Sunshine and Showers

Sunshine and showers...glorious weather one moment, pouring with rain and miserable the next. On days like these, waterproofs are dragged on just in time to see the end of the shower, and then packed away again as the next grey cloud rears it's ugly head.

On Friday, amidst the frustrating weather, I completed the first of my survey squares for Plantlife's Wildflowers Count 2012 (http://www.plantlife.org.uk). My survey route ran along the coast path in south Cornwall, near Pentewan; a stunning location.


About halfway along the survey, this Speckled Wood Butterfly (Pararge aegeria) was basking in the sun, and for once, I was fully prepared to capture it. These photos show just how papery thin the butterfly's wings are!



Although primarily found in woodland, they can also be seen anywhere that has sufficient scrub cover. There are three subspecies of this butterfly which are found across the UK; the colours of which change corresponding to location. This species is doing well throughout it's range, and is believed to be increasing. Nectar sources are also readily available with favoured species including bramble, ragwort, cuckooflower and dandelion.

I also was privy to a territorial battle between two male stonechats...each preaching from a separate fencing post.

Male Stonechats (Saxicola torquata) (pictured, right) have dark black heads, orangey-red breasts and a white collar. Their name is derived from their call which sounds like to stones being clicked together. They breed mainly in the south and west of Britain, and are more visible in coastal locations. This was my first stonechat sighting, and was an incredibly easy bird to identify. Atleast two females were nearby, and visually resemble the males although, as with many other birds, are toned down and duller in appearance.



Other sightings included a Swift (Apus apus) on the wing, identifiable by the deeply forking tail. There were several House Martins (Delichon urbica) flying at head height between the beach and harbour in Pentewan; the fleeting sunshine highlighted the glossy blue-black of their plummage. There were Pied Wagtails (Motacilla alba) (pictured, left) in a car-park area, and I stood and watched Grey Wagtails (Motacilla cinerea) hopping between jutting posts within the harbour. Despite it's name, this cheerful little bird brought a dash of colour and life to an otherwise dreary looking pond on a drizzly day. It was the first time I had seen a grey wagtail, but I won't be forgetting it in a hurry.

All this, plus the 20 species I recorded for the Wildlfower Survey 2012....not a bad morning considering the alternating sunshine and showers we experienced throughout.

Thanks,

Becky

All in a day's work

I spent Friday helping move Natural England owned ponies onto their 'new patch'. They had been in their previous location for a number of weeks and had done their job wonderfully. They have grazed back all the molinia/purple moor grass (Molinia caerullea) tussocks, the European gorse (Ulex europaeus) and willow sprouts, among other plants.

Their job is to munch their way through the vegetation as they see fit. They tend to take the luscious first, moving on to the edible, but less favoured patches later. They keep the vegetation at a non-uniform, low level, removing the need for time-consuming clearance work. By creating a patchwork of density and structure grazing helps encourage other plant species that may be out-competed by the larger scrub species which dominate the heath. The ponies are supposedly selective enough to leave the plants that are of high value to another of the moors important residents: the scabious plants. 


Devil's Bit Scabious (Succisa pratensis) is a food plant of the Marsh Fritillary butterfly (Nymphalidae euphrdryas) which has undergone a great range contraction in the past few decades (up to 66% of English populations lost from 1990 to 2000 (http://www.arkive.org/marsh-fritillary/euphydryas-aurinia/#text=All)). The butterfly favours open heathy grasslands such as that on parts of Goss Moor. 

The ponies have now been moved onto a patch of heathland where they have more gorse; both European and Western, as well as molinia and heather to munch their way through in the coming weeks. I have to say though, they look very lovely where they are at the moment. Visible from the multi-use trail, they set the scene from some historical romance novel perfectly.

The real delight though, will be returning to the patch they have just left in a few weeks time, to see what will pop up from the ground now it has been grazed. Only time will tell!

Thanks,

Becky

A Missed Opportunity

I'm sure the world is full of missed opportunities and fleeting moments of potential, but I still hate watching one disappear from right under my nose. 

Today, I came within 6 inches of stepping on an adult adder (Vipera berus) whilst it was basking in the afternoon sun. I was at Tregoss in Cornwall and luckily managed to redirect my step just in time to avoid trampling on it. With baited breath, I watched as it unwound itself from a tight coil, and lethargically slithered away into a nearby heather bush.

I had a good 30 seconds in which to capture this event, it's skin was crystal clear in the sunlight, and it's markings were beautifully striking. It would have made for a rather spectacular photo, and there was ample time to get my camera out of the case and snap away. 

Except...I had left it in the van, some 200m away! Argh! 

Adders are venomous and although a bite will cause considerable pain, it is unlikely to be fatal in adults. Adders mainly bite if they are trodden on, or threatened in some way, but in most situations, they will merely retreat to the safety of cover (as in this instance). They will then often return later to bask, once the danger has passed.

If threatened, they can make an 'S' shape with the front half of their bodies, in an attempt to deter the disturber. They may also make a prolonged hiss to warn potential rivals of their presence. Adders are protected in Britain by the Wildlife and Countryside Act of 1981, and as such, it is illegal to harm, kill or injure an adder. 

That was only the second adder I've seen in the wild, and so I am sure you can imagine how annoyed I am to have missed it....another day perhaps. 

A short one today, but thanks for reading all the same! 

Becky 

The Reluctant Birder

My enjoyment of birdwatching is a relatively new discovery which has only manifested itself in the last few years. I have gone from being unable to identify even the common chaffinch, to now, being able to identify many birds from their jizz or call alone.

I have unintentionally dragged others along with me in my new-found passion. I remember an hour spent in a hide with my reluctant younger brother and his girlfriend, trying to teach them the differences between blue-tits and great tits. I've pointed out to friends the names of different wildfowl and waders when on afternoon strolls in the park. I've made my mum complete the RSPB's Big Garden Birdwatch with me, and I've stopped working on the boat in order to grab my camera to catch a diving gannet or posturing seagull.

The one who has probably suffered the most though, is my boyfriend, Alex. I am forever pointing out birds and interrupting him mid-sentence to listen or look at a passing passerine.

On a recent weekend we spent in Hampshire, we walked from Buckler's Hard to Beaulieu (fantastic if ever you are in the area). It is a stunning walk along the banks of a tidal estuary with unspoilt habitats the whole way. We had barely got 5 minutes into the walk before we had to stop and snap away at photogenic avian individuals.

On walks such as this, we have fallen into a routine to share the camera. He will photograph anything he wishes, and I will photograph anything vegetative or avian in nature.

Halfway along the first stretch we came to a bird hide, for the use of anyone. I was eager to enter and spend a few minutes scouring the reeds for a glimpse of a heron or little egret. I have to say though, Alex was once again, forced to become 'the reluctant birder', pictured here, he has a look of resigned boredom. I asked myself the question, what is it like for a non-birder to tag along with a bit of a 'keeno', it was, after all, not that long ago, that I too was a 'non-birder'.

Birdhides really aren't the most exciting of places, silence is advised and if nothing is immediately visible (as was the case here), it remains a rather dull affair for a non-participating onlooker. Alex may have described it as something akin to watching paint dry.

So what attracts the birder to the hide? The anticipation that today may be the day that a previously unseen bird is spotted and committed to the memory bank? Or the chance to test identification skills if a myriad of birds were present? Perhaps. Alas, today was not the day for either- all we spotted was a pair of mallards skirting the reeds. On we went,  following a rather impatient plea from Alex.

At Beaulieu village, there is a lake held back by the tide gate. As we sat here, Alex proffered the identify of the black headed gulls (in summer coat), and the enduringly elegant mute swan. I'm sure there is a secret birder deep within him! One day it will be sparked into manifesting itself, and I can feel less selfish about burdening him with my hobby!


After the walk, we made the most of the beautiful weather, and headed south to Calshot where we parked the car and watched the sun setting over the water. I just couldn't resist one last cheeky look with the binoculars though...

In the meantime, while I'm waiting for his inner birder to (hopefully) reveal itself, I will just have to ensure he doesn't find the incessant avian based running commentary one burden too many!

There must be other people with a similar problem?

Thanks,

Becky

Settling down

My favourite time of year has begun: Spring! It is time for fantastic courtship displays and bizaare mating rituals to begin all over the country.

There was a somewhat turbulent start to Spring in my part of Cornwall with about three or four days of lovely, warm, clear, sunny weather closely followed by a thick fog that didn't lift for five days. Now though, we finally seem to back on track, and nature has embraced this second chance of new beginnings.The daffodils have long been out, primoses are flowering, and the crops are rising out of the fields around us. 

Outside my bedroom window the birds have (finally) taken to my feeder, and a pair of house sparrows are nesting in the guttering above my room (I daren't tell my father). Each morning, I am now awakened by glorious sunshine, with the view of sparrows, greenfinches, blue tits and great tits feeding about 2m away from me. The nesting sparrow pair are also constantly passing by my window with twigs and nesting material (all the while, driving my cat crazy with the apparent injustice of the window pane!). 

This is not the only sign of nature 'settling down' for the upcoming season to have reached my attention. I was at the rural cottages my parents own today (http://www.tucoyse.co.uk/), and in one of the upstairs windows, the jackdaws have unwittingly set their nest in a location offering a prime view to our visitors (photo). It remains to be seen whether or not they will abandon this nest upon  realisation that their secluded nest site is actually in the bedroom of a busy holiday cottage!

I'm due to put dormouse nest boxes out at Golitha Falls, a National Nature Reserve (NNR) in two weeks, and am spending tomorrow making some to put out on Goss Moor (another NNR). These boxes are also in anticipation of the upcoming breeding season, and are used by the dormice in the summer to sleep and breed.

We had two hen pheasants wander around the garden a few days ago. Their mission was to investigate every nook and cranny of the garden for potential nest sights. They even tested a few potential sites by sitting down in every which-way possible before deciding that no, this garden is not a suitable location. Although camouflaged within the undergrowth, a hen must choose a site that offers sufficient brood rearing habitat nearby for her chicks. Once hatched, they must eat a very high protein diet for the first few days, a diet they obtain from a vast number of invertebrates- this was what I suspect was lacking from our garden. 

So although the season is just getting under-way, I've already witnessed some of the best bits of Spring and I can't help but wonder what else I shall be privy to in the next month or so! Bring it on!

Thanks,

Becky

I spy with my little eye....

I spent an hour on Goss Moor in Cornwall this morning, doing some work towards a project I am completing in a volunteer capacity for Natural England.

Goss Moor is a combination of lowland heath and peatland. In layman's terms that means it is covered in big grassy tussocks, with pits of bog/ wet mud in between. All of this is interspersed with gorse bushes and wooded areas. 

I was, for want of a better word, 'tromping' across the moor, following a GPS to a particular grid reference. Atleast, I thought I was being rather noisy and heavy-footed (it is hard not to be when in wellies, puddles and mud). It would appear though, that I was quieter than I thought, because I got within about a metre of a water-rail before spooking it. 

According to the RSPB description of a water-rail (http://www.rspb.org.uk/wildlife/birdguide/name/w/waterrail/index.aspx), it is smaller than a moorhen, and has a 'grey face, chestnut brown upper-parts and black and white barred flanks'. This was only the second time I have seen one, but they appear to me to be a very distinctive bird, and not only because of the long red bill. 

They are apparently a very secretive bird despite being widespread and relatively common across most of England. They are birds which prefer well vegetated wetlands (Goss is both well vegetated and wet!), and actually have laterally flattened bodies to allow easier travel within reeds. 

They have a call which is comparable to a squealing pig and is heard much more often than the birds are seen (their call is also available to listen to on the link above).  

Water-rails are not a bird I am familiar with, but I have to say, I am disappointed I missed such a perfect photo opportunity. If only I had had my eyes on where I was going, and not on on my GPS unit! There is always another day, I suppose. 

Thanks, 

Becky 

A night-time wanderer

Staying in a flat in Gipsy Hill (SE London), I didn't expect to see an overly exciting display of wildlife, and for the most-part; I was right. I was limited to grey squirrels rummaging amongst the leaf litter on the lawn, a handful of magpies perched in the bare trees in the back garden, a great tit flitting about and a robin preaching from the holly bush at the front. Pleasant, yes, but nothing we haven't seen before.

On my last night in Gipsy Hill, I got up in the middle of the night to get a drink, and while standing at the kitchen sink, I looked out onto the street below. As most of you will not have been to Gipsy Hill before, in the daytime, the street is a bustle of Londoners, buses and cars. At this time however, it was brightly lit by the street-lamps, but silent and empty.

Empty that was, except for one night-time wanderer; an urban fox.

My experience of foxes is limited to the countryside. I have helped lamp foxes on a shooting estate in Norfolk, protecting ground-nesting birds in the area. I have never seen them in an urban environment, and the truth be told, I have never understood the fuss people make about their presence in towns and cities. I  am therefore of the view, that yes, in some parts of the countryside, foxes are vermin, and correspondingly, should be controlled.

I read an article in the London Evening Standard last week written by Simon Jenkins (http://www.thisislondon.co.uk/comment/tally-ho-hunt-down-the-capitals-vulpine-menace-7497989.html). He was bemoaning the presence of a vixen and cubs at the bottom of his garden, and ridiculing the suggestions made by the appropriate authority. As far as I could tell his complaints totalled the vixen begging for food at the window (in the bleakest of seasons), an unpleasant odour by the shed, and a small amount of disturbance to the flowerbed. All this at a time when he admitted, he was not present in the garden much at all. Is this really enough to warrant the destruction of a vixen and her cubs? Apparently so, according to Simon Jenkins.

The destruction of foxes in the countryside is for the benefit of ground nesting birds...lapwings, grey partridge, pheasants and grouse. In my view, this is completely justified and understandable. But in the cities? No, I can't comprehend that.

So when I saw the elegant animal trotting up the middle of the road, I cried out (in delight not horror). I clearly startled it as in response, it hunkered down and stared, scouring the house and garden for any signs of life, or danger. Finding none, it turned and slinked off down the gap between two houses, squeezing between the railings as it went. It was clearly in good health, with a deep coat and wonderfully bushy but lightly coloured tail. It may have been a dog fox assessing it's territory under the cover of darkness. I was disappointed to watch him go, remaining at the window for a long while afterwards, hoping he would return. Not this time though.

I was forced to reinforce my earlier views on the matter. These magnificent creatures are living among us, and for the most-part, we are all thriving. I doubt many of the residents of Gipsy Hill know of their night-time wanderer, but given the general prejudice against them, I suspect many would be unhappy to hear of it.

How much harm are they actually doing? Credible reports of attacks are few and far between, and are mainly on other nocturnal species. We are, after all, the ones who have invited the foxes to join us in our urban sprawls. As a nation we throw away tonnes of food waste and leave it on our streets for days on end. If you were a fox, would you bother to catch your own food if an urban street offered you hundreds of bags of rubbish with edible treats inside?

People are moaning about the problems they are causing in cities...well it's a bit late now! They have established here, and all because of us. Why not try to minimise the disturbance they cause, reduce the carrying capacity of the city, and maybe, the problem will begin to resolve itself. If Londoners really want the foxes gone, the destruction of individuals is certainly not the answer, as Simon Jenkins pointed out, another will just move into it's territory.

Is there not a role for someone to try and harmonise the coexistence of two of the UK's top predators? We, are ourselves, not unlike the foxes, who are only responding, like us, to the pressures of natural selection and survival. Find food to survive, find mates to propagate our own genes and maintain a territory in order to secure both of these things; our food/livelihood and our loved ones/ families.

Thanks,

Becky

Six and Two Spare

Last week I saw an unoccupied raven's nest.
This week I saw ravens. It just keeps getting better and better! Although I was cheating (sort of).

I was at the Tower of London on Tuesday and I have to say, I was more excited by the raven's in the courtyard than by some of the exhibition itself.

Wherever you look, the raven has always been depicted as powerful or intelligent, and is a popular subject in mythology. They are often thought to be a symbol of bad luck or an omen, probably owing to their all black colouring and scavenging of carrion. These ravens, or more specifically, the residence of ravens at the Tower of London is essential or the Tower and Kingdom shall fall to foreign invaders.

Quite a big ask for six birds really.


The common raven or Corvus corax is one of the largest corvids. It is a relatively long-lived bird and can live for up to 10-15 years in the wild, or longer in captivity. They are larger and heavier than carrion crows, and have a bigger, darker beak with a wedge-shaped tail. They maintain the typical but beautiful glossy coat of other corvids.

They are opportunistic feeders with few predators, and range over a wide variety of habitats. They are of least concern to the IUCN but are protected by the Wildlife and Countryside Act (1981) making it illegal to intentionally kill or injure ravens, or to damage or remove their nests or eggs.

There were six ravens in the tower on Tuesday, plus two more 'backup' birds in captivity by the White Tower, or, as it was put to me; 'Six and Two Spare'.

Oh, and the other exciting thing at the tower, apart from obviously the centuries of history and stunning location?

Starlings! Flitting about all over the place making a lot of noise! 

Thanks,

Becky

Cornish tin mining pit: undisturbed haven for bats

Further to the day spent looking at bats in the Helston area, I have been, and survived (unscathed) many other excursions with the Cornwall Bat Group. One of note however, was last Sunday. This one was in the Bodmin area, at the site of a old tin mine.

We met as usual, donned hard hats and headlamps, and set off to the first site. Never having been to any of these sites before, I never know what to expect, but had been suffering with a bad back, so thought it best to mention it before we left. The approach is always the same for the apprehensive among us; only do those sites you feel comfortable with, if you don't want to enter an addit of shaft, don't. Simple enough.

We scrambled through some scrub, until we appeared at the top of a pit probably 200 metres deep, 500m long and 50m wide. I thought it was stunning, but surely not where we we headed. I should have learnt by now to expect the unexpected.

We set off, forewarned to leave a good gap because the shale debris was very slippy and unstable, and to be extremely cautious approaching the bottom, as many years of fly-tipping had left large amounts of scrap metal and glass; problematic when scrabbling on hands and feet.

Halfway down the very steep slope, we stopped, and the leader disappeared into a hole beside the base of a tree. We all followed in. It was a smallish addit, with one lesser and one greater horseshoe bat in. The old tin load was still just visible in the back the the bottom of the addit. The remarkable thing was though, the pick-axe marks of the old Cornish miners were still visible- dating the mine to 16th Century (or so I was told).

Off we set again, it took about 20 minutes to reach the bottom, holding on to saplings and rubble as we went, hoping they would hold and the shale would not continue sliding under foot.

Once at the bottom, we went into a partially collapsed tunnel, which once ran along the centre of the pit. It was held up by rotten railway sleepers, and housed a vast deal of rubble which had collapsed through the ventilation/tipping holes. Inside there were drill holes where recent excavations had tested surrounding bedrock for any potential extraction sites. Another 2 horseshoe bats, and we were off again.

The final site was almost unnoticeable from the outside (as with many of these addits). A quick scramble through a gap between the rock face above and the mud below, and we emerged into an 8ft by 8ft tunnel, running perpendicular to the pit, with the floor and rail-tracks still partially intact. This was how the miners removed the tin from the pit- which apparently emerged a mile or so away. It was pitch black because the exit route had apparently caved in, and the entrance which we used was partially obstructed. We walked several hundred metres along the tracks, counting the bats as we went, turning back only when the water levels reached wellie-boot height. The atmosphere was damp, but rich and earthy. Spider's egg sacs lined the walls, and water droplets glistened to look like precious metals in the light of our headlamps. One could almost feel the history, imagining the miners trucks coming back and forth along here. Fantastic.

Once back out of the tunnel, I asked "How do we get out, the same way we came in?". "Up there" was the given response, with a finger pointing to the rock face above me, about 250 metres high. At the bottom of the pit lay an animal carcass which had fallen from the top and died; a reminder of exactly how far up it was. Apprehension? Doubt? Disbelief? Yes, all three. We got halfway up by scrabbling up the shale. We stopped for breath, and one of last years Raven's nests were still visible about 30 metres away, balancing precariously on the ledge. I was also shown a point at the far end of the pit, where two Peregrine Falcons were nesting. That alone made the fear, wobbly knees and raw fingers worthwhile!

The final hurdle; a steep rocky climb to a section where a few trees were growing. The problem; the safety rope left by last year's group was broken. Climbing it was to be strictly one by one as rocks could come down as we climbed.

We all made the top, and my comment? Bad back?! What bad back! I hadn't thought about it once...

Wouldn't want to be an old Cornish tin miner though.

Thanks,

Becky

A Transient View

I recently returned from a trip to London involving a five hour train journey each way. I had packed anticipating the occasion; a novel in which I could lose myself for those hours, and wildlife magazines to peruse if I bored of the novel. Little did I know I was to witness the opportunistic naturalist's dream!

As always, a few hours into my journey, I watched out the window as I passed along the seafront by Dawlish. It is a treat to behold on any day, however, on this day, the water glistened with the warm winter's sun but was as still as a mill pond. The surface almost appeared oily or glassy it was so calm. Further along into the Exe Estuary, by Starcross, part of the mudflats were exposed at half tide to reveal a number of wintering birds; black headed gulls, redshank, and an avocet on one side, brent geese, oystercatchers and lapwings on the golf course on the other side! Many were undisturbed by the passing train and continued feeding. Fantastic!

Returning inland, my mind reverted back to my book, the sights seeming comparatively dull after that spectacle. It was much later, that I glanced up and out of the window, and saw a flash of orangey-red darting through a field. A fox! Confused or disturbed maybe, it was roused from its daytime slumber. On three more occasions, I saw the same thing; lone foxes roaming through the open fields. I wondered what would cause them all to be conspicuous and active in the middle of the day. My conclusion? Hunger. I think all these animals were hungry, and were making the most of the crisp, sunny day in the hope they would find a meal before the cold of the night set in.

I lost count of how many jackdaws, crows and magpies I observed on the trip, either making the most of the midday warmth, or searching for food.

Later still, nearing Reading, I counted 5 buzzards and 8 red kites. All were either soaring in pairs above the train, or flying acrobatically very close to it. The red of the kite's underbelly clearly visible and bright in the winter sun. I was so close to some that even the individual primary feathers could be discerned. They offered me a better view than I've ever seen after spending hours with binoculars in the cold and a crick in the neck!

What I thought was to be a tedious afternoon on a train, turned out to be a neatly disguised exposure to some of Britain's hidden treasures. Any nature lover would be cheered on a winter's day by the sights I saw.

My tip: next time you are taking a long train journey, don't bury your head in a book like I planned to, look out the window. Trains run through some of the least disturbed areas of the countryside...make the most of it!

Thanks,

Becky

One of a kind?

With money a necessity and a lengthy period of unemployment inevitable, last November I took up my father's offer of work. I did four mandatory courses that enabled me to earn money as a commercial fisherman, and once completed, my dad talked me through what I was to do.

The first time I went out on the boat, and was fully licensed to do so, my dad and his crew had 'hit the jackpot' the previous night. They wanted me to jump aboard in our fishing village to steam down to Falmouth to help land the catch of anchovies. A boat FULL of anchovies.

I can't remember exactly how much that catch weighed, but it wouldn't have been far from 12 tonne. It took us about 4 hours to land, and a 2 hour steam each way. All in daylight. For those who don't know, anchovies are worth about 3 times the amount of the usual catch of sardines, so I was paid handsomely for my efforts.

Somewhat naively, I was impressed with the ease at which so much money could be earned, and threw myself whole-heartedly into this season's ring-netting. My luck? We haven't caught anchovies again this season, so no cut of a jackpot for me! I don't mean to sound ungrateful; I've earned more than I could doing any other sort of temporary job this winter in Cornwall. There is, however, a tendency, for one's mind to dwell on the potential for the bigger, better or quicker catch. Human nature, I suppose.

I was dubious to start with though, about the various necessities that are associated with this type of work. For instance, it involves going out about an hour prior to sunset, and more often than not, not returning home until a few hours before, or even after dawn. So for most of the winter, I have spent my waking hours, in the dark- a problem for some, I would imagine. I also dealt with the 'below-par' toilet facilities a.k.a; a bucket. As an 'outdoorsy' person though, this was not much of a issue. I spent every night donned in the classic but incredibly unflattering yellow oilskins (I would I have been a lot colder and wetter without them!).

I gladly dealt with the hard work and muscle aches of 3 hours bent over in the fish room, shovelling fish. I even dealt with the teasing, the first time I emerged from the fishroom, with my hair matted with fish scales (I hadn't the foresight to wear a hat- a mistake I will only ever make once I think!). I have made hundreds of cups of tea for the crew, and watched for hours on end at blue, yellow, green, and red blobs on a sonar screen. I've also heard more swear words and profanities than I ever thought possible! I haven't yet had the misfortune to suffer from seasickness, but luckily for me, this type of fishing is a relatively fine weather one, and so conditions are rarely rough enough form me to do so.

Unfortunately, I have also witnessed tragic scenes that I hope no one else ever needs to. I've been shaken to my very core, and forced to question a lot of practices and meaning. I have silently hoped and prayed for the lives of people I know, and now fear for the lives of others I hold dear.

After reading that, I can't imagine many people would be envious of me. My opinion? I think they should be!

I've seen porpoises diving at the bow of the boat. I have seen gannets diving into the sea. Watched a seal get himself an easy meal (climbing over the headrope of our net, into a 10 tonne bag of fish); the equivalent of an all you can eat buffet! I've hand fed a wild seal in Falmouth harbour; a seal the size of a small car, with teeth that would rival those of any beast found on land! I seen a full moon the colour of amber and lighting up an entire bay. I've seen a whole full sky of stars on most nights I've been out. I've watched the sun rise in front of me, over the horizon, as I sit on deck on my way home. I've caught shoals of fish worth thousands of pounds. I've seen so many different species and size of fish, learning all the while about their characteristics. I've seen the sky so dark you can't use your eyes for navigation, but need to rely on plotters and the radar. I've been the only boat, or apart from the crew, the only person for miles around me. I've been in total silence but also amid hundreds of screaming gulls all trying to get at our catch in the net.

As I walk among others in London or even in Cornwall, I can't help but wonder if I really am one of a kind? A female graduate of Cambridge University with a Master's degree, working on a commercial fishing vessel, and loving it? I'm certainly the only one I know!

I've shed blood, sweat and tears this season. I've witnessed some of natures most wonderful things. I've also witnessed the power of the seas and the consequences they have. I have earned more money than ever before, and worked hard for it. I've learnt more than can ever be gathered from a book.

I've been physically exhausted, fallen asleep standing up, and been frustrated by the poor prices the tonnes of fish we catch makes. I think it is fair to say, I've had a baptism by fire this winter!

So, if you had wondered why my name is Fisher_Girl, now you know!

And a word to those who maybe think it is beneath them, or a disagreeable job, from someone who has done it, I say, don't knock it until you have tried it! And, ask yourselves, how much job satisfaction do you get from your office job? Not as much as I do, that is for sure.

But also, to those who are interested in doing more, eat more fish! The Cornish waters are full of fish, and by doing so, you support small businesses and non-destructive practices. In return, you get a healthy, fresh meal that is cheap and full of vitamins. Where's the catch?!

Thanks,

Becky

Golitha Falls

Golitha Falls is a mixed oak woodland in Cornwall on the site of an ancient woodland. It is a National Nature Reserve set in a deep valley, the bottom of which houses the fast-flowing upper reaches of the River Fowey.

There really is no where else like it in Cornwall; the water tumbles, trickles, cascades, rushes, meanders and crashes through the valley, over boulders, under tree branches, around roots and through the tendrils of underwater plants. To the unobtrusive visitor, the only noises to disturb the constant but soothing whoosh of the water are the calls of the various winged inhabitants of the wood.

Why do I write of this?

I spent yesterday volunteering with Natural England trying to protect this Cornish nature haven from the blight of Phytophthora ramorum, known to many as 'Sudden Oak Death'. Although the Falls are as yet, not known to be contaminated, the larch trees within the woodland are potential carriers of the pathogen. 


Natural England employees and conservation volunteers alike embarked on the felling of any Larch trees within the woods. I, not possessing a chainsaw licence, had little to do at the beginning except watch these impressive trees fall like dominoes at the hands of my colleagues. I had never before heard the crash of tonnes of wood fall to the floor, taking any obstructing branches, and indeed, trees with it. Never had I felt underneath my feet, the tremors as shock waves pass through the earth in response to the huge disturbance. I have now. 


I had mixed emotions whilst watching the decades of growth plummet to the ground to find their final resting places. As a conservationist, I have always associated the felling of woodland to generally be a negative occurrence, my mind automatically flicking to the rapid loss of rainforests the world over. The education instilled unto me (quite rightly) drags my mind back to reason, just seconds after this initial generalisation. Unsurprisingly though, the benefits of felling never inspire such intense feelings within me as the negatives of it do. 


Conservationist or not, I couldn't help but feel impressed (and unnerved) at the relative ease with which one man with a chainsaw could make something so large tumble to the ground: like a child watching as a pencil stood on it's end fall over with a mere tap or puff. 


Yesterday, however, I observed first hand, just one of the positive benefits to the felling of trees in England. I've no doubt that everyone would agree, the felling of a dozen larch trees is of little consequence when attempting to maintain the integrity of hundreds of oaks in an age old woodland as beautiful as Golitha. 


An age old woodland that is, that houses hundreds of bird species, moths, mosses, liverworts, flowers and invertebrates. Just yesterday, I observed two courting ravens flying above the canopy, hundreds of polypody (a small fern) sticking out of branches and trunks, the bright 'Orange Jelly' fungus and 43 pied pied flycatcher nesting boxes littered the woodland in an attempt to encourage residence (and a welcome reminder spring is on its way!). Dippers are apparently a common sight to be seen flitting in and out of the river, alas I was not lucky enough to see one yesterday- an effective means of bribing me to visit again though! 


The most striking thing of all though? The green. Hundreds of different, shades of green, from the lichened bark of the trees, to the branches covered in thick, lush mosses, the undergrowth with sedges and ferns, the algae-covered rocks and boulders in the water and the strikingly bright patches dotted throughout the valley. A spectacle to behold on a crisp winters day, and a fantastic, worthwhile day's toil. 


Let's hope our work was not in vain, and the curse of Phytophthora remains at bay! 


Thanks for reading, 


Becky 

Batty?

Yesterday I went on my first ever bat group outing. I arranged to meet the other members in a car park in Cornwall at 11am. I was warned I may get muddy, and wellies were a definite.

Not thinking much of this (getting muddy and requiring wellies is almost a given with most conservation activities), I set off to meet them. After a few initial identification issues, I found the group and was given a battery pack (the size of a novel, but the weight of a reference book!) to strap around my waist, under my coat. This had a lead going up to a lamp which I had to attach to the front of my helmet. This done, and introductions made, we set off.

Getting to know a few of the people on the walk to the first site, I was treated to a few anecdotes about what lay in store for me. I, having never been on a bat outing ever, was completely in the dark about what was to happen. The most I had gathered was that we were visiting about 5 hibernacula near to the carpark, and once inside, we would count the bats and record what species they were.

These anecdotes though, filled me with dread. Horror stories of the 80's where health and safety was a little less stringent than it is today; stories of caves on cliff faces, and safety ropes coming loose, I thanked my stars that we are not on any beach, and it was no longer the 80's.!

The first hibernacula, was to be 'a bit of a squeeze' and the majority of the group would not actually fit inside. This one, I was also told, resembled a badger set from the outside. A badger sett?! I'm going to be sent in a badger sett?!

Now I'm sure you can imagine what must be running through my mind at this point...I have to squeeze myself, in full outdoors gear, down a muddy hole in the ground, that looks essentially like a badger set. I am also not what I would describe a slight of figure, so now I am really beginning to wonder if I am actually capable of doing this full stop.

Nevertheless, we reached the first site, and sure enough, it was a small hole in a bank, that did resemble a badger sett. I was told not to worry, that only 'Luke' was to be going down this one, and should he need assistance to get out, we were all there to pull him out. Down he went, it took about 2 minutes for him to shimmy his way down about 3metres through an even smaller hole at the end, where, I was told, he could stand up as the adit opened up. After losing sight of him completely for a few minutes, he shouted up that there was one lesser and one greater horseshoe bat. He then reappeared and grappled his way back up the muddy slope; an extremely difficult task given he could barely raise his head of the ground before it reached the roof.

After he resurfaced, looking very muddy, and very out of breath, we set off for the second site. This one, I was told was a bit easier, and all 5 of us would be able to fit in. "A bit easier?" I thought, I am going to need an awful lot more that 'a bit easier' to go down there!

So I donned my hard hat, tuned on the lamp, and removed my gloves; I meant business! I sat down at the entrance and started to shimmy my way down the muddy black crevice. Sure enough, the hole got smaller, and the air got damper, but eventually, it opened up to a 10 metre passage which had clearly been mined at some point. A little surprised, but essentially relieved to have fitted down the hole without much ado, I began to scour the walls of the cave for hibernating bats. Alas, there were none- already disturbed by something, or roused from their winter slumber by the warm weather, I was told.

Stalling slightly, before I had to climb back up the muddy slope, I saw a white cotton ball sized blob about the size of my fingernail hanging from the ceiling. Genuinely interested, I asked the man behind me what it was; a spiders egg sac I was told. Time no more to stall I set off...

Back up the hole I went, saying silent prayers all the way up, hoping that my physical strength would be able to pull myself up, without having to ask these men who I had only met an hour previously to pull me out. Especially given they were all very experienced at doing this, and did not even bat an eyelid at the challenge. Sooner than I thought I would, I emerged, slightly out of breath, but relieved to be back above ground relatively scathe free.

Before moving to the other side of the valley, we went to a nearby pool, where the sight of 6 grey herons standing together in the reeds greeted us. At this point, I curse myself for not thinking to bring my camera, and therefore missing this perfect photo opportunity. The weather was a perfect winters day, cool crisp air, with perfectly glassy waters in front.

Nearly halfway, and I had yet to see a bat. A little apprehensive about what was to follow, but still eager to see my first live bat.

The third hibernacula, was the one I think I would have appreciated being 'broken in' with. This one was not a squeeze at all in comparison to the others, and I merely had to crawl in about 3m, and then I could stand up and walk the remaining 10m of the hibernacula. Here, I saw my first 3 bats. All of them were lesser horseshoe bats, 2 were asleep, and one was waking, stretching its legs and gradually unfolding its wings.

They were dark in colour, hanging upside-down from the ceiling, with their wings wrapped around them acting as a duvet while they slept. I was however, surprised by their size. I have always had, out of ignorance I presume, an impression of bats as larger than that, but these were the length of my little finger, about the size of an elongated new potato. Please excuse the relatively unrefined comparison, but I could not think of anything else of comparable size/shape!

I was also very surprised at how delicate they also looked, fragile. I wondered how on earth had these creatures got such a bad name for themselves? They are tiny. And from what I had seen, not exactly fast moving yet- it takes them 30minutes to wake from hibernation before they can fly. I'm sure though they are much more active in the summer, and really can't wait to go out and witness them in flight. All I wanted to do was reach out, pluck it off the wall, and unfold the wings to see the horseshoe face...you will, I'm sure, be glad to know that I kept any errant ideas at bay, and refrained from disturbing this protected species from its hibernation.

The remaining adits went relatively smoothly, both requiring more 'shimmying'. The only casualty of the day, was my trousers, which ripped slightly when I climbed over a barbed wire fence to get to the last site. This one had been fenced off because adjacent to the horizontal one I entered, was an open, vertical mine shaft.

All in all, a good mornings work. I didn't get to see a greater horseshoe bat, but I saw 8 lesser horseshoe bats, and was very happy with that. The next site visit is in two weeks, and the quiet sense of reassurance I had felt following the excursion, was completely blown out of the water, when I was told next time, the organisers need to remember the safety rope...another new challenge for me, but I have to admit, I'm excited. :)

Thanks for reading it,

Becky

Graduate Unemployment

With this being my first blog, I'm not sure how it really works but am keen to give it a go!

I am a graduate of Cambridge University, and have recently completed a Master's degree in Wildlife Management and Conservation. I am, however, one of the growing number of graduates who are finding it hard to find work in their chosen field.

I would like to point out however, that I do not put myself in the category with those doing somewhat dubious degrees in order to partake in the three-year party whirlwind that so many consider to be a 'right' nowadays. No indeed, I worked hard to earn my place at Cambridge, I worked for all three years, and then worked my socks off in my self-funded Master's degree.

My question is, why, if I have worked so hard, am I still (3 months after finishing), unemployed?

If you are now thinking she must be really dim, and barely scraped a pass for each of her degrees, you are wrong. It is true that although my Cambridge degree was not a first class one, as I like to reassure myself, it was only 2 marks off a 2.i, and, I passed my master's with a distinction. Surely that must count for something?

On top of that, I gave up a whole summer to volunteer for various conservation charities, and have, since finishing, continued doing so. This, I might add, was (and still is) at considerable monetary cost to myself.

So, having recently been reunited with old Cambridge friends for New Year, the topic of conversation, as it always does, turned towards jobs; current success/enjoyment of their jobs, the excitement of a regular salary, and then the question I dread..."and what are you doing now, Becky?"

To this, I answer with as much gusto as I can manage (which is considerably less than in previous months)... "well, I'm working for my father, as a crew-member on his fishing vessel, and I'm volunteering in my spare time". I see the look of pity and wonder how quickly I can steer the subject away from my lack of employment and the impending feeling of inadequacy.

Why is it, that my all my Cambridge friends have managed to find employment, and I haven't? Comparing myself directly to them, it was not my results from Cambridge- other friends with comparable or lower grades have graduate jobs. It is not the fact I did a Master's and they did not- one friend did a Master's and has been working for nearly 2 months. It is not for want of trying- I have applied for several appropriate jobs, and dedicated hours to each application (not, like some people I know, who email a CV and generic cover letter in response to each potential position). Is it my chosen career path? Ahh...now here I stumble across an interesting notion.

I, out of all my friends, am the only one to have chosen a conservation career, I am the only one to have spent an entire summer volunteering for conservation charities, and I am also the only one without a job. Coincidence? I think not.

When I now compare myself to my colleagues on the Master's degree, yes there are the odd one or two who have managed to find employment in our chosen sector. However, (and this is honestly not my bitter side coming out), the majority of those, are the result of "who they knew", and not "what they knew".

On the rare occasion that I do get a personal response from a company, detailing why they could not select me for their final interview candidates, I find out that it is my experience that lets me down. This I have heard many times in the last 6 months, and am quite frankly no longer surprised when I get the same response.

Not enough experience. Easy enough to solve right? Work experience, volunteering, professional development courses, bat groups, mammal groups? Yes, Yes, Yes, Yes and....YES! I am doing all these things...so why does no one give me the time of day yet?

SO, the catch 22 of conservation, you need plenty of experience to get a job in conservation (probably because these companies are often charities and/or have very little extra resources to throw around training up graduates in complicated field techniques). How do you get experience? You do all the things I have been doing...volunteering, short term work placements etc. How do you fund these? Yourself.  I.e. get a job which thus prevents you from doing the aforementioned volunteering.

I don't think I would mind so much, if more people I knew were in this situation, but it would seem that the only people I know of who are unemployed graduates, are those in the conservation sector.

I wouldn't even mind so much if there were a decent number of jobs that I could apply for, but there is probably only about 1 job a month advertised, for which I meet all the specifications. The others I apply for, I just have to hope that I have something the employer likes enough to give me a shot. No luck yet.

too late to change career path? It most definitely is I think, especially after paying so much money to fund my Master's. I can't help feeling though that somewhere along the line I have been mislead about the success rates of graduates finding employment.

Yes, that did seem like an inappropriately long rant about my current state of unemployment. But ok, I admit it, I am jealous of my friends who are happily settled in their jobs and have been for a considerable time. That is only natural right? I am just left wondering, when will it be my turn? Am I doing something wrong?


Please, is there anyone else in my shoes who feels frustrated with their state of unemployment, despite being what they thought was highly qualified to find work?

If you got this far, thanks for reading it!

Becky