Lockdown and Nature: Reigniting a Passion
By Mark Pitt
For all the hardships that the last four months have brought, there is a bittersweet feeling now that the country has started to recover. For roads are busy, bars are open and the countryside is filled with the smiling faces of tourists. The slow path to normality has finally begun, yet with it, I feel as though there is a part of me begrudgingly being pulled along with the tide. Nature has been a source of solace for many of us, and the peace it brought is slowly fading.
When the country closed in March, my university year was halted. The prospect of having almost six months off with no education, no volunteering and no fieldwork was daunting, to say the least. To keep myself busy for that long seemed like an impossible task, and, to some extent, it was. Although reading books and streaming television series have kept me busy, the real source of entertainment for me, and many others, this quarantine has come from nature and the ability to see life continue as never before.
As an ecology student, I have always had a large appreciation for British wildlife. Being based in the Scottish Borders, famous for its sweeping valleys and meandering rivers, I have been fortunate enough to chase this passion, for the Borders is home to some remarkable creatures, from Ospreys to Otters. I thought I had seen everything in my local area.
I could not have been more wrong. This year within five miles of my house I have spotted 105 bird species. A number I never thought possible. Yet it’s not just birds which I’ve chased this lockdown, my appreciation for the smaller, but equally important, insects and other invertebrates have grown considerably. Each day has been filled with long walks just quietly watching and listening to nature, filling the void of everyday life.
The Otter Family
The Borders is home to some remarkable rivers which meander through the valleys and fields, bringing with them fertility to the land. Perhaps the most famous river here is the Tweed. Starting as a modest stream at Tweedsmuir, the Tweed flows 97 miles until it meets the North Sea. I am fortunate to live just a couple of minutes from its course, my house precariously placed in the fields which encompass the river. Over the years the Tweed has dramatically shaped the countryside, regularly bursting through its banks and depositing nutrients. As such, the land here is incredibly biodiverse. The disgruntled chirps of whitethroat characterise the spring as they hop between the willow trees, meanwhile small skipper butterflies dance around the fields of pasture in late summer. Occasionally, the melodious bubble of a garden warbler manages to cut through the rasps of the hundreds of sand martins which fill the air. For all this life, one species stands above the rest. The otter.
Otters have been a source of constant entertainment this lockdown. Many months pass without so much as a trace of them. Yet, when the otters do decide to reveal themselves, minutes quickly turn into hours spent peacefully observing the details of their lives. Although single otters often showed along the river, I had never been fortunate enough to witness the activities of a family unit. Then, on one cold day in February, I first saw them. A female and three pups. The pups were fat, their swollen bodies swaying as they stumbled across the riverbank. The mother had done well. She was constantly fishing, bringing salmon and trout to the hungry young each time she surfaced. The freezing temperatures and strong winds limited my time with them. Eventually, I gave in to the elements and returned to the warmth of my house. This single sighting, however, was to be the first of many. The otter family have revealed themselves to me and many others like never before, allowing us to view the intricacies of their family life.
The otters have somewhat become local celebrities this lockdown. People who walk the Tweed have personal stories of their close encounters with the family. Whether sliding down the banks or play fighting with their mother, the comedic activities of the pups have been on full display to the public. Although dusk and dawn are the best times to view them, the family can often be seen basking by the river at midday. Despite the obliging and supposed fearless nature of the family, weeks could pass by without any sign of them. By early June, my hopes were dwindling. I had not seen the family for over a month.
On a humid night in mid-June, I headed towards the river. My mission was not to search for otters. Instead, I was listening out for the rhythmic calls of a displaying male quail. A small bird, the quail is a species that continues to elude me. Reports from other small towns in the Borders, however, suggested quail were in the area. Many arable fields are scattered across the Tweeds course, perfect habitat for the elusive quails to conceal themselves in. I had high hopes. The night was warm, the wind barely a breeze. Sound recorder in hand I listened to the noises of dusk. Swifts screamed as they spiralled above me, their elongate wings piercing the air without so much as a beat. As I pushed through the long grass, male skylarks continued to display in the cereal fields beside me. Meanwhile, the metallic chirps of a grey wagtail penetrated over the bubbling rapids of the Tweed. Yet, despite the promise and good weather, there was to be no sign of a quail.
At this point, the sun had nearly set. Only a faint shimmer of sunlight coated the land. As I continued on my path home, three shadows appeared along the rocky shore of the river. Slowly the long, tapered tails became visible. It was the mother otter and two of her pups. In the dark I was uncertain my camera would function yet, by some miracle, there was just enough light to film. The three otters pushed through the currents, the water frothing around their thick coats. On the shore rested a goosander and a large crèche of ducklings, oblivious to the danger beside them. The otters moved in ever closer. At this point the mother had ventured on, seemingly ignoring the goosanders. The two pups began to slow their pace, reaching a standstill in the shallow water. Under the cover of dusk, the elongate bodies were barely visible. The air was tense. There was no more than a metre between the otter pups and goosander ducklings. Then, with a powerful burst of energy, one of the pups erupted from the river. The goosanders tumbled across the rocks, otter pup close on their tail. The otter lunged forwards into the water, its sharp canines almost puncturing the body of the small duckling. Its aim was off. The duckling slipped from its grasp, free to live another day. I had heard reports of otters predating ducks. Usually, these are from local fishermen who are surprised to see the duck suddenly pulled beneath the water, only for an otter to emerge shortly with the duck in its jaws. This is the first I have seen an otter actively chasing its prey with such velocity.
Throughout June I continued to see the otter family regularly. They’d often stick close to the shore, enabling me to get relatively close. One time, after a surprise encounter with a common scoter, an otter pup emerged just three metres from my feet. The pups were getting large, almost approaching the mother in size. Otter pups remain with their mothers for about a year. During this time they’ll learn the skills they’ll need to become efficient predators until, eventually, they establish their own territories elsewhere. These territories will be large, 11 miles being usual, and each of their foraging trips may cover three miles at a time. We are fortunate enough that the Tweed and other rivers across Scotland are clean, filled with large stocks of fish. As such, otters have become locally abundant. This, however, was not always the case.
By the 1970s, we almost lost otters from Britain. The population in England was practically extinct and the species only managed to cling on to the west coast of Wales and Scotland. At that time, many of our waterways were polluted. The intensification of farming led to increased use of pesticides which seeped off the land into our rivers. Pesticides bioaccumulate up the food chain and the otter, an apex predator of riparian ecosystems, is severely affected by their usage. The pollution of our waterways was not the only threat they faced. The otter had been heavily persecuted. Due to their appetites for trout and salmon, fishermen viewed them as a threat to the industry. By 1978, a national ban on hunting was implemented and, alongside controls on water pollution introduced in the 1990s, the population has been able to recover. Aided by local reintroductions, otters are now nationally widespread, occupying every British county. The revival of the otter has been one of the greatest British conservation successes. From a species that faced extinction only twenty-five years ago, otter numbers have now increased to an estimated 10,300 individuals.
By July my sightings of the otter family had started to dwindle. Although I have not seen them for many weeks, other people's encounters reveal that the family unit is still together. The three pups are healthy, though have yet to establish their own territories. For the past five months, the fleeting encounters I’ve had with the family have been a constant reminder that if we persevere and preserve our waterways, life will eventually return to them.
The Crossbill
In early July, the sounds of the dawn chorus were starting to change. The repetitive phrases belted out by song thrushes, filling the spring air, were now limited to infrequent bursts. The occasional tree pipit parachuted into the woodland glades. Their buzzing trills characterised the bright mornings of early summer, yet by July, the activity of these displaying males was dwindling. The land was changing as well. Heather and blaeberry, which once dominated the slopes of the Eildons, were now joined by dense blankets of bracken. Cotton-grass and spotted-orchids were scattered amongst the tussocks of sedges which thrived in the damp soils. Emerald damselflies dart among the sedges, their viridescent bodies catching the eye. Despite the diminishing activity of the songsters which epitomised spring, there is one bird which continues to define the chorus of summer, their jingles and whistles cutting through the silence of dawn.
I first heard them at the end of June. I had decided to hike around the Eildons early one morning. Thick clouds had settled around the base of the hills, cooling the atmosphere. With such low visibility, it was hard to focus on my surroundings. The constant chattering of siskins, which darted between the spruce trees, dominated the soundscape. One call, however, did not sound familiar. The excited chorus of forceful whistles was unlike anything I was used to in the Borders. At first, I found it hard to pinpoint. Yet I had heard this sound before, all the way up in the Cairngorms. I scanned the canopy through the mist; and then they appeared.
A large flock of crossbill. There must have been at least 60 of them. The flock was mixed, the occasional crimson bodied male shining through the mustard coated juveniles. As they circled in tight formation, the crossbills eventually settled in the scots pines by a small pond. They were constantly communicating with each other as they foraged. They fed with great agility, effectively manoeuvring their way through the sharp pine needles. I attempted to push my luck and venture in closer. The crossbills, however, were ever alert. Before I could take as much as one step further they burst out from the trees and spiralled around the woods once more.
By all accounts, the crossbill is a species I would not have expected just a couple of miles from my house. In most years the crossbill is a scarce resident, the 40,000 or so breeding pairs mostly being restricted to their core breeding areas. Yet on an irregular basis, anywhere between 1-11 years, crossbill numbers can increase exponentially. These irruption years involve a mix of resident and continental birds, the numbers continuing to increase all the way into late summer. Looking at the records so far for this year, it seems there have been large movements of crossbill along the east coast of the country.
The crossbill has become my defining bird of the summer. They’ve stayed close to the area and my morning walks are now spent enjoying their constant chatterings. They rarely let me approach them, often remaining high up in the canopy out of sight, but still within hearing range. I’m unsure as to when the crossbills will move on elsewhere but, for now, I hope they stay just a little while longer.
Moving Forward
Despite the hardships which lockdown brought, I can not help but look upon this ordeal fondly, to some extent. Although many of my plans to volunteer and do research ground to a halt, the time I have spent outside each day, exploring the countryside has set me in good stead for the future. Before lockdown, I thought that the Borders couldn’t surprise me. After all, I had lived here for most of my life. I knew my way around the countryside and was confident in my abilities to identify which vertebrate species resided here. Yet lockdown forced me to look in closer. Forced me to question what I had seen or heard. Lessons in butterfly and moth identification have helped me gain a greater appreciation for the life which surrounds me. If it were not for lockdown, I don’t think that would be the case.
Within a month or so I’ll return to university where I’ll enter my final year. Although daunting, I feel confident that my passion for the natural world has been rekindled, my motivation to work never greater. I have even purchased my first moth trap and am excited to see which species will find their way into it. Many of us have managed to forge a connection with our wildlife this lockdown. Whether from listening to the dawn chorus or leaving parts of our gardens to grow wild, for all it’s worth, our relationship with nature has never been stronger.
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