at the same time…

Harried for a harrier

Hen harrier, with the white tail-band showing why it's a 'ringtail'. Photo by Mick Coquhoun

You might think that bird-watching is a gentle pursuit with little chance for trouble. It ain’t always so.

I’d heard that there were a couple of hen harriers not too far from here, so just before Christmas I went to look for them. Hen harriers are Britain’s most endangered bird of prey, having nearly been wiped out by gamekeepers keen to preserve grouse and pheasant stocks.

With the help of a couple of other birders I had distant views – barely enough for me to be sure what I was looking at. Thus when the weather was good I decided to have another look. I went with Alfie from Trinity, and bumped into Mick Colquhoun, a wildlife photographer who’s bittern image I’d extolled a few posts ago.

We crossed a style at the edge of the road and skirted round a ploughed field. As we walked we caught sight of a large bird of prey, and a quick check with binoculars revealed it as a ringtail hen harrier. We were delighted, and over the next ten minutes had some spectacular views: Mick took some great photos, one of which is on the right.  

After a while we tryed to get closer still, but were interruped by a large 4×4 being driven up. An irate bloke got out – whether he was the landowner or gamekeeper, we don’t know – and immediately theatened to confiscate our equipment as we’d wandered off the public right of way. It’s possible that he thought we were poachers: we’d seen a couple of fallow deer nearby, and fieldsports are widespread here.

Either way we had to slink off. We relayed the story to a couple of the birding experts here… and we got a rap over the knuckles for endangering the delicate relationships between landowners and the birding community!

Slimbridge on New Year’s morning was a much more relaxed affair. There was an early morning bird walk – an ideal time to go around the site as there are thousands of birds on the reserve at the moment. I then went back the next day, as Dave Doughty and John Linney also wanted to go while the weather was good. Below are a few photos from it.

Bewick's swans, which breed in Siberia, and a tufted duck just up from a dive.

A wigeon

The birds can be quite easily spooked into flight, especially if there are peregrines or buzzards flying over. Click to enlarge.

Rural ministry in Worcestershire…

Last year, I was sure I was looking for a curacy in an urban environment. After all, I’d thoroughly enjoyed a stretching placement in Stockton, and I’ve spent my life in towns and cities. However, while I was at New Wine I had a bit of a nudge towards rural ministry. Although I was not particularly confident in discerning the Lord’s will in this matter, I knew this one was easy to test.

The first step was discussing it with friends – and I had a shock. I found everyone enthusiastically agreeing that rural was the right direction for me. “The thing is”, opined Dave Doughty, “you’re not urban. You don’t wear your baseball cap round the wrong way, and you’re much more likely to say ‘oooh arrr, that’s a badgerrr, that is’”.

A few moments later I bumped into Andy Pestell, who’d arrived in Newcastle a month before I left Durham, but we had not realised we’d overlapped up there. He tried to explain where his church was, that it was close to the central monument, and I thought, “why would I know where the central monument is in Newcastle?”. It then occurred to me that throughout my two years in the north east I had never voluntarily gone into Newcastle, and spent almost all my days off going to bird hides or up hills – and that there might therefore be something in this rural nudge.

My only previous experience of rural ministry had been a ‘faith-sharing weekend’ in West Durham, in a former mining area. I therefore decided to acquaint myself with some rural parishes near Cheltenham, so spent Sunday mornings visiting churches in the Coln River benefice, in villages such as Andoversford, Dowdeswell and Sevenhampton. I began to realise that the population is quite different to what might have been expected before: there is far less employment in agriculture, and many are arriving from outside, working in IT from home, or in Cheltenham, or even travelling to London.

Martley church

As I began to explore the possibilities of rural ministry, the Gloucester DDO (Diocesan Director of Ordinands, who has oversight of ministers in training) contacted his counterparts in Hereford and Worcester dioceses. The upshot was that I was put in contact with David Sherwin, who oversees three parishes a few miles west of Worcester – Martley, Winchenford and the Lower Teme Valley.

In the last couple of months I have visited the area four times and have gradually got to know the ministry team, the wardens and lay readers, and other vicars in the area. I have thoroughly enjoyed this experience, and right from the start felt that this is a congenial environment in which to serve as a curate. Hence I was delighted when earlier this week David offered me the post – which I have duly accepted.

It’s a post that will start in July after the ordinations at the beginning of the month. I am excited about it: it’s a place where I will enjoy learning and serving.  

River Teme near Knightwick: the river border the west and south of the parishes

The mystique of bitterns

On Monday morning about a dozen people were crowded into the corner of the Zeiss Hide at Slimbridge, staring at a reedbed. Staring and waiting. I arrived at 9.45 but one guy had arrived at 8.00, and was still waiting and staring.

Bitterns do this to birders.

On the previous Friday morning I’d arrived, buoyantly optimistic, because two bitterns had been seen regularly for several consecutive days from the Zeiss Hide, and had been ‘showing well’. Unfortunately this was the day they’d decided to fly off down the channel ‘towards the dead tree near the Kingfisher Hide’. So I went there and started what was, on this occasion, largely a solitary vigil.

An hour later I happened to glance back down the channel as a bittern flew from one reedbed to another. So I moved down the path to a closer spot. A few minutes later I glanced around elsewhere, then looked back at the reedbed, just as the bittern had turned back into the reedbed. Doh! Never mind, I thought, it’ll re-emerge. Two hours of waiting later, it hadn’t.

Looking at the Gloster Birder website over the weekend I discovered that they’d flown back towards the Zeiss Hide, so as I had the time I went down again. There’s something re-assuring about doing a reedbed vigil with a dozen others bitten by the bittern bug [thanks for that one, Dufty!]… there’s a common bond between those of us who think this is a constructive way to spend time.

At 11:30 one of the group – the guy who’d waited since 8am – suddenly said “it’s just over there” and pointed to a small island of reeds a little further away. We crowded round the two nearest windows, as a bittern emerged, stepping purposefully, almost delicately, out from the reeds and surveyed the scene. Camera shutters clicked. A few seconds later it lifted off, flew to the nearer reeds and landed. For a short while it was just visible in its characteristic ‘bitterning’ pose – neck and beak pointing skywards to merge in with the surrounding reeds, and then it disappeared.

I was tempted to leave, satisfied, but decided to stay on, waiting, hoping for a longer sighting. Forty minutes later someone else spotted a bittern standing in a clearing in the reeds. For about twenty minutes it waited, surveying the reeds for prey – evidently without success – but there was plenty of time for many photographs to be taken – and even I got some halfway decent shots!

Bittern from the Zeiss Hide at Slimbridge - showing why its plumage is ideal for disappearing into reedbeds

I returned after this, well pleased with what I'd seen. Apparently the next day it showed even better, as this outstanding image by Mick Colquhoun shows.

The return of the bittern as a breeding species to Britain, after it had become extinct in these islands, is one of the major triumphs of bird conservation here, along with the avocet. It's one of a number of large, heron-like birds that are making a comeback, like the egrets, the spoonbills and regular visitors like the glossy ibis. However, the others are quite showy birds, and have none of the determined elusiveness of the bittern. I was surprised to find that, despite its rarity in the UK (possibly about 200 wintering, and a small handful breeding) it is globally not endangered – there are about 200,000 adult birds. But I suspect that few, if any, outside Britain have the drawing capacity that these two at Slimbridge now have.

In between the bittern trips, I went with a group from Trinity for a hike in the Brecon Beacons. It was a most enjoyable day of tough walking and great conversation. Some of the guys had been part of the Three Peaks challenge in June (very envious of their doing this!), so there's a desire to keep up the walking.

The hikers from Trinity doing the Brecon Beacons: Cribyn and Pen-y-fan in the background