Wild Hares and Hummingbirds (36 page)

It would be easy to assume that this suggests that the planet has somehow pressed the reset button, and that from now on we shall experience more typical weather patterns. But I’m not so sure. Even as we have shivered in the snow, much of the rest of the world has been experiencing far higher temperatures than usual. Taken as a whole, all the evidence points to the conclusion that the earth is undergoing its most rapid period of warming since the end of the last Ice Age. Ironically, even the recent heavy snowfalls are an indicator of this: extreme weather events, including droughts, storms, floods, and freezes, are all signs of an unstable and rapidly warming climate.

As are the changes we are already seeing in our fauna and flora, especially here in the south of Britain; changes I have witnessed during my own lifetime. When I first became interested in birds there were just two different kinds of heron breeding in Britain: the common and
widespread
grey heron, and the much rarer bittern. Today, there are up to half a dozen species living within a cycle ride of my home, including those we used to see only on holidays to the Mediterranean.

Once, any white object in the fields of the parish was either a swan, or a plastic tub containing food for sheep. Today it is just as likely to be a little egret, whose elegant posture and Persil-white plumage have become a regular sight. One winter no fewer than four egrets took up residence in the rhyne at the back of our house, each standing poised and still before striking out like a hunter with a spear, to grab a passing fish with that sharp, pointed bill.

Taking the children to school one day, I saw a lone egret flying overhead. Something about its slow, deliberate wingbeats made me realise that this was the little egret’s much larger relative, the great white egret. Not so very long ago this huge white bird – the height of a grey heron, with a wingspan of almost 6 feet – was an extreme rarity in Britain. But in the past few years it has become a permanent resident here on the Somerset Levels. With as many as half a dozen birds living here, it will surely breed in the next year or two.

Another species of small, white heron already has. A few years ago, on a fine sunny day in May, I was driving across Tealham Moor with the children when we spotted three egrets feeding among the grazing cows. Something about their small size and hunched shape struck me as different; sure enough, they were cattle egrets. That very
same
year they bred in a heronry close by; the first ever breeding record for Britain.

At first sight this seemed extraordinary, for this is the bird we usually see perched on the backs of elephants and buffaloes in nature films about the African savannah. But this wasn’t a chance occurrence, for of all the birds in the world, the cattle egret is among the most skilled at adapting. Originally native to the warmer regions of Europe, Asia and Africa, it has, during the past century or so, managed to colonise South America, North America and Australasia. Now the species is surging northwards through Europe, and in the next few years is likely to become a permanent member of Britain’s birdlife.

Birds aren’t the only creatures taking advantage of global warming: insects such as moths and dragonflies are also able to move northwards as the climate heats up. Here in Somerset we are well placed to receive the expected influx of continental European species, such as that hummingbird hawkmoth I saw on my buddleia bush back in July. And during the next few decades, if the warming trend continues, I confidently expect exotic, colourful birds such as the hoopoe and bee-eater to breed regularly here in southern Britain.

But there’s a downside to global warming, too. In the longer term, we know that any rise in temperatures is likely to have catastrophic consequences. Extreme weather events, and a change in the timing of the seasons,
will
seriously affect the wildlife of this parish, and indeed the whole of Britain, in unpredictable ways. We may assume that adaptable species such as crows and magpies, dandelions and daisies, cabbage whites and foxes, will all thrive. Predators and scavengers are also likely to do well. But any plant or animal that requires a specialised habitat, and those that migrate, will almost certainly struggle to survive in the longer term.

For me, one of the greatest pleasures of living in the English countryside is the way we ourselves become part of the natural cycle of the seasons. We celebrate the coming of the swallows in spring, and witness their departure in autumn; our hearts leap when we see the first snowdrops; and we look out for the budding of the trees followed, a few months later, by the falling of their leaves. All these experiences bind us tightly together with the living world. In the case of a global migrant like the swallow, they also connect us with people we shall never see and never know; people who live thousands of miles away from this little country village.

But if the pattern of the seasons is broken – if what we are seeing now is not a return to the status quo but a final, valedictory farewell – then the connections between us and the natural world may also be shattered, perhaps for ever. If swallows fail to adapt, then we will not simply have lost a wild creature, but also everything that creature means to us. For some icons of the natural world, this has already happened. As I noted earlier, across much of
Britain
, the cuckoo has now become a mere folk memory, its sound dying away as the years go by.

A
S
N
EW
Y
EAR’S
Eve dawns, the natural world has come full circle, and we are back where we began. Yet even in the depths of winter there are signs of life, if you know where to look for them.

In the corner of an old wooden railway carriage in my back garden, a small tortoiseshell butterfly is hiding among the spiders’ webs, wings closed to conceal its bright colours. It will stay here all winter, before emerging again on the first warm day of the year, to suck nectar from the early-spring flowers.

Underneath the railway carriage, the toad that wandered into our home a few months ago is also hibernating; just like the slow-worm in the compost heap, the bats in the rafters of the barn, and any hedgehogs that managed to survive the annual burning of the log-piles on the Fifth of November.

Small mammals such as voles, mice and shrews stay active, though well out of sight. Snow is no problem for them, as they make burrows beneath its soft white layer, and continue to search for morsels of food.

But the predators that hunt these little creatures – the barn owls and kestrels – are having a lean time of it. The resident kestrel by Lower Splott Farm can still be seen
perched
on his telegraph pole or, occasionally, hovering in search of food; but the barn owls along the lane to Chapel Allerton, those at the top of Kingsway, and the pair south of the River Brue, have all disappeared.

Waterbirds are having a tough time, too. The village moorhens still potter about in the rhynes; herons stand statuesque on the ice; and a snipe, just arrived from the north, probes his bill into the half-frozen mud. Further downstream, a kingfisher sits, a beacon of blue and orange against the white, patiently waiting for a fish to appear.

The fields of the parish are quiet. The occasional buzzard and lapwing accompany small flocks of rooks and jackdaws, while the high-pitched trill of a wren pierces the heavy silence. By night, hares, roe deer and badgers roam these same fields. When morning comes, the only evidence of their nocturnal wanderings is a few prints in the snow.

Soon after the break of dawn, vast squadrons of starlings fly low towards the north-west, on the way from their night-time roost to feed on the mudflats of Bridgwater Bay. As dusk falls, they make the return journey, the soft whoosh of their wings reaching my ears a fraction of a second before they appear overhead. Seconds later, they are gone.

Everywhere I look, colour has drained from the landscape, and the pinks, purples, yellows and greens of earlier in the year are but a distant memory. I struggle to recall the spring chorus of birdsong, the gentle summer
buzzing
of bumblebees, and the last, autumnal flicker of butterflies’ wings.

I find it hard to believe that many of the birds that hatched out just a few months ago in the barns, among the reedbeds and deep inside the hedgerows of the village are now half a world away, under African skies. But soon they will respond to an unseen signal, and begin their long and arduous journey north.

And one fine day next spring, as I wander along the back lanes of this quiet country parish, I shall see and hear them once again, bringing joy and gladness to my heart.

THE GENESIS OF
a book like this is essentially personal, but its progress from idea to finished work involves many people. My agent Broo Doherty was, as always, wonderfully encouraging and perceptive, and helped me to decide that this was indeed the right time to write about the wildlife of my home patch. At Square Peg, Rosemary Davidson commissioned the book and guided it to its conclusion with her usual enthusiasm and skill, while Simon Rhodes and Iree Pugh oversaw the design. I would particularly like to thank Chris Wormell, the cover artist, and Harry Brockway, whose splendid scraperboard illustrations truly evoke the passing of the seasons and the comings and goings of the parish wildlife. At Random House, I should also like to thank Kate Bland, Ruth Warburton, Alison Faulkner, Will Smith and Vicki Watson, for all their efforts to promote the book.

Several people either accompanied me on my walks and cycle rides around the parish, or gave me the benefit of their experience and observations. In no particular order they are: Peter Marren, Adrian Boots, Alison Tutt (and her children Lewis and Harriet), David Ballance, Ed Drewitt, Ruth Peacey, Luke Davie and Graham Coster.

In and around the village itself, I especially want to thank my neighbours: Mick Lockyer, Rick and Heather
Popham
and their family, Marc and Dawn Talbot, Steve Short, John Creber and his grandson James, Val Stone, Dennis Kurle, Susie and Kevin Fowler, Tom and Anne Hanlon, Mike (‘the jolly butcher’), Jon Glauert and the children and staff at Avalon Camps, the organisers of Mark Harvest Home, and all the villagers of Mark and the surrounding parishes, whose love of their local wildlife is passionate and profound.

My dear friend Sue Caola kindly read the manuscript and made many helpful suggestions, especially on the history of the village and the surrounding areas. I also owe a great debt to Pamela Slocombe, whose book
Mark: a Somerset Moorland Village
, was a valuable source of historical information. I continue to be inspired by two great writers, Gilbert White and John Clare, both of whom understood the significance of the local, and what it can tell us about the bigger picture.

My wife Suzanne, and my children, David, James, Charlie, George and Daisy, are a constant inspiration. The younger children, in particular, show a passion for wildlife which I hope they will retain as they grow up in these wonderful rural surroundings. We moved here from London five years ago for a better quality of life, and this book is in part a celebration of our leap of faith. It was, without doubt, the best thing we ever did.

I owe a special debt of thanks to my friend and colleague, the broadcaster and radio producer Brett Westwood. Brett accompanied me on a memorable cycle
ride
around the parish on a glorious day at midsummer. He is the finest naturalist I know, and as we made our way along the back lanes and droves he opened my eyes to a whole new world of wild flowers and insects.

Finally, I would like to pay tribute to the wonderful wildlife of this parish; not least the two species which give this book its title, the wild hares and hummingbirds.