Scotland. It's cold up there...

Friday.

There's something wrong with getting up at 2 in the morning on a holiday, but with the prospect of having to get past Bristol, Birmingham, Manchester and Glasgow on the same day, we felt it was worth getting an early start. So off we set, and were past Manchester by 7.30, leaving us well-placed to have a break, meander into Scotland and leave the Glasgow traffic to get on with things in our absence... which I'm sure it did. We eventually arrived at Aviemore in the early afternoon, pitched the tent at the Rothiemurchus campsite and went out to stretch our much-cramped legs. A gentle wander down the Glen Einich track paid immediate dividends for our southern sensibilities: huge black slugs like ambulatory liquorice on the path, Snipe chipping from a nearby bog, Juniper sprawling across the heather, Chickweed Wintergreen, Mountain Everlasting and Pale Persicaria in flower at our feet and a family of Crested Tits purring in the pines beside us. Never mind that the weather was grey and chilly, never mind that we were dog-tired; we'd arrived on holiday and we were ready to chill out.

Mountain Everlasting

Saturday: The Caledonian pine forests.

Chill out was exactly what happened overnight too: at some point in the early hours the cloud rolled back and the temperature dropped like the proverbial. We shivered, shuddered, turned over and went back to sleep, to awaken to the gentle sound of rain pattering on canvas. Ah yes; camping in Scotland. It all came rushing back. Nothing ventured, as the saying starts, so we got up and out and wombled off to Loch Garten and Abernethy Forest. We felt that we were tougher than needing to visit a luxury Osprey-observation-facility, so headed along the tracks between the dripping pines - all very atmospheric - and admired such delights as downy Goldeneye ducklings, Common Sandpipers twiddling on the lochside and a quartet of Red Squirrels having the most almighty bust-up. It couldn't have been a more acrobatic sight if it were the olympic gymnastics - there were squirrels hurtling up and down treetrunks with reckless abandon, chasing each other out into the thinnest of the branches - and dropping out of them - bounding helter-skelter across the logs, heather and juniper on the ground and starting the whole breathless endeavour all over again. Never did find out what it was all about though.

Loch Mallachie looking gloomy and romantic. In a perverse sort of fashion.

A hot drink was needed, so we settled down on the banks of Loch G., got out the gas-stove and brewed up some soup. Mid-way through this warming exercise we noticed a smallish duck with a trio of ducklings in tow. With some incredulity we watched this female Wigeon paddle serenely to the shore next to us, haul out and lead her young into the grass beside us. She constantly talked to them with a subdued version of the husky growl that you hear from the flocks in winter, whilst they piped excitedly back and dashed around the bankside feeding on insects and plants.

Wigeon plus one of the three ducklings

Sunday. Cairn Gorm.

In a similar fashion to the previous night, the cloud rolled back - but this time we awoke to glorious sunshine. This was the opportunity we were awaiting, so we scarfed down our breakfast and set out for a brisk walk onto the Cairngorm plateau. The way up is either short and nasty, long and steady or up the funicular railway - fortunately the latter starts at 10 in the morning and passengers aren't allowed out of the Ptarmigan Restaurant's grounds when at the top, unless they're on an organised tour. We slogged up the short and nasty route, stopping for Wheatears, Meadow Pipits and breath. Eventually we reached close view of a patch of snow, where two incredibly under-dressed birders were scoping for Ptarmigan. We stopped for a mouthful of water, scanned quickly with the bins, and headed on up - only to bump into a family party of Ptarmigan within about 5 minutes. We stopped and admired the beautifully patterned chicks, still in their down coats, and the amazingly cryptic female who chuckled away to her chicks the whole time we watched. We eventually moved off on and up, past the restaurant and up to the peak, where another cup of soup was in order whilst we admired the view east into Aberdeenshire and north up to the Moray Firth. Fine indeed!

We continued on around the mountain, skirting along the ridge towards Ben Macdui. A snatch of Snow Bunting song held us up for a while, but as he seemed happy to use a corrie as an echo-box, we let him be and continued along our way. We soon came across a fabulous spring-head, with rolling waves of Purple Spoonwort cascading down the wettest track: it would have been interesting to stop and search the mosses and liverworts more thoroughly, but I have no great wish to cause boredom and strife with Na, so we wandered on in search of birds. Eventually we found ourselves looking onto the slopes of Ben Macdui, with a cracking male Ptarmigan close by. As I scanned around the rocks - more in hope than expectation - a male Dotterel popped his head over a rock and gave me a dirty look. Close by was a female, with at least one downy chick trotting rapidly back and forth across the stony heath. We watched them from a restrained distance, then strolled over to admire a pair of Snow Buntings, and finally began to make our way back down the mountainside to some shelter and lunch. The journey back to the car was enlivened by a selection of nice montane plants: Globeflower, Trailing Azalea, Dwarf Cornel and also what appeared to be a clump of White Wood-rush.

Purple Spoonwort cascades down the moutainsides...

The Cairngorm plateau from the top.

Trailing Azalea

We tried a bit of hide-based birding at Insh Marshes to round the day off, but there really wasn't anything going on. A couple of Roe Deer grazing on the edge of the marsh were the highlight, so we headed back for a well-deserved dinner.

Surprise, surprise surprise surprise

Yesterday I was helping to run some training for colleagues. During the indoor session I noticed a Wren dashing rapidly back and forth, as if it was visiting a nest - and when we took our lunch-break, I had a look. There, sure enough was a Wren carrying food up to the edge of the office. More interestingly it was carrying it to an open-fronted nestbox. 'Aha,' thought I, 'this is an opportunity to have a quick butchers at the contents of a Wren's nest without disturbing the nest itself' - wrens tend to build a mossy globe of a nest which you can't check for eggs/nestlings without damaging; something no responsible person wants to do. But, a nest in a nestbox offers a chance to peek in through the front without touching...

Wren (Troglodytes troglodytes) at open-fronted nestbox

...so...

today I remembered to go and check the nest. I scrambled up the ladder with a colleague at the bottom, waiting to watch and laugh catch me if I fell, and to have a quick look at the nest herself. Typically the ladder was a tad too short, so I was balanced a little precariously near the top when I got my line of sight over the rim of the nestbox...

...and....

Big enough to swallow a poor wren!

WHAM! A huge orange gape came lunging out of the nest. At this point I nearly did fall off the ladder - partly though shock, partly through excitement: we have a baby cuckoo which has taken over the Wren's nest on the office! Interestingly, the Wrens seem to have taken over the box from something else themselves - the biter bit, you might say - but it seems to be the Cuckoo which will have the last laugh. I apologise for the shocking pictures, but it's so dark up there as to be almost unworkable, and trying to manually focus a lens whilst balancing on the top of a ladder is not for the faint-hearted, I can assure you.

With a little care and balancing, it was eased out of the nest, ringed, and  returned to the mossy comforts of it's home, where the poor wrens lost no time in resuming their feeding - they'll be worn to a frazzle by the end of this season.

Juvenile - pullus, in fact - Cuckoo. Interesting to note the number of white feathers on the head.

A timely pointer also to some on-going research on the behaviour of Cuckoos: we know next-to-nothing about their migration routes or wintering grounds, so the BTO have begun a project which has satellite-tagged 5 male Cuckoos in East Anglia and is following them through their breeding - and their post-breeding seasons, with some unexpected results already... well worth a look. You can follow - and sponsor - each individual cuckoo if you so wish.

A final point of some vague interest is that this is the second Cuckoo chick we've found on site this year, both attended by wrens - presumably the same female Cuckoo's work. Comfy nest to grow up in, mind.

TO...YP

It's turned noisy in the garden now. The air is filled with a shrill insistent demanding whine, as recently-fledged Blue, Great and Coal Tits work a determined line along the trees and through the veg. The potatoes seem to be particularly favoured at the moment, which leads me to suppose that there is some sort of insect food to be had there - perhaps the aphids have found the potatoes themselves and are now being snacked on by the growing birds.

Moving out to the edge of the moors, and the situation is similar, though the number of birds out in the scrub is greater still. The addition of broods of Marsh, Long-tailed and Willow Tits, and the first fledgling Chiffchaffs, as well as a smattering of Robins makes the willow scrub echo with begging calls first thing in the morning. The grass has grown appreciably in the last month, and the first flowers of Creeping Soft-grass - Holcus mollis - are showing. Ragged-robin and Yellow Flag-iris raise patches of shocking pink and yellow flowers up above the green on occasion; the former is something of a magnet for Small Pearl-bordered Fritillary butterflies at the moment, creating an outrageous clash of vivid pink and orange which somehow seems to look perfect.

Small Pearl-bordered Fritillary amongst Ragged-robin. The butterfly is mid-way between meals, which is why it's not sharp.

Maturing Large Red Damsel. Everything's in the throes of growing up and/or breeding at present. It's a fabulous time of year.

The Pied Flycatchers are also fledging in the woods. One, or perhaps two, more visits and we'll be finished with them for the year - it's frightening how quickly the season goes in many respects. Nice to see that we've again had a good breeding season for them this year (so far!) and we can hope for a good number of returning birds next year, all things being equal.

Pied Flycatcher and young. The youngsters at this stage haven't yet got to their full feathered state, so look like a cross between gawky teenager and Sesame Street character.

Male House Sparrow framed amongst the remains of our old kitchen

David and the Owl

A cold and almost frosty morning is a good time to be up at the crack of dawn, especially at this time of year. The world is devoid of human life, at least in our neck of the woods, and the only sounds are birds getting on with the business of the season, which is - well - doing the business.

The latest visit to our shared ringing site paid off with a spectacularly unexpected Tawny Owl in the net. He seemed a little out of sorts, as was only to be expected, but that's all part of the fun of it. Interestingly I've been seeing day-active Tawnies a lot recently, perhaps because food's been hard to come by for them and they have a growing family to feed.

More exciting still than the owl, though, was an unexpected mist-net catch: a Narrow-bordered Bee Hawkmoth. Despite being well tangled in the net, we eventually extracted it without major harm - some scales rubbed off the abdomen - brought it back for a quick photoshoot and watched it warm up, and head off into the blue.

Despite the lack of rain in this part of the UK - seems more like the southeast than the southwest - there is plenty going on. Our 'lawn' has come out with a spectacular show of Yellow Rattle. This is a semi-parasitic plant which is often found in good quality hay-meadows, and was a component of the green hay we spread across scarified ground last autumn, hoping for something a bit more interesting than the dog-muck-fertilised Perennial Rye-grass that we then had. The lack of rain hasn't helped much, but a bit of diligent watering and some luck has produced a nice selection of species, including Hairy Tare, Black Knapweed and a handful of eyebrights.

Since this last ringing trip I've been out on the moors doing site assessments, which haven't necessarily resulted in a lot of interesting things to write about. A draggled-looking Pale Tussock caterpillar (I think) on some Soft Rush was a nice find, though I have a sneaking suspicion that it is in fact dead...

...some spectacularly warty lichens growing on the granite...

and some atmospheric Hare's-tail Cottongrass waving in the wind.

What...

...is the air-speed velocity of an unladen swallow?

Desperate to get out of Devon, we shot up the M5 like scalded cats last weekend. We threw ourselves out of the car, clapped on various bits of kit and trotted smartly into the Avalon Marshes, where we were greeted by a dodgy-looking geezer with a tunic and horse who asked if we'd seen Merlin. Na gave him her Paddington-Bear-stare, and we shunted on into the wetland, past a watery tart waving a sword around (shouldn't be allowed) and into the relative safety of a nice quiet hide.

The memorable page about the sexual proclivities of otters was no longer there in the logbook (shame) - I couldn't find it anyway - and true to form we missed seeing one by about 20 minutes, but the sound of a booming Bittern and the sight of a Hobby or two elegantly drifting over the waters took the edge off the disappointment. I was slightly stunned by the number and variety of dragonflies already out - Large Red, Azure, Blue-tailed, Red-eyed and Variable Damselflies all in numbers, and Hairy Dragonflies and Four-spotted Chasers like you wouldn't believe. We must have hit a major emergence of the latter, actually, as they were literally everywhere: clouds of them lifting from sheltered spots. Surprised the Hobbies could still fly, to be honest.

A prolonged stroll through the reserve produced no fewer than five booming Bitterns - one of which we saw briefly - and a couple of Marsh Harriers, as well as perhaps the most pompous photographer it's been my pleasure to listen to for a long time. Maybe the lens was compensating... We also bumped into a small flock of Black-tailed Godwits, all gingerbread-red and ready for Iceland, as well as a trio of Bar-taileds, though sadly they were all pretty much in winter duds. And a final treat: our first Swifts of the year drifted over amongst the Hobby flock. Mmmm. Nice.

Just to prove that summer's on the way, plenty of nice invertebrates have been out and about locally...

Hoverfly. Species.

Green Tiger-beetle.

Brown Silver-lines. This one has an unfortunate disability: one hindwing has somehow become twisted and now sticks up over it's back like an aeroplane's tailfin. Don't think it's a survivor.

Small Purple-barred moth. Now flying on a heathland near me.

Common Redstart. Having serenaded us from the roof of the office, he sat nicely in the neighbouring Rowan so I could take some distant photos.

White Rock-rose Helianthemum apenninum. For no other reason than they're pretty.

Signs of things like spring

As things seem to have been a little quiet of late, here are a few of the bright points of spring in our part of the world. For almost the last two months we've been pretty much rain-free, which is unusual, and it's starting to be a little worrisome for the sake of our garden veg. That's beside the point though...

The sun hits the back of our house full-on, so early on in the year the plants get a good boost of warmth and get on with flowering. We're then visited by a variety of invertebrates, bumblebees and honey-bees first, then overwintering butterflies and an increasingly varied crop of flies, bees, wasps, moths and beetles. As it stands, we've not got a great deal in the way of early-flowering plants to offer them nectar, but the bank of grape-hyacinth behind the door is particularly popular with the bees.

Honey-bee at grape-hyacinth.

Soon the birds get in on the act. Song swells from the odd Robin and Great Tit, then they're joined by Mistle Thrush, Woodpigeon, Song Thrush, Dunnock, Wren, Blackbird... and it's not long before we're seeing Blackbirds and Robins hurtling through the garden with beaks full of nest material, looking like some kind of surreal handlebar moustache.

Blackbird nest. This one in a particularly vulnerable place, next to a track and almost on the ground - in fact no more than 20cm off.

The variety of flowers on offer in the garden also starts to increase, and the bees are quick to take advantage. From the early few Bombus terrestris, we're now seeing a nice variety of bumblebees, including the ambulatory ginger-snap which is Bombus pascuorum.

Bombus pascuorum.

By this time there are plenty of other species beginning to emerge in the woods and lanes around the house, and working out of the Yarner NNR office has its advantages when there is a wealth of wildlife around to enliven lunch-breaks...

Pearl-bordered Fritillary. A species which emerges early in the season, and has benefited from the last few years of warm dry springs down here in Devon.

Woodpigeon. The half-murmured growling coo of Woodpigeons is one of my favourite sounds, always associated with hot, lazy, sunny afternoons, redolent with the hum of bees and hoverflies and the scent of green things growing.

And now, by the end of April, we've got the first brood of Robins squalling for food just beyond the fence - dicing with death at the hands of the neighbours' cats. Given that about 90% of young birds die in their first year, their chances aren't good, but for the moment the weather at least is doing them a favour. Shame I can't say the same for the local cats...

Robin. One of the early broods to come out - much squealing and agitation when mum or dad hove into view with a juicy morsel.

Finally, I was lucky enough to see what looks like a Large Tortoiseshell butterfly in my in-laws' garden on Saturday:

Large Tortoiseshell - believe it or not. A species probably now extinct in Britain and only occurring as an escape, a deliberate release or as a wandering vagrant on easterly winds. Given the state of this one, I'm going for the latter!

Dartmoor's most elusive mammal...

Have you ever walked the blanket bogs of Dartmoor? They can seem like an empty, open, drear place with little wildlife and an apparently limitless expanse of Molinia – a Chameleon-like grass which changes in character from purple-tinted green in summer to winter white. You may have heard the bubbling trill of Skylarks, the 'sweet-sweet-sweet' calls and songs of Meadow Pipits and perhaps, in the loneliest and most remote areas, the dry trilling calls of Dunlin. Other than these hardy birds and a specialist invertebrate fauna, you could be forgiven for thinking the place was pretty empty. Not so: take time, walk quietly and spend some time looking carefully at those bog pools – some are the home of a very special mammal: the Dartmoor Pygmy Sperm Whale. Known scientifically as Microkogia devoniensis, this is not only the sole freshwater European cetacean, but is also the world’s smallest whale; and it is a shy endemic resident of open bog pools on the blanket mires of Dartmoor.

Dartmoor Pygmy Sperm Whale - a rare glimpse in summer in an exceptionally well-vegetated pool. The flat back with dorsal fin just out of the water is characteristic of logging behaviour like this. They are easily disturbed, though, and an unwary footfall will result in nothing more than an expanding ring of ripples on the surface. This animal may be a lone bull, perhaps an adolescent feeding in the rich waters until he is of sufficient size to be capable of competing for a mate.

The Dartmoor Pygmy Sperm Whale is a fraction of the size of its better-known relatives - which include the world’s largest animal (the Blue Whale, Balaenoptera musculus). Measuring a maximum of 16cm from nose to tail, this is a unique creature in many different ways.

Much remains to be discovered about the biology and ecology of these diminutive specialities of the Dartmoor uplands. They appear to spend much of their time feeding in amongst the fringes of the Sphagnum moss which grows into the pools, perhaps hunting small invertebrates or even freshly-hatched tadpoles. There has been speculation that they even burrow their way into the mats of Sphagnum, though there is as yet no evidence of such behaviour. Their whereabouts in winter are also a mystery, although there have been reports of sightings at the ice fringe in the hardest weather, suggesting they probably remain faithful to their summer haunts throughout the year. It seems likely that they are able to live off their fat reserves through the tough winter conditions.

The clearest image yet obtained of this elusive species: the characteristic humped back and stubby projecting dorsal fin of a whale about to make a deep dive to the submerged vegetation. This appears to be an exceptionally large bull; the cows are more frequently seen, and are significantly smaller.

Your best chance of seeing one of these remarkable beasts is to find a bog pool, sit quietly and scan the water’s surface for the telltale ‘blow’ the animals make when they come to the surface. Their diminutive size means they surface rapidly, and even in a light wind, the ripples on the water’s surface can be sufficient to hide them. They rarely lift any part of their body far clear of the water, although tail-slapping and fin-beating are not unknown during their spring courtship period. However, other typical cetacean behaviour such as breaching is as yet unknown in the species.

Keep a close eye on the water when you're out there...