Nature dudettes at large

When Lachlan was a small boy, much addicted to natural history programmes he declared that when he growed up he was doing to be a nature dude on the telly. With a late change of heart toward caring for the human species, a family vacancy for nature dudes has emerged. Over the last few weeks Mum, Lyra and I have been stepping up to the challenge.

Our first triumph in the field of nature dudery was the final and definitive identification of the mystery otherwise known as the “Norham Penguin”. We have, for some time, been mulling over, and failing to identify, a black and white bird which was is wont to hang about on the Scottish side of the stretch of the Tweed where Lyra gets a jaunt when we go to the butchers. We have flirted with various types of duck and gull but none seemed very likely. A few weeks ago, on rather soggy trip out for emergency bacon, we clinched it – juvenile cormorants. There is at least one, and I think two, pairs of great cormorants on the river – long thin birds with dark brown plumage and a fisherman’s beak, rather like a heron’s. They have been flying up and down the river since late spring, travelling fast and low, almost skimming the ripples, looking for fish. Mum has taken to calling them flying cigars, which is spot on if you think of cheroots rather than fat cuban jobs. At the beginning of the summer Mum and I watched a patrol of maybe seven skinny little brown cormorant chicks battling upstream in close formation under the watchful eye of a circling parent. On this day, as we squelched through the drizzle, our eyes were caught by a dying back ash tree which seemed to be hung with large white baubles. On closer inspection it was maybe ten or more of the mystery black and white birds, perched in pairs all the way up and for once they were close enough to identify that they were bigger than ducks, smaller than herons and had very heron/egret like necks and beaks. As much googling as the Norham black hole would permit followed. The white throated cormorant was ruled out on account of Norham’s failure to be in Africa. However, a few clicks more explained that juvenile great cormorants have white throats and bellies until their first full moult at around 50 days from fledging. So it looks like we had found the roost of a series of breeding pairs. Well we positively swaggered along to the bridge after that, and added to our triumph with a pair of swans and four large cygnets. Coming back we noticed that wasps were rebuilding a bing in a hole on the bank. Obviously, given the new role, there was nothing to do but thrust in my phone for a picture. Despite the swarm of irritable insects this produced I strolled away calmly and can report that if you do this they seem to lose interest at about fifty yards from the nest. I verified this on a second trip when I noticed that the original building works had been flooded out by a downpour and the wasps had moved the nest further up the wall of the hole. My luck held, I kept the head for fifty yards and the angry buzzing halo melted away.

Our next forays took us to the Hirsel woods where autumn has well and truly set in. At the top of the woods the track is covered with shiny beech leaves of burnished copper which snap and rustle like taffeta underfoot. Further in there are bright green conkers strewn under the horse chestnuts and there is a pleasing cornflake crackle as you scamper down the gully. In the darkest part of the woods the path is soft with many generations of fallen acorns, this year’s bright green standing out amongst the tiny black remnants of previous years. It would be absolutely perfect for wild boar…….On our ramblings we noted an assortment of sinister looking fungi and, finally, some sloes right at the top of a stand of especially jaggy blackthorn bushes. At the cost of a great many lacerations and nettle stings Mum and I mustered a small bag which I committed to gin, with some rowans and crabapples as make-weight. We tried again, with a bigger bag, a few days later and I am happy to report that Mostly Sloe Gin is back on the agenda for the festive season. Our route to the secret sloe patch (clearly not much of a secret given the bottom branches had been completely stripped) took us part way along the cow circular where we had a lovely chat with two of this year’s calves. They were most curious about Lyra, who was also quite enthusiastic so long as they maintained a metre’s distance. After they pressed closer she bravely dashed off to hide behind Aunty Granny.

Our third safaris were down to the river in Coldstream on two gloriously sunny days. Lyra was paddler in chief, as ever. I declined to follow her in but did get down to the edge to skim a few stones – with a record four skips on my final attempt. (With my nature dude hat on I paid close attention to Lyra’s ablutions and can report that when a large fluffy dog shakes off its water the wriggle starts at the bum and works up to the head. ) On our last visit the river was glinting and swirling along after a shower the day before and I’m sure saw a couple of quite large salmon jumping -which may have explained the two huge herons patrolling the banks. I managed to get reasonably close to the first before it flapped away like a broken umbrella. The second was in the middle of a wide stretch of grassy flood plain and was so still Mum and I mistook it for a log at first. It exuded “ffs don’t bother me I’m having a fag” a nd declined to move a muscle as we passed, barely blinking and avoiding all eye contact, studiously turning its back when I waved and clapped just to see. I was reminded of many a head waiter……….