Last Sunday was one of those beautiful days that feels as
though it is just inviting you outdoors. We hadn’t been for a proper
exploration of our local woods recently and with a feeling of spring in the air
we felt that this would be a perfect day to see how it had changed in the last
few weeks.
It was a startlingly bright and surprisingly mild day – the
first for months that I haven’t felt the need to cover every bare inch of skin
with a variety of knitted items. The calm was only occasionally rippled by the
delicate whisper of a gentle breeze.
As we entered the woods we were met by evidence of the
fiercer weather that had preceded this day. The path was far more slippery than
last time we’d come here. I love the feeling of stomping along a particularly muddy
track. When you spend all week wearing a suit, there’s something that feels
wonderfully free about lacing up your walking boots and tramping uninhibitedly
along a satisfyingly squelchy path.
A muntjac deer clearly agreed with me. Through the gaps in the
trees we caught sight of his cotton tail illuminated by the streaks of sunlight
piercing the groves. He, too, seemed to be enjoying the glorious weather and
took a surprisingly long time to notice us, giving us a brilliant opportunity
to watch him feed. Surprisingly, we saw fewer garden birds in the woods than we
have on previous trips. However, the stalwart robins and blackbirds provided us
with their company as we continued out towards the fields.
A robin hopped down onto a dead log lying beside the path,
highlighting an interesting looking fungus growing on it. Unlike the bracket
fungi which we have often seen in these woods, this fungus took the form of
small, coal black spheres. Our guess is that this was King Alfred’s Cake fungus
(Daldinia concentrica), but we’d love
to hear if anyone has a different idea.
Ambling on, the path opened out onto the agricultural fields
beyond the woods, where the ground was blanketed with an icing sugar crust of
crisp frost. An even covering of newly sprouting winter wheat coated the
nearest fields, providing a tempting patch for a few foraging crows. In a
further field we could see an impressive flock of around one hundred fieldfares
busily pecking away at the hard ground. As we continued along the gently rising
path, we heard a noise. A noise so special it stopped us in our tracks. A noise
that for us signals that spring has sprung.
A skylark. Or perhaps two, maybe three. We stood silently
trying to count the number of voices. We could tell that the electric trilling
was coming from a nearby field so we let our ears lead us. The volume and
abundance of the songs were increasing. We were starting to guess there might
be five of them. Still, we could not see any. They are a sandy colour and not
particularly large so against the dazzling blue sky it was difficult to pick
any out. But then, suddenly, our eyes adjusted and we saw one dart high up into
the air before floating back to the ground, singing all the while. Then
another, and another, until, after about ten minutes, we had counted close to
thirty individuals.
Their flight is something to be beheld. Typically they shoot
high up into the air with incredible speed and agility, and then hover
gracefully at that altitude while singing their hearts out, before dropping drastically
back to the ground, where they lie so well hidden you may think you dreamt the
whole thing.
However, besides this innocent display of impressive acrobatics,
we were also witnesses to their more aggressive side. Skylarks are highly
territorial and will not tolerate another bird trying to encroach on their
turf. The drama unfolded before us as the skylarks chased each other in flight
with fierce speed. Protecting their territory is serious business. Now that it
feels like spring, they will put all their effort into attracting mates to
ensure that their genes continue for at least another generation.
As we wandered along the paths between the fields we noticed
that there was a stark disparity between the number of skylarks in different
fields. We didn’t see any skylarks in the fields which contained young crops,
whereas the fields which had been left with a covering of stubble from last
year’s harvest were teeming with them. From this small sample, the skylarks
appeared to favour the latter fields. This is perhaps because it is easier for
them to hide amongst the golden stubble, and there are seeds left behind and
insects overwintering amongst it for food.
Reluctantly, we decided it was time to return home, leaving
the skylarks to their territorial disputes and displays of airborne agility. On
our way back we passed patches of daffodil shoots, full of promise for the
flowers they would soon produce. Despite the ambience, I have to admit it’s
highly disputable that it really is spring yet, but once the daffodils are out,
there’s no denying it.
