Worm's Head

Getting across the causeway to Worm’s Head at the western tip of Gower is always tricky, and can be dangerous. For about three and a half hours either side of high water, the Worm (old English for serpent) becomes an island, and it’s easy to get cut off by the fast flowing incoming tide. Many tourists make the trek across, some dressed in quite unsuitable attire; I’ve even seen ladies in flip-flops venturing out, but soon having second thoughts on the slippery, undulating rocks.

I’m trying to get to the very end to see the small colony of breeding auks. Once across the causeway the view back to the mainland is spectacular and my spirits rise. Rock pipits song-flight in the warm breeze, linnets and stonechats are busy amongst the dazzling yellow gorse, and a few meadow pipits flit about, but no skylarks sing. Wheatears take no heed of the determined visitors trooping along the narrow path; they probably have young already in a nest somewhere in the rocks below. The rocky bridge between the inner and middle part of the Worm sorts out the men from the boys, and is the most difficult part of the walk. Many turn back here when confronted by the sharp, and now slippery crossing. Others climb down to the rocky shore and opt for the 'clever' route; they too normally give up.

The north face of the outer head is where the seabirds nest, and from a safe distance I count the guillemots, razorbills, fulmars, kittiwakes and the few herring gulls that still breed. I keep my eyes open for puffins, but see none. A great commotion of kittiwakes, other gulls and the odd diving gannet tells me there’s a shoal of fish near the surface - usually a good place to look for porpoises.

The return journey always feels easier, especially when grey seals greet me in the sheltered waters by the causeway.

Slade

Hedgerows bursting with life border the quiet lane from Oxwich Green to Upper Slade. Bluebells, red campion, wood sorrel, buttercups, daisies, dandelions, cow parsley, herb robert and more, decorate the bright spring greens of ivy, nettles and hawthorn. In bright sunshine, and with little wind, my senses are alive to nature.

At the turning down to the tiny hamlet at Slade, the view over the sea is breathtaking. Lower down past the few immaculately kept dwellings, the path veers left along a narrow path above the sea. On limestone walls, and along the path, new plants appear; navelwort, lords and ladies, forget-me-nots, hart’s tongue ferns, ivy-leaved toadflax. There are butterflies too, small, large and green-veined whites, and wonderful male orange tips.

At the end of the path the view over Port Eynon Bay to Sedger’s Bank tells me it’s low tide. I can see for miles. All around, the cliffs are covered in carpets of bright gorse, and the sea is a patchwork quilt of greens and blues. Above the beach scalding whitethroats patrol the thin hedgerows bent with winter gales.

The sandy beach at Slade is a little gem, and is only there for a short time around low water. It’s deserted. Pure white surf rolls in from the glittering sea, pounding the sand and rocks  and I have it all to myself. Walking east along the cliff path, a stonechat escorts me through his territory. I pass a small storm beach, with a bed of silver-grey pebbles and rocks, and above the high water mark, golden lichen surrounds patches of thrift, birdsfoot trefoil and kidney vetch.

I’m joined for lunch by a gannet, fishing close inshore, and am watched over by yet another male stonechat.

St Mark's Fly

They start to emerge in late April just in time for the influx of warblers. St Mark’s flies are small, hairy, jet-black capsules of energy snapped up eagerly by hungry migrants after long flights out of Africa. So called because they traditionally appear first on the 25th April, the feast of St Mark, they’re about for very much longer, and a month after the saint’s day are abundant again today. Slow flying and easy to catch, they make ideal prey for reed and sedge warblers at Oxwich Marsh. Some days they seem to be everywhere, landing on jackets, hair and just about any available surface. The birds don’t really hunt them, needing merely to pick them up as they pass through the reeds and willows.

Just about all the migrants are in now, reed and sedge warbler song is at its peak, and whitethroats song-flight from scrub on the edge of the marsh. I’m always struck by the ebullient and complicated song of sedge warblers, they're great mimics, and just from the mouth of one tiny bird, and from the one nearby I can hear blue tit, swallow, starling, linnet and more. How anyone can confuse them with the monotonous reed warbler is a mystery.

I read that purple herons are at last breeding in the south of England, another sure sign of climate change. They were here at Oxwich during its heyday, but as far as I know never bred. In the early 1970s the marsh was wet, rich in flora and fauna, and its natural succession from old flooded fields to rich eutrophic marsh, provided maximum biodiversity and biomass at that time. For several summers the marsh attracted other ‘exotics’ too, marsh harriers, little bitterns and bearded tits were all regular visitors. A lack of management has allowed this once magnificent wetland to dry out significantly, which is now a shadow of its former self.

Same Language

For the second time this month, I’ve met an interesting birdwatcher looking at waders down on the bay. A postgraduate student, he’s making a study of the effects of human disturbance on the birds. The project itself is not remarkable, and I suspect his results will turn out to prove the obvious, but what’s much more interesting is that he’s from Iraq. With the troubles far from over we talk openly about the war, but conversation soon reverts to natural history. We speak the same language of conservation. He tells me of the devastation of the great marshes in southern Iraq, and recent attempts to begin restoring some of the damage, the effects of war on the desert, and lots more. He’s hungry to learn about the conservation movement in the West, and amazed at its sophisticated infrastructure and increasing political power.

He asks where to find data about the number of waders here thirty years ago. He’s asked the old man who counts here almost every day, who apparently seems reluctant to give him the data he needs; I promise to help all I can.

We watch the few waders together. A small flock of ringed plovers flies to and fro, restless in the face of several dogs running in and out of the sea. We marvel at a quite exceptional summer plumage bar-tailed godwit, and my new friend can’t get over the smart oystercatcher flock resting on the sandbar in the mellow evening light. I’m struck by how the beauty of the natural world transcends culture, it belongs to us all, and perhaps if we paid more attention to this, we might reduce conflict and get on with saving the planet for future generations whatever creed we believe in.

We take down emails, but forget to exchange names. No matter, we’ll meet again soon.

A Ring of Birch

Welsh Moor can be a bleak and desolate place in winter, but in spring and summer it’s very different.  A quiet exposed spot, and a bit off the beaten track, it’s not the kind of place that attracts many tourists, but it has a magic all of its own. Separated from Pengwern Common by mixed woodland, birch rings the perimeter of the common, which is almost devoid of mature trees. Owned and managed by the National Trust, just a few gorse bushes are allowed to mature on the rough land. Welsh Moor gains it’s conservation status from a rich flora, and is a stronghold of the endangered marsh fritillary butterfly.

Even into May, there’s still a slight chill blowing in from the estuary, but we’re well into spring at last.  Willow warbler song surrounds the common, a single lark sings high in the sky, and a red kite drifts by – a pair breeds near here, the location of the nest a well-kept local secret. Bumblebees search out flowers on the ground, and in the low, wetter hollows I find my marsh fritillaries. Delicately marked they’re not a spectacular butterfly, but like other rare creatures always provide a thrill.

Way beyond the common emerald-green fields, bordered by neat hedges, are dotted by the tiny shapes of cattle, looking like toys from this distance.  Far away to the east the Brecon Beacons, their peaks only recently free of snow, retain a winter hue, but they too are waking again.

The single road over the common follows the route of the Gower Way, but I see no one. An occasional car passes, disturbing the otherwise peaceful morning. As if from nowhere, two figures wearing bright yellow vests appear along the road. I learn that today volunteers from Llanrhidian village are out litter picking along all roads in the parish. They’re filled with pride and I feel humbled.

What Have We Done to Our Wildlife

It’s mid-morning as I walk past the farm above Crawley Woods. Swallows have settled in, and there’s spring brightness everywhere. The hedgerows are alight with vibrant lime-green sycamore leaves, and there’s cow parsley and red campion showing in the verges.  Well-used steps form part of the steep, sandy path down to the wood.  A small stream runs alongside for a while, but like many on this side of Gower, soon vanishes underground, allowing the fluty songs of blackbirds and blackcaps to echo through the canopy of spring greens.  The woodland floor is a carpet of green, decorated with sapling sycamores and newly shooting ferns. Garlic and bluebells flowers are past their best flower, and here and there a few fading violets hang on. I have the wood to myself.

Where the wood meets Nicholaston Burrows, the view over Oxwich bay stops me in my tracks. A morning haze hangs over the pastel grey sea, but overhead the sky is a clear deep blue. The woodland changes to oak and ash, both not fully open yet after this late spring. The path between the woods and dunes is well used, but I’m the first here today.  The morning is warming; lizards scoot across the path, and an adder basks on an exposed grassy bank and doesn’t move as I pass. There are lords and ladies along the sides of the path, and high above on the limestone cliff a pair of kestrels see off a buzzard, when it gets too close.

It will be some time before the dunes flower properly, but after the long spell of cold weather, there are signs of spring at last. Hawkweeds, coltsfoot and dandelions give a splash of yellow, and in a sheltered dune slack, a group of early purple orchids are in flower.

At the bridge over Nicholaston Pill, I’m angered once again at the sight of the gabions that the Countryside Council of Wales build many years ago, which destroyed the beautiful oxbow, drained much of Oxwich Marsh, and helped reduce the biodiversity of what was one of the best wildlife sites in Wales.

I turn back realising there are no willow warblers, pipits or skylarks; unbelievable since it’s now May. Years ago, I came here to count the number of different kinds of butterflies. Nowadays I count the number of individuals. I find just a few orange tips and a small copper. What have we done to our wildlife?

Village Limes

There are five great lime trees just across the road from our cottage. Small-leaved limes, they’re found only in southern Britain, and are one of our most uncommon native trees. Majestic, and in a line, their delicate spring lime-greens stand out from the sycamore and horse chestnuts and are a fine spectacle. Early paintings and 19^th century photographs of the village show the trees as mature, so they are probably over two centuries old.

It’s time to put out bedding plants, and our village boasts a thriving market garden possibility dating back to medieval times. Original field strips divided by ancient hedges still produce traditional vegetables, the only concession to modernity being long polytunnels for summer flowers such as fuchsias, bizzy lizzies, geraniums and the like.  Most of the original buildings in the village survive; the pub, the old blacksmith shop, now an art dealer, and several cottages are probably 300 years old. Until half a century ago, our own little cottage was also part of the market gardening community, the rear garden being the last remaining piece of a medieval strip of land. Restored several years ago, the old well on the green dates back to the original village. Although modern houses have appeared over the years, the old hamlet hangs on, deeply imprinted on the subconscious lives of us all.

At last the temperature is normal. Evening cricketers, dressed in full whites, contest the great game in front of no spectators. Swallows join in, but take no part, and overhead house martins are at last in residence. Spotted flycatchers are due at the end of the month, but they’re rare now, and I don’t hold out much hope of seeing one nearby. We can then forget the uncertainty of the last weeks, and look forward to summer, but I’ll then worry about how many young our village birds can produce in the critical two months ahead.

Song Drifting on the Wind

The Devon coast is barely visible in the grey haze covering the sea. After a cloudy morning the afternoon sky is clearing, but there’s a cool breeze from the west. There’s a hint of blue on the choppy sea, but the surface is mostly grey, turning to a sandy brown behind the pure white surf pounding the rocks at Hunt’s Bay. I’m in my favourite spot high up on the western side of the bay and sheltered from the wind, it feels almost hot. Fast-moving clouds cast dark blue shadows on the sea, taking just seconds to scoot across the bay.

Below, an almost complete carpet of impossibly rich golden yellow gorse stretches left and right. In stark contrast on the far side of the bay there’s no yellow, just the charred remains of the regular burn by the local farmer. I hear birds, but their song is drowned by the sound of the surf; only a piercing wren gets through. I get glimpses of whitethroats, stonechats and maybe a Dartford warbler. Taking advantage of the shelter of the cliff to feed on insects visibly rising in the afternoon heat, brilliant blue swallows flash past just a few yards away. Below eye level, shinning choughs come and go from their nest site at Bacon Hole. Even though it’s weekend I see nobody.

Amongst the gorse on the cliff top, patches of bluebells, speedwell and violets contrast the yellows of bird’s foot trefoil, dandelions and some early flowering kidney vetch.  Bumble bees, big and small, white and red-tailed, inspect gorse, but only a single tortoiseshell butterflies shows itself; after the long cold winter we’ll have to wait to see if our butterflies will fare better this year.

It’s high tide, the sea calms a little, the roar of the surf softens and I  hear whitethroat song drifting on the wind. I return to my secret lookout and  close my eyes hoping for a skylark or even a yellowhammer, both once so common on these cliffs. The incoming tide has brought with it a thick cold mist into the valley and I'm unable to see beach, but the valiant whitethroat continues to sing against the noise of the surf.

Missing Martins

There’s a promise that this unseasonably cool weather will be over in a day or so, and it may encourage the missing house martins to come in from the cold. There have been some, particularly over reservoirs and lakes, and they’ve been over our cottage in ones or twos, but they should be here in numbers by now. I just hope they’re waiting for warmer weather. 

A streak of light grey on the northwest horizon heralds the end of the rain-bearing clouds. Swifts, sand martins and a few swallows hunt low over Oxwich Marsh in the dying rain, but no house martins. The rain moves on, leaving behind damp, sweet, air, as late afternoon birdsong carries across the reawakening marsh. Gradually insects rise above the misty lake, eagerly swooped up only inches from the surface by the swallows and martins.

It’s still cool, and not the best time of day to watch wildlife, but there’s always something to see. There are moments in the countryside I often want to bottle. Usually it’s something very simple; a view along a river, or even just a single flower, today in the slowly brightening light, it’s a fallen tree along the edge of the marsh that catches my eye. Roots too weak to hold it, the huge willow has fallen into the reeds, exposing a mini cave of dampness crammed with life. The tree probably fell years ago, but is far from dead, as new life springs from its fallen moss-covered trunk. Encroaching into the reeds it’s now part of the vanguard of natural succession, which left unchecked would eventually lead to mature woodland.

In the field beyond the reeds, a pair of nervous greylag geese with tiny goslings remind me that although house martins have not yet started their annual replenishment, some have already produced healthy young. This process of renewal is a long drawn out affair.

All’s Well That Ends Well

It’s taken a while, and the season is very late, but at last the sky above the common is full of skylark and meadow pipit song. After such a long hard winter I feared they might have been decimated. Stonechats too have returned, just a couple of pairs, but enough to provide the start of a recovery, but maybe these have returned from Spain or Portugal, where some over-winter.

Skylarks ascend to the heavens, their incredible song ever fainter as they disappear almost out of sight. Meadow pipits prefer to stay lower, parachuting down with pinpoint accuracy to some target on the ground.  I walk through yellow gorse towards the distant golfers. Skylarks flush from cover on either side of the path. Rising up, at first they call liquid-like and throaty, but soon change into the magic song of summer skies. The same walk a month ago was silent, no larks or pipits, just a single reed bunting chirping from his usual perch on top of a leafless willow. Now two and maybe three buntings sing from green willows, and there’s much chasing of females. I’ll need to rise early to check the number of skylarks, but after all my fears of a silent spring, it looks as though things may not turn out to be so bad - all’s well that ends well.

The little stream and surrounding wetland attract most of the wildlife. Apart from the reed buntings, blackbirds, willow warblers, dunnocks and rosy-pink linnets come to feed or drink. Here cuckooflowers abound, but no cuckoos call and I fear we may not have one on the common this year.

There’s still a northerly nip in the air forcing swifts, swallows and martins to hunt close to the ground, which gives me a rare chance to get really close to these marvels of flight.

Cheriton

There are no slender spires pointing skywards from Gower churches, instead sturdy rectangular towers rise above the rooflines of our wonderful Norman churches. Most are hidden in the landscape, tucked away in secluded valleys.

Cheriton is no more than a handful of houses and its church, secreted away deep in the valley, is by far the biggest structure in the village. Unlike others on Gower, it has a central tower, adding to its charm. Beyond the small wrought iron gate, the churchyard is a place of utter peace - an old world, and  I come here to find solitude and wildlife.  There are no rare plants or animals, just common things. Most early spring flowers are over, but it’s that time of year when the whole countryside bursts with energy and promise. Each year May fills me with hope for the future, but I’m under no illusion of the threats that face the natural world.

Not much sun gets into this valley, but there’s enough for brimstone, green veined whites and orange tip butterflies to be on the wing. Most flowers in the churchyard are invaders from surrounding woodlands. By unkempt graves and rough footpaths, herb robert spreads at will, and under trees by the edge of the stream, there’s wood sorrel, bluebells and masses of emerging ferns.  Ivy-leaved toadflax and ivy clings to the boundary wall, attracting a brief visit from a holly blue butterfly.

I hear the hubbub from the rookery at Frog Lane about half a mile away, and watch their comings and goings to the fields beyond the trees, probably looking for food for their nestlings.   Robins and blackbirds sing, a blue tit disappears into a tiny hole in an old oak, and a buzzard soars into the clear blue sky. All seems well in nature, but I know it’s not.

Help from the Gurkhas

It’s been a long time coming, and I really find it hard to believe, but I’m out searching for breeding red kites on Gower. They’ve been seen in this northeast corner several times this spring, but may have been prospecting for some time. I’ve noticed them in winter, but assumed that they were wanderers.

The success story of the red kite is well known. In Wales there was no need for reintroductions, and we probably now have several hundred breeding pairs. It’s taken years, but with their rapid spread, it’s inevitable they would eventually colonise these southern shores. I probably won’t find the nest, and I may not even see them today, but they’re over the woods and estuary regularly, and have caused much local excitement. There are heated arguments about publicising their presence in case it attracts the attention of egg collectors. This hobby from the Victorian age is in decline, and in any case with red kites so common now, any self-respecting egger would have stolen one for his collection a long time ago.

How times have changed, thirty-five years ago I spent hours sitting under trees in mid-Wales guarding precious nests. The trunks were greased, sometimes wired, and we even employed the help of the Gurkhas at one point. It was necessary at the time, but thankfully these magnificent birds are now able to look after themselves whilst we devote attention to restoring other lost wildlife. Many would argue that although kites were a worthy cause, it might have been better to concentrate on the wider countryside rather than on a few iconic species. Protecting avocets, red kites, peregrines, ospreys and the like attracted the public’s attention. Organisations such as the RSPB gained profile, and it brought gained them valuable members, but at the same time skylarks, yellowhammers and other common species declined dramatically, and are now in serious trouble.

Yellow Turns to Blue

There’s nothing quite like the scent of walking through a bluebell wood in early morning after overnight rain. It’s a unique part of our natural heritage, which we perhaps take for granted. But we must guard this privilege; there are those who dig up the bulbs for horticulture, and many have gone. I wonder how many ‘Bluebell Woods’ there are in Britain and I suspect we all have our favourite. The nearest and best around here is part of a local park. Landscape gardeners created Clyne Park from oak woodland more than a century ago, but left natural parts untouched, which is a most beautiful bluebell wood. Visitors flock to see the flowers, children learn about the scent, and it’s a photographers dream. Over many years I’ve never seen anyone seriously picking them. The park is also famed for its azaleas, forming contrasting borders of bizarre colours against the gentle mix of blues and yellows of the wildwood. There’s more than visual beauty here, there’s a special atmosphere as well. Even though I’m in the suburbs of Swansea, I’m surrounded by echoing songs of song thrushes, blackbirds, blackcaps and drumming woodpeckers, and could be deep in the countryside.

Set above the bay the view from the top of the park through avenues of great trees towards the sea beyond is breathtaking. Many trees are exotics, brought from all corners of the globe by our industrious forefathers and are all in their spring best, but standing out is a massive isolated beech at least 40 meters high, peerless in glorious light green.

Around the park as celandines fade, uncut hedgerow banks are turning from yellow to blue, pink and white. Bluebells, red campion attracting orange tip butterflies and the whites of wild garlic are slowly replacing the early colours of spring. The green shoots of foxgloves are showing through as well, and it won’t be long before they too add more delicate pinks. The whole park will soon be a riot of colour, skilfully managed to blend native and exotic plants from all over the world, providing a peaceful retreat for locals and visitors alike.

Incoming Tide

It’s been cold lately, more like March than May, and with a stiff wind from the northeast, it’s time for woolly hats and gloves again. Wader migration is at its height, and a high neap time is ideal for getting close. Way out on the mud they gradually appear as the tide pushes them ever nearer. Whimbrels, always in small groups, fly in to bath in the brackish stream then retreat to roost on the sandbar. Bar-tailed godwits, one or two beginning to acquire summer dress, feed by the tide line with oystercatchers and a few knot. Dunlins, most in fresh summer plumage with rich rusty backs, pure white under parts and jet-black bellies, dazzle in the bright sunlight, urgently probing the mud with rapid stabs. Gone are their drab winter tones to reveal just what a beautiful bird this is in summer. As one, and for no apparent reason, they suddenly fly off, arc across the sea and return to the same spot. Only the dunlins do this, nearby silver sanderlings stay put, scurrying along the shoreline ignoring their neighbours.

The encroaching tide slowly shuffles the gulls towards the shore revealing two grey plovers, one in all its summer glory. Only in spring and autumn do we get the chance to see what a really stunning bird this is. Black-bellied plover is its American name, but at this time, and in this light, it might well have been called silver plover. The contrasting black, white and silver make it the star of the shore.

As if by magic, out of the shuffling pack pop two pure white sandwich terns bathing at the water’s edge; I can’t believe I missed them. I’ve just a few minutes to make out the yellow tips on their bills before they’re off towards Mumbles  Lighthouse.

Nicholaston

A footpath from the main South Gower Road leads across a field into the back of Nicholaston Wood, and thence down to the vast dune system stretching the full length of Oxwich Bay. I emerge from the dappled light of the wood into brightness. After a fresh, dewy morning the sun is already high in the sky, quickly burning off the last droplets of water on the thick grass. In May the unfarmed parts of Gower burst with flowers, and the dune slacks around the bay are wonderful. I’m surrounded by the yellows of common rock rose, deep magenta of bloody cranesbill, purples of basil thyme, the exotic shapes and shades of early purple orchids, and much more.

Years ago in the deeper dune slacks, ringed plovers nested, but increased tourism finally drove them away. I look in hope, but know it’s in vain. A footpath forged by ponies, attracts a shining male green lizard basking in the increasing heat of the morning. Sluggish hairy dragonflies cling onto herb robert flowers growing in one of the wetter dunes lacks, their beautifully patterned wings glistening in the sunshine. Meadow brown and wall butterflies are already on the wing, and orange tips, plentiful this spring, drift across from the marsh. Small and green veined whites are quick and not easy to separate, but I’ll get more skilful as the summer advances.

It’s already 8 o’clock and I’ve seen nobody; the only sign of people are distant sounds of cars. I finally bump into a couple of keen botanists from London; they recognise many more plants than I’ll ever know, and wax lyrical about the marsh and its wildlife. I lived in London during my student days many years ago and still love it, but have known for decades that moving to Gower was the best thing I ever did.

Blindingly Obvious

We often sit at the end of a lonely track overlooking the Burry estuary; there’s peace here, few people pass, and the view out across the marsh is tranquil. After refreshing rain, swallows skim the ground, and there are blackbirds and chiffchaffs singing in the wood on the escarpment behind. But that’s about all. Although the marsh is protected as part of the Burry Estuary Ramsar site, the wood is not. Owned by a local farmer, the mature trees serve as perfect shelter for his sheep, which graze freely on the salt marsh. The effect of years of constant sheep damage is dramatic. Apart from an occasional bramble patch, the woodland floor is devoid of regeneration, and only dead ivy-covered branches litter the ground.

Part of a series of nature reserves running along the edge of the estuary, Cwm Ivy Wood, a similar escarpment woodland a little way to the west is owned and managed by the Wildlife Trust and could hardly be more different. The rich understory, coppiced in places, provides an environment diverse in plants, birds and insects, and there is life everywhere. Chiffchaffs, willow warblers, blackcaps and a full suite of common resident birds sing, and I watch long-tailed tits adding feathers to a delicate nest in flowering blackthorn. Spring flowers are abundant too; celandines, wood anemones, primroses, violets and bluebells are beginning to show, a promise of what’s to come.

A recent study in Suffolk has demonstrated the devastating effects increasing deer populations can have on the numbers of breeding nightingales and other woodland species. It’s not rocket science, and some would say the results are blindingly obvious, but these surveys need to be done. Sheep are easier to fence out, and we have known the adverse effects of ‘woolly maggots’ in Wales for generations. The hope is that deer populations won’t explode here as well.

First Week of May

It’s that most beautiful time of year, when new leaves are on the trees. In the first week of May it’s one woodland view in particular that does it for me. Seen in early morning sunlight from the marsh road at Oxwich, the knobbly canopy of mostly oak, beech and copper beech by Penrice Castle resembles tropical rainforest. Leaning away from the prevailing westerly winds, newly opening oaks add tints of brown, creating a mosaic of spring beauty that imprints deeply into my soul each year. It won’t last long, and will fuse into more uniform green in less than a couple of weeks.

Looking the other way is a carpeted acre of precious yellow, with a wash of blue, a field of oxlips and bluebells like no other I know. Guarded by hedgerows of singing willow warblers, each of the many thousands of delicate flowers is an icon of British spring. Oxlips, like cowslips, were so called in the 16^th century, when it was noticed they grew well in the vicinity of cowpats. They’ve recovered well in this field after years of careful management. Once a field of bracken, regular mowing transformed the meadow into a sea of wildflowers, which continues to spread. Nature can recover if given half a chance.

In these two views I see nothing rare, beauty lies in the everyday things around us, and all we need to do is look. Gilbert White in the 18th century showed us the way, and how to appreciate the common things in the countryside. His 'Natural History of Selborne' is never far from my mind. 

The first day of the month usually brings swifts back into my life, and they’re a few days late this year, but house martins are already over the marsh and their aerial companions  won't be long now.

Three Gower Icons

Apart from choughs and Dartford warblers, both of which are becoming reasonably common, we don’t have any rare breeding birds on the cliffs. It’s always the common things that are precious to me, and three birds stand out as Gower icons. It’s best to sit on the tightly packed turf on one of the higher paths to watch stonechats. Rarely still, they don’t sing much, and their song can sometimes be confused with dunnocks, but it’s the rattling scratchy stone-like calls that give them away. Probably the most iconic of our coastal birds, they sum up what it is to live by this most beautiful coastline. Males are astonishingly smart, but can vary so much; the degree of black on the head, and the extent of white on the collar distinguish individuals, but the jet-black bill, legs and eyes are constant. The pair below has a nest; it’s near, almost certainly low in thick gorse a little way down the cliff. Both parents quickly decide I’m no real threat and more or less ignore me as they feed their hungry young.

Rock pipits are Gower icons too, and I’ve long promised I will one day count the number of breeding pairs we have along the south coast. Smokey-grey and slightly larger than their meadow pipit cousins, they go mostly unnoticed by walkers on the cliff paths. Beginning just above the height of the path, a singing male parachutes down to the rocky shore, but I see no appreciative female.

Yellowhammers are the last of my three small icons, but alas they’re scarce now.   Most sing later in the summer, but to hear ‘a little bit of bread and no cheese’ from the tops of gorse, or hedgerow is becoming a rare event. A generation ago we were blessed with dozens along the cliffs, but there are none here today. Grain has been put out at various locations in winter in an attempt to increase numbers, but even so their demise continues. The thought of Gower without yellowhammers singing in summer is hard to imagine, but is now a real possibility.