Tracks in the snow

Yesterday we were told to expect two feet of snow to fall overnight, and sure enough, around about midnight it began. A fine, crisp powdery snow falling thickly – as I watched from the top of the fire escape it obliterated the grass below. I went to bed thrilled skinny that even in London you get the good snow sometimes!

The morning dawned quiet and still, a strange thing in the city. But the snow was not the thick blanket I had hoped for and the flakes that were still tumbling out of the sky were wet and melting as they fell.  I trudged down the slush covered fire escape with the new bird feeder in one hand and a stepladder in the the other, trying to figure out where the most squirrel proofed place in the garden might be. That’s when I spotted the dainty tracks criss crossing the snow. There were two sets of tracks, one old and hard to read and filling up rapidly with falling snow. The tracks you see to the left however were crisp and fresh as a daisy.  A fox! Looks like  foxy was running to leap the fence when she heard me open the door – I just missed seeing her. I know that foxes hunt the mice and other rodents that hang around the compost bins and nearby garden sheds and wonder if this weather makes hunting easier or harder.  I realised that my delight in the wintry weather largely comes from having plenty to eat and not having to hunt for my food under a freezing blanket of snow. This is harsh weather for wildlife and set to stay for a week at the very least, which is why I’m breaking my rule about never feeding the birds.

Feeding the birds in my neighbourhood is a bad idea; it’s pretty much inviting them to commit suicide. Our eccentric cat loving neighbour feeds all the local cats which means that his – and our – garden is constantly full of them. Come the snow, the cats go home and I feel a little better about doing it, but there are still the squirrels to contend with – I doubt they’d actually kill a bird, but they can certainly drive them all away and eat their food. I like squirrels, but in the garden they are cunning gluttons. And then of course there is fantastic Ms fox. But I wouldn’t mind a bit if I saw a fox take a bird from our garden -  it’s what they do, it’s what they’ve always done, just making a living after all. If I feed the birds and a fox benefits from that one day… well, good luck to it.

So I hung up the feeder and retreated indoors, assuming that the big snow we were promised was all just talk. A couple of hours later the sky was dizzy with whirling snowflakes, the clouds an eerie ultraviolet. Let’s see how it looks tomorrow.

Related posts:

Autumn and the Moon

The last time I posted it was August – I was off on an island adventure and the days were still long, if not especially sunny. If I hadn’t realised that that’s been a long time, the trees on the streets are reminding me – it’s been the most beautiful autumn, the indifferent summer mellowing gently into it, then, Bam! Cool, foggy mornings, crisp nights, short days and the trees igniting in a shower of gold, amber and crimson. We had our annual samhain party, and after the dancing and debauchery and fireworks and fun came the morning and the hangover. One of the best ways to blow away the cobwebs the morning after is to go for a walk, so three of us made our way to Hampstead Heath to admire the autumn colours.

Up past the kite flying crowds on Parliament Hill, down into the gentle sweep of valley below Kenwood House the panorama of of London falls behind us, winks, vanishes and reappears framed between gentle hills then vanishes again as we enter a grove of beech trees. The light is fading, without a tripod I cannot capture this on camera but photography is not the point – this is a special place to all of us and we just come here to stand among the giants and drink in the eerie, glimmering light. The biggest tree in the grove which three people together cannot reach around has already shed its oval leaves and the woodland floor is carpeted three inch thick with them; the other trees are only just beginning to turn. A carpet of beech leaves in the dimness of an autumn or winter twilight takes on an eerie orange pink which the individual leaves, as you can see below,  do not possess.

The giant stood bare at the head of the grove, drifts of its own leaves burying its roots and swathing the clefts and fissures of its trunk.  Clusters of plump fungi nestled in its bark.

The strengthening wind stirred its upper branches and whipped the smaller trees into fierce motion.  The sky darkened. It was time to walk back. Twilight is one of my favourite times of day in the city, especially during the shorter days of the year. The cosy warm glow of shop and cafe windows and the weird artificiality of streetlights against a deep indigo sky are a perennial delight to me. Maybe you are surprised that a nature lover like me can take such pleasure in what is essentially light pollution but I cannot help myself; I do love the darkening autumn and winter nights and their cheerful illumination, and there are reasons why I live in a big city, after all. The gorgeous sight of the whole of London spread out and twinkling before us was as ever breathtaking. If you are ever in London on a clear autumn or winter evening there is nothing, and I mean NOTHING so heart stoppingly lovely to be found anywhere else in the city as the view from Parliament Hill. But on this particular night the city and it’s gaudy beauty was upstaged as the racing clouds parted and a brilliant moon, just a little short of full but as big as I’ve ever seen it lit up the deepening sky. It was bright as a spotlight, shining through clouds still faintly tinged with colour from the setting sun, and it cast a glamour over the ponds fringing the heath. A silver glittering path bloomed on the waters surface and faded as the clouds massed, then came brighter than before.  All the lights of the city cannot compete or compare to this unearthly beauty.

Related posts:

22 Spot Ladybirds

About a month ago I was bemoaning the mildewy state of our courgette plants when I noticed a brilliant yellow speck moving about in the foliage. Upon taking a closer look I was happy to find this pair of 22 spot ladybirds taking advantage of the sunny weather by mating vigorously (and for ages!) on the chewed and greying leaves.

It was impossible to get a better photo without disturbing them, but as these  ladybirds are tiny – only 3 to 5 mm long, I was pleased to get any picture at all. All ladybirds are welcome in our garden – they are wonderful pest control – but I only found out how pleased I should have been on behalf of our courgettes yesterday when I read this post about ladybirds in Hagbourne Wildlife, which told me that the 22 spot eats mildew! I had no idea that there were any non-carnivorous ladybirds so I did a little bit of research.

Native to Europe, their latin name is Psyllobora vigintiduopunctata, often abbreviated to Psyllobora 22-punctata, and they can reliably be identified from their small size and uniformity of markings. Each wing case has 11 evenly spaced black spots. The pronotum (the section between the head and the abdomen) also has 5 black spots, which don’t seem to have been counted when this insect was given it’s name. You’ll find them on low growing mildewed (mouldy) plants, and a quick scout around wildlife forums also revealed fun informal accounts of them coming into utility rooms or living in house plant pots where the compost has become mouldy.

Alas my yellow spotted friends could do little for the courgettes – even if they bred a 22 spot army the mildew had already well and truly taken hold. I still like to think of their larvae munching bravely away – at least they won’t go hungry.

Related posts:

Tragedy or mystery?

In June I wrote about this Mute Swan who was stoically sitting on its nest all alone despite obviously suffering badly in the blistering heat. I never saw another bird with it, and as Mute Swans take turns with looking after the nest and chicks it seemed obvious to me that this bird might be in trouble. Well sadly it appears that either its mate died shortly after the eggs were laid leaving it unable to cope and causing the eggs to fail, or it is a female who built her nest alone and laid infertile eggs, because early this month I cycled past to find this…

An abandoned nest with only two cracked eggs in it. The determined swan had sat tight on its nest for two whole months to my knowledge, which cancels out the hope that the majority of the eggs might have hatched and the family swum away – swans eggs take approximately 35 days to hatch. The bird was sitting way too long.

But then again… I certainly wasn’t able to keep watch on this nest every single day and I could be wrong -  there might have been another bird and I just never happened to see it – I could also have overestimated the time the swan was sitting. It’s not like I was taking notes. I did ask every single person I saw looking at the swan if they had ever noticed another swan or how long they thought the swan had been sitting and invariably got the replies “nope” and “ooooh, ages“, which isn’t exactly scientific.  I guess I will never know.

Whatever actually happened, the disappearance of the swan has been of benefit to its neighbours. Earlier in the year when it was building its nest, I’d watched it driving off moorhens and coots who had already started building  and were understandably loath to abandon their nests just because a bigger bird wanted them out. Of course the swan won, but the smaller birds who had been nesting in this location for years didn’t go far. While I was looking at the huge abandoned nest a peaceful family of moorhens picked over it, selecting choice twigs and branches for use in their own construction.

I don’t know if there are many Londoners local to the area reading here but I was wondering… is there anyone out there who knows what happened to the Coppermill Lane swan? So many people stopped to look at it every day, it became locally quite famous. Not sure where I mean? It was on the western end of Coppermill lane (E17) near Springfield Park. It’s a very long shot I know but is there anyone out there who can help solve the mystery?

Related posts:

Nosey Neighbour

I work mostly from home, and I’ve noticed that when I go to the kitchen for my mid afternoon snack I will sometimes have an gimlet eyed audience peering at me through the kitchen window from next door’s roof – particularly if said meal is bread based. Mostly it’s feral pigeons regarding my sandwich with envious eyes, cocking their heads from side to side and shuffling about with muted excitement, but this time it was a juvenile wood pigeon and it didn’t miss a single bite. I’ve never fed them, but obviously they’ve come to associate humans with food and this allows them to live in hope.

For more beautiful and fascinating images of the sky around the world, visit Skywatch Friday!

Related posts:

« Previous Page — Next Page »