by Stephen Moss
Fieldfares usually arrive a week or two later than redwings; perhaps their size means they can better withstand the cold, and stay put on their breeding grounds a little longer. But by mid-November they are everywhere: dotted across the fields, thronging the hedgerows, or simply proceeding high across the sky on their way further south. Those that do stay here certainly make their presence felt, with flocks of several hundred birds stripping a hedgerow bare, before moving on to fill their stomachs with another crop of berries.
The early arrivals also feed in the local cider-apple orchards, where loads of unpicked fruit litter the grass beneath the trees. Later in the season, if the winter stays mild, they will range across the wet fields, turning over clods of damp earth with their bills in search of worms and other invertebrate prey.
By late February many redwings and fieldfares have already started to head back north and east, and although a few linger on into early March, by the middle of the month they are gone. I miss their presence, and look forward to that night, the following autumn, when I shall hear that thin, high-pitched call of the redwing once again, in the darkened skies above the village.
ON FIREWORK WEEKEND we experience a suitably explosive run of weather, starting with a badly timed downpour flooding out the Bonfire Night celebrations at the White Horse Inn. The following day dawns bright and warm, but during the night there is a heavy hailstorm. Next morning, little chunks of ice are still clustered on the ground like shattered glass from a car windscreen.
I am up on the Mendips, only a few miles north of the parish, but at least 600 feet higher in altitude. We gather in the car park of the Swan Inn at Rowberrow, several hours before opening time: a dozen eager disciples of wild-food enthusiast Adrian Boots. We are going on a fungal foray: to learn how to forage for free food, ideally without ending up in the local casualty department.
The landscape could hardly be more different from the flat, wet vistas I am used to. We are walking through a dense woodland: little stands of oak and beech surrounded by great swathes of Norway spruce; the fast-growing, economically profitable ‘Christmas tree’ we know so well. Wildlife is both thin on the ground and hard to see among the dense, inky foliage. The only evidence that anything is here at all is the occasional snatch of sound: the trill of a wren, the peeping of goldcrests and coal tits, or the harsh screech of a distant jay. Closed, claustrophobic, this is not a place in which I feel at ease.
Adrian is a cheerful, personable young man, given to dispensing useful nuggets of wisdom, such as ‘the only rule of thumb about eating fungi is that there are no rules of thumb’. This is crucial advice, given the widespread belief that if a mushroom is white, grows in a field, has a flat cap or keeps a silver spoon bright when cooking, then it is safe to eat. Just one problem: several deadly poisonous mushrooms fit into one or more of these categories.
So all we can do is learn the key identification points of the edible and deadly varieties, and never trust to luck – a single moment of complacency may prove fatal. Later on, one of our party picks an innocent-looking stemmed mushroom with a greenish-brown cap, which Adrian identifies as a death-cap: a fungus that if we were tempted to cook and eat it, would prove fatal. Point made.
We spread out through the woods like a police forensic team, carefully scanning every inch of ground in front of us. Our task is made much more difficult by last night’s bad weather: fungi are easily damaged, and a direct hit from a hailstone can make a deep dent on their soft surface. Even when we do find a specimen, there is evidence that something else has got here first: chunks missing, or tooth-marks along the edges, suggesting that it has been nibbled by a passing slug or small mammal. All in all, the fungi are not looking their best.
Walking through a wood at such a slow, deliberate pace changes the way you appreciate the landscape. I begin to notice the patterns of the fallen beech leaves arranged in a random collage, ranging from chocolate-brown, through chestnuts, to buffs, yellows and the occasional tinge of lime-green, the summer shade retained even at this late stage of the year. The veins of the leaves overlap each other to make abstract patterns, intermingling with the greens of the surrounding brambles, ferns and moss.
Many fungi are picked, but few are chosen; and as Adrian inspects our baskets he discards most of what we have found. The temptingly named honey fungus is, he tells us, often sold in markets as an edible variety. If you do eat it, you may get a nasty stomach upset, though it won’t actually kill you. Coral fungus does indeed resemble bright orange corals – you wouldn’t want to eat it, even if you could.
The edible varieties bear out Adrian’s warning that appearance cannot be used as a guide to safe eating, as they could hardly be more different from one another. The common yellow brittlegill, chunky with a flat yellowish cap; the tiny amethyst deceiver, the colour of royal purple, its long, slender stalk topped with a cap the size of a penny; and several giant puffballs. These are not, alas, the huge football-sized mushrooms that can feed a family; but small, weedy specimens, whose softness to the touch indicates they have already begun to develop spores, so are no longer edible. We also find wood blewits and a beautiful orangey-yellow chanterelle, which when gently squeezed emits a delicate scent of ripe apricots.
The most peculiar specimen is Judas’s ear, which does indeed resemble a shrivelled, rubbery version of a human ear. This particular fungus has a long history: it grows on elder, and got its name from the belief that, after he betrayed Christ, Judas Iscariot hanged himself from an elder tree. This is commemorated in both the scientific name for the fungus, Auricularia auricula-judae, and its old vernacular name, ‘Jew’s ear’, which in these more sensitive times has understandably fallen into disuse. Another fungus rich in folklore, though not edible, is King Alfred’s cakes – so called because when you cut open these little hard lumps they look as if they are burnt inside, a feature which would have reminded our ancestors of the famous royal cake-burning incident that took place a few miles south of here.
Just before lunchtime, we come across what looks like a cluster of bright red apples strewn across the forest floor. These are the fly agaric, whose name comes from its traditional use as an insecticide. However, its main claim to fame is that indigenous people across Siberia have historically used it for its hallucinogenic properties, as part of their shamanic traditions.
We decide against trying to recreate this ancient practice. Instead Adrian heats up his Primus stove, chops up the few edible fungi we have managed to gather, and sautés them in a mixture of butter and olive oil. After a long morning’s walk through the woods, the smell of sizzling mushrooms is as intoxicating as any hallucinogen; and when we finally get to sample the spoils of our morning’s work, the experience is little short of culinary bliss. Each tastes subtly different from the others, with a sweet, nutty flavour far more satisfying than shop-bought mushrooms. The texture, too, is different: more squishy than firm, but not unpleasant.
As we eat, Adrian tells us about the complex relationship between trees and fungi. Tree roots are not very good at obtaining nutrition, so they use networks of underground fungi to do it for them. What we see on the surface – the fruiting bodies we call mushrooms and toadstools – are but a tiny fraction of what lies out of sight, beneath the soil. The time and effort it has taken us to collect this meagre offering is a salutary reminder of just how tough life was for our hunter-gatherer ancestors; and how good they must have been at knowing exactly where to look, and what to pick. Better than me, anyway.
By late afternoon the light has turned soft and even as it percolates through the trees, and the smell of the woodland begins to intensify: a not unpleasant blend of dampness and decay. As we return to the warmth of the Swan Inn for a welcome pint, a solitary raven croaks unseen overhead; reminding us of the wilderness we have shared with nature for the past few hours.
ON REMEMBRANCE SUNDAY, the Union flag lies limp and stiff against the flagpole on the village church, as a high-pressure system builds across southern Britain, and
the first real frosts of autumn begin to bite.
Once again the landscape is transformed. Early in the mornings, as the mist rising from the rhynes begins to clear, the frost grips the grass like a white shroud. During the hour or so after sunrise, a bird we don’t usually think of as a migrant heads purposefully across the parish skies. Large, powerful and pale against the clear blue sky in the early-morning light: flocks of wood pigeons are heading south in search of food.
While clearing out the attic in one of our outbuildings, I come across a bizarre, and at first puzzling, sight. Hundreds of small, feathery objects, ranging in colour from deep brown, through buff, black, yellow and faded orange, litter the wooden floorboards. After a moment’s confusion I realise they are the wings of moths, along with a few butterflies – mostly large yellow underwings and small tortoiseshells – lying restful in death.
The neat arrangement of these remnants of once-living insects suggests that they have been placed here deliberately, like some sort of votive offering. But I suspect they have simply been dropped by bats, roosting somewhere in the rafters above my head. I recall watching a bat chasing moths in the neighbouring farmyard on a warm, July night; this must be where he brought them, before dismembering and eating their tiny but nutritious bodies.
In the fields, throughout the shortening hours of daylight, scattered flocks of starlings gather to feed. Some follow herds of cattle, and as the beasts wander slowly across the muddy surface of the field, the birds nip in behind them to grab worms and insects exposed by their heavy hooves. Occasionally the starlings rise up into the air and wheel around; so that by late afternoon, as the sun begins to set, their flickering wings glow orange in the fading light.
At night, the mist returns, gentle wisps hanging above the rhynes; then, as the temperature drops, spreading out over the lanes and fields.
LATE NOVEMBER IS a very quiet time in nature’s calendar; not just in this parish, but across much of Britain. The only sounds I hear are the occasional chattering of sparrows as I pass one of the parish farmyards, the trilling of an optimistic wren awaiting the far-off spring, and the quiet, soft piping of a bullfinch hidden deep in a willow hedge.
Fieldfare numbers are building up now, with flocks of a hundred or more perching in the tall trees and hedgerows, feeding greedily on crimson hawthorn berries. As I approach, there is a characteristic launching, with a slightly panicked flapping of wings that never look quite strong enough to lift the heavy body into the air. Then they all rise up, as a crow sounds a high-pitched cry of alarm. A small, taut shape shoots out of the hawthorn hedgerow: a male sparrowhawk, twisting and turning in pursuit of a bird not much smaller than he is; his T-shaped silhouette shooting low across the landscape as clouds of birds panic in the skies above.
A few minutes later, the sparrowhawk has moved on, and the fieldfares have settled back in the topmost twigs of the hawthorns. A constant, soft, chattering sound fills the air, as if they are discussing the event I have just witnessed. Fanciful, I know, but this murmur of sound is clearly a response to the passing of the predator.
The more time I spend in the parish, the more I become sensitive to these subtle changes in sight and sound. This is a skill all naturalists pick up over the years, but it is heightened on my journey through time and seasons in the same, small, enclosed place. It goes much deeper than mere knowledge; and almost feels as if I am becoming part of the landscape and its wildlife. I find it comforting to know that as I get older, and my physical horizons inevitably begin to diminish, I shall never get bored with what I see, hear and find in this country parish.
IT’S NOT YET December, but from time to time, in place of the usual damp, dull grey Novembers, we get an early fall of snow or, as the locals call it, ‘cold fallings’. It always comes as a surprise to some: last night one driver misjudged the corner at the end of our lane, and paid the inevitable price. His car is now lying on its side in the rhyne, awaiting rescue.
On the last Saturday of the month, the day of the church Christmas bazaar, temperatures hover around zero. The rhynes are half frozen, in that mushy state between water and ice, but still attract flocks of starlings, which gather precariously at the foot of the steep banks to take little sips of water. The high points of the Mendips and Poldens, along with Brent Knoll, are covered with a fine layer of white powder. There is just enough snow for the village children to go sledging; or there would be, if their parents didn’t have better things to do, such as the Christmas shopping.
What remains of the parish birdlife is stung into urgent action, as the combination of hard weather and fewer hours of daylight means that it is much harder to find food. Jackdaws, rooks and the odd crow take to the air in loose flocks; tits and finches congregate on garden bird-feeders; and along the back lanes of the parish, a new influx of thousands – perhaps tens of thousands – of winter thrushes has arrived.
Redwings and fieldfares are simply everywhere. They rise from the tops of the hedgerows, flitting along fifty or a hundred yards, before pulling their wings close to their body and plummeting back down again. These are newly arrived birds, forced south and west by the snow; an altogether more substantial replacement for the light and airy birds of spring and summer. The swallows left us barely six weeks ago, but are now living among the big game of the African savannah, with the sun warming their backs. Here, we continue to shiver in the cold.
DECEMBER
IT IS THE coldest, frostiest morning of this unexpected early-winter cold snap. In the weak warmth of the sun’s first rays, the world has turned not white, but shades of buff, brown and yellow. The tall stands of reeds, the hard earth in the fields, even the hedgerows – now trimmed as close as a military haircut – all bask in the glow of this early-morning light.
The birds fit this colour scheme too. Reed buntings sit on the broad, flat tops of the hedges, their plumage fluff ed up against the cold, while wrens and song thrushes flit in and out of the thick foliage beneath. How changed is the song thrush from the loud, confident songster of earlier in the year. Now he is furtive and solitary, in sharp contrast to his gregarious cousins the redwings and fieldfares.
The fields, long since cut for silage, are now a mixture of short grass and thick, loamy mud. In the bare twigs of the ash trees blue tits and great tits chatter, and the odd robin and wren call to one another. Occasionally, when the mood takes them, they utter a brief burst of song; the sweet notes piercing the winter air with the distant promise of spring. From time to time a new sound appears: a frantic, high-pitched seep-seep-seep, accompanied by a rather soft, chirping note. A dozen long-tailed tits flit along the hedgerow, separate yet together, as if connected to one another by invisible strands of elastic.
When you are close to a flock of long-tailed tits, the sense of intimacy is palpable. It’s not quite that they don’t notice us, more as if they don’t really care. By now the juveniles have moulted their first soft, coffee-and-cream-coloured plumage, and are indistinguishable from their parents. But they still stick together; as a friend of mine sagely noted, this is the only small bird that spends Christmas with its family.
Like most birds, the long-tailed tits don’t seem bothered by the light shower drifting down from a charcoal-grey sky – ‘leppery weather’ in the local parlance. Unless the rain gets heavier they won’t bother to seek shelter, but will keep searching for food, the soft raindrops bouncing off their delicate feathers.
Following a couple of cold spells back in the 1980s, a run of mild winters has led to a boom in numbers of this charismatic bird. The recent switch back to hard winters, with snow and below-freezing temperatures, has hit them less hard than we might have imagined; perhaps because they have learned, in the interim, to visit feeders in our gardens. Although they rarely stand up to their larger, tougher relatives, their ability to nip in and grab a few life-giving seeds has enabled them to survive even the coldest spells.
THE NEXT MORNING Jack Frost has returned with a vengeance, and now the scenery really has turne
d whiter-than-white: white trees, white hedgerows, white grass, white roofs and white sky. This is landscape in crystal form, only punctuated by the staccato notes of black birds as they dash across the sky or gather in the fields: chords of starlings, followed by the occasional crow, jackdaw or rook. And one brief splash of colour: a flock of goldfinches, whose crimsons and golds illuminate the landscape like a coloured frame added to an old black-and-white film.
Later, as the sun sets over Brent Knoll, a low ridge of cloud hangs over the Mendips, while a darker, more menacing wave arrives from the west. A strong, full moon begins to rise, gradually illuminating the flat, white landscape. A lone buzzard perches on top of a hawthorn hedge, surveying his misty white kingdom. Apart from a distant dog barking, and the hum of the milking parlour at Perry Farm, all is quiet; when it is as cold as this, no bird will waste energy in song. In the rhyne by the farm a lone heron stands rigid on the ice, as if fixed permanently to the spot. On catching sight of me he has just enough energy to flap those huge, rounded wings and fly away. I hope he finds some water, somewhere in this frozen land.
Soft, ghost-like, the mist surges westwards from the darkness, creating a blanket of vapour over the layer of snow beneath, like a counterpane laid carefully over a duvet. As it finally covers the land, the tops of trees and hedgerows poke out as if grasping towards the last few minutes of daylight, before they too are swathed in the mist.