All Over for Another Year

Well that was Ottermas. After the weeks of eager anticipation and preparation the actual day seems to have been over in a flash and now I guess we all feel a little flat and perhaps a touch hung-over.

Ottermas night was the usually fever pitch of excitement, with the young (at heart) staying up late to watch out for the oddly dressed stranger entering their homes to deliver magical images of aquatic beasts and talk poo – sorry I mean spraint.

In the elves grotto the naughty spraint – sorry I mean sprite – stroked his (ready stuffed) furry friend and told numerous Ottery facts – he certainly packed’em in.

Far in the north (if not quite Lapland) it was nice to see the presents presence of one of Father Ottermass’s original little helpers, Simon. Simon it seems had not been given the sack after all and was sharing telly time with his nemesis Charlie, although no one has actually seen both of them on the screen at the same time.

Some say Ottermas has become too commercial and that Aunty Beeb is handing out contracts to every Tom, Dick and Harry that posts a picture on Flickr. It is rumoured that sums of money are changing hands that would make the British Olympic Handball hopefuls green with envy. Others, it is suggested, only look at Ottermass as an opportunity for self gratification and cheap fame. Perish the thought.

Yes, I’m positive that the spirit of Ottermass lives on and if you look carefully enough amongst the turkey and trimmings, I’m sure you too will see the whole picture.

 

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year of Nature

Tales of a Bank Vole

Paxo Turns Sage

Last night I happened to catch the close of BBC’s Newsnight and was surprised and rather delighted, to hear Jeremy Paxman talking about the current UK Waxwing irruption. Indeed according to Mr P these delightful little birds can currently be found en masse from Aberdeen to Exeter. The presenter went on to dispel the “old wives tale” that the arrival of large numbers of Waxwings to Britain indicated the coming of a harsh winter, “They’re just hungry” he explained. The programme ended with a lovely collection of Waxwing photographs accompanied by a festive tune – I think this must be the first time I have ever finished watching Newsnight with a happy smile on my face and a warm glow inside.

Sadly of course, it does tend to suggest, that given the accuracy of Newsnight’s reporting over the last year, we should be stocking the larders and dusting off the snowshoes, in preparation for the imminent arrival of the next ice age. More reasoned observers, have reported that the bumper UK crop of Waxwings is in inverse proportion to this year’s poor store of berries in Scandinavia and Northern Europe, from whence these birds have relocated.

 

 

I do have one small rankle with the BBC’s report, which implies, that to see these sky darkening flocks of Bombycilla garrulus, all one has to do is open the front door and look for the nearest tree. As someone who has been desperately trying to spot (and photograph) even a single waxwing over many winters, and to have finally succeeded this week – amid much self congratulating and back slapping – I feel a bit peeved that the BBC should suggest the completion of my goal, was the equivalent of popping down the shops to buy a newspaper. Pee on your own fireworks if you wish Mr Paxman, but for now my parade stays rain free.

I must confess that the actual finding of the Waxwings, was not without a small degree of soul searching (not to mention industrial estate searching) on my part. In previous posts I have indicated that, whilst I respect everyone’s right to adopt and pursue their pastimes as they please, twitching is definitely not for me.






Favourite foods: Berries, particularly rowan and hawthorn,
but also cotoneaster and rose

As an (rather lapsed) angler I always felt that the fly fisher’s motto, Piscator non solum piscatur (broadly translated as, there’s more to fishing than catching fish) rather nicely summed up my approach. For me the “being there”, the scenery and the joy of nature were by far the bigger picture. So then, to be checking e mailed sighting reports and then hot footing (hot twassering?) to various rather unattractive localities, in the hope of catching up with these vagrant migrants, ran somewhat against the grain.

Nonetheless, needs must when the devil drives, and so to Denbigh Industrial Estate to find the “Bletchley Waxwings”.

 

 

As an aside I have just finished reading “Enigma” – the spy novel based on the code breakers at Bletchley Park – and which beautifully captures the period and life in and around the Bletchley area during the second world war. “Lord and Lady Waxwing, Inspector Fieldfare is here to see you”. I move on.

 

 

My first visit to Denbigh had blanked, but I returned again on Saturday morning and initially again couldn’t spot the Waxers. Being Saturday, the estate was much quieter than my previous visit and so I toured the site in the hope of finding them. Eventually I spotted a flock of around fifty birds moving from tree to tree, and there, at the corner of First and Third Avenues (now it sounds like I’ve started a Philip Marlowe novel) I found them, feasting on berries and trilling in the sharp bright air. Oh joy unconfined - and it wasn’t even a bit like twitching, was it?

Unhinged and Bracket

So that was November. Festive fireworks, first frosts, floods, mad moments and a few sparkling images to treasure.

A touch of frost and early morning sun - who needs gunpowder?

November was a pretty bad month for Roberto Di Matteo, sacked by Chelsea six months after leading them to European Champions League and FA Cup victories. Although, no doubt, feeling pretty sore regarding his demise, Roberto can take comfort that his dismissal was a great deal less terminal than that of a certain John Austin. Mr Austin, a convicted forger, also met his end in November when he was the last man to be publicly hung in Britain on the 7^th November 1783 at Tyburn.

This Goldfinch thinks the world is stood on it's head

 

Someone, who of course was not convicted of any financial impropriety, was our old friend Harry Redknapp. Harry probably thinks Christmas came a month early when he signed a contract as the new manager of QPR, reported to be worth £7.5 million over the next two and a half years. Daylight robbery it seems is no longer a crime in Premiership land. Oh well, at least all that tax he will pay, will, no doubt, help the beleaguered British economy?

A departure that certainly did surprise me mid month was that of Paul (Larry) Grayson from Northampton Saints, after 19 years loyal service as first player then coach and finally assistant coach to Jim Mallinder. Without doubt, during his time as a player “Larry” was one of the outstanding English fly-halves and thoroughly deserved his world cup winner’s medal, as backup to Jonny Wilkinson. It seems unclear at the moment what lies behind the “mutual” parting of company, although, I have a suspicion that Paul may be carrying the can for the inconsistent performances by the back division this (and quite a bit of last) season.

Like many long term Saints supporters, I can’t help feeling that the lack of attacking ideas once the forwards have relinquished possession of the ball, may well have more to do with some of the recruitment strategy, rather than any failure on behalf of the coaching set-up. If Paul Grayson had any influence on the decision to import these players, I have no idea (but suspect not), but everything I have heard and seen suggests that Paul is a first class bloke and I hope that all goes well for him in the future.

Rose Hips - Still a little colour to be found in the hedgerows

 

Talking of barmy November decisions, thank goodness all came right for England’s Autumn International Season in the end, after Chris Robshaw’s 78^th minute moment of insanity against South Africa. A match which, by the way, took place three days short of ninety eight years after the first policewoman went on duty, although I don’t think the two events are connected.

The Leveson report was it seems the month’s weightiest matter, in volume (or volumes) if nothing else. Although the speed with which any of it’s recommendation are likely to be implemented, may well be on a par with the equally controversial November decision to increase the speed limit for horseless carriages from 4 to 14mph, in 1896.

Bracket Fungus

I totally agree that the innocent and particularly those grieving a loss or emotional crisis should be protected from the cheap, sensationalist, mud-slinging, gossip mongering, hacks (of all papers) – forgive me if I have left any categories out. But, I do also feel that Ian Hislop has a valid point, when he says the law is already adequate to deal with a lot of these issues if only it was properly prosecuted.

For which of course you need an honest and independent police force without influence from an honest and independent government. Hum!

Now, just run it past me again, you say the fireworks are to celebrate the failure to blow up parliament?

As One Door Shuts......

 
Prior to my more liberated life style, I had for a long time dreaded the oncoming of the shorter days.

My own fault, I’m sure, but I used to feel that during the winter months, I got much deeper into a rut. Life it seemed, consisted of getting up in the dark, driving to work in the dark, sitting in my well illuminated office (thinking I was being kept in the dark), driving home in the dark and all the time waiting for the salvation of Friday night and the chance to see and feel the real world again - until - Monday morning thrust me back in the same dam rut. Leonard Cohen was a distinctly happy badger compared with yours truly at 6.30am on a damp, dark, Monday.

So, as the glorious autumn colours start to give way to bare branch and twig, how do I feel about the approaching winter, now that I have the time to witness the transformation up front and personal – so to speak - on an almost daily basis?

 

 Bullfinch Pyrrhula pyrrhula

Well, if today is to be trusted, as a reliable litmus dip into my very own boys chemistry set, then very happy indeed thank you.

 Redpoll Carduelis cabaret

As the red and golden leaves fall from the trees and the ruby berry jewels are plundered by the marauding band of Redwing pirates, the exposed branches are revealing a new and very animated set of decorations, in the form of Bullfinches, Chaffinches, Goldfinches, Siskins and Redpolls. All of which kept me well and truly entertained in the Woodland Hide this morning as they performed their intricate little aerial acrobatics in their harvesting of Alder seeds.

 Siskin Carduelis spinus

 

Goldfinch Carduelis carduelis

 

The dark nights have come - but life is still bright!

Mandy Bobbling

 

“Last night on Autumnwatch, they said that when I used my bill to remove seeds from fruit, it was called Mandy Bobbling?”

 

“Or was it Manydribbling?”

 

“Mendipslating?”

“It was lot easier when I could just peck it!”

Mandibulation – You know it make sense.

You’re Kidding

Following on from a very successful FoHESC Sunday working party, I was back down at the local reserve this morning to recee the site for Thursdays visit by the Conservation Volunteers (MK Green Gym) and to plan some alternative practical tasks, not too far from the Centre, in view of the dodgy weather forecast.

As it happened, one of the Councils local Field Officers was also on site and so we toured the facility together, looking at the work that had been completed and agreeing what new projects could be started.

Having finished our tour and as the rain started to fall, we went back into the centre for a quick coffee. Whilst waiting for the kettle to boil, I was standing in front of the large panoramic back window gazing out across the reserve, when I happened to look down and there about 5 meters from my feet, was a young Muntjac hunkered down in the grass. It seemed to be aware of my presence, but as long as I stayed still it didn’t appear to be bothered.

I called my companion over and we both watched as the youngster settled down and started to chew on some of the surrounding vegetation. We surmised that like other fawns this one had been left by it’s mother, while she was off feeding and would presumably be collected by mum, when she was ready.

Off course the opportunity was too good to miss and although shooting through the glass and somewhat obstructed by the long grass, I did manage to get a couple of usable photos.

Young Muntjac Keeping a Low profile

Returning home I started to ponder on the correct name for a young Muntjac, most young deer are normally referred to as fawn, we know, but does this also apply to Muntjac? A quick Google was needed, and - Oh my word! - what a strange and somewhat disturbing spectacle greeted me. No, it’s OK, it wasn’t one of those sites, but, by accident, I had turned up an article by Robin Page in the Daily Mail, under the heading: “Muntjac Deer Are a Threat to Our Wildlife”.

Muntjac, Mr Page would have us believe, “devour native woodland plants at a terrifying rate, destroy vital bird habitats and can go berserk if unleashed on a suburban garden. They also breed like rabbits”.

 “These little monsters” he says, “leave a trail of destruction wherever they go”....

“They also gobble up rare orchids and do untold damage to new shoots in managed, coppiced woodland, destroying both young trees and our most beautiful forest flowers, such as bluebells”......

If this is indeed the case, why had I and my colleagues spend the better part of Sunday, cutting back the young trees and scrub that are overtaking our reserve? Was Bambi slacking?

The Baby Faced Assassin ?

It gets worse, as Mr Page continues:

“But their destructive tendencies have a chilling impact on other species, too. The RSPB believes that muntjac, who devour many of the shrubs that birds nest in, may be causing woodland bird numbers to tumble”.

By this stage Mr Page appears to be consumed with a desire to eradicate a good deal more wildlife, and, reloading his verbal blunderbuss, he fires a scattershot at a broad selection of other creatures...

“And it is worth remembering that there are other villains out there. Some foreign, many native”.

“The damage being done to our native wildlife by grey squirrels - introduced from the U.S. in the late 19th century and now a problem ignored by Government - is far greater than the damage caused by muntjac”.

Spawn of the Devil! - Calm Down Dear - It's a Squirrel

 

“As is the chaos caused by native predators that have been allowed to get out of control, such as crows, magpies, sparrowhawks, badgers and foxes”.

“As a consequence, some of the most iconic birds in the countryside, including lapwings, curlews, nightingales, grey partridge and lesser-spotted woodpeckers, are being put at risk and could be heading for extinction”.

OK Mr P, I have been known to have a verbal pop at Grey Squirrels myself, and I am certainly no idealistic tree hugger (I’ve just spent a day cutting them down). I understand the need for management and control in relation to both flora and fauna, in order to maintain a healthy ecosystem. I could even have had a smidgeon of empathy with you, if you had mentioned the mink.

But, I do get concerned by the kind of message this type of article sends out, to those who are getting into wildlife for the first time. To suggest that all these creatures require culling programs (and it’s OK we can eat the outcome – see full article) is really over simplistic and very confusing for the budding new naturalist. Instead of being rightly excited by seeing their first badger, they now wonder if, according to Mr P's doctrine, they should be clubbing it to death like a stranded fur seal pup in the 1970s. We have enough nutters out there trying to randomly kill birds and other wildlife without you encouraging it through the daily bugle. Please, Mr Page, all I ask, is that you and the other wildlife sensationalists, consider the possible effects of your words more carefully.

Oh, and by the way, apparently a young Muntjac is called a kid.

Misty Mountain Hop pt 2

Monday kicked off the house hunting in earnest with appointments in Salen in the morning and Tobermory in the afternoon. Let’s just say that between them they threw up some very interesting characters and properties but sadly nothing that really fitted the bill.

There was little time for wildlife watching, although I did see another White Tailed Eagle in the distance whilst checking out Salen Bay for Otters. In previous years I have seen a mother and two cubs in this Bay, but having returned several times during the week, it seems they may have left this particular area or have become more secretive.

 Salen Bay – Not so Ottery

 Tuesday involved visits to houses in the Lochdon, Aros and Dervaig areas and meeting some very pleasant people. All had their own potential (the houses I mean) - but I wasn’t sure that I had the bravery or necessary cash to take them on.

Having some free time left in the afternoon I headed up the road from Dervaig to another place I know well - the tiny fishing harbour of Croig.

Croig is so Mull, it hurts. From Croig you can walk west along the northern coast and find superb little sandy coves and beaches, or, as I did, walk out north east to the point (near the monument) and look across to the Ardnamurchan peninsular on the mainland, whilst watching carefully for otters, in and around the many, seaweed covered, rocky inlets.

 

 

One of the beaches north west of Croig

 

I was in luck and spotted an otter fishing well out to sea, but was never in with a chance to get really close. Nevertheless, the rocks on the point made a great place to sit and ponder the riddles of the universe, the meaning of life and what I fancied for dinner at the pub.
 

This guy clearly fancies the seafood special

Wednesday morning I was back in Tobermory. I had never explored the back roads and lanes of “Tobe” in such detail before and the place was beginning to make me a little depressed. I have to say that, behind its picture perfect frontage, the town reminded me of an old lady who had seen better days, was letting herself go to seed – and what’s more didn’t care.

Tobermoray - lovely icing but has someone left the cake out in the rain?

Wednesday afternoon concluded the scheduled viewings with two more properties back in Dervaig. I did stop off briefly during my travels on Wednesday however, to photograph a tourist eagle – the kind you find sitting on telegraph poles all over Mull and who have little regard for the locals or visitors alike. Unless, of course, you should stray a bit too close and so cause them to flap away lazily into the air.

 

Buzzard (Buteo Buteo) (the Tourists Eagle)
"I am a linesman for the county"

Thursday – another quick trip into Tobermoray, back for a second look at a place in Dervaig - then it’s my time again and so over to Calgary Bay, for a walk along the coastal path. Calgary is another good place to spot Golden Eagles soaring high above the cliffs, often accompanied by harrowing Buzzards or noisy Ravens. Once again I was lucky enough to spot an eagle, but a long way off – certainly no photos – and whilst I think it was of the golden variety it could have possibly been a white tailed.

 

Calgary Bay

Calgary is the only place on Mull where you can find a strip of machair between the land and the beach, but at this time of year it really just looks like ordinary grass. The weather (which typically of the west coast, had been variable all week) stayed fine and dry allowing me time to have a pleasant walk round the north edge of the bay, before returning to the cottage and then down the high street to the bar for fish n chips and a pint.

For my last full day I toured round the northern edge of Loch Na Keal then round Loch Tuath, across the moors, back round the coast to Calgary and finally Dervaig. On the way, I made many stops and detours to look for big flappy things or wet furry things, but without luck.

At one stage along the way I did, however, need to negotiate a right (rite?) of passage, with a rather belligerent highland beast who had claimed the single track road as his own  Bealach na Bà.

This 4X4's got a heck of a set of Bull Bars!

 

Having safely agreed terms with shaggy, I then spent some time trying to photograph a Stonechat – they let you get so close, then hop along to the next post, it drives you mad – the final result was not great but after all the effort I’m going to include it anyway.

 

Stonechat - sitting still for 5 seconds

 Friday night at the “Bear Pit” (the local bar) is when the locals come out to play and boy to they know how to enjoy themselves. Their hospitality and generosity belies any stereotyping of Scottish frugalness and it was great to meet with familiar faces again (dare I say friends).

 

I can only hope that it means you are accepted when a Five foot two Hebridean clasps his arms around you and declares “Tony, it’s good to see you again, ya big fat whoo-er”.
 

Craignure Ferry Terminal 7.30 am

 

Sadly, with a Ferry to catch the following morning, I had to curtail the Friday night hospitality and so my latest Mull adventure was over.

Will I go back to live there? It’s a distinct possibility, more than a possibility - but first I have to find the right place and based on this week I'm not sure that will be so easy. But they do say nothing worth having is easy.

No time to brood on what could be however. Sunday morning it was back to reality and I was on duty with the rest of the FoHESC gang at our Open Day, down at the local reserve (see link to FoHESC blog for more details).

Misty Mountain Hop

As part of my lifestyle change plans I have been considering for some time a possible move to Scotland and in particular the West Coast and it’s adjacent Islands. Mull has always been a particular favourite of mine with its wonderfully diverse, yet compact landscape, friendly inhabitants and last, but not least, fantastic wildlife.

So it was that a week last Saturday I and the Twasser (VW’s incredibly uneconomic 4X4 cross between a Golf and a Tiger Tank) boarded the ferry at Oban and set sail for Craignure. The plan being to spend most of the week house viewing around the Island, with hopefully a little time left over for some wildlife.

 Speed bonnie boat

I certainly will not be boring you with the details of the house viewing, but let’s just say I may be about to rival  Kirsty and Phil with my new series entitled “Right Location - Wrong House, Right Price - Wrong Location, Right House - Wrong Location, Right House - Wrong Price, etc, etc, etc”.

Following my normal routine, once landed, I nipped up to Tobermory to get a few essentials – milk, wine, bread, wine, eggs, wine, cheese, wine, etc. before heading across to my base at Dervaig. This time however as soon as the goodies were unloaded into the rented cottage, I was round at the neighbours checking out their house, which had just come on the market.

Viewing 1 completed, I returned to the cottage and went out onto the decking behind the kitchen door for a well earned coffee break. Scanning the hill tops – as you do – I spotted one large and two smaller dots. Quickly grabbing the bino’s my hopes were confirmed, as I watched a Golden Eagle being pestered by a pair of Buzzards. Damned demanding this birding on Mull, sometimes you have to go all the way to the back garden.

After a pleasant evening renewing old acquaintances in the bar of the local hotel, Sunday morning involved house viewing 2, down at Lochdon. The owners, who were charming, revealed a little of their life on Mull over a cup of coffee and even suggested another house I might like to look at, near to where I was staying.

Loch Na Keal

The Island to the Right is Inch Kenneth
The site of a house which proved to be the last home of Unity Mitford

 

As I was in the southern half of the Island, after leaving Lochdon, I carried on down to Loch Scridain and then round the south of Ben More before returning home via the southern shores of Loch Na Keal. Although I stopped many times, to scour the hills and mountains where I had seen eagles before – this time I was out of luck. Similar searches of the loch shores for otters also came up blank, although, one of Mulls ubiquitous hoodies decided to give me the evil eye while I took his picture.

 

Hooded Crow (Corvus cornix)

Back at Dervaig, I left the Twasser at the cottage and walked a few hundred yards up the hill, to look for the house I had been told was for sale (very nice, very expensive). Whilst loitering around the property, (trying not to look like a burglar casing the joint), I heard a commotion above me and there, about thirty meters above my head was a White Tailed Eagle, being mobbed by yet another Buzzard.

Of course, the man who goes nowhere without his camera, was at the time, without his.......!

Here’s one that I photographed earlier. White-tailed Eagle (Haliaeetus albicilla)

I nearly typed “here’s one I shot earlier” as I, like many other photographers, often do, when referring to taking a photograph. In this particular instance, this has rather sinister connotations, as the White Tailed Eagle was persecuted to extinction in Scotland during the late 19^th and early 20^th centuries. The last British white-tailed eagle is recorded as being shot in 1918.

After a faltering start, involving reintroduction programs on Rum and Skye in the 1970s, the White Tails finally got going in earnest on Mull, and as of last year there were 15 breeding pairs on the Island. The controversy regarding their reintroduction has not gone away, however. Talking with the locals, there seems to be a renewed unrest amongst the farming community, who are again complaining about the increasing number of lambs taken by the WTEs.

In economic terms it is easy to argue that the tourist revenue that the eagles bring to Mull (estimated at £5 million) far, far exceeds the value of the lambs taken – and they are taken (during my short visits to the Island, even I have witnessed at least one lamb being carried to a nest). But, I can also understand the farmers zealous protection, care and concern for their animal’s welfare, that generations of struggling against nature and the elements has instilled in them. Despite the compensation payments and various pro WTE arguments, it must very much run against the grain for Mull’s farmers to stand-by helpless, as newly born members of their flocks head skywards in a merciless pair of talons.
 

Emotive words I know, but as the WTE population grows, this thing is going to need constant and careful handling by the Scottish RSPB, Forestry Commission and the other responsible bodies in order to avoid the situation where tempers fly and guns go off.

To be continued.

Ardea Cinerea

The every day stories of simple Heron Folk

"I've been watching those Gulls and Terns, they sit on these posts, then fly off and catch fish - I could do that"

 

"Easy now"

"Carefully does it"

"And seamlessly he blends into the background"

"Whoops ! "

"Good, nobody was looking - I think I got away with that"

"And now for a triple axel and pike"

"Mmmm - I like pike"

 

"Eat your heart out Tom Daley"

Shades On – Part Deux

Following on from my previous moan regarding Dragonflies total lack of consideration, for the rank novice odonatologist (apologies if this is not the pukkah word), the little blighters have been testing me again this last week, but, thanks, to the aforementioned Guide, a tad of luck and a smidgeon of advice from the pros, this time I think I have them covered.

First up my mate the Ruddy Darter - he of the sexual gymnastics (not yet an Olympic sport). This chap posed superbly and I like to think this is one of my better dragon pics so far.

Having captured a good snap of the little red fellow, for reasons best known to myself, I decided to take some more pictures of another Ruddy Darter sitting on a fence rail. But – on checking the picture out, I noticed the yellow patches on the thorax and yellow leg stripes that indicated this is in fact a Common Darter (Sympetrum striolatum). Tick.

Now at this stage please forgive my slightly less than scientific approach, but I can’t help thinking that the head on view of many dragonflies look remarkably like a rather jolly US helicopter pilot, peering out of his bubble canopy. It’s not just me, is it?

I even managed to correctly identify with almost no outside help (thanks Tony F and Graeme) the very similar Southern Hawker and Migrant Hawker.

 Southern Hawker

Migrant Hawker

In order to keep a sense of perspective I have once again included a picture of one of the real pros when it comes to insect spotting. Long-tailed Tits have the saddest, pleading eyes, don’t you think?

Last week the FoHESC put on a very successful Bat and Moth evening, which was well attended, a lot of fun and very informative, however, with over 8000 European species of Moth, I may just put my adoption of Moths as an additional identification challenge, on hold for a bit. The caterpillar of the Cinnabar Moth is just about within my ID skills though, thanks to its distinctive eye catching colour scheme (hope you Dragonflies are taking note).

 Cinnabar Moth Caterpillar

This particular individual was found munching away on its chosen food plant – Ragwort – even though the plant was an odd straggler, that escaped the recent cutting of the meadows and was in a pretty exposed position, leaving the caterpillar in full view of anything that fancied a colourful meal. Even more surprising, it was in exactly the same exposed position several days later, which I can only assume means that, this is one very fortunate individual or the warning colour scheme really works.

Or do they just taste bad?

Shades On

Warning this post contains sexually explicit material

(That should get the number of hits up)

As you will have gathered from my previous posts, I am very much a beginner when it comes to dragonflies, but as the local birdlife is pretty quiet at this time of year, I have thrown my lot in with the dubious crowd that (seriously) study these wee beasties, in an attempt to broaden my horizons.

Having purchased the bible – Field Guide to Dragonflies and Damselflies of Great Britain and Ireland by Steve Brook (illustrations by Richard Lewington) – I started the process of (mentally) ticking the species I see and recognise and where possible try to get a half decent photograph for future reference, personal gratification and most importantly to try and wind up my expert odo spotting mates at FoHESC.  Unfortunately the latter usually backfires when I proudly display my picture, but have to follow it up with, "I like this picture - but what is it?"

At first it seemed to be going well, Hairy dragonfly – tick, Four-spotted chaser – tick, Emperor – tick, a piece of cake this dragonfly business, then the wheels started to fall off. Clearly the dragonflies had not read the book, had failed to properly adhere to the designated colour scheme or were in fact colour-blind.

 Four-spotted Chaser, very numerous at the moment and real posers

Males and females have different livery, OK, we can cope with that, although it doesn’t help that males often start off pretty darn similar in colour to the ladies. Then a la David Bowie, the boys undergo a number changes in persona, before arriving at the finished article (I assume David is now the finished article). Let me try and demonstrate my confusion, with a few pictures of Ruddy Darters (No, I’m not being disparaging – that’s what Sympetrum sanguineum are called).

The first picture is of a female (I think) but when immature the male looks very similar indeed.

This picture shows the beginning of the colour change in a male but according to the guide he is not yet mature.

Whoa! – immature my foot, big boy’s come of age and doing his funky stuff with Mrs Ruddy D in what I understand is the tandem position (please don’t try this at home).

The pair remained coupled and flew in tandem over the pond surface whilst the female dipped her ovipositor into the water at frequent intervals to lay her eggs, these should hatch into larvae in a few days and emerge as dragonfly in about a year.

Returning to the same spot a couple of hours later I found that the gent was really living up to his name and had become a bright red. Of course I cannot be certain that it was the same dragonfly, although in view of the small numbers of Ruddy Darters in that area I think it may have been. The weather was very warm and sunny – maybe that hastens the colour change – or does the act of mating kick off the change? Hopefully someone will enlighten me.

Male Ruddy Darter (Sympetrum sanguineum) in full colour

It was nice also to observe that I was not the only one looking for flies that afternoon. This Reed Warbler seems to have amassed a pretty impressive collection, which I assume were en route to junior.

If you enjoy any of my photographs or would like to see more, please click on the link to my flickr site at the top right of this page.