Wild Hares and Hummingbirds (31 page)

But these are just the forerunners of the true invasion, which takes place now in early autumn. Craneflies – daddy-long-legs to every new generation of children – dance around on their six springy legs as they seek to escape from the human inhabitants of our home. They superficially resemble spiders, and indeed one of the autumn spiders we see most often is, rather confusingly, named the ‘daddy-long-legs spider’. This spindly creature hides away in the cooler parts of the house, so that from October onwards our younger children are wary of entering the downstairs toilet. When I see this spider tucked inside its rather pathetic web in the angle between wall and ceiling, it’s hard to resist poking it gently with the end of a pencil. In response, it bounces back and forth too rapidly for my eye to see anything but a blur; a useful defence mechanism to foil predators.

Daddy-long-legs spiders may look weedy and insignificant, but they have given rise to a popular urban myth. It is said that this harmless-looking creature contains a venom so potent that, were its jaws powerful enough to pierce human skin, it would kill you instantly. Helped by the Internet, this ‘fact’ is now well and truly embedded in the public consciousness, and the rather dull truth is unable
to
compete. The venom of the daddy-long-legs spider is actually rather weaker than that of most other spiders, and can do us no harm.

Two larger spiders – the huge and hairy (and to many people terrifying)
Tegenaria domestica
and
Tegenaria gigantea
– also emerge at this time of year, scuttling across sitting-room carpets to hysterical screams up and down the land. The ones we see are usually males, on the lookout for a mate; if you think these look big, you should see the females. Fortunately, after a few weeks these lovelorn arachnids have found each other and settled down out of sight, to breed.

Outside, in the parks and playgrounds around the parish, it’s the local children’s favourite time of year. The leaves of the horse-chestnut trees are turning an orangey-brown, and beneath every one is a treasure trove of spiky green balls, each beginning to split open to reveal the dark, shiny fruit within. Is there any natural object as instantly alluring as the conker? Nothing else has quite the same appeal, and even now, more than forty years after I picked one up as a small child, I still get the same thrill each year when I find the first polished conker of the season.

In the playground by Blackford Church, where back in chilly February I saw the first catkins of spring, there are dozens of conkers. I have a vision of the local children collecting them as I once did; taking them home by the pocketful, and patiently drilling a neat hole through each one before threading it onto a piece of string in
readiness
for combat. For this, of course, has always been the enduring appeal of conkers, especially for generations of small boys. The fact that this bountiful fruit doesn’t just look good but can be used in the famous playground game, simply adds to its appeal.

The current obsession with health and safety has led to the game of conkers being banned in some schools; but I thought the practice might still survive here, in these rural surroundings. Judging by the number of unclaimed beauties lying here beneath the swings and the see-saw, perhaps it doesn’t.

I
N MOST AUTUMNS
we enjoy a classic ‘Indian summer’. Temperatures still plummet by night, and mornings dawn cool, with clear blue skies. But as the day progresses, in sheltered parts of the parish at least, a southerly breeze and the soft warmth of the sun belie the lateness of the season. Some days, the only reason we know it’s not May or June is the absence of swallows twittering in the skies above.

Their place is taken by starlings, whose high-pitched whistles have a less melodic, more metallic quality than the swallows – almost a mechanical timbre at times. As the air warms up in the early afternoon, little flocks of starlings fly up above the village gardens, spreading out from their usual tight formation, and grazing on insects floating
in
the air. They display an unusual grace – not a word we usually associate with these chunky little birds – as they stretch out their bills to grab their invisible prey.

I mow the lawn for what I hope will be the last time this autumn; though in some years another cut is required in November, or even December. Instead of the grass moths of spring and summer, long-legged craneflies leap from beneath the mower’s blades, bouncing away in search of an uncut patch of sward where they can hide from predators.

Despite the warmth, signs of autumn are more and more visible; not least in the absence of those pink and purple flowers that lined the rhynes and hedgerows during the past few months. Purple loosestrife, which only a few weeks ago was still flowering in any damp corner, has gone to seed, while only a few sad, drooping fronds of willow-herb remain. Clouds of midges still hang in the air in more sheltered areas; but within a week or so I shall hear the high-pitched call of returning redwings in the night sky; and soon afterwards feel the crunch of early-morning frosts beneath my boots.

O
N A COOL
, bright morning, towards the end of this Indian summer, weather patterns are beginning to shift into autumn. But the sun is still shining along Kingsway as I return home after taking my children to school. Driving is never the best way to notice wildlife, as the windscreen
and
engine noise cut us off from the subtle signs that alert us to the presence of something unusual: birdsong, the buzz of an insect, or the distant flick of a wing.

But I can hardly fail to notice the flock of birds flying low over the rhyne beside the road. Just as when you catch sight of an old friend, when you least expect to see them, my brain does a double take. Not starlings, as I first thought, but swallows: more than sixty of them, feeding frantically on the few tiny insects that still remain airborne. In the bright morning light they swerve expertly from side to side, using their tails as brakes, and keeping to the area directly above the water, where the flies, gnats and midges are most concentrated.

It is almost a month since the village swallows left their perch on the telegraph wires for the last time, and headed away into the blue. I have long since grown used to their absence; yet now, in the middle of October, here they are again. Not the same birds, of course: our swallows are way to the south by now, flying over the Mediterranean or crossing the Sahara.

Given the run of north-easterly winds, I suspect this little group of swallows, with a solitary house martin in tow, have come from Scandinavia. Having flown across the North Sea they are now making their way through Britain, finding food wherever they can, before heading out over the English Channel on the next leg of their journey. After feeding they rest for a while on the telegraph wires, reminding me, as they always do, of musical notes
on
a set of staves. As they perch they hold out their wings, expertly preening their feathers with their stubby bills to keep them in tip-top condition, and to remove parasites (though some mites and ticks are so persistent they accompany the birds all the way to Africa and back). From time to time each bird will swoop down off the wire to feed, before returning to its original perch.

In one of his early poems, John Clare wrote of seeing two swallows hawking for insects in late October, and how he wished they could stay for the whole of the winter:

For in the unsocial weather ye would fling

Gleanings of comfort through the winter wide

Twittering as wont above the old fireside

And cheat the surly winter into spring
.

Some swallows stay even later: a couple of years ago, on a wet and windy day in early December, my neighbour Mick telephoned me to report a single swallow flying around the field next to his allotment, just across the road from my home. I must admit I was sceptical, until he showed me a brief snatch of video footage he had taken of the bird. It was, indeed, a swallow; though sadly I doubt if it ever made it all the way to Africa.

I look up, and the swallows have already gone: refuelled, restocked and refreshed. I say a silent goodbye. This may seem self-indulgent, but given that these birds are so much a part of my life, and the life of my fellow
villagers
, I shall miss them; until they return to visit us once again, half a year from now.

A
CHILLY DAWN;
not quite the first frost, although one is forecast for tomorrow night. Now, at half past six in the morning, the skies are totally clear, the stars of the Plough and Orion’s Belt still shine directly above the village, and the eastern sky is beginning to glow a dull shade of red. A sense of anticipation is in the air, too; for we are going bird-ringing.

Last night I spent an hour fumbling around in the darkness setting up three mist-nets, with my friend and fellow-birder Ed, a qualified bird-ringer. First brought to Britain from Japan back in the 1950s, mist-nets are a truly amazing piece of equipment. Stretched between two sturdy metal poles, they allow us to catch a bird without harming it. The unsuspecting creature simply flies into the ultra-fine net, drops down into a pouch below, and waits there calmly until the ringer extracts it; a process which Ed carries out with considerable skill and care.

By seven o’clock dawn has broken, the stars are rapidly fading in the sky, and a wren is singing his unseasonal song in the blackthorn and cider-apple hedgerow along the western side of the garden. As well as the morning chill I feel a frisson of anticipation: will we catch any birds, or will our nets remain empty?

But we immediately score a bullseye, in the shape of two wrens, one rather more crotchety than his companion. Ed carefully removes these ‘flying mice’, as he calls them, expertly untangling their long claws and slipping each bird head first into its own small, cotton bag. We return to the back of his car where he has set up an impromptu ringing station. Each bird is weighed and measured, revealing that one wren is slightly larger than its companion, weighing in at over a third of an ounce.

Then, most importantly, a tiny metal ring is placed around its leg, before being squeezed gently shut with a pair of special pliers. My colleague Ruth dutifully notes down the statistics, which are sent to the British Trust for Ornithology for analysis and safe keeping. So even if the bird is never found again, the data obtained by catching it will be invaluable in extending our knowledge about our birds.

The children have roused themselves from their beds to watch, so rapt with attention they don’t appear to be feeling the morning cold. Subsequent net rounds produce a final total of seventeen birds from ten different species, ranging in size from a young male blackbird, weighing almost 100 grams to a tiny goldcrest, which at just 5 grams is exactly half the weight of the larger of the two wrens. We also catch seven goldfinches, as well as a single chiffchaff, house sparrow, blue tit, great tit, dunnock and robin. Each of the children gets the chance to release a bird; cradling its soft body in their cupped hands, before slowly opening
them
and watching as it regains its freedom. It is an experience I hope they never forget.