Encounters 7 — Vultures

All photos by Justinn Bunn

I first saw vultures when I was twenty-six years old. It was the year that Stephen Roche won the Tour de France and I cycled across the Pyrennes on a tandem with Rebecca. For most of our trip, we carried little more than a change of clothes, our passports and a couple of baguettes stuffed in the saddlebag. We were young, fit, and unphased by challenges I wouldn't look at today.

At the top of the Col d'Aubisque, there's a section of tarmac that's cut into the cliffs, creating a suspended belvedere road with a vertical drop on one side and a distinct absence of barriers between you and the abyss. It's about the worst place I could think of to suffer a puncture or to lose concentration after toiling to the top.  As we rode over the summit, they were circling above us.

And I remember our stopping to watch them, marvelling at the ease with which they rode the thermals, gliding across the valley that had taken us all morning to climb. There's an elegance to the flight of vultures that transcends that of any other bird of prey, and which ironically, in its effortless grace, strengthens our stereotype of the species. 

Vultures, we believe, are cold, calculating, patient...

It was two decades till I saw one again. I know this for I remember the day with photographic clarity. We'd been walking with the boys in the Aravis mountains; it was scorching and we'd taken a route too long and too steep for Jane who was pregnant. That evening when she went to the loo, the bowl filled with blood and her face with tears...

She needed time alone, so I rode my bike up the Col de la Colombière. I wanted it to hurt, pushing every sinew; screaming at the mountains... and their indifference. As I pedalled the last incline—without elegance or grace—there were two Lammergeiers wheeling in the sky. These, the largest of the European vultures, have learned to drop bones onto rocks so they shatter into pieces small enough to swallow. 

They are, I think, the most magnificent of birds.

Lammergeiers are also rare and have only recently returned to the Alps. I learned later that the ones I saw that day were from a reintroduction scheme based in the valley. Three years ago, walking in the Sixt Passy nature reserve, a warden showed me the one breeding nest in the region. The parents did not return while we waited. 

And so, it was almost another twenty years before my next encounter.

This October I made a short visit to France, climbing the Point de Chalune in the crisp autumn sunshine. The peak is a two-hour walk from the top of my favourite cycling col: the l'Encrenaz above Les Gets. We were lucky with the weather: Mont Blanc in full view to the south; Lac le Man to the north. At the summit, two men with binoculars were recording birds for a survey—not that much of interest had appeared, one said. 

Until that is, he finished his sentence. For no sooner had the recorder sat down than my friend Justin asked, what are those birds approaching us?  There were seven of them in all: five griffon vultures and two enormous Lammergeiers. They drifted above and below us, like a squadron on reconnaissance. The surveyors whooping with delight, furiously taking note of their maturity and size. 

In jest, our new friends credited us with the show, suggesting that vultures liked to smell out the English.  Nous ne sommes pas anglais - nous sommes gallois, we replied, and they laughed. The Welsh, they said, must not be so tasty!  With that, the birds departed, swooping over the valley in the direction of the Désert de Platé.  

And before we'd gathered breath, they were gone.  

Encounters 6 - badger

An unlikely place to see a badger

Sometimes, if we see the most ordinary of things in an unexpected context it can jolt our senses. I was once transfixed for half the train journey to London by a woman flossing her teeth – she nonchalantly rinsed her mouth with spring water, spitting into a plastic bag whilst chatting to her friends! Another time - again on a train -  I was travelling through Germany and I remember being shocked by the workmen drinking steins of lager with their breakfast.

All of which is a contrived introduction to the unexpected context in which I last saw a badger.

It was shuffling across the scrubby cliffs on the approach to St David’s Head. I was there at midday and had passed Porth Melgan beach when I saw it - in truth the badger wasn’t so much shuffling as scurrying, covering the ground at a pace I’ve not seen one travel before.

Badgers are relatively common in Pembrokeshire. There are numerous setts in the lanes near my house, though a good sighting is still infrequent enough to make a comment if not exactly stop the car. Most times we spot a badger it’s caught in the headlights as we drive home – if we see one in the daylight it’s invariably road-kill.

One spring a young cub took to visiting our garden and we’d peek between the curtains to watch it sniffing for worms on the lawn. Lit by the glow of the street lamps it reminded me of those nature watch programmes that set up hidden cameras to film cubs feeding at night - badgers were considered special then, and in many ways they still are, though recent increases in numbers have led to fears of a link to bovine TB, and the threat of culls.

I don’t know about the science but I find the prospect of culls rather sad. We have so few wild mammals and these sturdy creatures seem to me to be symbolic of a widely held feeling that our countryside shouldn’t all be lost to industrial agriculture. How anyone could ever find sport in baiting them is beyond me – thankfully that’s been illegal for a long time.

Watching the badger scurry away, it looked rather comical – hunched and dwarfish, stubby legs racing to catch up with an elongated snout.  I learned recently that badgers are related to weasels. I’d not seen the resemblance before, but there's a vague familiarity in the head shape, though the gait of the one I saw didn’t suggest the cunning we associate with its smaller cousins.

Badgers have long been anthropomorphised in stories, often as trusty stalwarts, as in The Wind in the Willows. Ironically, in that book, the weasels and stoats are the bad guys, ending up on the wrong end of Badger’s cudgel!  But if I were writing in that fashion, my badgers would be rugby forwards: a touch dim on first impression, but single minded and built for their task – absolutely necessary too, for all that we don't notice or appreciate them enough.

Returning to my encounter, it had never occurred to me to look for badgers on the coast path. I suspect the one I saw had wandered a little too far for comfort, hence its haste to reach the flatter ground. But why wouldn’t they be there?  Beyond the head is a wide expanse of moor, plenty of places for a deep sett, and a deal less interference from farmers or car headlights. 

The strange thing about these encounters is how they affect our returning.  Every time I pass through Didcott station I remember that woman flossing her teeth; I still have an entirely unreasonable preconception that all German workmen drink beer with their breakfast! And the next time I visit St David’s Head I shall look for badgers on the off chance – I doubt I’ll see any, but it won’t really matter. Sometimes, the knowledge they are there is enough.

Encounters 5 - bloody nose beetle

Beetles are extraordinary creatures. They are amongst our most beautiful insects, they play a vital role in our eco-system, many have astonishing life-cycles. And yet of 4000 species in the UK, I could put a name to less than a dozen.  I ought to know more about beetles.

Last Friday as I walked to St David's Head we came across this chap. He was crossing the coast path near to Porth Melgan, and looked vulnerable to birds so I gave him a helping hand. He's a bloody nose beetle, one of the commoner species in Pembrokeshire, and October is evidently late for him to be out and about.

Quite why I've decided this beetle is a 'he' I can't say, for in truth I've no idea of its gender. Identification is tough enough; sexing them damn near impossible. There isn't a fully comprehensive UK field guide, though to be fair, a huge number of those 4000 species will be LBJs (Little Brown Jobs). I generally use Michael Chinery's  Pocket Guide to Insects or even the (more truly pocketable) Collins Gem series.  Other than that I take a photo and try my luck on Google or one of the many insect forums.

But in a way, identification barely matters.

This particular bloody nose crawled over my hand, each step a soft and delicate placement, tickling my palm - his exoskeleton iridescent in the light. I thought he was gorgeous. If  I were forty years younger I'd have popped him in a matchbox as a pet! Bloody nose beetles are named for their habit of discharging a red fluid when threatened - this foul-smelling liquid deters predators. Thankfully he didn't spew up on my hand and I like to think he sensed I meant him no harm.

I laid him down in some tall grass by a drystone wall. He'll not survive the winter, but his larvae will, and next year there'll be more of these fascinating creatures under our feet - if ever we care to look.

P.S.  For one of the best amateur nature blogs I know, try following Wanderin' Weeta. Her self taught recording and identification of even the tiniest creatures is an inspiration and delight.

Encounters 5 - Ringlet

Image from the web

Yesterday was the start of the Big Butterfly Count, an excellent initiative organised by the nature charity, Butterfly Conservation. It's the third year they've run the count, which encourages thousands of ordinary folk to record the butterflies they see and post the list on a website. Last year over 210,000 butterflies were recorded over two week period and the information provides a snapshot of distribution and numbers across the UK.

This year the omens are not good.  After our wettest summer on record, it's feared that butterfly populations will have been devastated. David Attenborough, the charity's president, has encouraged people to join the count - if only to confirm our worst fears.

Last year I saw eighteen species on a single day - at Somerford Common in Wiltshire. This year, I've barely seen that many butterflies in total! There was a brimstone in the park in March, and I spotted an orange tip in April. A fortnight ago I rode my bike the length of England and, despite a week of relative sunshine, I saw only 12 butterflies. I have a huge buddleia bush in my garden which we carefully pruned to encourage more flowers. It has had no visitors. Pathetic.

So as I opened the curtains yesterday and saw yet more rain I was not hopeful. By midday it had cleared to a milky sky; warm but wet. We went to the beach at Newgale, flew a kite in the onshore breeze, then drove the lanes into town - nothing doing. On our return I walked the lane opposite my house that was once a drove road, hoping there might at least be some whites or a speckled wood - still nothing.

Butterflies, for all they are in serious decline, are actually quite robust to extreme-weather. We had a similarly bad summer in 2007 and numbers quickly recovered. If we get a reasonable autumn and a better spring we'll see an improvement next year. Far worse than the rain is the loss of habitat to industrial agriculture and the overly-liberal use of pesticides. It's the species on the brink that are most vulnerable to a bad summer- clinging on in isolated colonies, a wet few months can be enough to tip the scales; years of conservation effort wiped out by a few degrees shift in the jet stream. 

So my worst year for sightings was being topped off with my worst ever day's recording. I was resigned to a 'nil entry', which the Big Butterfly Count website says are as scientifically valuable as positive sightings. That may be so, but they're crap for the spirit. Spotting a butterfly is always a little moment of joy - with the exception of cabbage whites to allotment gardeners, nobody dislikes their arriving. A summer without butterflies is the visual equivalent of a silent spring.

And so my pulse leapt as I spotted a brown flicker over the hedge between our garden and next door. Five seconds later and I'd have been indoors. It was a ringlet: close relative of the meadow brown, family Satyridae - common throughout the UK and distinguishable by a line of bright rings on the underside of the hind wings. It's one of the very few butterflies that takes to the wing in overcast weather. For all that the guidebooks will tell you it has a velvety sheen on emergence, most adults are rather dusky and look as if they've been battered in the wind. 

I didn't care. I'd seen a butterfly; and what's more, I'd recognised it from a passing glimpse, verified when it landed. I felt pretty cool, buoyed up even. I went inside and recorded it on the website - one of three contributions from Pembrokeshire.  There were eight ringlets spotted in the county - second only to the meadow brown of which there'd been ten. It's a depressing picture, but not without hope.

Today I walked to the white tower at Porthgain - one of my favourite places and pictured on the title of this blog. Dylan was with me, demonstrating how to master a wizard blast and shield block if ever I were attacked by a goblin. He cast an imaginary spell over the harbour - I summon 'rays of light' he roared. And as he did so, I saw the tell-tale flash of brown and orange eyes on a shard of volcanic rock. I ran over and they moved to a sprig of heather. It was a grayling - my favourite of all butterflies - this year's offspring of a small colony that thrives on the North Pembrokeshire cliffs.

If you visit the Big Butterfly Count website you'll see a nil sighting from Porthgain - that's because graylings weren't on the tick-list. But they are there, despite the weather and despite my worst fears - even Dylan showed a passing interest. You can too - all you have to do is look.

Encounters 4 - shrew

Colby Gardens 

The other day I saw a shrew. It was a fleeting glimpse and such a tiny creature - which leads me to think that maybe it was a pygmy shrew - that had I blinked I'd have missed it. At the time I didn't give it much thought, but afterwards, I began to consider the sighting more carefully.

I can't remember when I last saw a shrew, and to be honest, I'm not absolutely certain I'd seen one in the wild before. I suppose I must have - I recognised it instantly, and shrews are relatively widespread mammals aren't they?  But if you asked me to pinpoint when or where I'd be a bit stumped. Before last week, it's just possible I'd only seen pictures of them in books.

This shrew was in Colby Gardens in Pembrokeshire, snuffling for worms under a sheet of galvanised metal that I happened to lift up. In a way, it was lucky I came along because the sheets are placed to attract snakes which would happily accept a shrew-sized meal. Last spring, lifting the same sheet, I found the most gorgeous grass snake, chocolate brown with a golden band like a collar around its neck - not that snakes actually have necks as such.

When I disturbed it, the snake slid unhurriedly into the surrounding meadow, reluctant to leave its warm den. But last week's shrew took a more panicked flight, scurrying to an escape tunnel and wiggling its bum in a last goodbye. An extraordinary little thing I thought, ludicrous in its way, like a tiny vole with Pinocchio's nose. Next moment it was gone.

I'd always thought shrews were a type of mouse, but evidently, they're more closely related to moles. And like moles they are fiercely territorial, only coming together to mate. They have the greatest ratio of brain to body size of any mammal, including humans - and they need to consume their own body weight in grubs every day. One web site I came across, claimed that if a shrew doesn't eat for two hours it will die. I presume the author means if it goes longer than two hours between meals rather than actually eating for two hours! And some species have venomous teeth, which no doubt the author of that website would wish me to experience for being so darn pedantic.

It occurred to me that most of our wildlife encounters are fleeting, especially of mammals. I'd guess the popularity of bird watching is at least in part because most of them will actually allow for a decent viewing. In contrast, I remember Jane lifting a flagstone in our garden and finding a nest of baby dormice - so as not to disturb them we replaced it immediately.  As such my lifetime's total of dormice watching is three seconds! Last year I saw my first polecat in years: five seconds. And then there was that weasel which ran across the road as I was driving...

It turns out that encountering a shrew is quite rare after all. They may be commonplace (pygmy shrews less so) but field sightings are definitely not. You need to be in the right place at the right time. And if you're lucky enough for that to happen - then unlike the shrew, which is virtually blind and relies on sounds and smell - try not to blink.

Encounters 3 - Hornet

Have you ever seen a hornet close to? I thought I had. My father used to claim he'd been stung by one - right next to my eye, he'd say, like a dagger; could've blinded me. If ever we saw a large wasp, to him it was a hornet; and as you do when you're a child, I believed him.

But this summer I saw one for real, in the woods at Somerford Common. It was hovering near a mound of straw, a nest of some kind with a small tunnel entrance. And it was huge - the hornet that is - this wasn't a large wasp, it was a golden, iridescent, gob-smacking monster. It's enormous, I kept saying aloud; absolutely bloody huge.

In truth, it was about the size of my thumb. But when you see something so wonderful and so unexpected, its presence distorts and focuses your perception. You'll have experienced something similar if you've ever photographed an animal in the wild, thinking it filled the viewfinder and yet the end result was a disappointing dot on the horizon.

And even if it had filled the frame, it could never be the same. That hornet is burned in my memory more surely and with more reality than any digital image. For a good few minutes, I watched it hover in and out of the entrance, moving forward and back, never changing its orientation, droning and buzzing like - well, a hornet.

The noise and size of hornets has led them to be misunderstood, feared even. Yet their sting is no more powerful than a bee, and they are far less likely to attack. It's a common occurrence for hornets and birds to share the same hollow tree. Though evidently, it's inadvisable to kill one near a nest as this releases pheromones that can disturb and 'anger' a swarm.

But who would want to kill such a fabulous creature? This year I've seen some wonderful animals; I watched a Peregrine stooping over the cliffs at Ynys Barry, a million starlings massing at Plumstone, a seal giving milk to its pup... and yet I reckon that hornet was the best by far.

My father was surely wrong. I don't doubt he was stung by something, but hornets don't reach as far north as Northumberland, and nothing we came across compared to what I saw this summer. I can still see it now: the plates of gold, the wings a-blur, the jewel in the straw. God, it was huge.

Encounters 2 - Grayling

Of all the British butterflies my favourite has to be the Grayling. Blink and you'd miss it. Indeed, look hard, really hard, and you could miss it too. For the Grayling is the master of camouflage. Yesterday, on the path between Abereiddy and Penclegr, I showed one to a walker; my finger was three inches from its wings before he could spot it.

When I was teenager I kept a list of butterflies I'd seen. It wasn't long, not least because I lived in the Northumbria which is too far north for many species. With my as bike the only means of transport my range for exploring was also limited. Nonetheless, I had a second list: of butterflies I might see. And the Grayling was always up there in my mind, for it's colonies tend towards the coast and we lived only minutes from the dunes.

As it turned out I saw my first Grayling in the Alps; it was basking on a rock above the Col de Forclaz near Lac Leman (about as far from the coast as possible in Europe). At first I thought it was a Meadow Brown, but the moment it closed its wings I knew, for the distinctive V shaped markings had been etched in my collecting brain for twenty five years. I remember skipping with delight, tipping out my rucksack and scrabbling for my camera before it flew off.

In fact, it's not an easily spooked butterfly; quite often it will sit for minutes, leaning toward then away the sun, a behavior which evidently regulates its temperature. The Alpine Graylings are larger than those in the UK but variation is common - there are six sub species in Britain alone - and, frankly, it didn't matter to me; I'd seen one at last.

Of course, once one come along, then more follow. So it was in the Alps where I found dozens, and also back here in Wales; that same summer I discovered them three miles from my house. The largest colony I know of is in the shallow valley behind Carn Llidi, at the tip of West Wales. Amongst the bracken and heather are clusters of pale granite boulders, covered in lichen and perfect for both heating and disguise. Of the thousands of walkers who stop there for picnics I'd bet less than a handful notice the ginger flickering on the rocks, the slow turning of wings from left to right.

This year there are more than usual, and I've seen them further afield too. They are almost certainly breeding in pockets along the entire Pembrokeshire Coast, though numbers will vary and August is the best time to find them. The secret is to look very carefully; very carefully indeed.

****

The National Trust is running a love butterflies scheme, just tweet the butterflies you see, together with the postcode of the location and the tag #lovebutterflies

Encounters 1 - Kites

The road going north from Tufton crosses the the Preseli Hills in three distinct pulls, each a little steeper than the last. At the head of the pass there's a scruffy layby-cum-car park from where you can walk to the iron age forts of Cerrig Lladron, or take a longer squelch up Foel Cwmcerwyn. The later is the highest peak on the Preseli ridge, not quite a mountain at 536m, though it feels that way when you're up there.

On Saturday I cycled over the pass, on my way to the delightful estuary at Newport. It is seldom busy in these hills, but the heavy showers meant there was only one car at the summit. I didn't hang around, freewheeling into the lee of the wind, then stopping to don a jacket before the steep descent to the sea.

It was then that I saw the kite, hovering above the slope to my right, it's distinctive fan tail held upright to the wind. It was prowling the hillside, flying just above the scrub, crisscrossing the moor in a meticulous search. As it neared the road, it saw me too, came nearer and hovered only meteres away.

It was big for a red kite, through the wind was ruffling its feathers and I wonder if at this time year they moult, for they looked ragged. The bird held fast to its position, arched wings on the edge of stalling in the ridge lift; its primary feathers spreading and bending with each gust. I noticed its head was much lighter than the body, almost white, and smaller than I expected - very neat, more like a hawk than a buzzard.

The kite must have stayed there a minute, perhaps more - each of us looking at the other, fascinated in our ways. They used to be rare in this part of Wales and though still not common, red kites are no longer endangered. Shortly after I met Jane we cycled on a tandem from Rhayader to Tregaron, passing the then only nesting grounds above the Elenydd dams. You'll not see an adult bird, the lady in our guesthouse had said - they're all on the nests or out hunting in the hills. But she was wrong - for a male came to hover by us on that road too; it kept backing up as we neared, always facing us, maintaining a distance of perhaps three or four metres. It stayed with us for more than a mile.

That was twenty years ago. There were military lookouts on the road that weekend, guarding the nests from egg collectors. Since then the red kite has made a remarkable comeback. It has been reintroduced elsewhere in Britain, though it is the birds in Wales that are the original natives.

And as I'm writing this on the solstice I should mention that over to the east of where I saw the kite on Saturday comes a different original. For on the slopes above Mynachlog Ddu, at Carn Bica and Mynnydd Bach are the bluestones - it is rocks from here that form the first and inner ring of monoliths at Stonehenge. A few years ago I walked the ridge and camped overnight with my son amongst these rocks; we woke to frost and saw a kite that morning too, above the lambing fields as we descended to our pick up at Crymych.

The kite eventually left me, gliding low over the moor; it flushed a skylark and carried on toward Brynberian. Moments later its silhouette fused with the heather. I zipped my jacket, tucked low to the wind and flew down the hill before more showers arrived.