The long drought continues and the unexpected downpour that we had during the night has done little or nothing to ease the plight of the gasping vegetables in the kitchen garden. There are signs, however, that a change in the seasons is imminent and, as I write, I can see, through my study widow, three fallow bucks who are industriously hoovering-up the amazingly plump acorns that have fallen onto the lawn below the oak trees. It is an idyllic sight and they are perfectly relaxed in each others company -- but not for long. During the next few weeks, as their testosterone levels increase, their neck muscles will thicken and their Adams Apples will become very prominent and soon it will be each man for himself as the rutting season begins. Mature bucks will establish rutting stands where they will thrash trees and wallow in the mud (if we get some rain!) and pace up and down groaning and belching in a manner that is intended to attract their does. These rutting stands are fiercely guarded and some epic battles will take place between the resident buck and any interloper who should dare to look twice at his females. Even now, in the quiet of the night, I can hear the ‘clack’, ‘clack’ of antlers as some of the bucks spar with each other in anticipation of the battles to come. If you should care to take a walk through the enclosure during the month of October then you may well hear their groaning calls or the rattling clash of feuding antlers.
I’m sure that some of you must be getting fed-up with the on-going saga of my new lodgers, the swallows, and if you are, then I apologise for going on about them and this will be the last mention, this year. The four eggs in the second clutch that I talked about last month hatched far quicker than the first brood and the young birds developed at an alarming pace. The rattle of the stable door would cause four yellow, gaping beaks to appear over the rim of the nest and the adult birds were around the yard continuously as they strived to satisfy the hunger of their ever growing chicks. Everything seemed to be going well for these charming little birds until, that is, a few days ago, when fate dealt another cruel blow. I had gone down to check on Isaac the mule and as soon as I’d reached the stable yard I was aware of an ominous silence. Gone were the warning twitters that the swallows used each time I approached their nest site and the constant coming and going of the industrious birds was noticeable by its absence. I scanned the sky hoping to see the blue and white arrows streaking toward the stables – but there was no sign of them. I looked over the stable door and rattled the catch. There was no response from the swallow chicks and then I noticed, on the concrete floor below the nest, a dead fledgling. I picked it up and it was quite cold it had been dead for some time and then, with the aid of my mirror, I looked in the nest and discovered that the other three fledglings were also dead. I was saddened by their demise and can only assume that one or both of the parent birds had been killed and as a result, the hapless chicks had starved to death. It’s been a good year for sighting hobbies in this part of the Forest and these small, swift-shaped raptors are particularly fond of swallows and martins so there’s a good chance that one of these beautifully designed hunters could have been the swallows’ downfall.
On a much lighter note and following the excellent article on nightjars by Andrew Norris, which was printed in the August edition, I was delighted to receive a call from a good friend who had come across the nest of a pair of these strange and mysterious birds. He invited me to photograph the chicks and later that evening I met him at the appointed spot and followed him across the heather on an open area of the Forest. Nightjars usually nest in clear-felled areas where they are able to blend invisibly with the background so I was a little puzzled by our location but before I had time to air my thoughts and within three-hundred yards of the car park an adult nightjar flapped from the heather in front of us and began to trail a wing, just like a lapwing, when you get too close to its nest. Cautiously, we crept up to the nest site and there, in nothing more than a scrape in the dried plant litter, were two of the ugliest little birds imaginable. I quickly took some photos and marvelled at how well they blended into their surroundings and then without further delay we backed-off some distance and watched as the parent bird returned to its charges. It was a rare and privileged sighting and, thanks to a thoughtful friend, one that I’ll never forget.
This month I’ve also been able to add another species to my list of birds that have been seen over or in my property. I was sitting on the patio having a cup of tea with a like-minded friend when we heard a ‘Kronk’. We both looked up and said, simultaneously, “Raven” and there, flying over the paddock, was the largest member of the crow family. Look out for them, they’re making quite a come-back on the Forest and they’re easily identified by their sheer size, their kronking call and their long necks.
I must finish now, before you think I’ve gone raven mad.
Ian Thew
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