The life of loyne

The Life of Loyne A Beginner’s Guide to the Wildlife of the Lune Region (the beginner is me, not you)

John Self

The Life of Loyne A Beginner’s Guide to the Wildlife of the Lune Region John Self 2013 - ??

Drakkar Press Limited, 20 Moorside Road, Brookhouse, Lancaster LA2 9PJ http://www.drakkar.co.uk johnselfdrakkar@gmail.com Copyright Š Drakkar Press All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or used in any form by any means - graphic, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or information and retrieval systems - without the prior permission of the publisher.

ISBN 978-0-9548605-5-4

DRAKKAR PRESS

The Life of Loyne A Beginner’s Guide to the Wildlife of the Lune Region Contents 1. April 2013 2. June 2013 3. June 2013 4. July 2013

5. July 2013

6. August 2013 7. September 2013 8. September 2013 9. October 2013 10. February 2014

11. March 2014 12. April 2014 13. April 2014

14. May 2014 15. June 2014

16. July 2014 17. August 2014

18. September 2014 19. September 2014 20. October 2014

Curlews on Green Bell Snails on Sunbiggin Moor Orchids on Great Asby Scar Trees in Edith’s Wood and Greta Wood Cinnabar Caterpillars near Heysham Moss Marsh Gentian on Keasden Moor Small-leaved Lime in Aughton Woods Eels in the Wenning Cattle on Fell End Clouds Pink-footed Geese in the Wyre-Lune Sanctuary Purple Saxifrage on Ingleborough Sand Martins by the Lune Fell Ponies on Roundthwaite Common Cuckoos in Littledale Small Pearl-bordered Fritillaries on Lawkland Moss Kingfishers by Bull Beck Himalayan Balsam on the Upper Lune Juniper on Moughton Wolf Spiders by the Lune Hen Harriers in Roeburndale

11 16 21 25 32 37 40 44 50 55 63 69 74 80 86 93 97 106 111 117

2 1. December 2014 22. January 2015

Sitka Spruce in Dentdale Dippers in Barbon Beck

123 128

Map for Sections 1-22 On-line Sources Index

133 134 138

Preamble

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he beginner of the subtitle is me, not you. This document is a guide by a beginner. I wouldn’t presume to suggest that you are a beginner or that this document may be of interest to you.

The Life of Loyne is a sort of sequel to The Land of the Lune, first edition 2008, second edition 2010, on-line at: http://www.drakkar.co.uk/landofthelune.html.

The Land of the Lune provided a general review of Loyne, which is the shorthand I used for the region within the watershed of the River Lune in northwest England. The scope of Loyne is shown in the map on page 10. The Life of Loyne is focussed more narrowly upon the wildlife of this region.

At first, I used The Life of the Lune as the title for this document.

This, however, gave the impression that I was concerned only with the wildlife of the River Lune itself. In fact, I consider the wildlife of the rivers, fells, woodlands and valleys of the whole region within the Lune catchment. So, although Loyne is not (yet) an established name for the region, I switched to The Life of Loyne. If I don’t use ‘Loyne’, nobody will.

In The Land of the Lune I included topics that I found interesting, in the hope that any reader would find some of them interesting too. Consequently, the text flitted between the history, geology, flora, fauna, people, buildings and so on of the region. This had the virtue that if a reader was not interested in one particular kind of topic then they could be assured that another kind would be along very soon.

A reader of The Life of Loyne has no such assurance. If you are not interested in the flora and fauna of the region then, apart from the occasional diversions, you will find little relief in the following pages. However, if you consider yourself relatively uninterested at the moment then perhaps you will persevere and become more interested. I was not so interested myself until recently. Like most people, I appreciated the wildlife that I saw but did not think too much about it.

As a result of writing The Land of the Lune I became aware that there were people who had spent a lifetime becoming expert in the various topics that I glibly skated over. I felt a fraud writing about, say, the bog bush cricket when I wouldn’t recognise one if it came up and bit me.

I became involved in the activities of the Lune Rivers Trust, a group of volunteers with the enthusiasm and expertise to oversee the ecology of the Lune river system. I was humbled by the little that my ignorance could contribute.

I therefore embarked upon The Life of Loyne not as an expert but as a newly-enthused amateur. This document is a description of my attempt to find, understand and learn about the local wildlife.

It is not a detailed, technical, academic description of that wildlife.

It describes a learning journey that I am happy to share with any other enthused amateur that may wish to accompany me.

I began writing these words in 2013. I envisaged slotting the words into the structure that had served me well in The Land of the Lune, that is, one based upon an imaginary journey down the River Lune, interrupted by journeys down its major tributaries. I embarked upon a series of expeditions, starting at the headwaters of the Lune, intending to write about the wildlife that I encountered.

However, I soon found that my expeditions should not be based upon the details of the Lune river system. The seasons dictated where I needed to be, in order to see what I hoped to see. Also, I needed to tackle first those elements of the local wildlife that my ignorance allowed me to.

So, in the winter of 2013 I re-organised the words into a more straightforward, chronological narrative - or diary, if you will. I dated those words according to the original expeditions. And then I resumed the narrative in early 2014, aiming to write about a suitable wildlife topic every once in a while.

As a result, I hop, seemingly at random, around Loyne. A map towards the end of this document may help you to determine where we are. If more information is needed on the places themselves then I cannot do better than refer you to The Land of the Lune!

As will be obvious, the comments and opinions expressed in this document are mine alone. As always, if any reader has any

comments on or corrections to anything please let me know (at johnselfdrakkar@gmail.com).

I

A Note on Pronouns

hope that the switches between ‘I’ and ‘we’ are not too disconcerting. The ‘we’ includes my wife Ruth, who joined in on some expeditions (and encouraged me out of the house for the others).

I

Photograph Acknowledgements

n The Land of the Lune I got away with amateur photographs taken on an ordinary digital camera. The photographs were, in fact, an afterthought. All that I had written before The Land of the Lune were academic papers and books, where photographs were a rarity. It was an eye-opener to me that the photographs in The Land of the Lune impressed readers much more than the text. It was also somewhat deflating, as many more hours of labour had gone into the latter. Clearly the photographs created a reader’s first impression - and, I suspect, in some cases the only impression.

Therefore in a document on wildlife I must include photographs.

Unfortunately, wildlife photography demands expertise and equipment that I do not have. Fortunately, there are many fine photographers keen to share their photos via on-line photo-sharing systems such as Flickr.

I have in The Life of Loyne liberally borrowed (or stolen) from such sites. I hope that I haven’t violated the spirit of these open access sites by including their photographs here. If any photographer should come across any of their photographs here and disapproves then I will gladly offer them a percentage of the income from this free publication. If that is insufficient mollification then I will offer my fullest apologies and remove the offending photographs forthwith.

The captions of all stolen photographs refer to a footnote giving details of the photographers, most of whom have excellent portfolios of wildlife photographs that can be seen at the web

address indicated. I am very grateful to them all. Photographs that do not have a footnote were taken by me.

The photograph on the first page is looking north from the source of the Lune on Green Bell.

The photograph on page 5 is of The Calf from Castley Knotts in the Howgills.

The photograph on the last page is of the Plover Scar lighthouse from Sunderland Point, where the Lune disappears into Morecambe Bay.

Orton

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Scale: 10 cm to 35 km 0

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The Life of Loyne, http://www.drakkar.co.uk/thelifeofloyne.html, 2013 - ??, John Self

1. April 2013: Curlews on Green Bell

The view from the source of the Lune on Green Bell

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his was not a promising start. My search for the wildlife of Loyne began with a view of a vast expanse of dull khakicoloured moor-grass, enlivened only by the remnants of recent snowdrifts. No trees, no shrubs, no rivers, no lakes. Nothing, as far as I could see, but grass.

It was early April, with a bitter easterly blowing. I could hear nothing but the wind. I stood at the source of the Lune, on the slopes of Green Bell in the Howgills. Actually, because of the snowdrifts I couldn’t locate the exact source. I stood in the first dribble of water emerging from the snowdrift. Before me, I could trace the route of the beck (Dale Gill), heading for Newbiggin-on-Lune, some three miles away.

Beyond Newbiggin were the gentle slopes of Crosby Garrett Fell. On the horizon the snow-covered but normally dark Pennine hills stretched away from Appleby towards Penrith. Fifteen miles distant, the bright snowball communication centre on Great Dun Fell had been rendered inconspicuous.

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I would not see much wildlife by looking fifteen miles away.

Looking down to my feet, I saw that I was in fact not standing on dull moor-grass. I was paddling in a deep-green substance, some kind of water-cress, perhaps. As I strode downhill, a dark bird, a snipe perhaps, inconsiderately took flight before I could focus upon it. In a gully, trying hard to restrain my excitement, I came upon a small patch of heather and some bright green lichen on exposed slate - topics that I will leave for another day. And, yes, the beginnings of a tree, or at least, a shrub. And in the next gully a veritable copse of trees.

If this is to be a worthwhile discussion of Loyne wildlife, I cannot get away with ‘trees’. I need to be more specific. Unfortunately, identifying trees without the help of foliage is a new challenge for me. The dark slate-grey bark with horizontal markings leads me, with the confidence of ignorance, bravely to assert that the first tree in Loyne is a rowan.

As is immediately obvious, I am not a wildlife expert. I hope to become less inexpert during the course of this journey. In the meantime, I will rely upon the expertise of real and virtual friends to put me right.

As I walked on past High Greenside I heard a sound that even I could not mistake: the song of the curlew Numenius arquata.1 Two curlews glided over the moor, with exquisite, flowing notes, an exuberant trill, yet with a touch of melancholy.

They had returned to their nesting haunts after wintering in tidal waters, which is quite a bold expedition to have made already after this protracted cold winter. They nest in a scrape upon the ground, producing young of The first trees of Loyne

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a surprising cuteness. The chicks are mottled, to escape observation, and have a short beak that does not hint at the curved 6-inches of the adult curlew beak.

The parents tend to position themselves between the chicks and an approaching human, which gives a good clue as to where to spot the chicks. The parents and young do not linger on the moor once the latter are able to A curlew chick 2 make their way to the shore.

The curlew is Europe’s largest wading bird, although there is not much for it to wade in on this moor. It is some 55 centimetres in length and stands high on long grey legs. It is, however, more familiar in flight, when its evocative song draws the eye towards it. Sadly, its numbers are declining sufficiently to make it an ‘Amber bird’ on the Green, Amber and Red Lists.

These lists have been devised by the UK’s leading bird conservation organisations.3 In 2009 246 species were assessed against a set of objective criteria to place each on one of three lists – Green, Amber and Red – indicating an increasing level of conservation concern. There are 68 species on the Green List, 126 on the Amber List and 52 on the Red List. Red is the highest conservation priority, with species needing urgent action, with Amber being the next most critical group.

Red List birds are defined to be globally threatened or suffering from a severe (at least 50%) decline in UK breeding population or breeding range over the last 25 years or a longer-term period.

Otherwise, if the species: • has poor conservation status in Europe; • or its population has declined during 1800–1995 but is now recovering; • or its UK breeding population or range or non-breeding 13

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population has moderately declined (25-49%); • or it is localised (most of its UK population is in 10 or fewer sites); • or it is a rare breeder (1–300 breeding pairs in the UK); • or it is a rare non-breeder (less than 900 individuals); • or it is internationally important (at least 20% of the European population in the UK) then it is on the Amber List. Species that occur regularly in the UK but do not qualify under any of the above criteria are on the Green List.

Since 2009 the curlew has continued to decline, so much so that it seems to warrant transfer to the Red list. Its UK breeding population declined by about 60% between 1970 and 2010, including 44% just from 1995. Its alarming decline internationally led to the announcement of an International Conservation Plan in 2013. It is now considered ‘globally near threatened’ by the IUCN (International Union for Conservation of Nature).

However, officially, at the moment the curlew is an Amber bird, which at least I now know does not mean that it is an amber bird.

My initial foray has helped me to realise that not all wildlife will be as visible and as easily identifiable as the curlew. I will need to

A curlew in flight 4 14

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curb my normal purposeful march through the countryside. I must pause, look and listen. I will need binoculars and a magnifying glass. I will need guidebooks to help me identify the birds, plants, beetles, lichen, trees, and so on. I cannot rely on serendipity. I will need to prepare my expeditions, to help me anticipate what to look for and where. I should read all I can to help me understand whatever I am able to see of the wildlife of Loyne.

So, with a slightly better appreciation of the task ahead of me, I continue on my way.

I give the Latin scientific names in order to provide a veneer of academicism (but only if I write a paragraph or more about the species, otherwise the text will be cluttered with the things). I only give the scientific name once, on the first significant mention of the species.

2 Andrew Martin, http://www.flickr.com/photos/andrew-martin/.

3 http://www.rspb.org.uk/wildlife/birdguide/status_explained.aspx.

4 Thomas Heaton, http://www.flickr.com/photos/thomasheaton/.

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2. June 2013: Snails on Sunbiggin Moor

A

s the Lune heads west from Newbiggin-on-Lune towards Tebay it passes to the south of limestone scars. Rais Beck arises below Little Asby Scar and meanders via Rayseat Sike and from Sunbiggin Tarn, occasionally disappearing through the limestone, to reach the Lune near Raisgill Hall. The upland tarn lies at 250m in a hollow between the scars and the Kelleth Rigg ridge above the north bank of the Lune. The region around Sunbiggin Tarn is a Site of Special Scientific Interest (SSSI), which sounds promising.

What interests scientists may not interest me, so let me consult its citation, that is, the official reasons given for granting SSSI status to Sunbiggin Moor (these citations are all available on-line).1 There seem to be three main reasons.

First, as can be readily appreciated even by me, a variety of habitats is to be found within this small region. The limestone scars give rise to calcareous soil, that is, soil that contains calcium carbonate and hence is relatively alkaline. Around Sunbiggin

Sunbiggin Tarn 16

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Tarn, the wetlands and heather-dominated fen include areas of acidic mire. Therefore flora and fauna characteristic of the different habitats may be found unusually side-by-side.

Secondly, the habitats’ distinctive natures support various rare species.

Specifically, according to the citation, the area around the tarn is the only location in the British Isles for Geyer’s whorl snail Vertigo geyeri.

Local literature repeats this claim, as indeed did I in The Land of the Lune.2 However, I am doing my research a little more thoroughly now and I have read elsewhere that recent surveys have recorded the snail at thirty locations in the UK, including two, possibly three, in England.3 But it hasn’t been seen anywhere else in Loyne, so if I want to see it, this is the place to look.

So, on a bright June day, I set Geyer’s whorl snail 4 off, intrepid explorer that I am, undaunted by unforeseen dangers, from the watershed near Grange Scar with the specific objective of finding Geyer’s whorl snail. I knew exactly what it looks like, thanks to Wikipedia. And although it is small (less than 2mm across) I am assured that there are plenty of them. Surveys have found it to be the most abundant snail in the region, forming about a quarter of those collected.

Geyer’s whorl snail is an air-breathing land snail. Surprisingly (to me), some snails have lungs and others have gills, but both kinds of snail can be found in water and on land. As it happens, Geyer’s whorl snail has lungs, although I didn’t expect to see them.

Geyer’s whorl snail is a relic of post-glacial conditions. Since then climate change has greatly reduced its range and it is now vulnerable to changes in the hydrological conditions of its present sites. So it was with some misgivings that I embarked upon my search.

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I was reminded of the dwarf caribou. This caribou may have been dwarf but it was not as small as Geyer’s whorl snail. Anyway, in the 1870s it was rumoured that a relic subspecies of caribou lived in a remote Canadian swamp far from and dissimilar to the habitats of other caribou.

Scientists were sceptical and a reward was offered to anyone who brought a specimen of the elusive dwarf caribou. In due course, a local Indian brought forth a skull fragment of such a caribou and claimed his reward.

However, some scientists remained sceptical, suspecting that the Indian had brought his caribou skull from the distant habitats.

So in 1908 a hunting party set out to settle the matter once and for all. Eventually, they came upon a small herd of dwarf caribou, shot them, and triumphantly brought them back to the satisfaction of the scientific community.

It was indeed a rare species. No more dwarf caribou were ever seen. Perhaps the existence of the dwarf caribou was confirmed at the very instant that the extinction of the species was achieved.5 The moral of this tale was perhaps reinforced as I walked past Spear Pots. The OS map marks this as a lake. Now, it is a small flat grassy area. I have vague memories of this indeed being a lake, surrounded by a number of hides, whether to watch or shoot the waterbirds I don’t know. Either way, the waterbirds are no more, which is perhaps why the lake is no more.

I continued on to Tarn Moor, around Sunbiggin Tarn.

I realised that, amateur that I am, I had chosen a poor day to search for snails. It had hardly Wildflower on Tarn Moor rained for weeks. The heather 18

The Life of Loyne, http://www.drakkar.co.uk/thelifeofloyne.html, John Self

was brittle dry. The ground was unusually dusty. Only by Tarn Sike was there any of the wetness that is more normal for the moor.

If Geyer’s whorl snail is anything like my garden snails it would not venture forth on such a desert.

In any case, I was concerned that my walking about on Tarn Moor may upset the hydrology and hence the delicate snail. Geyer’s whorl snail is fully protected, which should include protection against my boots. Being a ‘fully protected’ species means that, under UK legislation, it is an offence to disturb, kill or injure a member of that species or to disturb their breeding and sheltering places. Standing on a 2mm snail is, I should imagine, likely to disturb it somewhat.

So, after reflection, I didn’t, after all, worry too much about the snail. To tell the truth, I am not very excited about snails. As wildlife goes, snails are not very wild and nor do they go much.

My aborted search for the snail had its rewards, however.

There was a surprising luxuriousness in the vegetation on the boggy banks of Tarn Sike. Amongst the dominant marsh marigold various wildflowers flourished, including the attractive specimen shown on the previous page.

After several hours perusing the wildflower catalogues, I am now prepared to identify this as bogbean or buckbean Menyanthes trifoliata. Botanists will shake their heads. How can anyone take hours to identify a bogbean, with its distinctive white flowers, pinktinged, fringed with white hairs, and with rose-coloured buds? In my excuse, the catalogues all insist that bogbean’s flowers have five petals. All the drawings and photographs show this to be the case. But my specimen had six petals. I was struck by its attractive symmetry.

This is disconcerting. Are all flora so lax in following their descriptions? Must I read the catalogues less literally? As children, we search for four-leaved clovers among the common three-leaved versions. So perhaps it is not so unusual for plants to have variations.

Perhaps, evolutionarily, it doesn’t matter much whether a plant has five or six petals. At least, not as much as it would for, say, a dog to have four or five legs.

It was then time to attend to the third main reason given in that citation. This concerns the birdlife around Sunbiggin Tarn. It 19

The Life of Loyne, http://www.drakkar.co.uk/thelifeofloyne.html, John Self

is the largest body of water for several miles in any direction and therefore a focus for many birds. The lake is, however, not large, forming about six hectares of open water. It can be walked around in an hour if you are prepared to climb various fences and walls designed to prevent sheep (or you) wandering into the reeds that surrounds the tarn and its neighbour, Cow Dub. The citation mentions twenty-two species of bird to be seen at the lake, from, in alphabetical order, black-headed gull to wigeon.

Unfortunately, the birds do not have the courtesy to all turn up at the same time. On any particular visit, only a subset will be seen.

My June visit yielded two swans, two moorhen, several gulls, with curlew and skylark heard overhead, one snipe disturbed while I circumnavigated the tarn, and a buzzard hovering nearby.

However, I trust the citation (except for the black-headed gulls, which I have read elsewhere have recently deserted Sunbiggin Tarn). The surrounding wetlands look fine breeding ground for waterfowl, with the reed marshes providing a degree of protection.

The moorlands, relatively unfrequented by humans, are surely nested upon by skylark, snipe, curlew and lapwing. Ornithologists with the time to come repeatedly in order to survey passing birds, especially those on their winter migration, are no doubt rewarded by the sight of many species for whom Sunbiggin Tarn forms a welcome resting place.

As indeed it does for me. http://www.sssi.naturalengland.org.uk/citation/citation_ photo/1007193.pdf 2 A Short History of Tarn Pasture at: http://www.orton.org.uk/tarn_pasture/ repeats the claim that Geyer’s whorl snail is found in the UK only on Tarn Moor .

3 A summary of surveys of Geyer’s whorl snail is given in the 2007 DEFRA document at: http://jncc.defra.gov.uk/pdf/Article17/FCS2007-S1013-Final.pdf.

4 From wikipedia, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Geyer%27s_whorl_snail.

5 The tale of the dwarf caribou is given, along with details of other recent extinction events, in David Day (1990), Noah’s Choice, London: Puffin Books.

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3. June 2013: Orchids on Great Asby Scar

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he western end of the limestone ridge that begins above Sunbiggin Tarn drains via Chapel Beck through and by Orton to the Lune north of Old Tebay. The scars that lie south of the wall that runs from Knott to Little Kinmond form part of the Great Asby Scar Nature Reserve, most of which lies north of the wall and drains to the Eden. Well, a nature reserve should be of interest, so I decided to have a look.

The limestone has been significantly weathered since the last Ice Age (of 10,000 years ago). Vertical weaknesses in the limestone have been eroded to form deep fissures (called grikes) and many loose fragments lie upon the limestone blocks (called clints) between the fissures. These so-called pavements are more hazardous to walk upon than any pavement which we might harangue the local council about.

Nonetheless, it is my duty to investigate the exceptional flora found upon and around the pavements. Unfortunately, the

Great Asby Scar 21

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specimens that are of most interest (to experts) are to be found lurking within the grikes, where the shelter, rainwater, and protection from sheep enables various uncommon plants to flourish.

My enthusiasm does not yet drive me to spend the day on my knees peering into gloomy grikes. I accept what the experts tell me - that within these grikes are to be found woodland plants such as wood anemone and dog’s mercury and herbs such as angular solomon’s seal and bloody cranesbill. At the moment, I would not recognise these even if I saw them (at least, not without a wildflower book to hand).

There are also many varieties of fern (rigid buckler-fern, brittle bladder-fern, hard shield-fern, lady-fern, and so on). To my eye, the ferns all look much the same, with the green fronds (which I am delighted to discover is not only my word but the correct botanical name for the leaves of ferns) hidden and occasionally protruding from the grikes.

Even more occasionally, something more substantial had managed to grow and emerge from the grikes - trees. Most are somewhat stunted although on Little Kinmond there are relatively well-developed hawthorn, ash, rowan and sycamore. Overall, though, the limestone pavements presented an apparently desolate and barren scene.

The main problem for any flora is not so much the exposure to the elements but the effects of grazing by sheep and cattle. For example, the fact that the large sycamore - I found only one - stands alone is testament to the efforts of sheep and cattle around it.

Recently, grazing on the scars has been reduced to enable the flora to recover, although they are still relatively denuded of flowers.

Undeterred I set out to look for flowers on the pavements.

Passing over the usual daisies, buttercups and dandelions, the first flower that I alighted upon was an unexpected but familiar friend, the bluebell Hyacinthoides non-scripta. I thought the bluebell was a flower of, or near by, woodland. I would not have expected it to flourish on these exposed rocks at 350m. Clearly, the shallower grikes provide enough protection and nourishment.

The most prominent flower on the limestone grassland, however, was an orchid, which since it was early in the season and 22

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its flowers were deep purple, I confidently identify as an early-purple orchid Orchis mascula.

I felt I ought to check this in the catalogue. I found that the early-purple orchid is our commonest orchid and is often seen with the bluebell, so that’s promising. However, I also found that there are about 25,000 species of orchid - four times as many as there are mammals.

Moreover, they cross-breed to produce 100,000 or so hybrids. A thorough search through the catalogue would take me some time.

However, I was distracted by the discovery that the name ‘orchid’ comes from the Greek for ‘testicle’. The root is so shaped, apparently. In Greek mythology, the gods transformed Orchis, the son of a nymph, into a flower after he tried to rape a priestess of Dionysus.

After this unpromising start, orchids have become the jewels of the plant world. Actually, the real start for orchids was, according to fossil evidence, before the dinosaurs became extinct.

So, orchids are a venerable species. Today, enthusiastic fans will pay fortunes for rare

Bluebell on Great Asby Scar

Early-purple orchid 23

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specimens and tropical orchid-hunting had almost the romance of the first jungle explorations.

As can be imagined, with so many species, orchid flowers vary greatly. However, I must not despair for there are only fifty or so native British species. Their flowers are usually purple-ish, mottled with white or green, and bear their flowers in single spikes or clusters. One can therefore usually confidently identify a plant as an orchid, although maybe not which one.

There were also flowers around the Great Asby Scar pavements that were not orchids. But I did not worry about those because, with bluebell and orchid, I already felt that I’d done rather better than Alan Coren, who wrote that “This evening, my son and I embarked upon a pleasant excursion to collect examples of the wild flowers with which this part of the forest is so abundantly blessed. We collected a daisy, and fifty-nine things that weren’t”.1 1

Alan Coren (June 6, 1979), The unnatural history of Selbourne, Punch.

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4. July 2013: Trees in Edith’s Wood and Greta Wood

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rchids in their thousands, bogbeans with the wrong number of petals, 2mm snails - this wildlife game is quite tricky, isn’t it? I felt a need to retreat to safer ground. I decided to have a look at trees. Even I know a tree when I see one.

I started with a wood especially planted for people like me Edith’s Wood, near Ingleton. This was newly planted in 2002 with native trees (so I won’t be confused by pesky foreign trees or strange hybrids). I refrained from reading which ones, to give myself a challenge.

However, I needed to do some preparatory reading to get a grip on trees. Alas, I soon found that a ‘tree’ is not precisely defined. It is not part of the scientific classification system for plants. Neither is ‘bush’ or ‘shrub’. But everyone has a commonsense idea of what a tree is, so I’ll leave it at that. I needed to break trees down into more manageable groups and classes, so that I may more easily identify them and appreciate their characteristics. Unfortunately, almost every grouping that is suggested seems to be hedged with various qualifications and exceptions.

A starting point might be that trees can be divided into those that have seeds that are not contained in anything (the gymnosperms) and those that have seeds that are contained in something (the angiosperms). The former correspond to evergreen, softwood conifers such as pine and fir; the latter to deciduous, hardwood broad-leaved trees such as oak and beech. Except that: some of the former lose their leaves in winter (for example, larch) or are hard-wooded (for example, yew) and some of the latter do not lose their leaves in winter (for example, holly) or are soft-wooded (for example, willow).

Also, an evergreen tree is not necessarily very green (for example, Colorado blue spruce); the ‘hardness’ of wood is a subjective judgment that I cannot make unless I take a saw with me on my walks; the leaves of broad-leaved trees do not always seem very broad to me.

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The Life of Loyne, http://www.drakkar.co.uk/thelifeofloyne.html, John Self

Ingleborough from Edith’s Wood

Botanists classify trees as they do other members of the Plantae ‘kingdom’. First of all, trees are grouped into families, such as Fagaceae (informally, the beech family) or Sapindaceae (the soapberry family). The members of each family have the properties that define that family. These definitions involve the use of botanical terminology that it is beyond my competence and your patience to explain.

Each family contains one or more genera, such as Quercus of Fagaceae (informally, the oak genus) or Acer of Sapindaceae (the maple genus). Of course, not all genera have familiar informal names like oak or maple.

Then each genus has one or more species, such as Quercus robur (English oak) or Quercus rubra (red oak) or Acer pseudoplatanus (sycamore) or Acer negundo (box elder). Sometimes, a species exists in variations distinct enough to warrant an extra suffix, such as Populus nigra ‘Italica’ (Lombardy poplar), a variant of Populus nigra 26

The Life of Loyne, http://www.drakkar.co.uk/thelifeofloyne.html, John Self

(black poplar), a species within the Populus (or poplar) genus of the Salicaceae (or willow) family.

So, now I can give a proper name to a tree, if I can but determine what name it should be. As far as I am concerned, the identification of a tree has to be based on what I can see - its overall form, its leaves (if any), its trunk and bark - bearing in mind that all these are liable to vary according to the season, the location and the age of the tree.

I started off with the most basic guide I could find. In all of fifteen pages (seven of which were illustrations) it provided advice on identifying about a hundred trees. First, I must place the leaf shape into one of ten categories. To help me, a little drawing was provided. Nobody is a complete novice at this game and I might imagine that I could think of an exemplar for each of the ten shapes: ace-of-spades - silver birch elliptical - sweet chestnut jagged - oak long and narrow - willow needle - spruce oval or pointed oval - beech palmate (like fingers) - horse chestnut palmately lobed - sycamore pinnate (having two rows of leaflets) - ash rounded - hazel This is, of course, rather superficial. For a start, there are several oaks and willows. I really ought to give the species name to be clear. But my hope is that if I can say that a particular leaf is a bit like what I think of as, say, an oak then that will narrow down my search to, on average, ten or so trees in my little handbook.

Then I can compare my leaf with the drawings and check my tree against the brief descriptions. For example, if I find a beechlike leaf (that is, an oval one) and see that the tree has “bark smooth, grey; twigs slightly downy”, then I might have a stab at hornbeam Carpinus betulus.

Thus emboldened, I set forth into Edith’s Wood. Proceeding from the southern corner, I immediately realised a difficulty. The 27

The Life of Loyne, http://www.drakkar.co.uk/thelifeofloyne.html, John Self

trees had not grown that much in eleven years or so and may not have the mature properties described in my little book. Typically, the bark of a tree goes through various states as a tree ages (much like our skin, I suppose) and in its youth a tree may not have the characteristic overall form of its maturity.

Still, I was confident that I first encountered oak, probably Quercus robur, and ash Fraxinus excelsior. Then, in the next set, hazel Corylus avellana and hawthorn Crataegus monogyna. Somehow, the species names made the achievement more commendable.

As I was closely studying a rose in the hope of pinning down its species name, a young deer wandered up nearby, also taking a keen interest in the low-lying leaves, but with a different purpose to me. It took little notice of me. Perhaps it was unfamiliar with the human species, as there was little sign that it frequented Edith’s Wood regularly. A dog rose Rosa canina, I think.

And so on, slowly through the seven hectares or so ... birch Betula pendula (some looking a little poorly, the only trees that seemed to be struggling), alder Alnus glutinosa, and ... what’s this? So far, I think I might, even without my little book, have had a general idea of all the trees so far but this one was different.

I had already realised that it is harder than it might seem to place a leaf into one of ten shapes - some of them are rather similar and leaves are rather variable. After due deliberation, ... leaves lobed (a bit like a sycamore), five lobes, could be a maple, “red when young” ... yes, I opted for field maple Acer campestre.

I didn’t have a judge to give confirmation but I was convinced. Joy unconfined! I had managed to identify a tree A young tree in Edith’s Wood that I am not sure that I’d even heard of before. Or is a field 28

The Life of Loyne, http://www.drakkar.co.uk/thelifeofloyne.html, John Self

maple what is often just called a maple? (Not that I could identify a maple.)

I am developing a fresh appreciation of the expertise of arboriculturists and silviculturists who can effortlessly identify hundreds of species of trees and immediately recall their distinctive properties. I also see the need for these fancy scientific names. I think I was vaguely aware that a rowan or mountain ash was not really a kind of ash (although the leaves are certainly similar). Now I read that the former is Sorbus aucuparia and therefore of the rose family and the latter is Fraxinus excelsior of the olive family. Who would have thought it?

Now enthused, I headed for the Woodland Trust’s Greta Wood, near Burton-in-Lonsdale. This, I saw straightaway, presented a different challenge. As I entered the wood on the footpath from Burton Bridge, I walked under a dense canopy of mature trees.

Indeed, they are so mature that the wood has been designated an Ancient Semi-Natural Woodland (ASNW). An ‘ancient’ wood is defined to be one that has existed continuously since 1600, before which date trees were not commonly planted.

Therefore, an ancient wood is likely to have developed naturally.

However, the word seminatural, suggests that the wood may not be entirely natural now. As I walked through the gloomy wood, I found a majestic stand of old beeches at the western end, along with many ash and a few oak, but the overwhelming impression was of sycamore. These cast a dark shadow over everything.

I can see enough sycamores Beech in Greta Wood from my garden. It was a 29

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disappointment to see so many here. It seems that many experts share my lack of enthusiasm for sycamore.

To the layman, sycamore is a familiar, natural tree. It is, in fact, native to central Europe and is thought to have been introduced here in the 16th century. It is therefore, strictly speaking, a nonnative tree, although fully ‘naturalised’, that is, capable of persisting as a self-sustaining population.

Sycamore disperses its fruit through its characteristic ‘helicopters’. This is does rather too well, for the seeds are widely distributed and grow vigorously under moderate shade. The seedlings do less well under the sycamore’s own dense shade. As a result, sycamore often grows in a kind of partnership with other species, such as ash, which can grow under sycamore and under which sycamore can grow.1 Clearing sycamore can be counter-productive because it may well be the first tree to re-colonise the cleared land. Sycamore will appear to take over clear land, as an invasive species, until its own presence stifles further growth. Because of its apparent invasive properties (and perhaps lingering resentment for it being alien), sycamore is regarded as a threat to native wildlife. Conservationists therefore advocate its removal, especially from ancient woodland.

This policy has not, it appears, been applied to Greta Wood.

A Natural England report includes sycamore in a list of 21 species (out of 2,700 non-native species considered) that have “demonstrated major negative environmental effects”.2 Sycamore is allegedly a “competitor; aesthetically bad”.

I am no defender of sycamore but that judgement seems debatable. The aesthetics of sycamore are a matter of opinion. It cannot look so bad otherwise it would never have been planted in such numbers to decorate city roads. As regards being a competitor, sycamore seems to grow in partnership with other species, as indicated above. The overwhelming dark canopy is not good for its undergrowth but it doesn’t exactly compete with it.

I cannot say if Greta Wood would be better if the sycamore were removed. I can say that I was relieved to escape from its gloominess onto the open footpath that continues along the south bank of the River Greta.

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The Life of Loyne, http://www.drakkar.co.uk/thelifeofloyne.html, John Self

Here, in a narrow strip of woodland by the riverside, trees present themselves separately, in an orderly fashion, which it is a pleasure to inspect and try to identify, one-by-one.

Alder, oak, hawthorn, holly, hazel, spruce ... but, once away from Greta Wood, not a single sycamore, as far as I noticed.

It is a mystery to me that sycamore can flourish in, indeed dominate, a dense wood like Greta Wood, one which is no doubt under the careful management of the Woodland Trust, but, despite being regarded as an invasive Sycamore by Greta Wood species, cannot reach far out here, into the open, by the riverside, onto land that is not managed (as far as I know).

Perhaps sycamore is not such a bad tree, after all.

Mike Townsend (2008), Sycamore - Acer pseudoplatanus, Woodland Trust report, at: http://www.birchangerwoodtrust.org/sycamore-paper-ext-version. pdf.

2 Natural England Research Report No 662 (2005), Audit of non-native species in England, at: http://publications.naturalengland.org.uk/publication/98016.

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The Life of Loyne, http://www.drakkar.co.uk/thelifeofloyne.html, John Self

5. July 2013: Cinnabar Caterpillars near Heysham Moss

Heysham Moss

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n April 2013 the local paper reported that “A huge wildfire ripped through the [Heysham Moss] reserve destroying everything in its wake at teatime last Friday”.1 Perhaps only in Loyne do disasters happen at teatime. The report continued: “A raised bog ... was devastated during the fierce blaze. It could be years before the vegetation and wildlife regenerate themselves, according to a Lancashire Wildlife Trust spokesman”. I thought that I’d have a look at the devastated reserve, and then revisit after a couple of years to see how the regeneration was progressing.

The Wildlife Trust Nature Reserve of Heysham Moss is on the western edge of the flat region bisected by the A683 from Lancaster to Heysham. This region lies west of the Lune, between the small ridge that peaks at Colloway Hill (36m) and the village of Heysham itself. The fields are drained by many ditches that yield fine agricultural land for cattle and sheep. In the past, however, this was 32

The Life of Loyne, http://www.drakkar.co.uk/thelifeofloyne.html, John Self

A ditch in Little Fylde (with ducklings)

a vast waterlogged morass, no doubt occasionally inundated by the sea. A century or two ago this region was called Little Fylde.

A remnant of the past can be seen at the lowland bog of Heysham Moss. It is at an altitude of about 10m and you can’t get much lower than that. According to the information board at the site, 3m of that 10m is peat laid down in the last 4,000 years.

Lowland raised bogs once covered much of Lancashire’s coastal plain but they have almost all been reclaimed for agricultural use.

Heysham Moss itself is not entirely intact, with drainage and peatcutting having occurred at the periphery, but the central area is relatively pristine. Here, purple moor-grass and common cottongrass dominate. There are also characteristic bog plants such as bog myrtle, bog asphodel and round-leaved sundew and many varieties of sphagnum moss.

I did not go directly to Heysham Moss but walked to it across the reclaimed agricultural land. I wanted to be able to imagine how different this activity would be if it were all still like Heysham Moss. I walked along the surprisingly tranquil footpath from White Lund. Once away from the road, there was not a sound except the twittering of swallows. Along the track I found ragwort Senecio jacobaea festooned with caterpillars of the cinnabar moth Tyria jacobaeae.

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Ragwort is poisonous to horses and livestock, although they know to avoid it. In the summer its yellow flowers dominate road-sides.

Its notoriety as a weed led to the distinction of having a government bill named in its honour, the 2003 Ragwort Control Bill.

During the drafting of the bill it was pointed out that about thirty invertebrate species are entirely dependent on ragwort, and ten of these are considered scarce or rare.

The bill therefore backed off from proposing the eradication of ragwort, merely suggesting that its spread be controlled where it might form a hazard to grazing animals.

One of the species dependent on ragwort is the cinnabar moth. It is still a common moth although its numbers have dropped considerably following the attempts to control ragwort.

The moth is a striking black and red (cinnabar-coloured, indeed) and its caterpillars are equally eye-catching, being striped black and yellow. This helps warn predators to steer clear of the poison that the caterpillars have ingested.

Above: Cinnabar moth caterpillars on ragwort Below: Cinnabar moth 2

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The Life of Loyne, http://www.drakkar.co.uk/thelifeofloyne.html, John Self

The female moths lay eggs in batches of fifty or so on the underside of ragwort leaves. Numerous caterpillars on one ragwort plant soon reduce it to a bare stem, as was underway on my observation. So voracious are they that they have been used to control ragwort.

This is a microscopic illustration of the complexities faced by our attempts to control nature. The fact that ragwort is poisonous to valuable animals has helped persuade us that it is a weed that should be eliminated. In fact, the plant itself is a perfectly reasonable specimen and it is not excessively invasive. The cinnabar moth and its caterpillars are attractive examples of their kind and it would, of course, be a shame to lose them.

I eventually reached Heysham Moss and completed the walk around the perimeter path. I noted impressively high purple moor-grass and scrubby birch and willow woodland. It had been exceptionally dry in the preceding weeks and the whole area looked parched, which I am sure is far from its normal state. But I didn’t notice any real sign of the fire. Either the local paper was exaggerating or the reserve had already recovered remarkably.

Heysham Moss 35

The Life of Loyne, http://www.drakkar.co.uk/thelifeofloyne.html, John Self

The most lasting impression, however, was of bracken, brambles and clegs (or horse-flies). I am doing my best to love wildlife in all its forms but the cleg defeats me. Would the world be so much worse if Noah had forgotten to invite clegs onto his ark? I can find no mitigating feature that overcomes its habit of settling unnoticed on my arm, sucking my blood, until, too late, I feel the sting and swat it away.

In the circumstances, I may forego the planned return trip to the moss.

1 2

The Visitor (April 10, 2013), Beauty spot devastated by massive blaze.

Alison Day, http://www.flickr.com/photos/levettday/.

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The Life of Loyne, http://www.drakkar.co.uk/thelifeofloyne.html, John Self

6. August 2013: Marsh Gentian on Keasden Moor

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s Keasden Beck runs from the expanses of Great Harlow and Burn Moor it passes, just north of Turnerford Bridge, a small undistinguished moor that has been designated the Keasden Moor SSSI. The first sentence of its citation states that “Keasden Moor is of special interest as the only known site for the marsh gentian Gentiana pneumonanthe in the Yorkshire Dales”.1 This statement is contentious on two counts: first, Keasden Moor is not in the Yorkshire Dales and secondly, there are no marsh gentians there.

The first is obviously so, from looking at a map. The second is open to contradiction by anyone who succeeds in finding marsh gentian on the moor.

The latest Natural England review of the site (26th September 2012) admitted that “no marsh gentian were seen”. The 4cm bright blue, trumpet-shaped flowers surely cannot be missed but perhaps 26th September is a bit too late in the year to see them.

So I set off in August, with some optimism, to carry out a systematic search of the moor. I marched up and down the moor carefully surveying narrow strips Marsh gentian 2 as I went. It is a small enough moor to be thoroughly traversed in two or three hours.

Unfortunately, I saw no marsh gentians. Not seeing is not believing. Notwithstanding the SSSI citation, I will not believe that there are any marsh gentians on this moor until someone directs me 37

The Life of Loyne, http://www.drakkar.co.uk/thelifeofloyne.html, John Self

to their exact location. I do not intend to search this dreary moor again.

Marsh gentian is a nationally rare species - and, it seems, perhaps rarer than it was thought. If it were to exist on Keasden Moor this would be at the northern edge of its range in England. It is now believed to survive at only a handful of sites in northern England.

Is there a mechanism for de-registering a SSSI? There surely ought to be in case the main reason for establishing a SSSI disappears. Apart from the (non-existent) marsh gentian there is little to commend Keasden Moor.

The citation, which is the shortest I have seen, also mentions “a small pond [which] provides an additional feature of interest”.

This pond is said to be surrounded by various rushes with common marsh-bedstraw, marsh willowherb, sneezewort and lesser skullcap.

I can vouch for the rushes but I have to take the scientists’ word for the rest. The pond is protected by a squelchy quagmire of unfathomable depth. If the scientists have in fact reached the pond itself I admire their bravery in the course of their scientific duty.

Of the plants mentioned the only one that I found was sneezewort, which is common on the moor itself, not just by the pond.

I did disturb a few ducks from the pond, their alarm suggesting that they are rarely visited by humans.

Nearby, I flushed out a snipe and elsewhere on the moor a hare was startled into action.

Overall, then, this small moor forms a haven for wildlife, safe in the knowledge that most humans have the sense not to walk upon it.

If it does not deserve to be a SSSI then perhaps it is better regarded The ‘pond’ on Keasden Moor as a ‘nature reserve’ although I am 38

The Life of Loyne, http://www.drakkar.co.uk/thelifeofloyne.html, John Self

unsure of the precise legal difference between the two. In any case, it is not entirely natural because sheep and cattle trample upon it.

Perhaps they eat marsh gentian? http://www.english-nature.org.uk/citation/citation_photo/1001876. pdf.

2 Tim Melling, http://www.flickr.com/photos/timmelling/.

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The Life of Loyne, http://www.drakkar.co.uk/thelifeofloyne.html, John Self

7. September 2013: Small-leaved Lime in Aughton Woods

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Aughton Woods, Lune, Ingleborough and hot air balloon

nspired by my foray into Edith’s Wood and Greta Wood and now informed by two voluminous tree guides subsequently acquired, I aimed to investigate Aughton Woods. I have walked in these woods dozens of times and although I appreciated that the trees were there I had never really taken much notice of them.

This woodland comprises Sidebank Wood, Cole Wood, Burton Wood, Lawson’s Wood, Walks Wood and Applehouse Wood.

Different subsets of these woods form a Biological Heritage Site, the Aughton Woods Nature Reserve (owned by the Lancashire Wildlife Trust) and the Burton Wood SSSI. The ancient name of Aughton is said to mean ‘oak-town’, which indicates that these woods are of some vintage. Apart from oak, 40

The Life of Loyne, http://www.drakkar.co.uk/thelifeofloyne.html, John Self

there are other native species such as hazel, ash, wych elm, rowan, hawthorn, fir, cherry and alder. The non-native sycamore and larch is gradually being cleared. That is all well and good. These are all old familiar friends - friends with whom I have recently become closer. But pride of place in the literature on Aughton Woods goes to the small-leaved lime. Now they’re talking! I like to search (if unsuccessfully) for something new and rare on my outings.

The limes are Britain’s most noble trees. They are our tallest broad-leaved trees, with attractive heart-shaped leaves. They grace many parks, public gardens and palaces, such as Hampton Court.

Lime wood is fine-grained and doesn’t warp, making it suitable for wood carvings and to make musical instruments. They are hardy trees that provide good shade and will stand severe pruning and, as a result, are often used in street avenues. Limes used to be thought holy trees, able to provide protection against evil.

The leaves of the small-leaved lime Tilia cordata are, to my great relief, smaller (4 - 7.5 cm) than the leaves of the large-leaved lime Tilia platyphyllos (6 - 15 cm). The leaves of the medium-leaved lime - no, it’s not really called that - that is, the common lime Tilia x europaea are between the two (5 - 10 cm). Which is as it should be, because the common lime is a natural hybrid of the small-leaved lime and the large-leaved lime.

So if I found a heart-shaped leaf 7 cm long it could be off any of them. However, if I measured all the leaves on one tree and none of them exceeded 7.5 cm then perhaps I’d be safe in identifying it is as a smallleaved lime.

Actually, if I found any kind of lime in Aughton Woods it ought to be the smallleaved species. This is because Aughton Woods is supposed to host native trees and the common lime and large-leaved lime are not native to this part The leaves of small-leaved lime of Britain. The small-leaved 41

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lime is relatively uncommon and is near the northern limits of its range in Aughton Woods.

A careful study of the descriptions of the three species reveals differences other than just the size of the leaves - that is, in the precise shape of the heart, the hairiness and shininess of the leaves, the overall shape of the tree, the appearance of the bark, the shape and colour of the flowers, and so on. These, however, are, for an amateur like me, subsidiary features to be used to confirm a provisional identification. My first objective, as I set off for Aughton Woods, was to find a tree with heart-shaped leaves. ... And, yes, there was little difficulty in finding small-leaved lime, once I had overcome my preconception that a small-leaved lime is a small tree. It is in fact among the largest trees in Aughton Woods. The distinctive leaves are therefore far aloft, out of reach of my ruler but they look small to me. Some of the trees have lower offshoots, allowing a closer inspection.

The leaves may be confused only with those of hazel, but that of course is more of a multi-stemmed shrub, not at all like the sturdy-trunked lime. Hazel leaves are less heart-shaped and have more ragged edges.

Small-leaved lime may be located without leaving the Lune Valley Ramble path in Lawson’s Wood. There are a couple of specimens by the field as you enter the wood from the east. In the wood there is a series of eight footbridges over small gullies. If you pause on the first five of these you can see a small-leaved lime growing Small-leaved lime in Aughton Woods conveniently within a few 42

The Life of Loyne, http://www.drakkar.co.uk/thelifeofloyne.html, John Self

yards of the footbridge. It is almost as if the limes were planted in order to be viewed from the bridges, but of course that is not the case as the bridges are recent.

I was overcome with a peculiar sense of achievement in finding something ’new’ in a wood that I thought I knew well.

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The Life of Loyne, http://www.drakkar.co.uk/thelifeofloyne.html, John Self

8. September 2013: Eels in the Wenning

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The weir at Hornby

he River Wenning curves below Hornby Castle to drop over an arc-shaped weir. This weir, unlike most weirs in Loyne, was not built for an old mill. Perhaps it was built to create deep still waters above the weir to enable castle residents to fish and boat. Perhaps it was intended to enhance the aesthetically pleasing view of the castle from the bridge.

The weir’s symmetry is not spoilt by the presence of a fish pass. Fish have to leap the weir. However, the north side of the arc is broken by a green structure, the purpose of which is not immediately obvious.

I once sat by Hornby Bridge to watch a heron swallow an eel (more precisely, a European eel Anguilla anguilla). The heron has a long neck but it is not as long as this eel was. It took the heron some time to get the whole eel inside.

Herons are often to be seen standing by the weir. They have their eye on fish that are waiting below the weir for the right conditions to leap it and also on eel that, of course, cannot leap at all. If an eel wishes to move upstream it must leave the water, wriggle across land, and re-enter above the weir. At least, it would have before the 44

The Life of Loyne, http://www.drakkar.co.uk/thelifeofloyne.html, John Self

green structure was provided to help eels past the weir. It is, however, not intended for eels as large as the one I saw eaten. It is for small eels that are supposed to wriggle up through the green bristles.

The eel pass looks quite a challenge. First of all, the eel has to locate it. I imagine that small eels travel up in the calmer waters at the edge of a river rather than battle along midstream. So perhaps half the eels are on the wrong side The Hornby eel pass for the eel pass (perhaps more, as I picture them coming round the inside bend from the Lune). How do they know to struggle over to the other side?

Once there, they have two vertical walls to climb. It is much the same, or worse, for all the other weirs and dams they encounter.

Considering what the eel has gone through to get to Hornby weir, this seems a lot to ask. The eel has an implausibly complicated life cycle. It holds the record for the number of names it has for its various life stages.

Eels are born in the Sargasso Sea. If you search a map of the 100,000,000 square kilometres of the Atlantic Ocean you will find only one sea, the Sargasso Sea to the east of the West Indies. So this region of the ocean must be special.

Columbus and other sailors noticed an unusually calm region of the Atlantic Ocean within which floated large masses of seaweed (sargasso is a kind of seaweed). We now know that the Sargasso Sea is bounded by four major currents: the North Atlantic Current (to the north), the Canary Current (to the east), the North Atlantic Equatorial Current (to the south), and the Gulf Stream (to the west).

These currents deposit debris within the 3,000,000 square kilometres of the Sargasso Sea. 45

The Life of Loyne, http://www.drakkar.co.uk/thelifeofloyne.html, John Self

In order to learn about the Sargasso Sea, I have carefully read Wide Sargasso Sea by Jean Rhys, a book that is always near the top of any list of best books. I found, however, that the Sargasso Sea is only mentioned once (in the title). The book is deep and mysterious, difficult to navigate, midway between the cross-currents of West Indian and British culture and with its narrative threads somewhat entangled.

Whatever the properties of the Sargasso Sea are, eels are irresistibly attracted to them. They travel 6,500 kilometres from our rivers to the Sargasso Sea in order to spawn and die. The larvae (about 5mm long) are then swept by the Gulf Stream towards Europe. Salmon live mainly in the sea and return to our rivers to breed; eels live mainly in our rivers and return to the sea to breed.

So, the young eels are not seeking a specific ‘home’. Where they end up in Europe is, I suppose, just where the ocean currents happen to take them.

On their way across the Atlantic they grow to about 6cm and become transparent. These ‘glass eels’ arrive at our estuaries in spring. In freshwater the glass eel metamorphoses into a young eel or ‘elver’. It was these eels that were consumed in spring-time ‘eel-feasts’, from which the word elver is thought to derive. They then wander about our estuaries, rivers and lakes for several years, growing to become ‘yellow eels’ of up to 80cm. When they become mature ‘silver eels’, after 15 years or more, they descend our rivers to cross the Atlantic back to the Sargasso Sea. This is obviously a hazardous life. The Atlantic currents may not gather the Sargasso Sea nutrients that eel larvae need. The Gulf Stream may not bring the glass eels to our shores. Climate change may be causing it to slow. No doubt there are predators galore in the Atlantic that have adapted to the supply of food that has flowed reliably for millennia.

If the glass eel reaches our shores, it faces pollution and all sorts of barrier to its movement up our rivers. Within our rivers, it faces our eel fishery industry, the most valuable commercial inland fishery in England, according to the Environment Agency. If they survive all that they have to try to travel all the way back to the Sargasso Sea. And all the while the herons wait by Hornby weir.

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The Life of Loyne, http://www.drakkar.co.uk/thelifeofloyne.html, John Self

Heron by the eel pass on Hornby weir

It is probably no surprise, therefore, that the number of eels in British rivers has declined - by more than 90% since 1970. The European eel is now considered a ‘Critically Endangered’ species by the IUCN. Critically Endangered is the highest risk category and is used for those species that are facing an extremely high risk of extinction in the wild.

In 2007 the European Union required all member states to develop Eel Management Plans, the aim of which was to ensure that the number of silver eels returning to the sea to breed was 40% of its earlier level (which, for most river systems, is not known!).

A 2010 DEFRA document summarises the eel plan for NW England.1 Somehow this document concludes that “the available evidence ... suggests that the rivers in the North West RBD [River Basin District] are meeting the silver eel escapement target”. The Lune is among the most healthy of northwest rivers but even here eel numbers have fallen significantly. The report includes the following surveys of the Lune: 1991 1997 2002 2007

sites surveyed 134 74 75 45

eel found 94 47 32 17 47

% 74% 64% 43% 38%

The Life of Loyne, http://www.drakkar.co.uk/thelifeofloyne.html, John Self

So, it seems that the proportion of sites where eel were found has halved in just 16 years. But why has the number of sites surveyed fallen from 134 to 45? Did they give up on sites where eel were not found before? If so, perhaps the last row should really be: 2007

134

17

13%

This would mean that the proportion of Lune sites where eel were found fell from 74% to 13%, that is, by 82%, in 16 years. In that case, the Lune is doing about as badly as the general figure quoted above, 90% since 1970. Moreover, the number of sites is not that useful a measure. We really need to know how many eels there are at each site.

The document also includes some data on eel fishing within the Lune region. Licences are issued for glass eel fishing and since 2005 eel fishers have to report the weight of glass eels taken. In 2007 43kg of glass eels were taken from the Lune (the report says that this is likely to be an under-estimate). A glass eel is not very weighty so 43kg sounds to me like a huge number of a supposedly critically endangered species.

There is even commercial yellow and silver eel fishing on the Lune, although the numbers taken (40kg in 2007) are, I suppose, small. Many more eels are caught by recreational anglers but these are supposed to be returned to the water.

The Environment Agency continues to allow eel fishing on the Lune because “there is no evidence that the North West RBD is failing the escapement target, and therefore no reason to restrict the eel fisheries”. It seems to follow that there is also no reason to propose more than modest measures within the 2010 Eel Management Plan for the North West.

Perhaps this apparent complacency is reasonable. Maybe the number of eels is subject to many arbitrary natural variations. In 2013 it was reported that the River Severn received ten times more glass eels than it had in previous years; in fact, a hundred times more than in 2009. There was no obvious explanation for this. (I’ve heard no reports of a similar eel bonanza on the Lune.)

The most important consequence of this surprise influx was, according to the Telegraph headline, to put “elvers back on the 48

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menu�.2 That’s a novel way to deal with a critically endangered species - eat it.

A delicacy? 3

DEFRA Report (March 2010), Eel Management Plans for the United Kingdom: North West River Basin District, available on-line.

2 The Telegraph (May 9, 2013), Elvers back on the menu after the biggest harvest for 30 years, at: http://europeaneel.com/2013/06/17/elvers/.

3 Mamichan, http://www.flickr.com/photos/mamichan/.

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9. October 2013: Cattle on Fell End Clouds

I

n August 2013 Natural England applied to the Planning Inspectorate to erect a fence around Fell End Clouds. This was after an earlier similar application had aroused the wrath of the locals and had been withdrawn. Well, I like a good controversy, so I thought I’d go to see what all the fuss is about.

Fell End Clouds lies between the slopes of Wild Boar Fell to the east and Harter Fell to the west. The two slopes are patently very different. Wild Boar Fell has a flat, craggy top and descends over peat to the prominent outcrop of Fell End Clouds. Harter Fell is, like almost all the Howgills, smooth and grassy. The slopes differ because of the underlying geology. The top of Wild Boar Fell is millstone grit. Harter Fell is of Silurian slate. The eastern rocks are some 100 million years younger than those on the west, from which they are separated by the Dent Fault.

Fell End Clouds is neither grit nor slate. It is limestone. Fell End Clouds is a SSSI, like the more extensive limestone area of

The lone tree on Fell End Clouds 50

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Orton Scar, because of its geology and the flora that it gives rise to.

Looked at from afar, however, the flora seemed to consist of a lone tree, standing prominently on the horizon.

At closer quarters, I saw short grass with few flowers other than low-lying yellow tormentil. Apart from grass, vegetation was largely restricted to within the grikes of the limestone pavement.

The SSSI citation says that there are seventeen species of fern growing here. I didn’t embark on a search for them in case I found only sixteen, thereby causing myself endless sleepless nights.

The reason for the scarcity of flora outside the grikes is said to be the high level of sheep grazing. The solitary tree must somehow have escaped the attentions of the sheep but otherwise all scrub and tree species have been unable to grow.

This is where Natural England comes in, or would like to, it seems. Natural England is, according to its website, an “Executive Non-departmental Public Body responsible to the Secretary of State for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs”. I presume that it is funded by the Department for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs (DEFRA) and is therefore not independent of government.

Natural England’s purpose is “to protect and improve England’s natural environment”.

In particular, Natural England is responsible for the welfare of SSSIs, such as Fell End Clouds. Its proposed fence around Fell End Clouds is intended to exclude sheep. It plans to graze a small herd of native cattle instead. This, it contends, would enable the flora to regenerate to a more natural state.

Fell End Clouds is isolated, with not much local community near it - but what there is vigorously opposed the proposal, for several reasons. First, the very idea of a fence was anathema. All the boundaries in the region at the moment are of traditional dry stone walls. Fell End Clouds itself has no walls to restrict the free roaming of sheep and fell ponies.

It was feared that the proposed cattle would be hazardous to walkers and would pollute the limited water supply that runs off the fell. It was also argued that since the foot and mouth epidemic of 2001 sheep grazing had already been reduced because subsidy payments were no longer paid per head of stock. The flora was, 51

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Fell End Clouds

therefore, already regenerating (although this was not apparent to me).

Harry Hutchinson, a local farmer, said “Natural England want to see trees growing in the grikes between the limestone, but the farmers think this will change the whole aspect of The Clouds, which has been grazed for centuries”.1 The fact that local farmers were expected to pay (and be reimbursed later) for the fence and a new cattle grid perhaps did not encourage a positive response.

The locals did not seem to query Natural England’s assertion that cattle would be better for The Clouds than sheep, and perhaps I shouldn’t either. However, I understand that the remarkable flora of the Burren in Ireland, one of the most extensive areas of limestone pavement in Europe, depends upon a distinctive ‘winterage’ cattle-grazing system that has evolved. Cattle graze the lowlands in summer and are transferred to the limestone uplands in winter. This is partly because of the lack of water on the uplands in summer. The result, of course, is that the cattle are not grazing when the limestone flowers and shrubs grow. I don’t know if a similar regime is proposed for The Clouds.

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The crux of the matter is a basic question that we will no doubt meet again: What is natural? Or, perhaps better, which form of nature is to be preferred? And why? And by whom?

Is the lone tree on Fell End Clouds an aberration, an anomaly, an accident? Is it unnatural for it to be there? Or is the rest of Fell End Clouds unnatural? Should the tree really be part of a woodland of similar trees growing unhindered from the grikes? (This particular tree, a sycamore, should not be there but that’s another story: let’s pretend it’s an oak.)

The appeal to ‘tradition’ is unconvincing. Dry stone walls are not that old and are certainly not natural. Sheep may have grazed here for centuries but that doesn’t mean that they will or should be here indefinitely. A few centuries ago we had wild boar on Wild Boar Fell.

Legally, it is, I suppose, up to Natural England to decide what is natural. However, whatever criteria they use will be tempered by the local reaction and that reaction will, in general, be influenced by factors other than what is best for nature.

Personally, I doubt that Fell End Clouds is worth Natural England engaging in a protracted dispute over. The locals will no doubt disagree with that opinion but welcome the conclusion. In

Limekiln on Fell End Clouds 53

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my opinion, Fell End Clouds is an intriguing and attractive area, enlivening this particular environment, but it is not a patch on the limestone pavements of Orton Scars and the Yorkshire Dales.

Some people will find Fell End Clouds more interesting as a rural industry wasteland than for its ‘naturalness’. There are the remains of a quarry and some fine lime-kilns. The pavements themselves are disfigured by several excavated trenches where various minerals, such as galena for lead, were extracted. But industrial wastelands are outside my scope, so I will leave it at that.

Cumberland & Westmorland Herald (December 19, 2012), Storm over fencing plan for The Clouds, at: http://www.cwherald.com/a/archive/storm-over-fencing-plan-forthe-clouds.401922.html.

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10. February 2014: Pink-footed Geese in the Wyre-Lune Sanctuary

W

hat is the difference between a goose and a duck? I am increasingly plagued by such naive questions - questions that hadn’t bothered me much before, and questions that I am embarrassed to realise that I cannot answer with any precision.

Perhaps it is unreasonable to seek precision. The meanings of words such as ‘goose’ and ‘duck’ have evolved informally over the centuries. They may not be the same for different people, at different times, or in different places. For example, many birds called ‘goose’ in the southern hemisphere are (I read) really shelducks.

So, ‘goose’ and ‘duck’ are not terms invented by scientists to have defined meanings, such as, say, ‘proton’ and ‘neutron’, where we may demand a precise distinction. They are more like, say, ‘energy’ and ‘impulse’, everyday words that scientists have coopted and assigned precise definitions that do not entirely accord with their everyday senses.

Perhaps I cannot do better than “geese are bigger than ducks; geese honk, ducks quack; geese fly in formation, ducks don’t; male and female geese look similar, male and female ducks don’t”. These generalisations are only more or less true. I am coming to terms with this unavoidable imprecision but I am flummoxed to discover that the hallowed scientific classification scheme (kingdom, phylum, class, superorder, order, family, subfamily, tribe, genus, species) is not completely precise either.

When a species is defined scientists determine the salient features that define it. Some other scientists, however, may consider different features to be more salient for defining those species.

New data may become available, for example, from the study of fossils. New features may be discovered, for example, from gene analysis. After discussion and dispute, a new classification may be agreed. So, the much-vaunted ‘tree of life’ has the odd property that branches may be chopped off and grafted on elsewhere.

It seems that the classification scheme for waterbirds is in a state of flux at the moment. The Anatidae family includes ducks, geese 55

The Life of Loyne, http://www.drakkar.co.uk/thelifeofloyne.html, John Self

and swans but not some waterbirds that look duck-like to me, such as grebes and coots. This illustrates the well-known saying “if it looks like a duck, it may not be a duck” (or something like that).

However, the definition of the Anatidae subfamilies, and the species within them, is not agreed upon. Anatidae has been suggested to have three or six or nine subfamilies. At the moment, Wikipedia lists ten subfamilies.1 One subfamily, Anserinae, contains what I would think of as swans and geese. The others are various forms of duck. Even now, several waterbirds, such as the mandarin duck, are still swimming in the ‘unresolved’ pool.

I have embroiled myself in this imbroglio because I planned an expedition to the only wildlife sanctuary in Loyne, the Wyre-Lune Sanctuary. This was established in 1963 and runs for some six miles along the muddy sands between the Lune and Wyre estuaries.

The Wyre-Lune Sanctuary from Lane Ends

The sanctuary provides a refuge for the many birds that congregate in Morecambe Bay, especially the various species that migrate here in the winter from places such as Iceland. As I couldn’t enter the sanctuary, I anticipated viewing the region from its fringes and therefore focussing upon the larger species (the swans and geese), ignoring for the moment the ducks (which is just as well given their confused status), gulls and smaller sea-birds.

That, I thought, would be enough for me to cope with. Three species of swan and nine species of goose have been seen in the 56

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region. Of these twelve species, three are resident: mute swan Cygnus olor, Canada goose Branta canadensis and greylag goose Anser anser; four are common winter visitors: Bewick’s swan Cygnus columbianus, whooper swan Cygnus cygnus, pink-footed goose Anser brachyrhynchus and white-fronted goose Anser albifrons; five are uncommon, scarce or vagrant visitors: barnacle goose, bean goose, brent goose, Egyptian goose and snow goose (who should visit more often if they want me to give their Latin name).

I was unlikely to see any of the last set, so that left just seven species (three swan and four goose) for me to tackle.

I was particularly intent on spotting the pink-footed goose, which I had not knowingly noticed before. I understand that the noisy arrowheads that adorn our winter skies are of pink-footed geese (the ‘pink arrows’ perhaps) but I cannot see their pink feet way up there. The pink-footed geese come in their hundreds to bask in the warmth (relative to Iceland) of a Lune estuary winter. I wanted to see them before they returned to Iceland, misled by our unseasonably mild weather so far this year.

I was confident that pink-footed geese were in the WyreLune Sanctuary because I had been following the blogs of local birdwatchers.2 These are fearsomely authoritative: “There were a few waders on the beach including 86 Oystercatchers, 114 Sanderlings and 50 Grey Plovers ... On the telegraph wires were 224 Starlings and in one of the fields 207 Black-headed Gulls ... Our totals included 216 Pink-footed Geese north, 11 Common Scoters west, 32 Cormorants, ...”.

There’s no hint of doubt as to the species of bird and an unchallengeable precision in the numbers. 216 pink-footed geese! I sometimes have a 3 Pink-footed goose

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few pheasants in the garden. It is not easy to count them as they insist on moving about and hiding in the shrubbery. How do they count 216 geese? Perhaps they take a photograph and pore over it at night. Perhaps there’s something like the Photoshop ‘red eye’ software that counts birds’ eyes.

The seemingly effortless expertise of these birdwatchers has been developed over decades of experience that I have sadly missed. One RSPB officer says that he “could identify all of the birds in his father’s Handbook of British Birds before he could read”.4 I assume that he means that he could identify them in the book, not in the wild. It would be a prodigious achievement for a toddler to travel the land identifying Dartford warblers, great northern divers, Scottish crossbills, and about 250 more.

I picture his father reading to him at bedtime: “red-breasted merganser, melodious warbler, long-tailed skua, Balearic shearwater, ...”. It would certainly soothe me to sleep but obviously not our RSPB officer-to-be. Rather unfairly, my parents’ ornithological expertise ended with “Goosey goosey gander, whither shall I wander” (what sort of a rhyme is that?).

I arrived at the Lane Ends amenity area, near Pilling, to find two birdwatchers already at their stations. They were silently scanning the muddy marshes not with binoculars but with telescope/cameras on tripods. Their gear had an infinity of knobs and dials. Is there any activity that doesn’t become expensively serious to some?

I joined them, at a safe distance.

The waters of Morecambe Bay were far distant. The marshes and then mud seemed to continue unbroken to the Lake District hills, which were barely discernible in cloud. The Heysham to Isle of Man ferry seemed to glide miraculously over the mud. A helicopter hovered mysteriously some miles out, stationary just a few yards above the mud. The scene was dominated by the glinting white of the Heysham power station.

There was no sound of the sea. Normally, at the seaside, we expect to hear at least a gentle rhythmic shish as the waves run up and down the sand or gravel. Here, there was no sign or sound of the movement of water. The marshes, of course, had their pools.

Sheep wandered over the drier parts. As you’d expect of a sanctuary, 58

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there was no sign of human activity, now or past. No fishermen, no dog-walkers, no abandoned boats, no buildings. At the landward side of the salt-marshes stood the Pilling embankment, which is certainly a sign of human activity. It was built in 1981 to protect the low-lying land of Fylde.

I focussed upon the birds.

There were many of them, of many species. I did not allow myself to be overwhelmed. I noticed a little egret, startlingly white on the green marsh. The majority of nearby birds were (I found, after surreptitiously consulting my guide) shelducks Tadorna tadorna. I don’t suppose experienced birdwatchers get excited by shelducks. I wouldn’t say that I was excited exactly but they Shelduck 5 looked, to me, rather fine birds to be able to put a name to.

Far off, half-a-dozen, possibly pink-footed, geese rootled in the marsh. After a while, I thought I’d move on in the hope of finding some closer geese, but I was halted by an approaching kerfuffle in the sky. A couple of hundred geese flew noisily over and, joined by others, settled at the muddy edge of the marsh, on, I suppose, the banks of the Lune. They were closer than the half-a-dozen but still too far away for a beginner to identify. If they weren’t pink-footed, then they should have been. I am not going to get neurotically frustrated at being unable to be certain in my identifications. It doesn’t really matter what they were: it was a delight to hear and see them all fly over, as if on cue.

On the drive to Lane Ends I had passed a field with about fifty swans in it. I went back to have a proper look at them. At the gate I saw the notice shown on the next page. I wasn’t sure if it meant that unarmed trespassers would not be prosecuted but I decided not to chance it. The Morecambe Bay Wildfowlers Association is 59

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a new one to me but I don’t think they are a body I wish to have a disagreement with.

I studied the swans intently.

Again, I would not bet my house on it, but I’d say they were whooper swans. They did not have the black knob on the bill that distinguishes the mute swan so they were either whooper swans or Bewick’s swans. They seemed fairly large and with the straight neck more characteristic of the Beware armed trespassers whooper.

As I stood at the gate, another crescendo of hoots and honks approached from the south.

Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of geese swirled about, occasionally forming lines or Vs, and then disbanding. For several minutes, the flocks broke up and re-formed, as if unsure of their objective.

Eventually, they moved out over the bay.

Perhaps this performance is a daily occurrence, unremarkable to the locals, but to me it was all most impressive. I thought I’d have my sandwiches by the marshes at Patty’s Farm so that I could keep an eye on the skies over towards Pilling.

I was treated to a performance by three kitesurfers off the Bank End caravan park. Their sails looked like huge birds of prey swooping over the bay. I couldn’t see the water they were surfing on but occasionally the brisk wind whisked them up in the air and they landed with a splash. They swung around gracefully - but nowhere near as gracefully as the many flocks, of different sizes and shapes, that continued to swirl around over the flat horizons of Pilling. I didn’t need to identify the birds in order to appreciate their display. I will return - but not with a telescope/camera with an infinity of knobs and dials, I fear.

I also ask myself questions born of inquisitiveness as well as naivety, such as: Who, what or where is the Bewick of Bewick’s 60

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A swirl of geese

swan? This question has led me to the discovery that the swan is named after Thomas Bewick (1753 - 1828), who wrote A History of British Birds, published in two volumes (1797, 1804). This book is now regarded as the forerunner of all modern field guides for British birds. In fact, a colleague with whom Bewick had a fractious collaboration wrote some of the words of the first volume but never mind the words, it is the wood engravings that make the book special.

At that time book illustrations had, of course, to be engraved.

Bewick revolutionised the art of wood engraving and a measure of his reputation can be gained by the references to him in Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre and in a poem by Wordsworth (“Oh now that the genius of Bewick were mine, And the skill which he learned on the banks of the Tyne ...”).

He possessed a profound knowledge of the birds themselves, as he would need to in order to produce such detailed engravings.

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He disliked London; he campaigned for the fair treatment of animals; and he thought war pointless. William Yarrell, an English zoologist, named the swan in his honour in 1830 but perhaps the swan should feel more honoured to be named after a gentleman with such worthy views.

Bewick sometimes engraved his own thumbprint into his work, which is a neat joke. He also often included ‘tail-pieces’, that is, small, detailed, sometimes humorous, engravings, to fill up spaces at the ends of his sections. One (‘old woman and ducks’ - though they could be geese!) is shown below. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anatidae. http://www.birdwatchinglancashire.co.uk/ is a kind of meta-blog. It aggregates posts from various other blogs about Lancashire birds.

3 Greg Froude, http://www.flickr.com/photos/69317752@N02/.

4 Adam Marek (Winter 2013), The wetland wizard, Nature’s Home, The RSPB Magazine.

5 Ashley Cohen, https://www.flickr.com/photos/acwildlife/.

6 From wikipedia, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/A_History_of_British_Birds.

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Bewick’s ‘old woman and ducks’ 6 62

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11. March 2014: Purple Saxifrage on Ingleborough

Above: Ingleborough On the next page: Whernside from Ingleborough

A

fine 265-page book on Ingleborough includes an index that mentions only one species of wildlife, the red grouse.1 So I am not alone in (up till now) neglecting the wildlife of the

region.

The book, the subtitle of which is ‘Landscape and History’, focusses upon the geology, archaeology and human activities within the Ingleborough region. It says that “it is the first book to adopt a fully holistic approach to Ingleborough” and that it creates “what is in essence the biography of a mountain”. And yet, while a ‘biography’ is an account of a life, this ‘fully holistic approach’ (that is, one that considers the whole thing) ignores the wildlife of the mountain. The grouse, incidentally, earn a mention through being 63

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participants in a shooting enterprise based at Ingleborough Hall in Clapham that ran from 1830 to 1884 and from 1922 to 1948, until the grouse inconsiderately disappeared.

Landscape is a slippery concept. According to the dictionary, the word was introduced to the English language in the 16th century from the Netherlands, where it was a painter’s term for a view. Painters tend to prefer to paint views that are picturesque and it therefore became assumed that landscapes were picturesque too. More recently, however, a landscape has been understood to include all components of a view, whether natural or man-made, whether aesthetically appealing or not.

Whatever the subtleties of its meaning, a landscape usually implies a long-distance view, such as that shown in the photographs on the two previous pages. Any long-distance view of or from Ingleborough will, of course, include some geology and perhaps some buildings or other signs of human activity but it will be dominated by the flora - at least, by the general impression of its greenery. However, a long-distance view, and hence a landscape, will not include the details of individual wildflowers, say.

The flora of the region around Ingleborough embodies aspects of its history, which the book seeks to describe. One needs only to look at the slopes of Ingleborough to wonder: red grouse? Grouse need heather. Where’s the heather? If it was here, what happened to it?

Looking at the photographs, other questions arise. Why is the limestone pavement unnaturally exposed? (Having visited Orton Scars and Fell End Clouds we may anticipate the answer.) And those trees across the valley near Chapel-le-Dale - are they conifer plantations incongruously stuck on the slopes of Whernside?

When were they put there? Why? These, however, are questions for another day. I was off in search of an aspect of the flora that is evidence of Ingleborough’s past, being a relict of the days after the ice receded.

I have walked up Ingleborough several times but never before with the prime objective of finding a flower. Normally, I follow the standard paths up from Ingleton, Chapel-le-Dale, Clapham or Horton but those paths do not take me close to my target. This, the 65

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The old landslip on Ingleborough

Arctic-Alpine flower purple saxifrage Saxifraga oppositifolia, grows at a height of 500m or so on the steep limestone scars north-west of the millstone grit top of Ingleborough. As far as I know, it grows nowhere else in the Loyne region.

The steep slopes, shown in profile in the photograph above, have the appealing name of Black Shiver. I intended to tackle them head-on, with a frontal assault from Raven Scar across Tatham Wife Moss. That way, I figured, I was bound to cross the 500m contour somewhere.

That was the plan, but I thought better of it. From directly below, the dark cliffs presented a formidable barricade and the huge old landslip, picked out by the morning shadows, did not inspire trust in the stability of the mountainside. So I scrambled up to the right and contoured below the limestone cliffs.

Yes, I did find purple saxifrage - but it was not yet very purple.

I had thought that the mild winter, with very few days of snow on Ingleborough, would have brought the flowers on early. However, the flowers were only just beginning to open (March 11). I did not see the purple profusion shown in the photograph. Indeed, I don’t 66

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Purple saxifrage on Ingleborough 2

think I saw enough purple saxifrage with the potential to produce such a display! Next time, I will visit a little later in the year.

Purple saxifrage is obviously a tough plant. The low-growing, densely-matted dark green leaves cling to the rock crevices to withstand the elements. Even on the first warmish day of spring a cold wind kept ice in pools on the mountain slopes. The vivid purple flowers, when fully open, are larger than the leaves, with five petals from within which purple stamens protrude. The saxifrage survives, no doubt, because on the vertical scars it is safe from the boots of walkers and the mouths of sheep.

I sat for some time perched below these cliffs, contemplating the significance of the purple saxifrage, admiring the view across to Whernside and the Lake District hills, out of sight of the many walkers toiling up the standard paths to the top of Ingleborough - most of whom will be (like me, until recently) oblivious of the existence of the purple saxifrage.

The plant is common in the high Arctic, the Alps and the Rocky Mountains, where it is welcomed as the first plant to flower in spring, often emerging through snow. In some northern communities, the 67

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flowers are eaten, used to make tea, and taken as a herbal medicine (the Latin word saxifraga means ‘stone-breaker’, from, it is thought, its propensity to break down kidney stones rather than its ability to grow within rock crevices). Purple saxifrage is said to grow further north than any other flower, at 83°40’ on Kaffeklubben Island off Greenland.

Amazingly, we still have a little bit of the Arctic within Loyne.

David Johnson (2008), Ingleborough: Landscape and History, Lancaster: Carnegie.

2 Brian Rafferty, http://www.flickr.com/photos/brianrafferty/.

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12. April 2014: Sand Martins by the Lune

I

n April each year, as I walk along my local stretch of the River Lune between Bull Beck and the Crook o’Lune, I keep an eye open for the first sand martins of the year. It is not a systematic search for the very first sand martin: I just want to be able to say that “the sand martins are back”, as some reassurance that the natural world is still functioning. Of the many signs of approaching summer - butterflies, bees, chiffchaffs, daffodils, skylarks, ladybirds, blossom, ... - I prefer to adopt the sand martin because its return is most closely associated with the Lune.

We all have irrational likings for particular birds unless birdwatching is an obsession (to count 216 pink-footed geese) or a competition (to see as many species as possible). I thought that my attitude to birds might be reinforced by the book How to be a bad birdwatcher, which I have rather belatedly come across.1 It has plenty of welcome advice: don’t buy expensive equipment; don’t dash to the Shetlands hoping to spot an exotic bird; don’t expect to see the differences between all the warblers ...

The River Lune from the Crook o’Lune 69

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I was brought to a halt on page 47 when I read that the author, Simon Barnes, was, as a boy, a member of the RSPB’s Young Ornithologists Club. This is almost on a par with our RSPB officer who could identify all the birds before he could read. I was never a member of this club. Nor was anyone I knew. I doubt that any of us had heard of the RSPB’s Young Ornithologists Club. Ornithology did not exist on our council house estate. I don’t remember anyone talking about watching birds.

And yet ... the first school prize I ever won (at the age of eight) was The First Ladybird Book of British Birds and their Nests. I still have it, as a memento not as a source of information. It briefly describes 24 birds, from yellowhammer to black-headed gull, for some reason. Sadly, the book did not inspire a lifelong love of birds or even prevent a nearly-lifelong disinterest in birds.

By my standards, Simon Barnes is far from a ‘bad birdwatcher’.

He knows a lot more about birds than he pretends at the start of his book. By page 148 he is admitting that he has identified 80 species in one morning at Minsmere.

After the revelation on page 47, I felt patronised by a know(almost)-all. “You probably know a mallard, and maybe a tufted duck”. Of course I bloody know a mallard, even if I can’t manage 80 species in a morning like you. I’m sorry about the ‘bloody’: I have been contaminated by How to be a bad birdwatcher, which has surprisingly many of them.

Back to my sand martins. Every spring they return here from their winter sojourn south of the Sahara. The least I can do is welcome them back. They come to nest in the tunnels they build in the banks of the Lune. Sand martins also nest in artificial tunnels such as drainpipes placed in walls for their benefit but their natural home is in river-banks, as is insisted upon in their scientific name Riparia riparia and even more so in our subspecies, Riparia riparia riparia (the Latin ripa means ‘river-bank’).

This year the sand martins may have beaten me to it. I saw a couple on April 1st. Last year, after the long cold winter, I didn’t see sand martins until April 20th. In 2011 their return on April 9th coincided with a flood that put all their tunnels underwater, which annoyed them somewhat. Perhaps this year the birds were blown 70

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Sand martins 2

here by the southerly wind that has deposited Sahara sand over us, to the fascination of the news media.

The guidebooks say that sand martins return to the same location every year but I doubt that is completely true. The new Brockholes Nature Reserve near Preston built a special ‘sand martin wall’ and it was colonised by returning sand martins within months. Clearly, those sand martins were not there the previous year.

If a sand martin returns to the same general region, does it nest in the same tunnel as previous years? The guidebooks imply so but again I doubt that it is really the case. When a sand martin born beside the Lune last year returns as a one-year-old it cannot nest in the same tunnel as its parents. I have not noticed any unseemly family squabbles over domiciliary rights. The one-year-old or parents must find a different tunnel.

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A one-year-old sand martin would surely prefer adopting an already existing tunnel to creating one afresh. It must be an extraordinary effort - to be avoided if at all possible - to excavate a 50cm tunnel into a river-bank, without any special adaptations to do so. The sand martin is a relatively small bird, with modest beak and claws. But obviously they must occasionally create new tunnels, because the old tunnels sometimes become uninhabitable, through erosion or indeed through being buried by bank repairs, as has happened recently upstream of Bull Beck. So, if young sand martins adopt an existing tunnel then perhaps older ones have to as well.

I have noticed that sand martins can usually be seen at the Crook o’Lune a day or two before any can be seen a mile upriver at Bull Beck. If that is the case, why is it so? It seems implausible to me that the Crook o’Lune sand martins are simply speedier than the Bull Beck ones. My guess is that the first sand martins prefer the Crook o’Lune and bag the best spots. Perhaps the tunnels are safer here; perhaps this calm stretch of the river is better for feeding.

The later birds would then have to overlap the already settled sand martins. Does this imply that returning sand martins arrive at the mouth of the Lune and work their way upstream?

I expect that expert ornithologists can resolve these amateur speculations. Anyway, having returned to this part of the Lune, the sand martins then contribute to its distinctive summer ambience, their constant swirling and twittering over the river being so familiar as to become unnoticed. They are, of course, swooping about to collect insects, midges, and so on to feed themselves and their young, safely ensconced at the end of their tunnels. Occasionally, they will swoop low to take a sip of water in flight.

If you stand on Waterworks Bridge and observe one particular tunnel on the bank below then you will see that the martins return frequently, every couple of minutes or so. So the birds do not travel far from their nests - they are always swirling about nearby.

Sand martins seem to be gregarious birds. They are content to nest close by one another, their tunnels sometimes almost merging, and the members of the colonies seem to relish intermingling their round-and-round, to-and-fro flights above the river.

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The sand martin is a member of the Hirundinidae family, which eats only flying insects. It includes the swallow and house martin but surprisingly (to me) not the swift. All four birds are on the Amber List because their numbers in Britain are declining, probably because of the loss of traditional nesting sites and of changes to their African environments. However, the number of sand martins on the Lune is increasing, if anything. At all events, I am pleased to see their return, as evidence that the travails of winter must surely be over.

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Simon Barnes (2004), How to be a bad birdwatcher, London: Short Books.

Sergey Yeliseev, http://www.flickr.com/photos/yeliseev/.

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13. April 2014: Fell Ponies on Roundthwaite Common

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Fell ponies near Belt Howe above Borrowdale

re fell ponies ‘wildlife’? It was remiss of me to begin this exploration of Loyne’s wildlife without defining what it is.

So, here goes: ‘wildlife’ is life that is wild. What could be simpler than that?

I am reminded of the Not the Nine O’Clock News sketch: Prof. Fielding: When I caught Gerald in ‘68 he was completely wild ...

Gerald (a gorilla): Wild!? I was absolutely livid!

In our context, ‘wild’ means undomesticated, untamed, capable of independent existence in the natural world. Independent of humans, that is. Unfortunately, the natural world changes, partly because of human activity, and for some species independence may become impossible or, at best, risky. We are increasingly aware that we have created problems that we have an obligation to help some species overcome.

The Sunbiggin Moor snails are ‘fully protected’ because changes to the climate and to the environment have rendered them 74

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vulnerable. We provide passes for eels and sanctuaries for pinkfooted geese. We take salmon eggs and breed them on the salmon’s behalf. We shoot grey squirrels to help red ones. We protect bats.

We provide hives for bees, nesting boxes for barn owls, ponds for frogs. There’s hardly a species left that we don’t try to help along the way! All these species, while not fully independent, are scarcely ‘tamed’. We would, I think, consider them all wildlife.

On the other hand, if I had pet goldfish then they would not be wildlife. They would depend entirely upon my tender care. If I were to tip them into the Lune then I doubt that they would have sufficient wherewithal to survive long enough to be considered wildlife. Likewise, I wouldn’t fancy the chances of the farmer’s chickens if they wandered far from his fields.

Fell ponies are all owned and looked after by someone. For example, the Roundthwaite Common fell ponies are members of the Lunesdale Fell Pony Stud of Roundthwaite Farm.1 However, for most, if not all, of the year the ponies are perfectly capable of leading a feral existence up on the fells. That is partly what defines a ‘fell pony’!

I don’t want to keep debating with myself whether a particular species qualifies as ‘wildlife’ for my purposes. So, as presciently anticipated in the title of this document, I will consider all ‘life’ to be within my scope, whether strictly ‘wild’ or not (with the exception of human life, although some of that is wild enough).

Fell ponies are not wild but docile, as far as a human walker is concerned. Although the ponies are frequently encountered on the Cumbrian hills, including the Howgills, Birkbeck Fells and Roundthwaite Common, I have never known them to be alarmed or attracted by walkers. Perhaps that is also a reflection of walkers’ behaviour towards the ponies. Indeed, they deserve our respect, for all fell ponies are registered with the Fell Pony Society, whose patron is Queen Elizabeth II - which is not bad for a pony of humble northern stock.2 Fell ponies are native to northern England, no doubt pre-dating Roman times, and it is the region where they are still mainly to be found. Their hardiness, strength and agility gave them a working role in early farmsteads, for ploughing, pulling sledges, 75

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Roundthwaite Common

and transporting goods. Being strong, fast and steady walkers, fell ponies were used as pack-horses to transport goods (wool, foodstuffs and other merchandise) long distances. This continued well into the industrial age, as the ponies transported iron, lead and coal around the factories and mines of northern England.

As is our wont, we began in the 19th century to use fell ponies for sport and leisure, such as for the Cumberland sport of trotting.

This has proved to be the saviour of the breed. The demand for their labour has greatly decreased in recent centuries, although, as befits a good patron, the Queen still finds rightful uses for fell ponies, in transporting deer and grouse off the hills around Balmoral.

Nowadays, though, with the pedigrees being meticulously recorded by the Fell Pony Society, the concern is to keep the breed pure enough to be displayed at classes and, of course, to serve as a family pony for general riding. Colours acceptable to the Society are black, brown, bay and grey. Woe betide any fell pony born chestnut or piebald or even with a dash of white other than on the head or hind fetlock.

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The pony’s even, sure-footed walk helps to ensure safe passage over the roughest terrain. The breed has been adopted by the Riding for the Disabled movement. The ponies are not naturally great racers but their expertise at traversing rough, marshy or hilly ground has led the Fell Pony Society to develop a form of crosscountry trial for them. And, with its heritage, the pony is also suited to recreational carriage-driving, as so memorably demonstrated by the Queen’s husband.

Attentive readers may have noticed that, scarred as I am by my attempt to define ‘duck’ and ‘goose’, I have not tried to do the same for ‘pony’ and ‘horse’. I am aware that it is all too complicated for me.3 Informally, a pony is a small horse Equus ferus (in competitions, ‘small’ is defined as less than 14.2 hands). Most modern pony breeds are small through having lived on marginal habitat, like our fell ponies. A breed (which is itself not a scientifically defined term) may classify an individual animal as a horse or a pony based on its pedigree. There are about 300 breeds of horse and 100 of pony.

Confident that I can leave the matter in the safe hands of the Fell Pony Society, I walked over the series of summits - Jeffrey’s Mount, Casterfell Hill, Belt Howe, Winterscleugh and Whinash - that line the northern slopes of lower Borrowdale in order to appreciate the Lunesdale fell ponies in their element. I saw about 25 ponies dotted about the Common, some in groups of four or five and some alone.

They all took far less notice of me than I did of them.

As I walked west from Jeffrey’s Mount the hum of the motorway gradually transmuted into the songs of skylarks. By Winterscleugh I could hear nothing but skylarks. It seemed that every few yards another skylark was sent singing skywards.

It is sobering to reflect that, if plans had not been rejected in 2006, the hum of the motorway would have been transmuted not into the songs of skylarks but into the throb of 27 wind turbines. This would have been England’s largest terrestrial set of wind turbines.

The proposers argued that this barren moorland held little appeal to anyone and that more visitors would come to see the windmills than come to walk the hills.

They may be right. I walked all the way along the ridge to the old track of Breasthigh Road, back east along the Borrowdale 77

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Borrowdale

valley, over the bridleway to Roundthwaite and saw only one other walker. No doubt, if there were more walkers then there would be fewer skylarks. And if there were wind turbines, even fewer. The fell ponies, however, would, I’m sure, remain unperturbed.

Apart from the fell ponies and the skylarks, I saw, without searching conscientiously, a few peacock butterflies, a dipper, some pied wagtails and wheatears, a buzzard and some tadpoles. This is not exactly a wildlife safari comparable to seeing herds of wildebeest and packs of lions but that is what it is and should remain - blissful silence, apart from skylarks, unaccompanied by wind turbines.

Knowing the fell pony’s equable temperament and suitability for general riding, a walker who felt as tired as I did towards the end of this expedition might be tempted to co-opt a pony for a relatively effortless descent from the moor. I wouldn’t recommend it. I doubt that the ponies are that equable, and I am sure that their owners are even less so.

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http://www.lunesdalestud.com. Carole Morland of Roundthwaite Farm has written a book about fell ponies, as has Sue Millard of Greenholme, whose ponies graze the nearby Birkbeck Fells: Carole Morland (2008), A Walk on the Wild Side, Kirkby Stephen: Hayloft Publishing.

Sue Millard (2005), Hoofprints in Eden, Kirkby Stephen: Hayloft Publishing 2 http://www.fellponysociety.org.uk.

3 http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_horse_breeds.

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14. May 2014: Cuckoos in Littledale

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irdwatchers who are serious, but not so serious as ornithologists, are nowadays called ‘birders’. They go ‘birding’. Perhaps that’s because there is more to birds than just watching them. You could listen to them, for one thing.

I went to Littledale to hear a bird. I didn’t particularly want to see it. The appeal of the mysterious, disembodied sound echoing around the hills might be diminished by a sight of an ordinary bird creating it. Every May I make a pilgrimage to Baines Cragg and Little Cragg, near the head of the River Conder, in the hope of hearing the cuckoo Cuculus canorus. I have not thoroughly researched alternative cuckoo locations in Loyne: all I can say is that I am rarely disappointed in Littledale. The number of cuckoos in Loyne has declined, as it has elsewhere in the UK, but so far they have continued to return here. On a sunny, late May evening

Baines Cragg, with the Lakeland hills beyond 80

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the calls of cuckoos resonate within the amphitheatre of Littledale, below Ward’s Stone and Clougha Pike.

It is an evocative sound of which we are curiously fond, considering that it is as monotonous a bird call as there is. Perhaps it is the elementary musicality that appeals. The cuckoo calls in the key of C, descending by a minor third, with the interval widening to a fourth through the season. Several classical composers, including Beethoven, Delius, Saint-Saens, Johann Strauss and Vivaldi, have mimicked the cuckoo.

The cuckoo call, so simple and yet appealing, is the call of choice to be mechanically simulated within a clock, the cuckoo clock (although there it is a major third, in order to sound less doleful).

The cuckoo must be the only UK bird to have a museum devoted to it - the Cuckooland Museum in Tapley, Cheshire, which is mainly a museum of cuckoo clocks.

Of course, to many people the call of the cuckoo appeals because it is the clearest sign of approaching summer - at least, it used to be when the cuckoo was more common and the people were more rural. It was recognised as such in what is regarded as the first English song, the 12th century “Sumer is icumen in, Lhude sing cuccu”.

The cuckoo’s iconic status in pastoral England is reflected in many myths. For example, several villages (including Austwick in Loyne) claim to be the origin of the old story of villagers wishing to appear simpletons, in order to drive away putative newcomers, by trying to enclose the cuckoo to prevent it flying away, thereby preserving spring and summer forever. Hence the old expression “to fence in the cuckoo”.

The seasonal appearance and disappearance of birds was something of a mystery before the details of migration were unravelled. Many people believed that the cuckoo, which in flight has a superficial resemblance to a sparrowhawk or falcon, did not fly away at all but transformed itself in the autumn into a hawk and vice versa in the spring.

Also, it was thought by some that there were no female cuckoos.

The male cuckoo was supposed to mate with hen birds of various species who then laid ‘cuckoo eggs’. Perhaps this apparently free81

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The cuckoo in flight 1

and-easy sexual life led to the word ‘cuckold’, which, according to the dictionary, comes from the French for cuckoo. However, it somehow became the husband that is made a cuckold, as Shakespeare indicated in Love’s Labour’s Lost: The cuckoo then on every tree Mocks married men, for thus sings he: Cuckoo!

Cuckoo, cuckoo—O word of fear, Unpleasing to a married ear.

Of course, the female cuckoo does exist, although she only makes a kind of bubbling call, and she does lay genuine cuckoo eggs - many of them, in fact, up to 25 a season. The need for such a profusion of eggs suggests that the nifty strategy of using foster nests is none too successful.

Cuckoos have used over a hundred species as hosts, with the meadow pipit and reed warbler being the most common UK hosts.

With so many host species, each with their different eggs, how does the cuckoo ensure that its own eggs are not so different to the host 82

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eggs that the parents become suspicious? It has long been known that a particular female cuckoo has a preference for a specific host species and lays eggs that match those of that host. In modern terminology, each female cuckoo belongs to a specific ‘gens’, that is, a subset of the species that has evolved to rely upon a particular host. That, of course, is no explanation: it is merely a jargonised rephrasing. It is believed that the gens-specific properties belong to the female cuckoo, with the male being able to mate with females of any gens, thus maintaining the cuckoo as a species.

The female cuckoo has evolved the useful trick of retaining its egg within its body for longer than other birds. The embryos therefore tend to be more advanced than the eggs of the host birds and more likely to hatch first. The cuckoo chick evicts all the other eggs and chicks (if any) in order to monopolise the host parents’ feeding.

Evolution is amazing but it is always a work in progress. The cuckoo seems to have benefitted from its distinctive evolution.

Why have the host species not evolved to respond? Well, to an extent they have. Some host species will mob cuckoos (although they are somewhat deterred by the resemblance to sparrowhawks), which shows that they have learned to distrust or fear the cuckoo.

A fair number of hosts are not fooled by the imposter eggs either.

They simply abandon a nest with an alien egg.

And cuckoos are not so smart. They cannot distinguish their own eggs either. One study showed that over half of cuckoo eggs were laid in nests that already had a cuckoo egg.2 In removing an egg at random when laying its own the cuckoo is liable to remove an earlier cuckoo egg. The cuckoo hatchling will in any case remove any other cuckoo egg, along with all the other eggs.

It is always a relief, as well as pleasure, to hear the cuckoo because the UK population has more than halved in recent years, putting it on the Red List. Possible reasons for its decline - and indeed that of other birds, particularly summer migrants - are discussed in the book Say Goodbye to the Cuckoo.3 This is clearly a complicated topic which I cannot hope to do justice to here but I can perhaps indicate its complexity by mentioning some of the reasons put forward. In the last century increasingly 83

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intensive farming - involving the use of pesticides, the removal of hedges, the increase of autumn-sown crops and the replacement of wildflower-rich hay meadows - caused the widespread loss of farmland birds. While attempts have been made to mitigate the problem, breeding farmland birds have continued to decline to about half what they were fifty years ago.

Migrant birds face a set of additional problems. A survey of bird declines in the period 1994-2007 found that seven of the ten most rapid declines were of summer migrants: cuckoo, pied flycatcher, spotted flycatcher, swift, turtle dove, wood warbler, yellow wagtail. This is more than you would expect pro rata as our migrants constitute less than a quarter of all our birds.

Our migrants face difficulties in their breeding grounds (here), during their journey, and in their non-breeding grounds (such as Africa). Some of these difficulties also face non-migrants and some are inter-dependent, but listing some of them indicates the complex mosaic of problems: • the continued intensification of farming • increased predation by, for example, grey squirrels • increased destruction of undergrowth by deer • decline of moth caterpillars (especially the big hairy ones that cuckoos like) • the arrival of migrant birds and their food (caterpillars, flies) being increasingly out of synch because of climate change • illegal hunting of birds on their journey • the failure of African wintering grounds (for example, through drought) • general environmental degradation in Africa, such as deforestation Only fifty years or so after we began to appreciate fully the astonishing scale and nature of the journeys of our migrant birds we are faced with an apparently intractable set of problems to overcome if this migration is to recover to what it had been for previous millennia, before humans interfered. Meanwhile, as we struggle with this, we should recognise that our cuckoo is not really ours. It spends more of its time in Africa - and if we are not careful it may soon spend none of it here.

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Our Littledale cuckoos, having no parental duties, are free to leave us after their egg-laying is completed, which they do in July or August. They take no interest in their offspring, which must make their own way south beyond the Sahara. And next spring to come all the way back to Littledale (I hope).

Nick Ford, www.flickr.com/photos/nickpix2008/6060511113/.

C. Moskát and M. Honza (2002), European Cuckoo Cuculus canorus parasitism and host’s rejection behaviour in a heavily parasitized Great Reed Warbler Acrocephalus arundinaceus population, Ibis 144 (4): 614–622.

3 Michael McCarthy (2009), Say Goodbye to the Cuckoo, London: John Murray.

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Littledale

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15. June 2014: Small Pearl-bordered Fritillaries at Lawkland Moss

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kindly lepidopterist informed me that I had been mistaken in referring to the pearl-bordered fritillary in The Land of the Lune. It should have been the small pearl-bordered fritillary.

It was a gaffe comparable to saying “Mr Smith” when referring to the former Conservative party leader Mr Duncan Smith.

Small pearl-bordered fritillary 1

The informal names of species do not, dare I say it, always accord with common sense. A small pig is a pig that is small (small for a pig, that is). Like most adjectives, the ‘small’ takes the set denoted by the following noun and limits it to a subset. However, the ‘small’ in ‘small pearl-bordered fritillary’ is not an adjective. It is part of the species name.

There is, alas, another species with the informal name of ‘pearlbordered fritillary’. A small pearl-bordered fritillary is not a pearlbordered fritillary that is small. (The latter must be referred to as a ‘little pearl-bordered fritillary’, I suppose.) One species cannot be a subset of another because species are, by definition, distinct. If the 86

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name had been hyphenated to ‘small-pearl-bordered-fritillary’ (just as Duncan-Smith might be) or if the other species were ‘large pearlbordered fritillary’ then novices would be less easily muddled.

Lepidopterists see no problem. They are perfectly content to have three other pairs of British butterflies with names suggesting that one is a subset of the other: mountain ringlet and ringlet; northern brown argus and brown argus; Réal’s wood white and wood white.

I mustn’t complain because, on the whole, whoever gave names to our butterflies did a splendid job. Red admiral, painted lady, purple emperor, marbled white, Camberwell beauty, small tortoiseshell, ... - what evocative names for these beguiling insects!

However, the names are not exactly snappy. By the time you’ve said “There’s a small pearl-bordered fritillary” there isn’t. I wonder what lepidopterists call them when off duty, chatting in the pub, if they do. It may be presumptuous of me but I’m going to call the two species ‘small-pearl’ and ‘pearl’.

The species that confused me are Boloria euphrosyne (smallpearl) and Boloria selene (pearl). I intended to search for the former.

I wanted to see the butterfly that had caused me grief. There is (I read) a colony, one of only two in Loyne, at the Lawkland and Austwick Mosses SSSI.2 This lies north of Fen Beck, a desultory watercourse that runs west from Lawkland to join the River Wenning. The small-pearl is a relatively rare butterfly, having declined so significantly in England that in 2007 it was added to the UK list of priority species for biodiversity action.

I walked to Lawkland Moss from Eldroth and tramped through the thigh-high grass and thistles of swampy, tussocky meadows, where I was welcomed by clegs, and battled through some of the birch, alder and willow woodland. I then crossed to Austwick Moss (there is no public footpath to it but that is no deterrent to a committed trespasser). Again, I struggled across the moss, through woodland, rough grassland and heather. These are strange, otherworldly, man-forsaken wildernesses that it is little pleasure to walk within. The ground is uneven, possibly from earlier peat digging, with clumpy grass tufts. After wet weather it must be a morass impossible to cross on foot.

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I saw a number of brownish butterflies (meadow browns and skippers, I assume) and many black butterflies that, after a thorough search of the butterfly books (which show no black butterflies), I deduce are not butterflies at all but (probably) chimney sweeper moths. I saw no small-pearls. All in all, it was a miserable outing that left me wishing never to see Lawkland and Austwick Mosses again.

A week later (June 25) I returned, demonstrating my exemplary commitment. This time, I approached from Austwick to the north.

The sun was not shining, which I took to be a bad omen. Again, I entered the scrubby meadows of Lawkland Moss. Again, there were plenty of brownish butterflies that weren’t small-pearls.

But then, as I’d all but given up, I glimpsed something orangey.

I walked slowly to where it had landed and found it happily settled on a grass stalk, where it proudly displayed for me the upper and lower sides of its wings. Unmistakably, a small-pearl!

I don’t know if pearls also frequent this meadow (I assume not, as the kindly lepidopterist would otherwise not have been so certain that I was mistaken) but I had read that the two butterflies are best distinguished by looking at the undersides of the hind-wings, which are obviously best observed when the butterflies are at rest.

Both butterflies have a row of seven spots (the ‘pearls’) along the outside border. The pearl has a distinct extra spot within the wing; the small-pearl has a more complex pattern of whites, browns and oranges. As I say, this one was definitely a small-pearl.

Eventually, the small-pearl flew off. It is a mystery to me how experts can recognise butterflies (and birds too) from the merest glimpse as they fly past. There is presumably something distinctive, if not definable, in the flights of different species. This may be so with small-pearls. Its flight seemed more purposeful than that of the other butterflies flitting about. With relatively few rapid flaps of its wings, it was soon yards away, before settling again on some grass or wildflower. It also flew well above the grass and appeared a rather bright orange that I would imagine to be even brighter in sunlight.

I don’t know if a pearl’s style of flight differs from a small-pearl’s but if it does then I think I might be able to identify a small-pearl 88

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Pearl-bordered fritillary 3

Small pearl-bordered fritillary 3

if I saw one in flight. I certainly couldn’t distinguish them from their size, despite their names, because, according to the books, one is 18-23 mm and the other 17-22 mm - nor from their appearance in flight, as the upper sides of their wings seem identical (I could have labelled the photograph on page 86 ‘pearl-bordered fritillary’ without fear of correction).

As I continued around the meadow, now knowing what I was looking for, I could put my hoped-for expertise to the test because, as I walked along, a number of other small-pearls took to flight.

Perhaps on a sunnier day they would have been flying voluntarily.

I am sorry to have disturbed them but I am sure that the smallpearls felt it was in a worthy cause.

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I found it best not to try to keep up with the small-pearl whilst it was flying. For one thing, it could fly faster than I could walk over this terrain. It was better to let the butterfly land afar and then creep up upon it. Generally, the small-pearl was content to allow a close approach (to within a yard or two). Binoculars were useful to locate and study the butterflies from a distance.

The meadow was transformed. Last week it was torture; now it was pleasure. I spent some time pottering about, feeling at one with the butterflies. All the small-pearls that I saw were in a meadow enclosed on three sides by woodland, and therefore sheltered from the breeze. But then I didn’t look elsewhere, once I’d found my small-pearls in this meadow.

However, I did not see ‘swarms’ of small-pearls - a dozen at most, and, of course, I may have re-seen the same butterfly. Maybe there are more later in the season but anyway I am led to wonder about the viability of the colony.

The Lawkland Moss meadow, where the small-pearls were seen 90

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Indeed, I wonder what a ‘colony’ is. According to Encyclopedia Britannica, a colony is “a group of organisms of one species that live and interact closely with each other”. Does that imply that they do not interact with organisms outside the colony?

I understand that there are also colonies of small-pearls on Newby Moor and in the Arnside and Silverdale AONB (Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty).

Newby Moor is some five miles northwest of Lawkland Moss and is also a peat mire but without the extensive A Lawkland Moss common spottedbirch woodlands and enclosed orchid, one of the small-pearl’s food meadows that are home to the plants small-pearls at Lawkland Moss.

The Silverdale region is further west and is limestone country with very different habitat.

How far do small-pearls travel? Some butterflies travel far, for example, painted ladies, which migrate here across the channel.

However, a small-pearl would be recklessly bold to leave the enclosed meadow at Lawkland Moss that meets all its needs. There is no similar habitat in any direction for some miles. It would not know to head for Newby Moor and the chance of reaching it by chance must be slim - and of reaching Silverdale much slimmer.

So, my presumption is that the three colonies are discrete, that is, that the individuals in one colony never meet those of the other colonies - and have never done so since the intervening habitat was replaced by farmland and building. If there is only a handful of small-pearls at Lawkland Moss then they are no doubt vulnerable to problems of in-breeding, extreme weather conditions, loss of habitat and disturbance by inquisitive visitors.

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If the colonies are discrete, what makes the individuals all of one species? As I understand it, a species is defined by the fact that the individuals within it are capable of interbreeding. In practice, if my presumption is correct, the individuals of the different colonies do not interbreed. They may have the potential to do so but it is never realised. At least, I assume so. Has anyone confirmed that small-pearls from Lawkland Moss can interbreed with small-pearls from Silverdale?

The colonies now live in such different habitats that perhaps they have evolved differently after many generations apart (and, of course, a butterfly generation only lasts a year - or less in a long, hot summer when two generations are possible). Perhaps the wild ‘island’ of Lawkland Moss is hosting something similar to the evolution of Darwin’s Galapagos Island finches.

Andrew Webber, https://www.flickr.com/photos/andyweb99/. http://www.sssi.naturalengland.org.uk/citation/citation_ photo/1001830.pdf 3 Nigel Kiteley, http://www.flickr.com/photos/63078432@N06/.

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16. July 2014: Kingfishers by Bull Beck

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don’t always have to travel far in my search for the wildlife of Loyne. Sometimes it comes to me. Yesterday (July 9th) I saw two kingfishers by the beck at the bottom of our garden. This beck begins as Tarn Brook by the Caton Moor windmills and runs, as Bull Beck, through Brookhouse to the River Lune.

I had glimpsed a kingfisher a few days earlier - the first that I had seen by Bull Beck for many years. To see two together was, for me, rather special. I had been drawn to them by an unusual sound a kind of short, sharp screech or whistle. We have dippers and grey wagtails by the beck, as well as the normal garden birds, but none have a call similar to this.

I located the birds at a bend in the beck and we watched for a while before they flew upstream, one pausing for some minutes on a small branch above a pool. We did not see it try to catch fish.

Indeed, I am doubtful - but hopeful - that there are enough fish in this small beck to sustain a kingfisher or two.

The kingfisher Alcedo atthis was placed on the Amber list because of its decline in Europe during the previous decades. It is specially protected under the 1981 Wildlife and Countryside Act. The RSPB estimates that there are about 4,600 breeding pairs of kingfishers spread somewhat thinly across the UK.1 The RSPB has a particular reason for carefully monitoring the kingfisher population - the kingfisher played an important, if unwilling, part in its formation. In the 19th century, society ladies liked to adorn their hats with kingfisher feathers or indeed whole kingfishers. Others objected to this practice and a group in Didsbury, Manchester began writing letters to the society ladies, pleading on behalf of the poor kingfishers. In 1889, this group became the Plumage League and two years later the Society for the Protection of Birds. The ‘Royal’ was added in 1904.

I don’t know if the two kingfishers we saw constitute one of the 4,600 pairs. I cannot be sure that they were a pair. Male and female kingfishers look identical apart from the former having a black lower bill and the latter a red one. This I did not notice, sorry.

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Kingfishers are territorial birds that will fiercely protect their domain. For most of the year a kingfisher is solitary, controlling a stretch of river up to two miles long. If another kingfisher enters the territory, fights may occur where each bird tries to grab the beak of the other and hold it under water.

The Bull Beck two were quite amicable. If they weren’t a pair perhaps they were young kingfishers, not yet mature enough to be argumentative. However, young kingfishers are rather less iridescent than mature birds - and they seemed fully iridescent to me.

The colour of kingfishers is, of course, its most immediately obvious and appealing characteristic. It is what catches the eye as the kingfisher flies quickly by. However, although it may look bright blue or green, it is really a dull brown. That is, if we could just see the light reflected directly from the wings it would be brown, but actually we see light that has bounced around the structure of the wings, causing iridescent colouring that changes according to the illumination and angle of observation.

If the two kingfishers were young ones then, since kingfishers do not travel far, they were likely to have been born locally, perhaps

Kingfisher and queenfisher 94

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Bull Beck

even by Bull Beck, which seems too much to hope for. Kingfishers, like sand martins, nest in tunnels excavated in a river bank. They lay five to seven eggs, two or three times each season. That’s a lot of eggs, indicating that mortality is high. Less than a quarter of young kingfishers survive to the next breeding season. Only a quarter of adult birds survive to the next season as well.

Kingfishers are no longer pinned to hats but even so they have a difficult life. The early days of fledgling kingfishers are particularly hazardous, even more than they are for most birds. Kingfishers must become competent fishers within a few days, before they are driven out of their parents’ territory.

Kingfishers are, as can be easily imagined, vulnerable to severe weather. They stay here over winter and the shallow waters they feed in may be iced over for days on end, leading to starvation.

Summer floods can destroy nests and make fishing difficult. So I fear that I must accept that these kingfishers may be fleeting visitors rather than long-term residents.

However, it is encouraging to see them at all because the most important factor for kingfishers is water quality. The water must be healthy enough for the small fish and aquatic insects that kingfishers need. Moreover, the water must be clear enough for the kingfishers to see them, as they skim over the surface or peer into the water 95

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from a perch. Once in the water, a kingfisher is effectively blind, as a third eyelid covers and protects the eyes.

It has been estimated that an adult kingfisher must catch over 2,500 fish a year. They do not care whether they are minnows or tiny trout and hence kingfishers are not popular with anglers. But, of course, the kingfishers wouldn’t be where they are if there weren’t enough fish for them - and enough left over for anglers.

The fact that UK kingfisher numbers seem to have improved in recent years is perhaps an indication that our freshwater systems rivers, becks, canals and lakes - are now cleaner and better able to support kingfishers. If so, perhaps the two kingfishers are a good sign for Bull Beck. Or perhaps my recently heightened wildlife perceptiveness has revealed to me kingfishers that have been there all along (but I doubt it).

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https://www.rspb.org.uk/wildlife/birdguide/name/k/kingfisher/.

Ken Jensen, https://www.flickr.com/photos/86174217@N04/.

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17. August 2014: Himalayan Balsam on the Upper Lune

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ow that the banks of Himalayan balsam are in flower, eliciting gasps of appreciation from some strollers by the lower Lune, I thought that I’d find out where the balsam begins on the upper Lune. We owe most of our lower balsam to seeds being washed down the Lune from the upper balsam.

I am not aware of any balsam along the banks of the fledgling Lune from Newbiggin to Tebay, so I began my search at the M6 bridge in Tebay. I had at most about ten miles of the Lune to patrol because a bank of Himalayan balsam may be clearly seen from Killington New Bridge.

The start of my walk was enlivened by swarms of green-veined white butterflies feeding off muddy ruts under the M6 bridge. Quite what nourishment they find there Footbridge at Tebay, from under the I cannot imagine. From the M6 bridge footbridge, several fish may be seen - more than is normally seen from bridges down-river. And there was no Himalayan balsam before the path swings away from the Lune, so it was all rather pleasant - apart from the noise of the motorway ...

Himalayan balsam Impatiens glandulifera is a large annual plant that was brought to the UK as a decorative flower in the 19th century. It grows to 2 metres or so, with a soft, green, red-tinged stem. The flowers are pink-purple, with a sweet-smelling nectar, naturally attractive to bees. After the balsam has flowered, seed 97

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pods are formed which explode when disturbed, distributing the seeds far and wide, especially if the seeds should fall into flowing water, which is likely as the plant prefers to grow in moist soil such as river banks. Each plant can produce 800 seeds, which are viable for up to two years.

Victorian botanists have, therefore, enabled us to enjoy plants with the virtues of ‘herculean proportions’ and ‘splendid invasiveness’, as they promised. However, Himalayan balsam is so successful at colonising river banks and damp woodlands that it causes nearby native plants to struggle for space, light, nutrients and pollinators. Fairly soon, there are no native plants nearby. So, native biodiversity is reduced. Then, when the balsam withers away at the first frosts, there is no vegetation left on the banks, which leaves them at increased risk of erosion.

Those unhappy at the sight of a non-native mono-culture consider this a problem to be tackled urgently. The balsam arrived here unaccompanied by the natural enemies that constrain it in its native habitat. Research efforts are underway to identify a coevolved species that attacks the balsam but not indigenous species.

This is obviously a dangerous strategy. We don’t want to repeat the Australian experience of introducing cane toads to eliminate sugarcane beetles only to find the toads running amok.

In the meantime, little can be done apart from uprooting each plant and destroying it so that it cannot disperse its seeds (an activity called ‘balsam bashing’). This is easy to do, as the roots are remarkably puny for such a large plant. In principle if not in practice, the balsam may be eradicated in a couple of years if there is no further infestation.

The effectiveness of balsam bashing is a matter of debate.

Richard Mabey, an esteemed writer on the relations between nature and culture, writes “Work parties spent ‘balsam bashing’, despite (or perhaps because of) the pervasive scent of the squashed stems and the ceaseless grapeshot of seeds, are high points in the social calendars of conservation volunteers. Whether the jollies are justified, or have any ecological impact, are moot points.”1 If Mabey were not such an esteemed writer then I might suspect him of trolling, that is, of seeking to provoke a reaction (like the one 98

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that follows). I don’t consider balsam bashing a ‘jolly’, nor is it a highlight of my social calendar, empty though it is. It’s hardly a social event: it’s hard work, bent over, for hours on end, mindlessly pulling up balsam.

To suggest that people balsam bash because of an attraction to the scent or to the excitement of seed scattering is absurd. Mabey knows perfectly well that balsam is bashed before the seeds are ready to scatter, otherwise the situation will be made worse. I presume he must have his reasons for his opinions on Himalayan balsam. Perhaps I need to consider the context in which they were expressed in order to appreciate them. ... I returned to the Lune at the ancient Lune’s Bridge, where an Environment Agency car was parked, as there often seems to be. I don’t know what they are investigating here but I doubt that it is Himalayan balsam. A thorough search around Lune’s Bridge and the A685 bridge found none ...

Mabey was writing within a book entitled Weeds: The Story of Outlaw Plants where he acted as defence lawyer for weeds.

He wanted to argue that weeds are not always guilty of all that they are accused.

Lune’s Bridge So, when he considers the Himalayan balsam as a weed, he needs to defend that too.

The everyday definition of a weed as a plant in the wrong place tells us immediately that ‘weed’ does not have any botanical definition. We decide where is a ‘wrong’ place. Therefore, ‘weed’ is a psychological construct. Moreover, it is obvious that what is a ‘wrong’ place depends on who, when and where the opinion is expressed.

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Weeds annoy us: they grow where they shouldn’t; they banish the plants we’d prefer to grow there; some are ugly and smelly; some scratch and sting us; some have the audacity to run wild after we’ve invited them in good faith to this previously green and pleasant land. Ruskin thought them “impertinent” for always sticking their roots in where they were not wanted.2 He also believed that God put all plants on Earth for our benefit - to eat, to admire, or whatever.

It is tempting to humanise weeds as aggressive louts but they are only doing what evolution has led them to do, as all plants do.

Not all of the above applies to the Himalayan balsam. Those who appreciate the splendour of its flowers might need some convincing that Himalayan balsam is a weed not an adornment.

Mabey argues that weeds are not only human-defined but they are human-encouraged, in the sense that they grow where we disturb the land, by, for example, attempting to grow crops. Of course, if there were no humans there would be no weeds. And if we disturb land it tends to be what we regard as weeds (nettles, bindweed, brambles, and the like) that take over first. Himalayan balsam may be most apparent in areas of urban desolation but it does not require disturbed land to flourish. It will happily take over river banks that have been virtually unchanged for centuries.

Supporters of Himalayan balsam find solace in a report that concluded that Himalayan balsam “exerts negligible effect on the characteristics of invaded riparian communities, hence it does not represent [a] threat to the plant diversity of invaded areas”.3 This appears to contradict an earlier study that found a highly significant increase in species richness and diversity following the removal of Himalayan balsam.4 ... From Lune’s Bridge the path south follows a track rather high above the Lune, some of which it is possible to survey with binoculars. No balsam was seen. At Brockholes the track drops down to the Lune and on to Salterwath Bridge. Here seems prime Himalayan balsam habitat: lush, damp and partially shady. If there were balsam above this point then its seeds would surely flourish here - but there was no sign of it ...

It is the academic botanist’s job to debate, discuss and refine the experiments. What am I to make of such controversies?

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I cannot get into the minutiae of the experimental studies but I can look for, and be wary of, misstatements of what the report claims to show.

Wikipedia, for example, says that the former study “concludes that in some circumstances, such efforts [that is, balsam bashing] may cause more harm than good”.5 In fact, it shows nothing of the sort. It presents no evidence that removing the balsam causes more harm than good. It isn’t concerned with Salterwath Bridge, with Grayrigg Pike beyond removing the balsam at all!

My interpretation of the study is that on six measures Himalayan balsam was found to have a negative, but statistically insignificant, effect on other species. I must accept what the statistics don’t tell me, but, on the other hand, if Himalayan balsam is really neutral, what are the chances that all measures will come out negative? One in 32, I believe, if the measures are independent.

When I stand in a thicket of Himalayan balsam, with the leaves by my ears, I can reach down and grasp the stems. Occasionally I may grasp a nettle. That is all. There is no danger of accidentally uprooting a valued native plant. There is effectively only one species present, the balsam.

There is only one way in which this balsam could not have led to a decrease in the number of species compared to before the balsam invaded: that is, if previously there was at most one species present.

For example, there may have been only a thick bank of nettles. In that case, the Himalayan balsam has simply replaced the nettles and we may be rather content with the exchange.

To digress for a moment, nettles are the bane of our childhoods and one of our most detested weeds. We once took a visitor from 101

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Bulgaria for a walk along our lanes and she was surprised that we did not ‘harvest’ the nettles. She did, to make us nettle soup, which wasn’t too bad. In fact, nettles have a long history as a food source and a medicine. No doubt many of our weeds were of use to us in the past and might be of use in the future. However, we must not fall into Ruskin’s fallacy of assuming that plants are here for us. To digress even further, the baneberry has berries so poisonous that they may lead to death. Is it a weed?

Returning to Himalayan balsam, the report that found a negligible effect did not study areas completely dominated by balsam. It considered plots in which there were about ten species present and in which the balsam was considered to cover about half the area.

If I wander away from my thickets of balsam into the fringes of its invasion zone I encounter conditions more like those studied in this experiment. The balsam is not so high: it doesn’t need to be, as it’s not yet competing against other balsam. It is intermingled with numerous native species. Balsam bashing here is a more laborious process. I cannot just grab handfuls of the stuff with my eyes closed. I must carefully select (weed out) the balsam stems.

Progress appears to be much slower but it is perhaps as important to prevent the balsam’s further spread as it is to tackle ‘lost’ areas.

I can well imagine that a study focussing on areas not fully invaded will find most species still present (which is what the study counted) although probably not in the same numbers as before. If, however, a study considers areas that are 80-100% covered with Himalayan balsam (as the earlier study mentioned above did) then, even with my limited amateur experience, I would expect different results, as the earlier study found. ... From Salterwath Bridge the road runs south to Carlingill Bridge and then on to Fairmile Road. The road is rather high above the Lune, from which it is shielded by a line of trees. I decided to skip ahead to Crook of Lune Bridge at Lowgill and reconnoitre back from there. Again, although the habitat seemed ideal for it, I could see no balsam near the bridge, nor for a mile up-river ...

Why do Mabey and others defend Himalayan balsam? I have mentioned some of the reasons: 102

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• it looks attractive and may be thought to brighten the urban environment; • it does no harm, according to some interpretations of research studies; • it is an annual and therefore dies away each winter (the seeds don’t though!); • rather than balsam bashing, it would be better to control the conditions under which it flourishes, by decreasing the amount of nitrates and phosphates in the water; • the bees like it, especially in late autumn when other flowers have died away (but those other flowers have had insufficient pollination because of the balsam’s attractiveness to bees); • it is now far too established throughout the UK to be eradicated anyway, especially where it grows in inaccessible areas.

Nonetheless, Himalayan balsam is now considered by the UK government to be not a mere weed but a member of the set of Invasive Non-Native Species (INNS), which DEFRA regards as “one of the greatest threats to biodiversity across the globe”.

A programme to banish all non-native plants would require thorough research through horticultural histories to determine which of our plants should be sacrificed: escallonia?, rhododendron?, eucalyptus? laurel? But if we go on about non-native species then we risk being accused, like Gardeners’ Question Time recently, of being “layered with racial meanings” and linked to “the rise of nationalist and fascist parties”.6 It is not non-nativeness per se that makes a particular species a threat.

To be objectionable a non-native plant needs to have negative Crook of Lune Bridge characteristics that outweigh 103

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its positive ones. If it out-competes native plants, such as cowslips, which then become in danger of extinction, we might take action to protect our cowslip. If an introduced plant had a fruit that resembled a strawberry but was poisonous, then we might seek to have it prohibited. There are many such negative properties but the one that the DEFRA policy focusses upon is invasiveness.

DEFRA defines invasive species as ones “that can become dominant in the environment where they may impact on other (native) species, transform ecosystems and cause environmental harm”. The boundary is not always clear. Sycamore is non-native but has only recently come to be regarded as invasive, at least, in environmentally sensitive areas. It is definitely regarded as invasive in other contexts, such as Australia. The snowdrop, too, is an import and might, by the definition, be considered invasive. But, of course, we are too fond of it now to wish to get rid of it.

Himalayan balsam is officially an Invasive Non-Native Species.

What does that imply?

DEFRA’s 2003 review of INNS policy made a number of ‘key recommendations’ that indicated an intention to develop a nationwide programme of action.7 In due course, we have begun to tackle the problem of Himalayan balsam along the Lune and its tributaries.

The Cumbria Freshwater Non-Native Species Initiative has been established and in 2012 organised over 4,000 hours of volunteer balsam bashing. In 2011 the Lancashire Invasive Species Project was set up to coordinate the control and eradication of invasive species throughout Lancashire. Several local groups have set about the balsam.

If all else fails, we can resort to the law. As Himalayan balsam is listed under Schedule 9 to the Wildlife and Countryside Act 1981 it is an offence to plant or otherwise allow this species to grow in the wild. However, nobody has ever been prosecuted with respect to Himalayan balsam under the 1981 Act - not least, because of the difficulty of defining “in the wild”. I suppose that whenever I am on a countryside walk and pass Himalayan balsam, thereby allowing it to grow, I am, strictly speaking, breaking the law. ... I returned to the Crook of Lune Bridge to continue my search down-river. This path is part of the Dales Way and it is indeed an 104

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idyllic walk. Below the bridge two sandpipers were happily piping.

There were also several grey wagtails, a dipper or two, a heron, and, when I paused to inspect the river closely, many tiny fish in the Lune’s shallows. There were also two ladies swimming in a secluded, deep pool.

But then I saw my first Himalayan balsam, on the riverbank below Crook of Lune Wood. I uprooted it, of course.

I walked on to the footbridge over Ellergill Beck but saw no more balsam. Indeed, a later cursory inspection of the Lune at Lincoln’s Inn Bridge near Sedbergh revealed no Himalayan balsam there either. I like to imagine that I have, single-handedly, prevented infestation of a fine three-mile stretch of the Lune.

The balsam on the lower The first Himalayan balsam Lune is for another day, or several.

Richard Mabey (2010), Weeds: The Story of Outlaw Plants, London: Profile Books.

2 John Ruskin (1876), Proserpina.

3 M. Hejda and P. Pysek (2006), What is the impact of Impatiens glandulifera on species diversity of invaded riparian vegetation?, Biological Conservation, 132, 143-152.

4 P.E. Hulme and E.T. Bremner (2005), Assessing the impact of Impatiens glandulifera on riparian habitats: partitioning diversity components following species removal, Journal of Applied Ecology, 66, 66–79.

5 http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Impatiens_glandulifera.

6 http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2716106.

7 DEFRA’s Invasive Non-Native Species Framework Strategy is at: https://secure.fera.defra.gov.uk/nonnativespecies.

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18. September 2014: Juniper on Moughton

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thought that I had better go to see the juniper on Moughton before it was too late. Too late? The juniper on Moughton has been there for thousands of years. Surely, it is not about to disappear - is it?

Common juniper Juniperus communis is one of only three native conifers, the others being yew and Scots pine. Juniper is a longlived, slow-growing, adaptable plant. It can grow from sea-level to mountain-tops and on a range of soils, from the lime-rich soils of southern England to the base-rich or acidic soils of Scotland. On Moughton it grows on limestone. It can form an erect tree but on Moughton, where the juniper is fully exposed to the elements, it is a low, spreading shrub, rarely more than a metre high.

Juniper has a tough, wiry, red-brown bark. It flowers in April with the male and female flowers on separate plants. The female berries are green, turning blue-black as they ripen. These are the berries well-known for flavouring gin and cooking.

But doesn’t ‘conifer’ come from the Latin conus (cone) and ferre (to bear)? How come juniper has berries not cones? So another naive question arises: what exactly is a ‘cone’? After diligent research, I found that a cone is an organ on conifers that contains the reproductive structures - which doesn’t take me very far. But I also found that juniper has ‘berry-like cones’, so that’s fine, then. I have learned that a cone is not necessarily cone-shaped.

Although it is one of the commonest trees worldwide, juniper is the rarest of the three native conifers in the UK, even more so after a significant reduction in its distribution in the last fifty years.

This is mainly because of changes in land management, such as over-grazing and afforestation. Juniper is now identified as a UK BAP priority species, that is, as one considered to be among the most threatened and requiring conservation action under the UK Biodiversity Action Plan.

Juniper was once widespread on the hills of the Yorkshire Dales and the Forest of Bowland. It usually grew as a shrub within open 106

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Juniper on Moughton, looking towards Ingleborough

woodland of birch and rowan. I would imagine that a century or two ago juniper was common on the slopes of Ingleborough, Whernside and neighbouring peaks. I am not aware that it survives as a native species anywhere within Loyne to the extent that it does on Moughton - and even there it is rather sparsely spread.

I expect that sheep are mainly responsible for the disappearance of our juniper. Sheep have also removed almost all vestiges of heather, previously widespread, from the slopes of Ingleborough and elsewhere. Perhaps sheep do not find it necessary to leave the sheltered abundance of grass in Crummackdale to tackle the fractured limestone pavements on the top of Moughton for the dubious pleasure of nibbling the tough leaves of juniper. For the same reason, I assume, there is still heather to be found on Moughton, enough to lure two red grouse seen on my visit but not, I am sure, enough to lure sufficient grouse to satisfy any shooters tempted to use the now dilapidated grouse butts on the plateau.

Humans may be partly to blame for juniper’s disappearance too. In the past we found many uses for juniper and our harvesting 107

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of it helped to disturb the ground and create conditions for it to seed. No doubt, once the juniper had no value, we often simply cleared it out.

Juniper was used for firewood and to line farm walls. It burns with little smoke, ideal for curing ham and for illegal distilling. The berries (but now from overseas juniper) are still used not only for flavouring but also in liqueurs and sauces - and were also used, as recently as the 1980s, within ‘juniper pills’ to terminate a pregnancy.

The berries had a variety of medicinal uses, from resisting the plague to acting as an antidote to poison. Juniper was also hung over doorways to ward off evil spirits, but for some reason this is unnecessary nowadays.

The juniper has been on Moughton for a very long time, probably since shortly after the Ice Age. The healthy specimens on Moughton are accompanied by many dead and dying ones. I expect that that has always been the case because, as far as I can tell, they are dying of nothing more serious than old age.

Dead juniper, with Pen-y-Ghent beyond 108

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However, this may be about to change.

In 2011 juniper in Teesdale was found to be dying. It was being attacked by a fungus Phytophthora austrocedrae (to be precise, a fungus-like plant pathogen) that had somehow been imported from South America.1 When the juniper roots are infected, the foliage turns a lighter green, withers, turns a bronze-brown, and the plant dies. Other pathogens cause similar symptoms and it therefore takes an expert to recognise Phytophthora austrocedrae, which is usually done by analysing the inner bark.

The fungus has since been found at many juniper sites in the Scottish Highlands, the Lake District, and elsewhere, according to the Forestry Commission map.1 This is naturally a cause for alarm.

The Telegraph immediately worried about the threat to gin and tonic (akin to its reaction to the glut of elvers, page 49).2 It need not be too worried as there is plenty of juniper abroad, where the gin is made, and we have not (yet) exported the fungus.

It is, however, not a frivolous matter. As yet, UK scientists do not know precisely how the fungus spreads or how it may be controlled.

Even if we are not particularly fond of juniper, we should be aware that it is a key food plant for a wide range of invertebrates and birds, and there is a specialised group of insects, fungi and lichens associated with it.

The public has been made aware of the threat of ‘ash dieback’, because ash is such an iconic British tree. There are about a dozen other trees, including alder, larch and horse chestnut as well as our juniper, that are also under various threats. Have our trees always been under such threats, and we have only recently become aware of it, or are they becoming increasingly vulnerable to alien pathogens? If the latter, what can we do about it?

Earlier this year Natural England reported that Phytophthora austrocedrae had been confirmed on Moughton. We went to Moughton half-expecting to find the juniper fenced off, as per Natural England’s guidelines, in order to prevent people like us blundering about inadvertently spreading the fungus.

However, there were no fences or warning signs to indicate that anything was amiss. The juniper, although somewhat decrepit, did not show any of the symptoms of the fungus attack. I am no expert, 109

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of course, and in any case we only investigated the juniper on the northern part of Moughton, from the Whetstone Hole footpath up to the trig point. We did not go on to the southern half, where there seems to be less juniper. By that stage we had lost our enthusiasm for finding dying juniper.

We preferred instead to walk along the exhilarating cliff edge of Moughton Scars over to Beggar’s Stile above Crummackdale in order to enjoy the marvellous views of Ingleborough and Peny-Ghent over the sea of limestone pavement. But we could not entirely forget that these magnificent hills had lost all their juniper - and that soon the Moughton plateau behind us may do likewise.

Moughton Scars with Moughton beyond

1 2

http://www.forestry.gov.uk/paustrocedrae.

The Telegraph (June 19, 2013), Juniper tree disease threatens G&T, at: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/earth/earthnews/10130525/Junipertree-disease-threatens-GandT.html.

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19. September 2014: Wolf Spiders by the Lune

Loyn Bridge, Hornby

I

have been re-reading Robert Macfarlane’s The Wild Places in the hope that I might find some profound insight into the concept of wildness.1 The book describes a series of expeditions to elucidate the nature of wildness, although not of wild life but of wild places. Macfarlane spent a night shivering on the summit of Ben Hope, Scotland’s northernmost mountain. He tramped across the vast boggy hags of Rannoch Moor. He spent time alone on the island of Ynys Enlli off the Lleyn Peninsula. He slept on a frozen tarn during a blizzard below Red Pike in the Lake District.

However, after all these bold endeavours, he concluded (page 316) that “wildness was not about asperity, but about luxuriance, vitality, fun. The weed thrusting through a crack in the pavement, the tree root impudently cracking a carapace of tarmac: these were wild signs, as much as the storm wave and the snowflake. There was as much to be learned in an acre of woodland on a city’s fringe as on the shattered summit of Ben Hope”.

That is a relief. I have plenty of weeds and tree roots to study in preference to spending nights on freezing mountain tops. In that 111

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spirit, I have come to reflect on the nature of my own expeditions.

I too have sought, in my less heroic way, the extreme rather than the commonplace. When I went in search of, say, purple saxifrage on Ingleborough, it was not because I had suddenly developed a deep interest in purple saxifrage itself, as a flower. That would be irrational because purple saxifrage is, as far as I know, no more interesting than any of the other 440 species of saxifrage. A wildflower guide devotes no more space to purple saxifrage than it does to other saxifrages. If I’m going to search for purple saxifrage then perhaps I ought to make an equal effort searching for the others.

No, the reason that I am interested in purple saxifrage is not to do with its properties as a flower. It is because purple saxifrage is rare in Loyne, because its existence on Ingleborough is part of the history of the region, and because the search for purple saxifrage presents an invigorating challenge. Similarly, the search for locally rare species such as the small-pearl, the marsh gentian, the smallleaved lime and so on appeals to me because the challenge provides a pretext for me to learn more not just about those species but also about the ecological challenges facing Loyne.

However, perhaps I should not neglect the commonplace even if it seems to have little specific to tell me about Loyne. As I sit here at my desk, I can see spiders and flies (I should houseclean occasionally). The wood-pile that I can see outside hosts worms, snails, slugs, ants and beetles. I have no idea if there is any interesting Loyne-specific story to tell about spiders, flies, worms, snails, slugs, ants or beetles.

Let me consider spiders. I read that there are over 600 species of British spiders. That’s more than there are British birds. But whereas I can name many birds I am struggling to think of more than a handful of spiders: tarantula, daddy-long-legs, money spider, redback, black widow. That’s about it.

I then read that all but one of those are not species at all but groups of species (like, say, gull and raptor in the bird world). The one species, redback, is Australian. Two of the others, tarantula and black widow, are not British either. Of the two British groups, one of them, daddy-long-legs, does not include just spiders. It also 112

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includes crane-flies, which are not spiders or flies, and harvestmen, which are not spiders or men. The money spiders, of which there are over 4,000 species worldwide, are said to be so-called because of a superstition that if they land upon you they will bring you good fortune. That, however, doesn’t seem a foolproof method of identifying them.

So, I cannot name, let alone identify, a single British spider!

This is not entirely my fault. Some British spiders, even quite common ones, don’t seem to have names (I am not yet prepared to utter Coelotes atropos in any conversation). Others, such as Araneus diadematus, have several: cross orbweaver, cross spider, diadem spider, European garden spider. Most have plausible, but to me unfamiliar, names, such as cave spider (Meta menardi), green huntsman (Micrommata virescens), spitting spider (Scytodes thoracica), and so on. There is also an invisible spider (Drapetisca socialis), which I have not seen to put a name to.

Where do I begin? I should ensure that I know what a spider is.

Spiders (order Araneae) are of the class Arachnida of the subphylum Chelicerata of the phylum Anthropoda of the kingdom Animalia.

Anthropods (which include insects, crustaceans and spiders) are invertebrate animals with an external skeleton, a segmented body, and jointed appendages. Chelicerates (which include horseshoe crabs, sea spiders (which are not true spiders) and spiders) have biting appendages before the mouth - in the case of spiders, usually fangs to inject venom into prey. Arachnids (which include scorpions, mites and spiders) have four pairs of legs and two body segments, the cephalothorax and abdomen. Spiders, unlike other arachnids, produce silk from spinnerets, usually found at the end of the abdomen.

Spiders don’t travel far but since Loyne has a wide range of habitats, I’d guess that 300-400 of the 600 British species are to be found here. If I were to write about a spider each month that would keep me going until 2045 or so. Is there anything particularly interesting to say about any one of them?

Well, here’s one that might have specific Loyne appeal, in so far as any spider is appealing: northern bear-spider, Arctosa cinerea.

These are ‘wolf spiders’, so-called because they are agile, robust 113

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hunters, not, sadly, because they hunt in packs. Arctosa cinerea is one of Europe’s largest spiders, its body (not including the legs) being up to 17mm long.

Most spiders have eight eyes. Perhaps you knew that. I didn’t.

So, an eye for each leg, except that the eyes aren’t on the legs, of course - they are on the head, as usual, except that spiders don’t have heads (the head is merged with the thorax). The eyes are usually poor compared to those of most insects, as most spiders rely more on touch and taste. But Arctosa cinerea is a hunter and needs good eyes. It has two large eyes in a middle row, two medium-sized eyes in a top row, and four small eyes in a bottom row.

It just so happens that Loyne’s Arctosa cinerea are at the southern limits of the British range, apart from some in Wales that I won’t mention. It lives on the shingle edges of the River Lune. It hides under the cobbles and digs holes that it covers with silk, where it presumably remains during floods. It likes to live near the water’s edge but not amongst vegetation. This implies that this apparently barren region must satisfy rather precise conditions to suit the spider: the river must not flood for too long, or the spider will drown, but it must flood often enough to wash vegetation anyway.

Arctosa cinerea 2 114

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The Lune near Thrush Gill Island, where Loyne’s Arctosa cinerea were first recorded in 1976

This is an example of how tampering with the flow of a river may have effects on wildlife that we don’t even know about.

The British Arachnological Society’s map indicates that Arctosa cinerea has been found along the Lune between Hornby and Kirkby Lonsdale.3 I thought that I’d investigate.

How do arachnologists arachnologise? I doubt that they set out to find a specific species of spider. I imagine that they catch whatever spiders they can, perhaps using traps, and then study them with lenses at their leisure and pleasure.

Anyway, I decided to walk north along the Lune Valley Ramble from Loyn Bridge at Hornby to see where Arctosa cinerea live. I didn’t expect, and nor should you, that a novice spiderman could just go and find a particular spider for you. For one thing, Arctosa cinerea wisely begins to hibernate in September.

Alas, I found that most of the shingle beaches were on the opposite bank, where there is no public footpath. Even more alas, most of my bank was protected by depressing swathes of Himalayan balsam, plus some Japanese knotweed for good measure.

I clambered over to a few shingle beaches and self-consciously turned over a few hundred cobbles (I don’t know what I would have said if anyone had asked me what I was up to). I sent a few small 115

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spiders scampering about. None were considerate enough to keep still to allow a close inspection. I hope that they weren’t Arctosa cinerea because I picture them as considerably more fearsome.

My overall conclusion, however, is that while all the creepies, the crawlies, the wigglies, the slimies, and so on are indeed part of wildlife in all its glory there are just too many of them, all much of a muchness to me. I have no doubt that they are really deeply fascinating in their own way but if I developed a serious interest in spiders, say, I’d have no time for anything else, which I’m sure we’d all regret.

Robert Macfarlane (2007), The Wild Places, London: Granta Books.

Steven Falk, https://www.flickr.com/photos/63075200@N07/ (photo

by Kevin McGee).

3 http://srs.britishspiders.org.uk/portal/p/Summary/s/ Arctosa+cinerea.

1 2

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20. October 2014: Hen Harriers in Roeburndale

Hen harrier 1

T

he inconsequential flow of this narrative has been interrupted by an event that may alarm, anger and shame us in Loyne. In September two young hen harriers were killed - or, in case lawyers are reading, disappeared in suspicious circumstances - in the Roeburndale region of Bowland. I am temporarily abandoning my self-imposed rule of only writing about what I have seen, or at least tried to see, in order to give the background to this event.

The hen harrier Circus cyaneus is not just any old bird. It is the icon of Bowland. It forms the logo of the Forest of Bowland AONB. How did it come to be so? Why was it necessary to put tracking devices on the fledgling hen harriers? Why did they suddenly stop transmitting in September?

In the early 20th century, habitat loss and persecution drove UK hen harriers to nest only on the Orkney Islands. During and after 117

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the 1939-45 war, while estate owners and their gamekeepers were distracted, the hen harriers gradually spread south. They began to breed again in England in 1968.

The recovery was always fragile even though there is suitable habitat for several hundred pairs. Hen harriers are birds of open landscapes, not only the uplands to which breeding has recently been restricted. They usually nest on the ground in mature heather.

Breeding activity generally starts with adult males attempting to attract a mate by means of spectacular aerial displays known as skydances. In recent decades Bowland provided a relative stronghold for breeding hen harriers in England.

A Natural England report reviewed the breeding success of hen harriers in England for the years 2002-2008.2 In those seven years there were 72 successful nests in England, yielding 225 fledged young. Of those 72, 52 (with 179 fledglings) were in Bowland.

Of those 52, 42 were on land owned by United Utilities (a water company) and 10 were on land managed as driven grouse shoots.

The report does not give the areas of land involved but I doubt that United Utilities owns more of Bowland than is used for grouse shooting. So, an obvious question is: why were there so few successful nests on the grouse moors? Also, why were the proportion of nesting attempts to be successful and the number of chicks per successful nest lower on the grouse moors? Perhaps United Utilities and the owners of grouse moors do not have the same incentives to want hen harriers to flourish.

The report also analysed the reasons that Bowland nesting attempts failed. The numbers were small - 22 on United Utilities land and 8 on the grouse moors - but they indicate that the most common cause of a United Utilities failure was predation and of a grouse moor failure was ‘unknown’. The only case of persecution being the reason for failure was on the grouse moors. None of the Bowland breeding failures was considered due to the disappearance of a parent bird, which occurred mysteriously frequently in the 24 failed breeding attempts in England outside Bowland.

As you would expect, the hen harrier is a protected species.

Even so, the report concluded that “direct evidence [has been found] that hen harriers have been persecuted” and “that whilst illegal 118

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killing continues to be a widespread activity ... the prospects for the hen harrier’s return to its former range and numbers unaided are slight.”

Since 2008 this gloomy prognosis has turned out to be not gloomy enough. By 2013 the number of hen harriers breeding in England had dropped to zero. Hen harriers do travel far - so visiting hen harriers would still be seen in England - but they tend to return to near their birthplace to breed. Therefore, there would be a decreasing chance, year-by-year, that hen harriers would breed in Bowland unless something changed soon.

In 2011 the RSPB announced the ‘Sky-dancer project’: “an exciting new four-year project aimed at raising awareness and promoting the conservation of hen harriers in the north of England”.3 DEFRA had (or has or will have) a ‘Hen Harrier Joint Recovery Plan’. Its details appear to be awaiting agreement with RSPB and GWCT (the Game and Wildlife Conservation Trust) involving apparently difficult compromises between the need to safeguard a legally protected species and the desire of some to sustain unnaturally high numbers of another species in order to shoot it. Anyway, there was no lack of awareness of the problem.

Earlier in 2014 there was cautious optimism when four hen harrier pairs nested in England, including two in Bowland. With 24-hour protection, the two Bowland pairs raised nine young, two of which were fitted with the tracking devices that failed in September.

The makers of the device say that the probability of it suddenly mal-functioning is very low. The probability of two failing is very very low. The most likely explanation seems to be that the devices were disabled, perhaps by the birds being shot or killed by a fox.

Most of the grouse moors of Bowland are owned by the Duke of Westminster, the UK’s richest aristocrat. Men - and perhaps women too - supplement his £8.5 billion by paying a thousand pounds a day to shoot grouse on the 23,500 acre Abbeystead Estate.

What do the estates’ gamekeepers think of hen harriers? Perhaps the answer lies in their job-title. They are paid to keep game, not to keep non-game, especially not non-game that, they believe, harms game. I once mentioned to a Bowland gamekeeper that, despite 119

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Black Clough, near Abbeystead

walking and running on the Bowland hills for over thirty years, I had never seen a fox there. He replied “That’s ‘cos I kill ‘em all”.

Twenty-seven in one year, I think he said.

If you walk by a wall fringing a grouse moor you may come across metal grids fixed to the tops of gates in the wall and on planks across puddles next to the wall. Weasels don’t like to get their feet wet, so they run along the tops of walls and gates or, if they are on the ground, on the planks over puddles. They run into the grids but not out of them. Members of the general public react differently to the killing of foxes, weasels and hen harriers, but perhaps some gamekeepers don’t.

It has been proposed that there should be tougher penalties for wildlife crimes, a regulation scheme for grouse moors, and a principle of vicarious liability, whereby estate owners are held legally responsible for crimes committed by their employees.

Weasel trap This is highly contentious.

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In 2007, Prince Harry and a gamekeeper were interviewed after two hen harriers were killed on the Queen’s Sandringham estate.

Natural England, the body responsible for Special Protection Areas such as Bowland, is a ‘non-departmental public body’ but the Secretary of State has the legal power to ‘issue guidance’ to Natural England. Natural England is dependent upon the government for its funding. Would Natural England really seek to alienate owners of large estates? The minister who ruled out vicarious liability was a former trustee of GWCT and owner of grouse moors.

Even RSPB, an independent charity, seems to have its hands tied. Its Sky-dancer project is funded by the Heritage Lottery Fund, which imposes a condition that its grants must not be used for political lobbying. Therefore, RSPB feels inhibited, or prevented, from arguing the case for vicarious liability.

Perhaps belated hope lies in a recent study carried out at Langholm Moor in Scotland. Here ‘diversionary feeding’, that is, the provision of alternative food to parent hen harriers, reduced predation of grouse to what might be considered reasonable levels.

The Countryside Alliance, however, considers that the problem does not lie with grouse moors. It says that “birds of prey are, on the whole, doing incredibly well and most are at their highest levels since records began” and that hen harriers are “susceptible to bad weather, disturbance, poor habitat and lack of available food”, for none of which the managers of grouse moors can be blamed.4 I expect that the Alliance considers the buzzard to be “doing incredibly well”. A gamekeeper employed by another former GWCT trustee was recently found guilty of killing ten buzzards.

A spokesman for the National Gamekeepers’ Organisation (NGO) said: “We condemn these actions utterly. The selfish, stupid actions of one man – who was not and never has been a member of the NGO – must not be used to tarnish the good name of gamekeeping”.5 The RSPB’s Sky-dancer project is offering a £1,000 reward for any information that leads to a conviction, should it emerge that one or both of our hen harriers were illegally killed. All that is known at the moment is that the last transmissions from the two birds were at 7.33pm on 10 September on Summersgill Fell, west of Thrushgill, and at 10.51am on 13 September on Mallowdale Pike.

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Mallowdale Pike

Mike Barth, http://www.flickr.com/photos/mikebarth/.

Natural England report (2008), A future for the hen harrier in England?, at http://publications.naturalengland.org.uk/publication/52002.

3 http://www.rspb.org.uk/community/ourwork/skydancer/b/ skydancer/default.aspx.

4 The Observer (January 5, 2013), Hawks in danger of extinction in illegal hunting campaign, at http://www.theguardian.com/environment/2013/jan/05/hawksextinction-illegal-hunting.

5 http://www.nationalgamekeepers.org.uk/news/gamekeeper-foundguilty-of-poisoning-birds-of-prey.

1 2

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21. December 2014: Sitka Spruce in Dentdale

R

ecently I noticed an advertisement offering a woodland for sale. To be precise, it offered the wood not the land. For about £250,000, I could buy 28.8 hectares of mature forest, provided that I promised to fell all the trees by 2017, yielding about 10,000 tonnes of timber, so that the cleared land could revert to the owner for restocking.

I didn’t really have a need for 10,000 tonnes of timber and nor did I have £250,000 to spare but I was intrigued by the notion that I could temporarily adopt a forest in order to chop it down. I had assumed that owners of forests felled their own trees for their own profit. In this case, the owner was presumably content with £250,000 and none of the work. The sale document didn’t actually say who the owner is but it mentioned the Forestry Commission and Cumbria County Council as ‘authorities’.

The Forestry Commission would need to give a licence to whoever bought the forest before it could be felled. I doubt that the Forestry Commission owns the forest, as it is fairly small.

The Forestry Commission was set up in 1919 as a government department to restore wood supplies after the First World War, with a secondary objective of sustaining rural populations. It planted fast-growing conifers on the swathes of poor land that it bought to become Britain’s largest land owner. After the Countryside Act of 1968 the Commission’s focus moved towards conservation and recreation. Today the Commission also engages in forestry research to protect and improve the biodiversity of forests.

The woodland for sale was at Mossy Bottom at the head of Dentdale. The majority (87%) of the forest was Sitka spruce Picea sitchensis that were planted in 1971-72, along with a few European larches.

Sitka spruce is probably Britain’s most numerous tree. It cannot be said to be our most common tree, as that would suggest that it is widespread. It isn’t. Almost all our Sitka spruce is packed into regimented forests on our northern and western slopes.

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Looking west along Dentdale from Great Knoutberry Hill, with the plantation of Low Langshaw Moss on the slopes of Whernside 1

Sitka spruce is native to the west coast of North America (Sitka is a small port in Alaska) and was introduced to Britain in the 19th century. It requires plenty of moisture, which Mossy Bottom certainly provides. It grows quickly on poor, exposed sites. It is a tall, narrow tree that will grow close to its neighbours. It is resistant to disease. It yields large quantities of timber. Its wood is light and strong - ideal for making paper, boxes, musical instruments, boats, aircraft, and so on. It seems perfect for Mossy Bottom!

Is it perfect for Dentdale? To gain an appreciation of the Mossy Bottom Sitka spruce I went to have a look. There are several other conifer plantations in Loyne - for example, in Bretherdale, Garsdale and Hindburndale - but they are usually small and inconspicuous.

However, from the surrounding hills of Dentdale or in the quiet, green, rural valley, the conifer plantations seem prominent and intrusive. From the Google Earth view of upper Dentdale you might think that large areas have been redacted for security purposes.

Perhaps this subjective feeling of intrusiveness is provoked by the fact that only in Dentdale do the public footpaths lead the walker into the depths of the forest. Elsewhere in Loyne, as far as I can remember, footpaths skirt the conifers, to which we can 124

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therefore turn a blind eye, or stay far from them, so that we can admire or ignore them from a distance.

The footpath that goes through Mossy Bottom above the line of the Settle-Carlisle railway in the Bleamoor Tunnel soon reduces the view to one only of nearby, over-powering identical spruces, from which one longs to escape onto the open moorland. At least, that is how I remembered it. But as I dropped down from the top of Blea Moor I could see that much of the forest had been felled more recently than it had been Google Earthed.

The scene was one of some desolation. Large areas had been laid bare, with only old stumps and scruffy piles of brash remaining. In places, new rows of young spruce, in various stages of growth, had been re-planted. Some patches of mature trees remained, including some near where Mossy Bottom is marked on the map. I don’t know if the 28.8 hectares are still for sale. There was no sign of any forest workmen I could ask, nor indeed of any equipment for ongoing work.

Enough of the forest remained for me to try to get more fully into its spirit by walking off the footpath into its depths. I had

The partially felled plantation of Hazel Bottom, with the Settle-Carlisle railway on the slopes of Great Knoutberry Hill 125

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The partially replanted plantation of Mossy Bottom, with the Settle-Carlisle railway line disappearing into Bleamoor Tunnel

no fear of getting lost because the trees were in straight lines to guide me back out. Beyond a few yards, the forest was dark and silent. Hardly a splinter of light penetrated the dense canopy. No undergrowth grew. There was just a springy carpet of dead, dry needles. The lower branches of the trees seemed dead too. I doubt that many animals live on the forest floor. I expect that there are some birds that are at home in the upper branches but I didn’t hear any, although admittedly December is not the best month to hear birds.

To be fair, I doubt that Mossy Bottom was replete with wildlife before the forest was planted. Even so, it is dispiriting to see Sitka spruce planted in serene, green Dentdale. But not so long ago Dentdale was not as serene and green as most of it is today. The Sportsman’s Inn below Arten Gill hints otherwise. ‘Sportsmen’ came to shoot grouse on the then heather-clad slopes. My impression, incidentally, is that the grouse are returning and indeed seem quite friendly now that they are not expecting to be shot.

Forestry policies are, of course, a matter of national controversy.

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plantations are being removed or at least softened by the planting of deciduous trees. Newer plantations are skillfully landscaped, with irregular shapes and mixed species, to provide a more pleasant, varied aspect to the hillsides. However, as far as I could tell, no such policy applies to Dentdale. Sitka spruce seems set to continue.

Perhaps I need to take a longer term view. Our hills were previously wooded and the removal of trees many centuries ago led to the erosion and degradation of the exposed soil. The new conifer forests were planted for the economic production of timber, not to protect and regenerate the soil, although it may have that effect, hard though it is to acknowledge this standing in the gloom of Mossy Bottom. I must try to regard the Sitka spruce as a temporary crop. Eventually, when the very last spruce has been felled, perhaps the soil will have been stabilised and reinvigorated to enable native flora and fauna to return and flourish. One can but hope.

1

John Shepherd, https://www.flickr.com/photos/kingorry/.

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22. January 2015: Dippers in Barbon Beck

A

midwinter, midweek walk in Barbondale is a particular pleasure. There are no cars parked at the picnic spot near Blindbeck Bridge. There are no cars being driven over the Barbondale Road into Dentdale, for a jaunt. There may be the occasional farm vehicle but otherwise all is silent, apart from the bubbling of Barbon Beck itself.

Within the wood of the Barbon Manor estate few birds are to be heard. A rook may caw; a pheasant may squawk; a robin may sing.

Perhaps a small flock of long-tailed tits may twitter past. A heron may try to fly unnoticed from the beck. The only distraction from the peaceful solitude is the realisation, made manifest in winter, that the wood is sadly becoming overgrown with rhododendron.

Once out of the wood, one may hear the mewing of a couple of buzzards circling towards Castle Knott. Snow lies on the ground and ice fringes the beck which runs strong and clear - and very cold.

There are no birds by the beck, it seems.

However, if one walks along close by Barbon Beck it is likely that a bird that is in its element will be seen - the dipper, or, more properly, the white-throated dipper Cinclus cinclus. The dipper’s name is doubly appropriate. The bird dips, or bobs, repeatedly as it stands on a rock midstream. With its white bib, the dipper’s action seems almost comically obsequious. Also, the bird dips, or drops, into the water from time to time, to swim or splash about, looking for insects.

These two characteristics, quite distinctive for British birds, make the dipper easy to identify.

An obvious question is: Why does a dipper bob in such a fashion? To satisfy us any answer would need to explain Dipper 1 128

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how the action gives the dipper some evolutionary advantage.

Dippers don’t reflect on the matter: they just breed, eat, and try not to be eaten. The bobbing must, I suppose, help one or more of those activities.

So suggested answers are: it is a breeding display or a means of communication (but dippers bob throughout the year, although more energetically at breeding times, and it is usually a solitary bird, with no fellow dippers to communicate with); it provides different viewing angles into the flowing water and thus enables prey to be better seen (but, in my observation, dippers don’t seem to be looking into the water when they bob - and why would it need to be such a precise, regular bob?); it helps to camouflage the dipper against the turbulent beck (but for my eyes, but perhaps not its predators’, it, on the contrary, draws attention to the bird).

None of those answers satisfy me, so I’ll suggest some more.

Maybe it’s a way of helping the leg muscles, tired from gripping rocks in fast-flowing water, avoid cramp. (Do animals other than us get cramp? They surely must.) Perhaps the dipper is keeping alert, to escape any would-be predator. Perhaps it is nervous about diving into the cold water, like a diver on a high springboard.

Perhaps it’s just a ritual, like Rafael Nadal’s serving rigmarole. I think dipper-philosophers should ponder this profound problem more deeply, so that we may sleep at night.

The dipper is an aquatic bird but it is not adapted to the water like waterfowl, with, for example, webbed feet. It has its own adaptations, appropriate to its niche, fast mountain streams: • Its wings are short and strong, enabling them to serve as flippers underwater.

• Strong claws can grip rocks in swift water.

• Thick down keeps the dipper insulated.

• A very large preen gland waterproofs the feathers.

• A third eye-lid helps to see under water and to clear the eyes after diving.

• A nostril flap closes when the dipper is under water.

• Its eyes have strong focus muscles to help underwater vision.

• Its blood has high haemoglobin concentrations so that it can store more oxygen.

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Barbon Beck, looking north (above) and looking south (below)

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Clearly, with all these adaptations, the dipper is a special bird, well suited to our mountain becks. It is worth pausing by Barbon Beck to study the dipper with binoculars. Of course, not all the adaptations can be seen but at least we can appreciate the dipper’s capabilities. It can be alarming to see it suddenly drop, apparently recklessly or by accident, into rapids, disappearing for several seconds - only to pop up, implausibly, some distance upstream.

Meanwhile, the dipper takes little notice of us studying it. If, however, we begin to approach, it will fly ahead of us to stand and bob on another rock twenty metres away. It will continue to fly ahead for some time until it decides that it has had enough of this game, and will fly back past us, with a fast whirring of its wings and a peep or two of disapproval. It is a distinctive, sharp little call.

I usually hear dippers in our beck (mentioned on page 93) before I see them sweeping past. It always flies not far above the water, following the path of the beck, eschewing any short-cuts.

The Barbon Beck dippers are in fact flying back because they have reached the end of their territory. A dipper patrols its stretch and will not intrude upon its neighbour. Between Blindbeck Bridge and Short Gill Bridge two or three dippers are likely to be seen.

Although dippers are described as birds of the mountain becks, I often see them on the more placid lower reaches of the Lune. I don’t know if these birds spend all their time on the Lune, or whether the Lune marks the end of its territory along some nearby tributary.

Dippers are the earliest of our birds to nest, starting in February.

I saw no sign of the Barbon Beck dippers preparing to breed, which I am relieved about. I wouldn’t want to disturb this crucial activity.

There are few beck-side shrubs to provide cover for dipper nests, which are made mainly of moss and built into crevices on banks or under bridges.

The length of a dipper’s territory is determined by the availability of nesting sites (which, although I’m no dipper, I’d judge to be low along Barbon Beck) and, of course, food. Dippers feed solely on aquatic life. They eat caddis-fly larvae, nymphs, and occasionally small fish. (Dippers used to be killed because they were believed to harm precious fish stocks.) They forage among the stones on the beck’s bed, clinging to rocks and swimming with their wings.

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As is obvious at Barbon Beck, dippers do not, unlike many songbirds, forsake us when winter comes. This alone deserves to endear the dipper to us. They stay within their territory, which means that it must provide adequate sustenance throughout the year, for the dipper pair and for their brood of four or five young (or more if there’s a second brood).

The dipper is completely dependent on clean, clear, fastflowing water, with adequate food and safe nest-sites. Pollution and turbidity, caused by erosion, and any damming or channelling that alters water flow is liable to cause problems for the dipper. A sight of a dipper on a beck is therefore a time to rejoice. It is a sign that the beck is healthy. Barbon Beck and indeed most of Loyne’s becks are, I’m pleased to say, healthy enough to support dipper populations. Nationwide, too, populations appear to be stable and thus the dipper is in the minority, being on the Green list of British birds, enabling me, for a change, to end on a positive note.

1

Margaret Holland, https://www.flickr.com/photos/67065881@N00/.

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Map for Sections 1-22

3. Orchid 13. Fell pony

2. Snail

Orton

•

Harrop Pike ▲ Bo rro w

Be

River Lune

•

ck

1. Curlew

Tebay

Whinfell Beacon ▲

• Newbiggin-on-Lune

▲ Green Bell

▲ The Calf Sedbergh

9. Cattle

R iv

•

Ri

er R awt h ey

▲ Wild Boar Fell

17. Himalayan balsam

Clo

ve

ugh

rD

ee

22. Dipper

•

Great Coum ▲ k

er

▲ Baugh Fell

Dent

▲ Great Knoutberry Hill

Whernside ▲

21. Sitka spruce

c

Be

Riv

Kirkby Lonsdale

19. Wolf spider

•

L

River

e

un

rL ve

•

Hornby

•

r

de

n Co

v

•

•

Galgate

River Cock er

Cockerham

er

▲ Ward’s Stone

15. Small pearl-bordered fritillary

▲ Wolfhole Crag

16. Kingfisher

rn

n

Ri

Pilling

ur

eb

5. Cinnabar caterpillar

18. Juniper

g

Ri

ve rR o

•

•

Wenn in

bu nd Hi

•

Ri

4. Tree

• Bentham

er Riv

Halton Caton

• Ingleton

River Greta

7. Small-leaved lime

Lancaster

11. Purple saxifrage ▲ Ingleborough

8. Eel

12. Sand martin

eck

▲ Bowland Knotts ▲ White Hill

6. Marsh gentian 20. Hen harrier

14. Cuckoo

10. Pink-footed goose

Map for Sections 1-22 The Life of Loyne, http://www.drakkar.co.uk/thelifeofloyne.html, 2013 - ??, John Self

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On-line Sources

T

here are many groups and societies concerned with aspects of British wildlife, most of which maintain informative websites.

These include: Amphibian and Reptile Conservation Trust, which is committed to conserving frogs, toads, newts, snakes and lizards, http://www.arc-trust.org.

Association of British Fungus Groups, http://www.abfg.org/.

Badger Trust, http://badgertrust.org.uk/.

Bat Conservation Trust, http://www.bats.org.uk.

British Arachnological Society, http://wiki.britishspiders.org.uk.

British Bryological Society, which exists to promote the study of mosses and liverworts, http://rbg-web2.rbge.org.uk/bbs/bbs.htm.

British Deer Society, a charity which works to enable British deer to exist in today’s environment, http://www.bds.org.uk/index.html.

British Dragonfly Society, http://www.british-dragonflies.org.uk/.

British Hedgehog Preservation Society, http://www.britishhedgehogs.org.uk/.

British Herpetological Society, which is concerned with the study of reptiles and amphibians, http://www.thebhs.org.

British Mycological Society, which is open to all who are interested in promoting and learning about fungi, http://www.britmycolsoc.org.uk.

British Trust for Ornithology, an independent charitable research institute that monitors data on bird populations, http://www.bto.org/.

Buglife, a charity dedicated to maintaining sustainable populations of insects, spiders and earthworms, http://www.buglife.org.uk.

Bumblebee Conservation Trust, http://www.bumblebeeconservation.org.uk/.

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Butterfly Conservation, which is a charity devoted to saving butterflies and moths, http://butterfly-conservation.org.

Conchological Society of Great Britain and Ireland, which is devoted to the study of molluscs, http://www.conchsoc.org.

Conservation Evidence, an information resource designed to support decisions about how to maintain and restore global biodiversity, http://www.conservationevidence.com.

Department for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs (DEFRA), the UK government department responsible for policy in those areas, http://www.gov.uk/defra.

Environment Agency (EA), a UK government agency whose principal aims are to protect and improve the environment, and to promote sustainable development, being concerned mainly with rivers, flooding and pollution, http://www.environment-agency.gov.uk.

Freshwater Habitats Trust, a national charity dedicated to protecting the wildlife of our freshwaters, http://www.freshwaterhabitats.org.uk/.

Froglife, a charity for the conservation of reptiles and amphibians, http://www.froglife.org/.

Game and Wildlife Conservation Trust, a charity that researches and develops game and wildlife management techniques, http://www.gwct.org.uk/.

Hawk and Owl Trust, to conserve owls and other birds of prey in the wild, http://hawkandowl.org/.

Mammal Society, dedicated to the study and conservation of all mammals of the British Isles, http://www.mammal.org.uk.

National Biodiversity Network, which captures and integrates wildlife data to make it available on the internet, http://data.nbn.org.uk.

Natural England, which is the government’s advisor on the natural environment, providing practical advice, grounded in science, on how best to safeguard England’s natural wealth, http://www.naturalengland.org.uk.

People’s Trust for Endangered Species, which tries to ensure a future for many endangered species throughout the world, http://www.ptes.org.

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Red Squirrels Northern England, a red squirrel conservation partnership in northern England, http://www.rsne.org.uk.

Royal Entomological Society, which aims to improve and disseminate knowledge of insect science, http://www. royensoc.co.uk.

Royal Society for the Protection of Birds (RSPB), http://www.rspb.org.uk.

Wild Flower Society, http://www.thewildflowersociety.com/.

Wild Trout Trust, http://www.wildtrout.org.

Wildfowl and Wetlands Trust, which works globally to safeguard and improve wetlands for wildlife and people, http://www.wwt.org.uk.

Wildlife Conservation Research Unit, a group based at Oxford University concerned with international wildlife and environmental conservation, http://www.wildcru.org.

Woodland Trust, http://www.woodlandtrust.org.uk.

There are also several groups concerned specifically with the wildlife of parts of Loyne: Birding Aldcliffe, a blog about birds at Aldcliffe Marsh in the Lune estuary, http://birdingaldcliffe.blogspot.co.uk/.

Cumbria Biodiversity Data Centre, which makes available information on Cumbria’s natural history, wildlife sites and habitats for education, research and decision making, http://cumbriabdc.blogspot.co.uk/.

Cumbria Freshwater Invasive Non-Native Species, concerned with preventing, detecting, controlling and eradicating invasive non-native species in Cumbria, http://www.cfinns.scrt.co.uk/.

Cumbria Wildlife Trust, http://www.cumbriawildlifetrust.org.uk.

Forest of Bowland, http://www.forestofbowland.com/.

Heysham Bird Observatory, http://heyshamobservatory.blogspot.co.uk/.

Lancashire Badger Group, http://www.lancashirebadgergroup.org.uk/, Lancashire Invasive Species Project, http://www.lancashireinvasives.org/.

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Lancashire Wildlife Trust, http://www.lancswt.org.uk.

Lancaster and District Bird-Watching Society, http://www.lancasterbirdwatching.org.uk.

Lune Rivers Trust, which is a charity dedicated to the conservation, protection, rehabilitation and improvement of the River Lune and its tributaries, http://www.luneriverstrust.org.uk.

North West Fungus Group, which aims to promote an interest in fungi in the northwest counties, http://fungus.org.uk/nwfg.htm.

North West Naturalists Union, to promote an interest in natural history in northwest England, http://www.northwesternnaturalistsunion.org.uk/.

South Cumbria Rivers Trust, to protect, conserve and rehabilitate the aquatic environments of South Cumbria, http://www.scrt.co.uk/.

Yorkshire Dales Biodiversity Forum, which is concerned with wildlife conservation in the Yorkshire Dales National Park, http://www.natureinthedales.org.uk.

Yorkshire Wildlife Trust, http://www.ywt.org.uk.

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Index Abbeystead 119-120 Acer 26 Acer campestre 28 Acer negundo 26 Acer pseudoplatanus 26 Alcedo atthis 93 alder 28, 31 Alnus glutinosa 28 Amber list 13-15, 73, 93 Amphibian and Reptile Conservation Trust 134 Anatidae 55-56, 62 angiosperm 25 Anguilla anguilla 44 Anser albifrons 57 Anser anser 57 Anser brachyrhynchus 57 Anserinae 56 Anthropoda 113 AONB (Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty) 91, 117 Arachnida 113 arachnid 113 arachnology 115 Araneae 113 Arctosa cinerea 113-116 Arnside and Silverdale AONB 91 ash 27-28 ash dieback 109 ASNW (Ancient Semi-Natural Woodland) 29 Association of British Fungus Groups 134 Aughton Woods 40-43 Austwick Moss 87

Barbon Beck 128-132 Barbondale 128 barnacle goose 57 Barnes, Simon 70, 73 Barth, Mike 122 Bat Conservation Trust 134 bean goose 57 beech 26-27, 29 Beggar’s Stile 110 Betula pendula 28 Bewick, Thomas 61-62 Bewick’s swan 57, 60-61 Biological Heritage Site 40 birch 28 bird migration 83-85 birder 80 Birding Aldcliffe 136 birdwatcher 69, 80 Birkbeck Fells 75, 79 black poplar 27 black widow 112 Blea Moor 125 Bleamoor Tunnel 125-126 bluebell 22-23 bogbean 18-19 Boloria euphrosyne 87 Boloria selene 87 Borrowdale 77-78 Bowland, see Forest of Bowland box elder 26 Branta canadensis 57 Bremner, E.T. 105 brent goose 57 Bretherdale 124 British Arachnological Society 115116, 134 British Bryological Society 134 British Deer Society 134 British Dragonfly Society 134 British Hedgehog Preservation Society 134 British Herpetological Society 134

Badger Trust 134 Baines Cragg 80 balsam bashing 98-102 baneberry 102 BAP (Biodiversity Action Plan) 106 BAP priority species 106 138

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Cumbria Freshwater Invasive NonNative Species 104, 136 Cumbria Wildlife Trust 136 curlew 11-15 Cygnus columbianus 57 Cygnus cygnus 57 Cygnus olor 57

British Mycological Society 134 British Trust for Ornithology 134 broad-leaved 25 Brockholes Nature Reserve 71 Buglife 134 Bull Beck 69, 72, 93-96 Bumblebee Conservation Trust 134 Burren, the 52 Burton Wood 40 butterfly 86-92 Butterfly Conservation 135 buzzard 121

daddy-long-legs 112-113 Dales Way 104 Day, Alison 36 Day, David 20 deciduous 25 DEFRA (Department for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs) 47-49, 51, 103-105, 119, 135 Dent Fault 50 Dentdale 123-127 dipper 93, 105, 128-132 diversionary feeding 121 dog rose 28 duck 55-56 Duke of Westminster 119 dwarf caribou 18

Canada goose 57 Carpinus betulus 27 cattle 50-54 Chapel-le-Dale 65 Chelicerata 113 chimney sweeper moth 88 Cinclus cinclus 128 cinnabar caterpillar 32-36 cinnabar moth 33-35 Circus cyaneus 117 class 55 Cohen, Ashley 62 colony 90-92 common lime 41 common spotted-orchid 91 Conchological Society 135 Conder 80 cone 106 conifer 25, 106 Conservation Evidence 135 Coren, Alan 24 Corylus avellana 28 Countryside Alliance 121 Crataegus monogyna 28 critically endangered 47 Crook o’Lune 69, 72 Crook of Lune Bridge 102-105 Crook of Lune Wood 105 Crummackdale 107, 110 cuckoo 80-85 Cuculus canorus 80 Cumbria Biodiversity Data Centre 136

early-purple orchid 22-23 Edith’s Wood 25-29 eel 44-49 Eel Management Plan 47-49 eel pass 44-45, 47 Egyptian goose 57 elver 46 Environment Agency 46, 48, 99, 135 Equus ferus 77 evergreen 25 Fagaceae 26 Falk, Steven 116 family 26, 55 Fell End Clouds 50-54 fell pony 74-79 Fell Pony Society 76-77, 79 Fen Beck 87 fern 22 field maple 28 139

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Ford, Nick 85 Forest of Bowland 106, 117-122, 136 Forestry Commission 109, 123 fox 120 Fraxinus excelsior 28-29 Freshwater Habitats Trust 135 Froglife 135 Froude, Greg 62 fully protected species 19 fungus 109-110

Himalayan balsam 97-105, 115 Hindburndale 124 Hirundinidae 73 Holland, Margaret 132 holly 25, 31 Honza, M. 85 hornbeam 27 Hornby 44-47, 111, 115 horse 77 house martin 73 Howgills 11, 50, 75 Hulme, P.E. 105 Hutchinson, Harry 52 Hyacinthoides non-scripta 22

Game and Wildlife Conservation Trust 119, 121, 135 gamekeepers 119-121 Gardeners’ Question Time 103 Garsdale 124 gens 83 genus 26, 55 Gentiana pneumonanthe 37 Geyer’s whorl snail 16-20 goose 55-56 Great Asby Scar 21-24 Great Knoutberry Hill 124-125 Green Bell 11-15 Green list 13-15, 132 green-veined white butterfly 97 Greenholme 79 Greta Wood 29-31 grey wagtail 93, 105 greylag goose 57 grouse shooting 65, 107, 118-121, 126 gymnosperm 25

Impatiens glandulifera 97 Ingleborough 26, 63-68, 107, 110 INNS (Invasive Non-Native Species) 103-105 invasive species 30-31, 103-105 IUCN (International Union for Conservation of Nature) 14, 47 Japanese knotweed 115 Jensen, Ken 96 Johnson, David 68 juniper 106-110 Juniperus communis 106 Keasden Moor 37-39 Killington New Bridge 97 kingdom 26, 55 kingfisher 93-96 Kirkby Lonsdale 115 Kiteley, Nigel 92

hardwood 25 Hawk and Owl Trust 135 hawthorn 28, 31 hazel 27-28, 31 Hazel Bottom 125 heather 65, 107 Heaton, Thomas 15 Hejda, M. 105 hen harrier 117-122 heron 44-47 Heysham Bird Observatory 136 Heysham Moss 32-36 Heysham power station 58

Lancashire Badger Group 136 Lancashire Invasive Species Project 104, 136 Lancashire Wildlife Trust 32, 40, 136 Lancaster and District Bird-Watching Society 137 landscape 63-65 Lane Ends 56, 58 Langholm Moor 121 larch 25, 123 140

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large-leaved lime 41 Lawkland Moss 86-92 Lawson’s Wood 40, 42 lime 41-43 limekiln 53 limestone pavement 21-24, 50-54 Lincoln’s Inn Bridge 105 Little Cragg 80 little egret 59 Littledale 80-85 Lombardy poplar 26 Low Langshaw Moss 124 Lowgill 102 lowland bog 32-33 Loyn Bridge 111, 115 Loyne 6 Lune estuary 56 Lune Rivers Trust 7, 137 Lune’s Bridge 99-100 Lunesdale Fell Pony Stud 75

mute swan 57, 60 National Biodiversity Network 135 National Gamekeepers’ Organisation 121-122 Natural England 30-31, 37, 50-53, 92, 109, 118-122, 135 naturalised 30 Nature Reserve 21 nettle 101-102 Newby Moor 91 non-native species 30-31, 98-104 North West Fungus Group, 137 North West Naturalists Union 137 northern bear-spider 113 Numenius arquata 12 oak 26-29, 31 olive 29 orchid 21-24 order 55 Orchis mascula 23

Mabey, Richard 98-100, 105 Macfarlane, Robert 111, 116 Mallowdale Pike 121-122 Mamichan 49 Mammal Society 135 maple 26, 28-29 Marek, Adam 62 Martin, Andrew 15 marsh gentian 37-39 McCarthy, Michael 85 McGee, Kevin 116 Melling, Tim 39 Menyanthes trifoliata 19 migrant birds 83-84 Millard, Sue 79 money spider 112-113 Morecambe Bay 56-58 Morecambe Bay Wildfowlers Association 59-60 Morland, Carole 79 Moskát, C. 85 Mossy Bottom 123-127 Moughton 106-110 Moughton Scars 110 mountain ash 29

pearl-bordered fritillary 86-89 Pen-y-Ghent 108, 110 People’s Trust for Endangered Species 135 phylum 55 Phytophthora austrocedrae 109-110 Picea sitchensis 123 pied flycatcher 84 Pilling 58 Pilling embankment 59 pink-footed goose 55-62 Plantae 26 Plumage League 93 pony 77 poplar 27 Populus 27 Populus nigra 26 Populus nigra ‘Italica’ 26 Prince Harry 121 purple moor-grass 33 purple saxifrage 63-68, 112 Pysek, P. 105 141

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Queen Elizabeth II 75-76, 121 Quercus 26 Quercus robur 26 Quercus rubra 26

small-leaved lime 40-43 small pearl-bordered fritillary 86-92 snail 16-20 sneezewort 38 snow goose 57 soapberry 26 softwood 25 Sorbus aucuparia 28 South Cumbria Rivers Trust 137 Special Protection Area 121 species 26, 55, 91-92 spider 111-116 spotted flycatcher 84 spruce 27, 31, 123-127 SSSI (Site of Special Scientific Interest) 16, 37-40, 50, 87 Summersgill Fell 121 Sunbiggin Moor 16-20 Sunbiggin Tarn 16-21 superorder 55 swallow 73 swan 56-60 swift 73, 84 sycamore 26-31, 53

Rafferty, Brian 68 ragwort 33-35 raised bog 32-33 red grouse 63-65, 107, 118, 126 Red list 13-15, 83 Red Squirrels Northern England 136 redback spider 112 Riparia riparia 70 Roeburndale 117-122 Rosa canina 28 rose 28-29 Roundthwaite Common 74-79 Roundthwaite Farm 75, 79 rowan 12, 29 Royal Entomological Society 136 RSPB (Royal Society for the Protection of Birds) 58, 62, 70, 93-96, 119-121, 136 Ruskin, John 100, 102, 105 Salicaceae 27 Salterwath Bridge 100-102 sand martin 69-73 sandpiper 105 Sapindaceae 26 Sargasso Sea 45-46 Saxifraga oppositifolia 66 Scots pine 106 Sedbergh 105 semi-natural 29 Senecio jacobaea 33 Settle-Carlisle railway 125-126 shelduck 55, 59 Shepherd, John 127 silk 113 Sitka spruce 123-127 silver birch 27 skipper 88 sky-dances 118 Sky-Dancer project 119, 121-122 skylark 77-78

Tarn Brook 93 Tarn Moor 18-20 tarantula 112 Tadorna tadorna 59 Tebay 97 Teesdale 109 Thrush Gill Island 115 Tilia cordata 41 Tilia platyphyllos 41 Tilia x europaea 41 Townsend, Mike 31 tracking devices 117, 119 tree 25-31 tribe 55 turtle dove 84 Tyria jacobaeae 33 United Utilities 118 Vertigo geyeri 17 vicarious liability 120-121 142

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weasel 120 Webber, Andrew 92 weed 34, 99-100 Wenning 44-49 Whernside 63-67, 124 white-fronted goose 57 whooper swan 57, 60 Wild Boar Fell 50 Wild Flower Society 136 Wild Trout Trust 136 Wildfowl and Wetlands Trust 136 wildlife 74-75, 111 Wildlife and Countryside Act 93, 104 Wildlife Conservation Research Unit 136 wildness 111 willow 25-27 wind turbines 77-78 winterage 52 wolf spider 111-116 wood warbler 84 Woodland Trust 29, 136 Wyre-Lune sanctuary 55-62 Yarrell, William 62 Yeliseev, Sergey 73 yellow wagtail 84 yew 25, 106 Yorkshire Dales 37, 106-110 Yorkshire Dales Biodiversity Forum 137 Yorkshire Wildlife Trust 137

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The Life of Loyne is a guide to the wildlife of the region of northwest England that lies within the Lune watershed.

ISBN The narrative presents a series of bold 978-0-9858986-5-4 expeditions to track down this wildlife, leading to ‘profound’ reflections on the nature of nature.