Cuckoo, Cuckoo
I stood in ancient woodland a few days ago puzzled at the silence. Everything was switched off. It didn't seem right, so I made a quick exit. I was disappointed not to be drawn in by A bluebell wood in May without birdsong is like a grand celebration with a total absence of guests. I searched the bird forum threads. Birders' ears and eyes give me hope that this cold grey spring has a pulse, though queries such as 'don't birds sing when it's cold and windy?' echo my own concerns as temperatures are set to slide to ten degrees again. It sounded as though there was a bit more of a party going on at Fowlmere, my nearest RSPB nature reserve, so I headed in that direction.
Lapwings were fending off carrion crows above a stony field. At the entrance a blackcap was singing in a bower, extremely loud and incredibly close. I walked through wet woodland at the edge of the reserve and out onto farmland. White cloud smothered the yellow landscape as I walked up to the airfield past oil seed rape that was flowering thickly, making me sneeze. This scattered a few bird species from their perches in the crop: skylark, yellow wagtail and reed bunting. At the top of the hill a muck heap was attracting swallows and swifts that winged back and forth so gloriously fast I couldn't focus. I thought of the clumsy flying machines parked in the hangars. Perhaps the hangers provide nesting sites for these birds of the air. I have noticed big colonies of swallows at the most sterile looking industrial sites, where hulking factory units acres long provide suitable ledges.
Back at the reserve I entered Drewer's Hide. The reed-edged pool was exceptionally still except for a dabbling mallard creating a few ripples. Stalks rustled and bent slightly as a reed warbler climbed lightly about and flew after flies a few times. House martins, swallows and swifts sketched their perfect arcs. It was meditative, despite the gloom. At Spring Hide a spring bubbling up from the chalk bed provides a therapeutic sound effect.
Walking the circuit of the reserve, there was plenty of birdsong such as warblers and thrushes, but no nightingale, turtle dove or cuckoo. The warden here reported a nightingale the other day a few miles away, singing in the car park at Tesco.
To hear a cuckoo these days is a bit like witnessing a child play hide and seek alone. Michael McCarthy's very enlightening book 'Say Goodbye To The Cuckoo' paints a gloomy picture, but you can see what's going on it real time with the cuckoo tracking projects at the BTO.
Reed warblers are one of the cuckoo's favourite hosts, and there were plenty in evidence as I continued my walk along Fowlmere's chalk stream. Two males wove a fight through the willows while a female looked on. I was crouched on the bank looking at water crowfoot drifting in its emerald Ophelia swathes. There were trout beneath the ripples, and yellow flag.
Yellow lava erupting from a fallen willow stopped me in my tracks. A perfect specimen of Laetiporus sulphureus, commonly known as sulphur fungus or chicken of the woods, looked good enough to eat ( I had enjoyed it in a stir-fry once), but I left it intact for other visitors to this living museum. I have read that this species is a favourite in Germany, but I have also read that 10% of people who eat it find it doesn't agree with them, so as with all fungi caution is advised. Eat only young growth.
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| All photographs by Jo Sinclair |
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