Sunday, 24 September 2017
Local patch 17
Westhay Moor NNR, on the northern edge of the Avalon Marshes, is one of those gentle places. We go to stretch our eyes and rest our minds.Pencil straight tracks cut through wet woodland and raised bogs. The precious and rare lowland acid mire is home to our carnivorous sundews as well as bog myrtle, marsh pennywort, sphagnum moss, reeds and sedges. Sometimes there are groups of students there, surveying the scarce habitat. Armed with quadrants, they count the species: reeds are round and sedges have edges.
The old peat workings have been replanted and remade into acres of reedbed and quiet, mirrored pools. There is the sound of waterfowl fussing from deep among the stems, dipping and dabbling and dousing. The wind is a long in-drawn hiss of breath in the reeds - always. Their plumy heads are bruise purple now, fading to cream as the year draws to a close.
The air is gentle with the promise of rain on the breeze and pillows of cloud soften the sky. Autumn is lurking in the woodland, beginning to gild the leaves and fattening the fruit. I can smell it approaching. Large metallic dragonflies with sugar spun wings glitter and and hunt over the water and there are still some late swallows in the sky. We watch a couple of sparrowhawks spiral upwards above the tree line. A kingfisher sits up on a stump and we are captured, breathless and immobile until it buzzes away.
This week we are hunting for the bearded tit or reedling. We have looked for them often but they are elusive. They are always present at Westhay, but in the spring and summer they stay hidden, hunting for insects and spiders to feed their young in nests built low in the reeds.They are easiest to see in the autumn when they band together in big groups and swing from the reed heads picking at the seeds. They need to eat grit at this time of year to help grind up their seedy diet and so we scan the paths and tracks in hope. Reserves put grit trays near the paths to encourage them.
A flurry in the reeds ahead makes us crunch to a halt, swiveling our binoculars. We can hear the radar-ping of the beardies as they flutter through. A flash of bright chestnut is all I get; there is no time to focus on the pale grey head, striking black moustache and yellow beak. But what a splendid bird!