It’s mid January, and on a mild day like today when the sun is filtering through the bare trees to cast warming patches on the leaf-covered forest floor, you can almost smell the spring around the corner. It’s true that we’ve had, so far, a colder winter than recent years and there’s plenty of time left to suffer even greater hardship. One of the coldest days was the first Thursday after Christmas; I awoke to a sharp, white frost and decided that it would be a good day to venture out onto the open plains and valleys to the north of the A31; it’s interesting country and quite undisturbed in places and the freezing temperature would make walking across the quaking mires a little easier and at the same time minimise the chance of sinking up to the knees in the peaty hollows between the tussock grasses.
As I closed the gate to my home here in the Inclosure I was amazed to hear a great-spotted woodpecker (or ‘woodpie’ to give it its Forest name), drumming on one of the nearby trees. I stopped and listened, not sure that on such a bitterly cold day my aged hearing hadn’t let me down. But sure enough, there it was again, a brief staccato that echoed through the Forest; a sound that is, to me, a true harbinger of spring. This drumming is made by both sexes who hammer repeatedly on a dead bough or pole to proclaim to all that this is their territory. I waited a while longer, ignoring the eager dogs, and enjoying a sound that hadn’t been heard for several months. Finally we set off and walked through a desolate and empty Forest, nothing moved, and nothing but the increasing roar of the traffic as we approached the dual carriageway across sandy ridge, assailed our frozen ears. Every creature, it seemed, had fled from this cold and heartless landscape.
Once through the underpass we descended into the first of the valley mires and as we picked our way across the frost-crusted bogs the noise from the smelly road began to diminish. A thick stand of gorse, bright with yellow flowers, lit-up the otherwise drab heather and tussock grasses and suddenly, without warning, a roe doe together with her nearly full-grown kid bounced out from the warm shelter of the spiky bushes and headed for a distant plantation. In the few sparse, grassy bottoms that we encountered one or two desultory ponies raised their heads as we passed by. Perhaps they were questioning our sanity for being in such an unfriendly spot on such a raw day, I know I was! We had struggled through heavy country for more than an hour and not a pigeon, crow or buzzard had been seen when, without warning, from under a clump of skeletal willow trees, through which a meagre trickle of unfrozen water headed towards the far distant sea, a pair of woodcock jinked away on silent wings. These little game birds had found one of the few spots of penetrable ground in this frozen waste where they were able to probe, with their long beaks, for their life sustaining insects and worms. We watched them as they flew on jerky wings across the heather and were pleased to see them land in a similar clump of willows in a neighbouring bottom where, I am sure, they would have found another frost-free runnel in which to feed.
We decided to head for home and our route took us back along part of the stream that had recently been re-routed under the Life 3 project and, to my surprise, it was frozen over from one bank to the other. I had never seen this stream frozen before and so with the cold weather in mind and because of the dearth of bird life on the Forest I set off for a spot that I knew would be free of ice --- the sea shore. In fact I ventured in an easterly direction and just poked my nose into Sussex where the sheltered, food-rich harbours are renowned worldwide as winter feeding grounds for many species of birds. My choice of location had not been wrong, and as I walked down a raised, narrow path towards the shore, the marshes on either side of me were bustling with hundreds of widgeon who, regardless of my proximity, were industriously gleaning whatever food they could find in the nutritious, shallow splashes. The harbour waters were as calm as a mill-pond and a good distance from the shore hundreds of birds formed a huge raft on the flat surface. I raised my binoculars and discovered tufted ducks in their elegant black and white jackets together with dark bellied Brent geese and an assortment of seagulls. I walked further along the sea wall and as I idly watched a snowy-white egret that flapped inelegantly towards the shelter of the reed-beds I was conscious of a quiet, repetitive clicking sound. After much deliberation I decided that the sound was coming from a diminutive shingle beach which was curled in an arm of the harbour. To my delight, the binoculars revealed a bustling flock of well camouflaged turnstones. These tiny waders are named after their feeding method and the clicking noise was the sound of each stone as, one after another, they industriously turned them over them over in search of any food that might be hidden beneath.
So take a tip, if it’s cold and frosty and you want to see some birds—go to the seaside.
I’d better go now so you too can turn over!
Ian Thew
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