Nature Notes June 2012 by Pete Lambert

An ingrained instinct had shot my hand forward and squish, the silverfish was no more, a smear on the lino and I was left with an uneasy sense of remorse at my casual extinction of this harmless creature. As a child the sprinting presence of a silverfish along the kitchen floor or around the bathroom was a palpable symbol of dirtiness and mild horror. The Thysanurans or Bristletails are three ‘tailed’ insects, clothed in scales and bearing biting jaws. The silverfish is only one of a number of Bristletails found in or outdoors, preferring damp places it likes to feed on starchy foods such as paper or spilled flour, which I think quite neatly explains why its traditional haunts include the kitchen cupboards or behind the wash basin. A relative, the Firebrat prefers it a bit warmer, so can be found in bakeries and heating ducts, another has adapted to the splash zone along the coast and another is very commonly found amongst thick vegetation. They have no wings and unlike other invertebrates undergo very limited or no metamorphosis during their lifecycle. I think that I would still not be happy with the nocturnal silverfish running rampant in the self-raising flour but I can see that a complete household purge would be impossible when I enter the bathroom to find the children have stored all the used towels in a heap in the corner!

I had been very kindly given the code to the bird hides at the Wood Lane nature reserve, just south of Ellesmere. A light but persistent rain made my choice of covered birding a wise one and I settled in on the wood warm bench, popped the flask and got watching. Oystercatcher to the left, probing the soft soils of a wet grassland, black headed gulls colonising one shingle island, whilst the other was controlled by Common gulls and little pied wagtails working the grounds between. On the open water created by aggregate extraction paddled coots, a pair of moorhen, tufted ducks, two Shelduck and hugging the shoreline some teal. Busy lapwings burbled over the throng and occasionally strutted on the grasslands, pecking the ground and showing off their splendid crests. On the central pool I had seen a Great crested grebe sailed past, a slight movement to her rear turned out to be a chick and even better, perched cosily on her back a second chick taking a ride. Just before moving for home I spied a brown swallow type bird, which turned out to be a Sand martin. Heading car-ward after less than two hours, a worthwhile trip and I must mention, quality hides, just must remember to thank my friend for a top birding destination.

It has been a busy time of late and I needed to get a bluebell walk in before the season slid by. Parking in the Forest Glen car park at the base of the Wrekin I met the group and headed up into the Ercall woodlands. Rich aromatic stands of ransoms were at their best, thick strappy leaves curved away from an upright stem holding the clustered white flowers aloft. Occasional dog violets peeped out along the paths edges, sheltering under woodland grasses and hairy woodrush rosettes. We had looped through Limekiln woods and then climbing the ridge entered the best of the bluebell swathes. I made a futile attempt to capture the splendour by taking photographs, settled for chatting about the problems posed by the Spanish bluebell with its unruly ‘anyway’ flower-head, overly wide leaves and dreadful promiscuity that leaves a trail of unwanted hybrids behind it. The bluebell has a restricted global range and the UK enjoys a considerable proportion of the total world population. It is a plant easily trampled and tends to retreat when under such direct pressure, a shame when it should be present in many locations but has shrunk away from the boot and wheel. On the return to the cars I took in a lingering look at the blue haze, satisfied that I had a top up to get me around another set of seasons. Add to this the Orange tip, peacock and enigmatic white butterflies back in the skies and certainly the full swing of late spring has arrived.

Happy wildlife spotting, fond regards, Pete.

Granville Country Park Butterfly Count - May 17, 2012. Keith Fowler

We were pottering around on the Western Stockpile at Granville in the early afternoon on a day that had improved steadily. A small group were studying the dominant lichen – Cladonia sp; others were searching the silver birch scrub and heather for signs of life; Graham was having a quiet moment leaning on the fence and Matt had disappeared.

A shout was heard from behind a screen of Silver birch. “Graham, Liz – over here”. No-one moved. Liz and her little group continued to study the lichen, others continued their searches, Graham was unmoved and Matt was still missing.

The call was repeated, a little more urgently this time, “Graham, Liz – over here!”.

This time one or two of us, with reluctance, heeded the call and made our way, leisurely, over to the source of the frantic call. What we found was Matt crouched down holding his net over a patch of ground.

“It’s in there”

We peered and saw nothing, unimpressed. “What’s in there?”

“Dingy skipper!”

Our attitude changed immediately; Matt had done it; he had actually managed to find and capture the target species – but we still could not see it under his net.

Carefully, very carefully, Matt inserted a pot under the net and fiddled around for a while before producing the elusive butterfly. Well done Matt.

Now, of course, everything changed, the small group abandoned the lichen, the searchers of Silver birch and heather appeared and Graham decided to let the fence hold itself up. The butterfly was handed around, studied, photographed, handed round again and more photographs taken. Finally it was released and, as if in gratitude, posed on a sprig of heather while even more photographs were taken. Eventually it got bored of all the attention and flew off.

This was, more or less, the finale of a day in Granville counting butterflies. It started off in the rain and cold when a group of half a dozen or so of us met at Granville’s car park. Matt briefed us - although we were unlikely to see butterflies we would survey the site looking for food plants.

We started off in Waxhill Meadow. The rain had stopped. We soon realised that searching for food plants without a competent botanist (or, dare I say it, a Vegetative key) was pretty difficult. Arguments over Common and Bush vetch raged but eventually we got our eye in for a few plants.


It did help that Liz found Grapholita jungiella, a micro-moth whose food plant is Bush vetch, so we knew it was there – somewhere.

From Waxhill we inspected the Dingy skipper bank and noted that it needs some attention during the winter. We paused for lunch, perching on the dragonfly, then made our way to the Western stockpile via the “Top of the World”. The clouds were thinning and it was getting slightly warmer.
In the eastern corner; was that a glimpse of a Dingy skipper? Desperate searching yielded no butterfly.

We moved on along the southern slope. The sun started to break through. A few gathered around a lichen; others went off to search the Silver birch and heather; Graham decided to check the fence and Matt disappeared.

Keith Fowler
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Nature Notes May 2012 by Pete Lambert

I had set myself a challenge to identify the differences between Reed mace, the familiar cigar-tipped wetland plant and its fellow water hugging species. To help I had cycled along the towpath to the new nature reserve adjacent to the lower Aston lock. A solid wooden bench beckoned, I gave up on the botanical test and merely listened in to the wildlife around. Honking Canadian geese, a peewit, the bang and clatter of a snipe from the ditch alongside the main canal, eager drumming by a Great spotted woodpecker [a slower, lower pitch than its rarer cousin the Lesser spotted woodpecker] and a chorus of crows and rooks, singular and in mobs. A pheasant raucous against the tuneful noodlings of the hedgerow bound blackbird. I enjoyed the sizzle and plosh of mallards landing for a lazy feed on the open water and finally a reedy rustle of the coots tending to their nest. My hearing may not be great but enough of an aid to enhance a quiet ponder on a warm bench in a delightful spot.

The network of roads, tracks and pathways that allow us to travel around appear to be a fixed web, unchanged for centuries, but nothing could be further from the truth. On a recent ramble around the Ceiriog valley we had crossed a lane called Hen Fford, the Old Road, a little higher up the valley side than the current modern road which follows the route in the main of the now lost tramway. Returning with our bikes a few weeks later we cycled up to Glyn Ceiriog and took the old road back. The verges were resplendent in primrose, violets, nodding bluebells, wood anemones and many other wildflowers, at that moment mere rosettes of leaves or pale green shoots.

Nature is irresistible and will return relentlessly when man’s presence slackens, but real quality takes time and ease. The lack of disturbance on the verge had allowed the soil to re-arrange its profile, rainwater percolating nutrients downward, a thin layer of organic matter building on the surface and the relationship between the sub surface geology intimate and familiar. Our native wildflowers are unused to highly fertilised and enriched soils, they have happily adjusted to thrive on low nutrient levels and on admittedly man made features such as a verge will, if allowed to, dominate and flourish.

Spring has returned, the first swallow being seen at Haughton on 27th March by a meticulous observer of the local bird scene. He has also noted that the cuckoos tagged last year in the Thetford Forest are now attempting to cross the Mediterranean, that is 14th April, fingers crossed they make it across the indiscriminate guns of the southern European shooter. Last year the hirudine pair that occupied our barn fledged a small brood, time for me to start looking out for the familiar white splashes on the laundry that hangs there during damper days!

In Knockin a few weeks ago I spotted a bobbly mass of frog spawn in a bramble shaded ditch. Each gelatinous bauble contained a black squiggle, motionless, though it would only be a matter of time before the transformation into tadpole would make a mockery of this quiet pensive scene. Less than a week later over 2000ft in a broad col of the Aran ridge, Snowdonia, a similar tapioca lump caught my eye, this time a much larger mass of spawn in the centre of a tiny flushed pool. Frogs when breeding gather in quite impossibly small bodies of water, the males and females mating in a seething orgy of frog-kind. The spawn though comprising hundreds of viable individuals now begins a terrible attrition as predator and environment takes its toll and finally a few lucky froglets enjoy the precarious joys of adult life and a year later a return to the breeding puddle for the frantic process to begin again. 

The hedges are now more green than brown and the verdant herbage at their bases is rapidly thickening. The spring seems to be full of close encounters, a startled fox down by the Perry or today driving down Grug Hill towards Ruyton, I noticed too late that the thick ryegrass and burgeoning cow parsley had concealed a buzzard and its recently seized prey, a juvenile rabbit. Standing on the brakes I tried hard to avoid the bird as it tried to lift clear of the sunken lane, despite the power of its downward wings the raptor choose to drop the meal rather than hit the car, the limp carcass narrowly avoiding bouncing off the bonnet. We came back the same way, the coney had gone, I just hope it was the buzzard that had claimed back its kill and not some casual feathery passer-by.

Enjoy your spring encounters, take care, Pete.