Wild Hares and Hummingbirds (29 page)

Tall clumps of hogweed, hollow ghosts of their former glory, still stand along the lanes and droves, while splashes
of
orange in the hedgerows signal the ripening of rose-hips. I remember that we used to mark the start of the new school year by collecting rose-hips, crushing them, and removing the yellowish pulp containing the tiny seeds. Placed down the back of a classmate’s shirt, they were remarkably effective as itching powder.

Just when I thought I had seen all the varying shades of purple, comes another: clumps of sloe berries studding the blackthorn bushes. One of Dylan Thomas’s best-known lines, from the opening of
Under Milk Wood
, refers to this autumnal fruit: ‘the sloe black, slow, black, crowblack, fishingboatbobbing sea’. The pun reveals the Welsh bard’s preference for wordplay over accuracy: for sloes are never truly black. After the delicate pinkish-purples of the summer hedgerow flowers, this is a rich, deep, bluish-purple, more suited to autumn. In the early-morning air, each sloe has a whitish patina upon its surface. When rubbed gently between forefinger and thumb this disappears like the morning mist, revealing the smooth, grape-like fruit beneath.

Later in the year we harvest this purple bounty to make that time-honoured country beverage: sloe gin. There are almost as many recipes for this drink as there are blackthorn bushes: some people swear by picking the sloes after the first frost, while others simply pop them in the freezer for a day or two. They must then be pricked – either with a skewer or, traditionally, using a thorn from the blackthorn bush itself – before being doused with half a bottle
of
gin and a healthy serving of caster sugar. The resulting mixture is shaken up, then left forgotten on the kitchen windowsill until the following spring.

When the fluffy white flowers of the blackthorn come back into bloom, sometime in March, it reminds me to sample the result of last year’s labours. I prefer it over crushed ice, as a post-prandial
digestif
; others swear by it neat. But however it is taken, the bitter-sweet, almost medicinal flavour of the sloes is a pleasant reminder of bright autumn days spent gathering the hard, purple fruit.

T
HE INEXORABLE REDUCTION
in day-length is having a profound effect on one village visitor. On the telegraph wires across Kingsway, a hundred or more swallows are gathering, responding to chemical changes in their brains which signal that it will soon be time to depart. From time to time, in response to some unseen alarm – false or otherwise – they all take to the air at once. Launching themselves off the wires, they plunge down towards the surface of the road before pulling steeply up, high into the sky; then scattering in loose, untidy flocks, their urgent twittering filling the cool air. Gradually, as the minutes pass and no danger appears, they calm down; gathering on the tops of the tall poplar trees by Lower Plaish Farm, before finally returning to their original perch.

During the whole performance, a pair of collared
doves
has stayed put on the adjacent wire, watching the scenario unfold with the bored nonchalance we associate with this familiar garden bird. Yet collared doves have a story to tell which rivals that of the swallows. During the middle decades of the twentieth century they spread inexorably westwards across Europe like some conquering army, finally crossing the North Sea in the mid-1950s. This small, pinkish-brown dove – a bird we now so take for granted we barely notice its presence – had never even been seen in Britain when many of the older villagers were growing up.

And now, having arrived in rural Somerset, and made their home here, our collared doves show absolutely no inclination to travel any further. For them, this village has everything they need: food, water and plenty of places to nest. Let the swallows be consumed by their migratory restlessness; the doves are content to remain British citizens all year round.

T
HE FIRST MIGRANTS
to leave the village have already departed, taking advantage of a clear, moonlit night to do so. The dozens of reed warblers and handful of sedge warblers, whose songs were a constant chorus throughout May and June, first fell silent, then began to feed frantically on tiny aphids, almost doubling their weight. Finally they moulted in preparation for their journey, and headed off,
under
cover of darkness. For many, this is a leap into the dark in more ways than one: the offspring of those singing birds have never made the journey before and, if they are unlucky, may never get the chance to do so again.

After crossing the Channel they will head south through France and Spain, hopping across the Mediterranean via the Straits of Gibraltar to avoid a hazardous sea crossing, then skirting the borders of the Sahara, ending up in Western or Central Africa. They travel by night, unseen by human eyes and, more importantly, unseen by predators. Flying at night also enables them to avoid overheating, as the air is cooler.

September is the peak month for autumn migration, though it may begin as early as July and go on well into November. But September is undoubtedly the high point of the single greatest mass movement on earth. Close to 5 billion birds, of more than 200 different species, leave their breeding grounds across Europe and Asia and head south, the vast majority of them ending up in sub-Saharan Africa.

This was such a mystery to our ancestors that many – including such experienced observers as Gilbert White – struggled to accept that it was possible, instead believing that the birds hibernated under the surface of ponds and lakes. With hindsight it is easy to mock their ignorance, but the truth about these birds’ journeys is hardly more believable. That a creature as small and delicate as a swallow can travel all the way to the southern tip of Africa
and
back – a return journey of over 10,000 miles – does appear to defy logic.

Nowadays we have solved many of the mysteries of migration, and know that these birds find their way using a combination of the earth’s magnetic field, the sun, moon and stars, along with visible landmarks such as rivers and mountain ranges. But this knowledge doesn’t stop us marvelling at the epic journeys these tiny birds take.

In spring, their arrival is fanfared by a burst of unfamiliar song, followed by the welcome sight of the birds themselves, but in autumn they make a quiet departure with no signal. Our wildlife, our parish and our countryside are diminished as a result.

S
OMETIME DURING THE
middle of the month, the first true autumn morning dawns over the parish. The air holds a new and unfamiliar chill, and early risers have the unaccustomed experience of seeing steam on their breath as they stroll down to pick up the day’s provisions at the village shop. A soft, low mist hangs over the fields, and the rhynes are giving off gouts of steam, obscuring the moorhens as they float along the still, glassy waters.

Habits are changing for people as well as wildlife. Winter clothes are being dug out from bottom drawers, central heating systems are bursting into life, and the children are back at school. And as if to remind us that
the
holiday season is well and truly over, some unseen hand has finally fixed the church clock, which proudly proclaims the time: five past seven.

Nature has risen earlier than us, as always, and our garden is thronged with neat, fresh-looking birds, showing off their spanking-new plumage after the summer moult. A pair of blackcaps has taken up territory on one of our elder bushes, and the male flits around, greedily feasting on the purple berries. From time to time his more timid, tan-capped mate pokes her head out too.

Along the damp, bumpy bridleway crossing Mark Moor, the last few clumps of daisies and red clover are wilting in the cool morning air. A robin calls loudly from a hawthorn hedge; and above it, on the topmost sprig, perches a plump, buffish-orange bird: a wheatear. This is unfamiliar territory: the closest place where wheatears breed is Exmoor or Salisbury Plain, though this bird could have come from as far afield as Scandinavia.

The wheatear may be the robin’s cousin, but there is little love lost between them. Having established his autumn territory along this hedgerow, the robin is not prepared to tolerate any intruder, however far it might have travelled. So when the wheatear flies down onto the stony track the robin follows, uttering a peevish warning call, in an attempt to see off the newcomer. But the wheatear takes no notice, running in short bursts along the track on long, rangy legs, and occasionally stopping to pick up a morsel of insect food, before flying up to another perch.

As I get closer, the bird’s fresh plumage and confiding nature suggest that this is a juvenile, probably only three or four months old. I appreciate the subtle pale, yellowish-buff of its belly shading darker on the upper breast, the jet-black tail, and as it flies a few yards along the path, the snow-white rump which gives the bird its name. For ‘wheatear’ has absolutely nothing to do with ears of wheat, but derives instead from an Anglo-Saxon word meaning ‘white arse’.

The fresh, clear weather has brought other migrants out too. In the sky above Coombes Cider Mill a small, compact, solitary bird is heading resolutely south. Pale below, it briefly turns to reveal brownish upperparts: a sand martin. Like the wheatear, sand martins do not breed in the parish, but do regularly fly through in spring and autumn. Unlike the wheatear, sand martins travel by day, enabling them to feed on flying insects en route.

Occasionally, on clear, bright days in September, one or two much larger day-flying migrants may pass through the skies above the parish. Although most of our birds of prey are resident, a few do migrate, among them the osprey and the marsh harrier. Both have enjoyed considerable rises in their fortunes over the past few decades, so are seen more often on their travels than they once were. Even so, encountering them is still a memorable experience.

I have seen each of these large raptors just once here, as they headed south. The osprey was flying high over my home, attracting the attention of the local ravens, which
mobbed
it unmercifully as it struggled through on long, flappy wings. The marsh harrier – a female, whose creamy cap contrasted with her chocolate-brown plumage – was far more determined. She flew low over the ground, head down like a racing cyclist, powering through the air on long, strong wings. In less than a minute she was gone.