The Visitors

The Vikings have invaded again. They have come from Scandinavia, crossing 1200 miles in a potentially deadly journey, alighting at our shores ready to plunder once more. But these aren’t the fearsome warriors who have come looking to lay claim to land or steal Christian gold, they are in fact fieldfares and the treasure they seek are sweet, rich berries.

The large thrushes overwinter here in the UK, arriving from October. They could be mistaken for mistle thrushes but are slightly smaller and are identifiable due to their pale blue-grey heads, white bellies and yellow rings around their dark glass eyes. Around 700,000 fieldfares (Turdus pilaris) come across the North Sea to winter in Britain from Norway and Sweden, however only two pairs are thought to breed here. The winters in Scandinavian countries are too harsh for the birds to cope with, so they choose the milder weather here in the British Isles where they know they will still be able to find food.

In Sweden, the birds are known as ‘björktrast’, but the British common name comes from the Anglo-Saxon word ‘feldware’ meaning ‘traveller of the fields’. Handy advice really because to find them, looking in fields is a good place to start. They enjoy open spaces where they can spy insects or picking through hedgerows around pastures where they can pick off berries. Hawthorn is a particular favourite, the berries an important food source during the scarce winter. Hawthorn has a long history as a plant which can help to protect your heart. Rich in antioxidants and minerals, it was thought to have been a staple in the diet of those in the Neolithic times. It has been recorded as the herb to strengthen the heart, as well as aid with gastrointestinal issues, when eaten raw or brewed into a tea. In fact hawthorn is one of the oldest known medicinal plants and was prescribed by the Ancient Greeks and Native Americans for those with heart problems. Here in the UK, the Celts also held the tree in high regard, linking the plant to luck and romance, believing that couples would fall in love beneath its canopy. Some people would place sprigs on their doors to attract love and luck into their households. At the festival of Beltane during the spring, hawthorn flowers would be used in decoration to thank the gods for the offerings provided by the earth.

But spring and the delicate pink-white blossoms are far away and as the temperature drops in the UK, the berries of the hawthorn are already starting to dwindle. Thankfully, the ground is still soft enough to pluck fat, juicy earthworms from. When the weather does plummet and the ground becomes hard, fieldfares will flock into urban gardens, competing with the local sparrows, blackbirds and blue tits for the scraps laid out by human hands.

I have taken to making own fat balls for my own garden visitors; seeds or dried mealworms mixed with left over oils or fats into reusable pots. I place them out on the table and leave the garden. When I return the small pots are empty, only beak-shaped scrapings made at the bottom hint that there was once anything inside. And whilst many of the birds are not visible, the tell-tale shaking of the trees and bushes around me let me know that the residents are here and waiting for their next feed.

I wonder if I will be lucky enough to have a fieldfare grace my garden this winter? For now, the resident robin’s presence will have to suffice.

*If you eat hawthorn berries, please be aware that the seeds are full of cyanide, like apple seeds, so spit them out and don’t swallow them!

maky orel
Fieldfare on hawthorn (picture by Maky Orel) 

Halcyon Daze

It started with an old box of books.

My parents dropped it off to me during one of their visits; a relic from the idyllic youth I had spent under their roof. As I opened it, the smell of aged-paper hit my nostrils as it curled up from the battered spines, memories flooding back as I recalled the places I had purchased each book, the times I had poured over their words. For that evenings’ entertainment, I settled on an antiquated copy of ‘Greek Myths and Legends’, somebody else’s name and the date ’1989’ etched in pencil inside the front cover. I dove head-first into the Olympian world.

That night I dreamt of war and shipwrecks, of love and devastating loss, of folly and deception, and of a bird that nested by the water’s stormy edge while the gods calmed the seas during her brooding. This was the Halcyon bird, now better known as the kingfisher.

The next morning, I woke before the sun, my mind swirling with blue and gold. I had only seen kingfishers in glimpsing moments; flashes of navy moving so quickly that I barely had time to register them before they were gone, and I was left with nothing but a knot of disappointment in my stomach. But I had awoken wanting more, so spurred on by the enchantment of the Greek myth, I gathered my things and headed straight to a nearby estuary with only one thing on my mind; wanting to have my own fabled moment with the species.

The Helford estuary is an ancient woodland, made up of sessile oak trees which surround a beautiful river. This river has an exciting history; water that was once sailed by great ships, Romans sending traded Cornish tin away to Europe or Tudor smugglers arriving in the dead of night with their French rum and lace, trying to evade the excise men. These days the river is more familiar with the pleasure boaters telling stories of Daphne Du Maurier or oyster men hauling their seaweed-laden dredges up, hoping that the native shellfish haven’t lost their ongoing war against the invading Pacific’s. But it also attracts an array of bird enthusiasts due to the biodiversity the area provides and that day, I was one of them.

Reaching the water’s edge, I scooted myself down a muddy ledge and found a quiet spot to nestle into. The tide was low, and I could see grey mullet just inches below the surface, creating ripples as they attempted to catch the insects skipping over the top. The water flowed gently out, the mesmeric sound broken by the occasional call of a curlew or redshank further down the river. This area would soon be awash with waders, picking through the thick mud to find ragworms.

The day was calm, the sun hazed through cloud-crowded sky gently touching the world below, a soft breath of wind rustled through the autumn-curled leaves. A fat robin landed near me and dipped its head inquisitively. I shrugged back by way of apology; I had no mealworms with me.

After a couple of hours of waiting, and several debates about ‘just 5 more minutes’, out of the corner of my eye I caught a flash of blue through the hues of orange and brown, and involuntarily sucked in my breath as the sound of my heart thudded in my ears. I waited for split second, before adjusting my position. There, through a tangle of branches, on a piece of stark grey wood sat a kingfisher, its iridescent back toward me. It watched the water’s surface, looking at the stickleback or minnows below. After some time, the bird launched itself from its perch, bright orange legs tucked up into its copper breast, wings flapping at a sharp angle, beak pointing towards the water like a sword held high by a warrior charging into battle. The bird broke the surface, then came back up again before diving once more. The second time it appeared it had been victorious; a slither of silver tucked between its beak. It returned to its perch, the vibrance of its feathers stark against the dull deadwood. It began quickly flicking its dappled head, bashing the fish against the branch in a series of sudden movements before swallowing it whole.

As I watched, I understood why the bird inspired such folklore, such tales of wonder. He was the ruler of the river; adorned in his cloak of blue and gold, quietly surveying his kingdom below, his powerful spear as iconic as Poseidon’s own mighty trident.

The encounter, though salient to me, only lasted a few minutes before he spread his wings and took flight down the estuary, disappearing into the distance as the sun sparkled off the water.

Piece included in the Terra Incognita Wildlife Blogger of the Year 2018 book





The creation of a thousand forests is in one acorn

d oak

In 1217, the unrest which had led to the creation of the Magna Carta had not yet died down. The Charter of Liberties had failed to stem the civil war. King John’s reign of terror was over and the new king, Henry III, was aged just nine years old. The rebels were sick of the Crown living well whilst they suffered at the hands of poverty; the rich ignoring the laws that had been agreed to, but were not being enforced in the favour of the poor. The Charter of the Forest, which had originally been part of the Magna Carta, was drawn up and signed in the November as a complementary chapter to the main document. It gave the common people access to the Royal Forests. These areas were not just woodlands but included heathlands, grasslands and wetlands; they had their own laws and were used as hunting grounds. The Charter reduced the sizes of Royal Forests, meaning the spare land could be turned into farmland, supporting the ever-growing population of England.

Somewhere, hidden inside this charter, a special tree is mentioned; the Darley Oak. And this wasn’t the first time this tree had been referred to in life-changing literature; it was named in the Domesday Book in 1030 too. When I first heard about this pedunculate oak, which stands on the outskirts of Bodmin, I couldn’t get it out of my head, and very early one morning I found myself making my own pilgrimage just to see it.

The tree is suspected to be around 1000 years old at least. For it to be mentioned in both the Charter of the Forest and The Domesday book, it must at that time have already been something to behold, as a mere sapling would not have been worth recording. In fact, oak trees don’t begin to even develop acorns until they are around 40 years old. So why would such a tree be so important to the people? Our relationship with the oak tree has ancient roots. Celtic Druids would meet beneath oaks, hallowed due to their growth rate and size, the acorns linked to new life. In fact, it is suggested that the word ‘druid’s etymological origin derives from ‘dru-wid’ meaning ‘knower of oak trees’. Their longevity was viewed as wisdom and strength. Mistletoe, which grows parasitically on oaks, was seen as lucky and would be removed and blessed, then hung for luck. And it wasn’t just our ancient culture that held the oak in high regard. The Greek god Zeus and the Roman god Jupiter are both linked to the species, which may have something to do with the fact that oaks the tallest tree species, but also because of this, oaks are often the ones who befall lightening, and both Jupiter and Zeus have tales embroiled in stormy weather.

It is easy to see why, even in god-fearing times, the Darley Oak would have been worth men defending. It stands in the centre of the small village of Darleyford on the outskirts of Bodmin Moor and is a sight to behold. It is tall; towering over the tiny hamlet below. Its trunk is thick and gnarled, and its presence reaches as high as its twisted branches. The acorns, which had long gone by the time I visited, were once kept as amulets for luck, especially by pregnant women for whom childbirth could potentially be a death sentence. The ground is raised around the base, the huge roots pushing their way under the soils surface, commanding the earth around it to fall to its will. The roots must expand for metres, giving the feeling that the whole dwelling has been raised on the life of this tree.

I felt a bit strange standing in the middle of the valley, not another soul in sight, camera in my clutches as I stared up at the tree, like a besotted teenager first spotting some pop-star heartthrob. But when I think about what this single plant has withstood, it amazes me. It has seen thousands of Cornish men march Northwards to fight the invading English. It has seen bombs fall around it, dropped by German planes. It has withstood the industrial revolution, habitat destruction, invasive species, disease, deforestation and construction. It has been cared for, climbed upon, hugged and overheard whispers beneath it, from religious chants to devious plans.
And all the while, it stands silently and watches on.

English oak trees (Quercus robur) create a rich habitat that is important to many British species. In fact, they support more life forms than any other native tree species. Hundreds of species of insect will live in and around them, meaning they are a great place for birds to hunt for food, as well as shelter under. The acorns provide food for mammals such as deer, hedgehogs and badgers. Purple hairstreak caterpillars rely on the leaf buds and in the autumn when the green leaves begin to decay and fall to the floor, they provide a rich mulch to support inverts and fungi.

But despite being seemingly numerous, oaks are under threat. The numbers of invasive species coming into the UK seems to be increasing and the destruction they are cause to our native flora and fauna can be devastating. The oak processionary moth (Thaumetopoea processionea) is native to countries in Southern Europe, but is controlled by predation from species which are not found in Britain. The caterpillars of the oak processionary feeds on oak leaves and whilst this may not pose a serious problem, trees which are regularly targeted by moths begin to suffer. It can weaken the tree, leaving it vulnerable to other potentially deadly issues. More serious however is Acute Oak Decline (AOD) and Chronic Oak Decline (COD). Both of these conditions, first noticed during the 1920’s, can cause canopy thinning, branch dieback, black weeping patches on stems and lesions underlying the bleed spots and eventually death, causing a decline in tree numbers.

Invasive species are on the increase due to climate change and also the exchange of foreign plants, so taking steps to reduce your carbon footprint and trying to stick to native species when planting can help to protect oak trees from further issues.

I spent some time with the Darley Oak, trying to commit it to memory. I longed to touch it, to run my fingers over its writhen trunk, but as it stands on someone’s private land, I couldn’t. The rain began to fall and in the hush of the valley, it softly drummed on the roof of my car. A robin swooped in and sat on one of the branches, watching me momentarily for signs of edible offerings, before breaking into a beautiful song which broke the morning’s silence. It was a moment I will treasure.

I think of what the druids would have made of such a deity, or how a medieval local may have even fought to the death for the land on which such a tree would have stood. It occurs to me, that we have the old saying wrong. Instead, it should be ‘Can’t see the trees for the woods’ because often when we see trees, we don’t really see them. We just see the wider landscape or a collection; we don’t often see the individuals; notice their shape, their texture, the world they have created.

Next time you’re out and about, take a closer look. Look at the individuals, the way they grow, the species they house. And remember that each tree is providing the bricks of life to us and we should take a leaf out of the druid’s book, remembering that we would not survive without such beasts and to always give them the respect they are due.