Tag Archives: cormorant

thawwalk78

December 4th, 2010. 4.30 a.m. 7 miles, at least. It’s surprisingly mild after a very cold week… damp in the air, damp underfoot, thawing. There’s a metallic taste to the air.  I make for new ground, a lake – probably an old gravel-pit – about a mile outside my usual territory. It’s very dark, stars and moon blotted out. The lights of the city to the south, and from the villages round about, project a dull glow into the low crumpled cloud. I walk up the concrete strips of the guided busway – it’s too dark to take a path or farm-track. The going’s not easy. The packed snow and ice, partially melted, is especially slippery. I walk past high chain-link fencing crowned with barbed wire – a food-processing plant, humming and steaming through the night, arc-lights blazing, steel hoppers, silos and flue-pipes gleaming, ranged barrels stacked high. There’s no-one about. Then under a road bridge, graffitoed and sour, smelling of old tyres and asphalt. Out into open country again, past coppice and plough. Not a bird, not a creature abroad. I cut across pastureland. It’s like walking through tundra – low hummocks of grass set in a bog of crackling ice and snow. Beyond, the glint of water. But between me and the lake are a hedge and a spiked angle-iron fence. In the icy conditions there’s no way I’m going to try and climb over. Not at six in the morning. I track the fence until I come to a gap just wide enough to squeeze through. Open water, willow-fringed, hard up against the embankment of the A14, grinding with a never-ending flow of container-trucks to and from the east coast. But it’s too dark to see anything on the water. I wait for the dawn. It’s a long time coming. In fact, it never really arrives. Imperceptibly, over the course of an hour and a half, the dark turns a few shades paler. Then it’s day, as good as it gets.

The lake is disappointingly empty of bird-life. I was expecting to see some new waterfowl but only half a dozen pairs of mallard scull round the edges, like couples out for a walk. A peninsula of ice juts out into the water, and right on the edge sit perhaps one hundred gulls – mostly young black-headed gulls with a dark spot behind the eye, and a few larger lesser black backs and juvenile herring gulls mottled brown. They are mostly quite still and silent. Strutting and skidding between them are moorhens. The ice looks too thin to take all their weight. Out in open water, removed, are two black cormorants. One is fishing, sitting very low in the water. It tucks its head close into its long bent neck before diving, and then goes straight down. It stays under for about 15 seconds before emerging not far away. I watch it dive several times but it doesn’t appear to catch anything. The other is perched on a buoy in heraldic pose, with wings limply held out in a hands-up position, or held out to dry. It looks primordial, with a strange stump of a tail and ragged, greasy plumage. A prototype bird, reptilian, unbeautiful. These are, no doubt, the same cormorants I’ve seen flying over, three miles to the north. Now I know where they’re headed, and some of the passing gulls too. A snipe, or a jack snipe, propels from the bankside and whirs away at speed on a blur of short, pointed wings.

It turns colder, bleaker. The long walk back, though, is a warm feast of birds – song thrushes, unsinging, and plenty of skittering blackbirds; solitary robins; chaffinches; magpies; a pair of pied wagtails; great tits, blue tits, a party of long-tailed tits, and the glimpse of a coal tit. A charm of goldfinches – at least 50 birds – swirls overhead, uncertain where to go, finally dropping down into an alder just up ahead. They work through the female cone-like catkins, extracting the seeds. I’ve never seen so many goldfinches. The tree sparkles with little gold flashes. Then, for the first time, a single goldcrest, picking through ivy – a tiny, nervous jewel of a creature, twitching and flicking so rapidly I can hardly see it move; it just appears in a slightly different position each time, like old jerky newsreel.

Other birds come in threes today – I encounter three jays, three green woodpeckers, three kestrels, and three little egrets, each and all in different locations. One jay rattles harshly, raising and lowering its crest. The green woodpeckers mostly keep to the ground. I follow a kestrel along a row of bare horse-chestnut trees. Sleepy and cold, it is reluctant to move. I get within 15 yards of the bird. Through binoculars each and every feather that makes up the intricate spotting and barring and rich coloration of its beautiful plumage is revealed. It stares straight down at the ground from on high, watching intently. From time to time it turns its head to look directly at me, reproachful, as if I was intruding on some intensely private affair. Which I am. It tolerates me for a while, then with a shrug, launches into a long glide, and it’s away.

The three little egrets stand in the midst of a sprouting field a little to the south of where I last saw one, very white against the snow-furrowed earth. They are preening. I’ve not seen two together, or three, in these parts. Later a pair of them fly past me, low, on big slow wings, and settle into a ditch up ahead. A passing dog-walker flushes them into the air and they double-back to where I first saw them. I follow the ditch down to its junction with Beck Brook. From the stream, unexpectedly, another little egret rises at my approach. Is this one of the three I saw earlier, which had somehow slipped by me, or is it a different bird? They seem very exotic to me, these little egrets, belonging more to African swamplands than wintry Cambridgeshire fields, and it’s good to know there are at least three in the neighbourhood. A few yards further on, a grey heron lifts off from the brook with a slow whump-whump of wing, majestic, nearly three times the size of the egrets, and fearsome, with glaring eye and snake-like neck. It wheels away into the cold mists of the morning.

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cormorantwalk71

October 30th, 2010. A beautiful afternoon, the finest of mares’-tails flicking a high blue sky, sunny. Yet in a three hour walk I see little of note. The land is lit, warm, coloured by autumn, and empty. Almost. I am just outside the village, on a track behind the last row of houses, when a large bird flies slowly overhead, not high, dark against the light. I know it from its unmistakable profile. It’s a cormorant. Only the second I’ve seen in these parts. To see one even is remarkable  – for we have no large inland waters nearby, only the small forbidden lake on the airfield and four miles away, out of my range, the flooded gravel pits at the Country Park. Could the cormorant be flying between the two? There are geese I know on the forbidden lake, and then there’s the great crested grebe I found the other day, wounded, beyond the horse pastures, that could only have wandered from there. Perhaps there are cormorants too, and other unknown treasures. I must find a way to visit.

I edge along the side of a large ploughed field. It has been worked right up to its bounding ditch and hedge, leaving no verge at all. The soil is wet and I am soon carrying a slab of mud on each boot. In the shade of an ash-tree, silver mushrooms have pushed up through the dark clod. I’ve never seen anything like them – brushed-metal capsules, immaculate. They only occur close to the ash – beyond, there are none. They must live together in some sort of symbiotic relationship. Out in the bare expanse only a few rooks, pigeons and gulls pick at the ground. I turn into Gun’s Lane, medieval mudway to Cambridge, lined with pale yellow blackthorn and reddening hawthorn. Up ahead a flock of two-dozen migrating redwings settle into a tree-top, but as soon as I get near, they take off and fly up the track into another. They are very flighty these birds, and won’t let me get anywhere near to get a close look. They keep to the tree-tops.

I walk through the scrubland, a pasture, the badger dell, and back down the long, straight line of water euphemistically called Histon Brook without seeing or hearing anything except for one or two woodpigeons. Not even a rabbit. Extraordinary. The fields should be flocked with migrating birds. The landscape has not been so empty all year. As I near the village, though, there is one single eruption of life. The sun is balanced on the western horizon, a blinding white light. I am surprised to hear, half a mile away, a once familiar hubbub. The rookery at Westwick is loud again. I thought it had been abandoned some time ago but I’ve not passed by for awhile. There is a commotion of rooks above the trees, restless, excited. Then they begin to stream outwards in small, loose groups, flying westward, straight into the sun, group after group, until the last one leaves the rookery and there are one hundred and forty rooks ( I count them) in a long, straggling column, making their way slowly across the evening sky. I go to the rookery and look up into the tall stand of sycamores, studded with nests. It is utterly quiet, deserted. Not a single bird remains. Why would rooks leave their rookery just as the sun is about to go down? Don’t they roost here at night? And where do they go? Not that I really, really want to know. I’m just glad to report that there are mysteries still in the world.

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giantshillwalk45

June 8th, 2010. Late afternoon. It’s been a grey, damp day, with breezes and occasional showers. The sky is layered in cloud, the lowest being dark and big-bellied. When the sun does from time to time emerge, it turns warm and sultry. The water in the brook has risen a little over the past few days, brownish, the bed obscured. No mussel hunting today. I decide on a longer walk, following the brook downstream into the parish of Cottenham, further than I’ve been before in this direction, hoping to catch sight of the barn owl that is known to frequent these parts.

At Westwick, on the edge of Oakington, a single little egret starts from the brook and veers off out of view, legs trailing like a ballerina. It is at least half a mile downstream from my previous sightings of a pair. Still here … that’s good … summer residents now, impossibly exotic in our English meadows. A little further on, a female mallard with at least 6 ducklings. A late brood, surely, for the ducklings are still infants compared to others I’ve seen hereabouts. Moorhen skulking by the water’s edge. And in the loft above, a lone buzzard is being harrassed by a rook half its size. The rook is dogged in its pursuit, scolding and lunging at the larger bird, slowly driving it out of this bit of airspace.

I walk through Lamb’s Cross Farm. Thin radio music drifts from the barn as usual. The farmer emerges – 50’ish, wiry and stubbled, unsmiling, but talkative. He is a grass farmer, breeding steers for the table, and growing some barley and silage to feed the cattle in winter. Tried potatoes but the lumps of ironstone in the ground broke the harvester. He tells me of a field on the left of the Oakington road as it leaves Cottenham where lightning often strikes because of the presence of ironstone. We talk soils, and how they vary from field to field, and even within fields. He and his wife also run several small factories elsewhere, processing kidney beans, chick peas and other pulses, some of which, surprisingly, are grown locally here in East Anglia. Chick peas in Cambridgeshire?

Scarlet field poppies line the verge between road and unfenced field, interspersed with pink, purple-veined mallows, two feet high. Along the steep, deep inner bank of the brook downstream, where it has been canalized, species are ranged in strict succession from the water’s edge. First rushes and reeds, then sedges and grasses, and then ox-eye daisies half way up the bank. The latter are not as scarce as I had thought. They also occur in drifts on the edges of fields and along the guided-busway. But now is the season of the pink-flushed, deliciously scented dog-rose adorning every hedgerow, individual flowers spaced evenly over each bush. Some of the briars clamber high into trees. There will be plenty of hips to gather in the autumn.

This part of my patch is inhabited by at least one pair of green woodpeckers and the ash-trees hereabouts are neatly drilled to prove it. The distinctive undulating flight of these birds seems to be caused by their intermittent wing movement: they scull hard for 4 – 6 wingbeats, ascending slightly, then they fold their wings in and coast head-first, bullet-shaped, losing height as they do so, then scull again, and rise. As if riding waves.

I follow Beck Brook, here called New Cut, downstream beyond the Rampton – Cottenham road. One bank is almost wholly colonized by hawk’s beard, a bright yellow, dandelion-like flower, but tall, on a stalk. The only patch of this I’ve seen. Many wild flower species seem very localized, confined to particular spots with a certain desirable combination of aspect, soil, shade, dampness, drainage and plant association. Such as the silver-veined milk thistle, encountered only at one corner of one particular field.

It’s too early for barn owls, so I turn back through the village of Rampton. A light shower sends me scurrying. I take shelter under the trees at Giant’s Hill just outside the village, not far from the church. Essentially a substantial, irregular, treed island mound, hardly a hill, surrounded on one side by a wide, overgrown moat and on the other by an outer bank. The site of an unfinished 12th century castle apparently, though the genius loci and popular name suggest a site much more ancient and mysterious. A magical place indeed. I straddle a great horizontal trunk of willow, overlooking the moat and reedbed. There is a promise of kingfishers but in spite of the rare wetland habitat I see nothing worth noting. Wrong time of day, perhaps, or weather. I must come back at dawn or dusk and wait.

The wheat is still very green, fully grown at 18 inches, with big tight ears of seed, the barley light golden green, with long awns splayed out like a fan. Now that the crops have grown up, I see that there is almost as much barley as wheat grown in the district. John Barleycorn is still alive and well. Returning along the dormant guided-busway track I’m glad to hear skylarks still singing defiantly above the yet-to-be-built new town of Northstowe. There is no sign of the little owls nesting in the airfield, though I don’t tarry long.

And then a newcomer crosses my sky, just as I approach home and wonder at the absence of birds. It is large, dark, with big wings, flying at about 50 feet. Gooselike but differently shaped. As it passes I can see its yellow hook-tipped bill, its white chin and cheeks, all black body and wings, and wedge-shaped tail – a cormorant. Far from any coast or estuary, or any large river or wetland, it seems out of place. It appears lost too, unsure of what direction to take, almost doubling back on itself. The evening has cleared and the sun comes out, low now, highlighting banks of cloud stretching to the horizon. The cormorant flies on, into the sun.

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