Blog

I blog about nature in the Norfolk countryside and about my wildlife garden.

Late Spring by the Pond

After a long chilly spring, the first and second week of May saw high pressure finally arrive in East Anglia and our meadow and pond burst into a hive of belated activity as temperatures soared into the 20s.

I saw my first Large Red Damselfly, my first Yellow Flag Iris and my first Broad-bodied chaser dragonfly, whilst the Ragged Robin started to reach full bloom. Our butterflies also got busier with Holly Blues out and about early, dancing along the native hedgerow. It seems to be a good year for them. With my Garlic Mustard and Dames-violet also in flower, Orange-tips and Green-veined white butterflies have now made an appearance too, though sadly in ones and twos.

Yellow Flag Iris flower spike

Pink Ragged Robin flowers

Large Red Damselfly

A Marauding Devil's Coach-horse

It seems Halloween came early to Nar Cottage this year, with the arrival of a maurading Devil's Coach-horse, and a poisonous Brown Roll-rim toadstool!

Devil's Coach-horse beetle, Ocypens olens

The Devil's Coach-horse, Ocypus olens or Staphylinus olens, is the largest of the Staphylinidae or Rove family of beetles, unsurprisingly so-called because they are always on the move. This is the largest beetle family with around 63,000 species worldwide and 1000 in the UK, making up roughly 25% of British species.

Devil’s Coach-horses are common and widespread in the UK. They are native to the UK and Europe, but introduced to parts of Australasia and America. I remember them being called a Devil’s footman in my childhood, one of many alternative names for them, but the main English name of Devil’s Coach-horse name has been firmly in use since 1840.

Although generally nocturnal, they can sometimes be seen during the day hunting for food and, due to their large size (they can grow up to almost 3cm) and striking appearance are very hard to miss! They reproduce in autumn, so it's very possible this individual was busy seeking a mate.

Their appearance is undeniably eerie, they have disproportionately large powerful mandibles for their size, an elongated jet black body and a shortened wing-case. Although they can actually still fly they rarely do so, preferring to hunt on foot. You could certainly imagine them in a fairy tale playing the role of sinister Coach-horses pulling along a fantastical evil overlord in a dark alternative to Cinderella's pumpkin-chariot.

They are indeed ferocious predators, hunting slugs, caterpillars, worms, spiders, woodlice, other invertebrates and carrion. They prefer damp places and will shelter under rocks, logs or leaf litter during the day. The female lays eggs singly in Autumn under damp moss or leaves. The resulting larvae are as carnivorous as their parents and grow through 3 instar (larval stages) over 150 days before pupating and emerging just over a month later in adults form. Devil’s Coach-horses are largely active April through to October. Adults overwinter either by staying active or by hibernating and can live up to two years.

Aggressive “Scorpion-like” Defensive Posture

They have a deservedly pugnacious reputation, mine was right out in the open in broad daylight marching around fearlessly. They are notorious for curling up their abdomen and opening their mandibles in an agressive, scorpion-like defense pose when threatened, presumably to appear large and threatening, as they aren't actually venomous and don't have a sting.

When threatened, the Devil's Coach-horse beetle, Ocypens olens, arches its abdomen in a "Scorpion" style defensive posture, opens its jaws and secretes a foul liquid from its glands

Another defense mechanism is the ability to emit a noxious substance from white glands on their abdomen, which the second half of their binomial name, olens, meaning "smelling", alludes to. If further threatened, their strong jaws can also give a nasty nip.

Devil’s Coach-horse in Folklore

They've been associated with magic, evil forces and the Devil in British superstition and folklore since mediaeval times. One theory is that the name developed in parallel with Ladybird (derived from Our Lady, referring to the biblical Mary) and was established by 1840. Other English names include Devil's coachman or footman and Devil's steed. In Irish they are called "Darbh-daol" devil's beetle and "Coffin cutter". There are a host of dark folklore superstitions surrounding Devil’s Coach-horses, which hasn't exactly helped their reputation.

In some superstitions, as well as being directly associated with the devil himself, they are purported to have eaten the core of Eve's apple and to even have acted as a kind of beetle form of Judas Iscariot and have arched its abdomen to point the way Jesus went during his betrayal. They were also believed to be endowed with magical powers and that when they arched their tail towards someone they were cursing them.

In Ireland it was even believed the beetle could strike a person dead on sight and would eat any sinners they came across. Sadly as a consequence some superstitions rewarded killing them. Although some scythers would put one in their scythe handles to improve their skill (or perhaps speed given their nasty bite!).

Gardening Value of the Devil’s Coach-horse Beetle

Despite their fearsome appearance and agressive defensive mechansims, they do get an unfairly bad rap. Devil's Coach-horses are in fact highly valuable insects to have in the garden and act as a “Gardener’s friend” by hunting garden pests like slugs and caterpillars. In fact one of the Devil’s Coach-horse’s smaller cousins in the Rove beetle family, Atheta coriaria, is even used commercially as a form of biological pest control against certain greenhouse insect pests, including fungus gnats, shore flies and thrips.

Wildlife Value of the Devil’s Coach-horse Beetle

Through their role as a dominant predator species in their niche, they provide eco-system benefits by keeping populations of potential pest species in check naturally, in addition they consume carrion and ensure that nutrients are recycled and returned to the soil.

Brown Roll-rim Mushroom

Gills of a mature Brown roll-rim mushroom, Paxillus involutus

As if that wasnt spooky enough, a large area of my garden surrounding my Birch trees has been beset by the fruiting bodies of what turned out to be a poisonous toadstool called the Brown Roll-rim.

Apparently it is notorious for being particularly treacherous. Originally boiling them was thought to remove all toxins and make them safe to eat, but it was later discovered that the mushroom held a second toxin that build up over a long time and then suddenly kill you by triggering an auto-immune reaction that causes the body to attack its own blood cells. Definitely not one for the pot!

The Fifth And Most Beautiful Season

The sight of a Common Darter dragonfly perching on Purple Loosestrife is a sure sign that autumn is just around the corner …

Its funny how you intuitively sense the turning of the seasons even before anything obvious has actually changed. Its like a little pause as nature takes its breath before things transition.

The days are calm, its still hot and sunny, storms have yet to arrive; yet things are somehow imperceptibly different. Maybe the light is softer and more golden, maybe a dew appears, maybe you notice a spiders web, or dusk arriving that little bit earlier.

German writer Kurt Tucholsky called this magical, all-too-brief hiatus between summer and autumn the “Fifth season”. Ironically, Tucholsky lived during a period of transition himself -becoming a major literary figure during the turbulent Weimar period in Germany and being one of the first writers to have books burned when Hitler came to power. I couldn’t find an English translation so I’ve attempted a rough side-by-side translation of his poem below (my German translation scores at uni were always lousy, so please forgive any linguistic clumsiness).

For me nothing evokes this “fifth season” like the sight of Small Copper butterflies dancing amongst the beautiful magenta Purple Loosestrife flowerspikes that encircle my wildlife pond, and crimson Common Darters waging their ariel battles and hovering in tandem above the water. Such a beautiful, yet ephemeral sights …

“One morning you smell autumn. It is not yet cold; it is not yet windy;
nothing actually has changed at all - and yet everything has.”
— Kurt Tucholsky, 1890-1935

Die Fünfte Jahreszeit - Kurt Tucholsky

Wenn der Sommer vorbei ist und die Ernte in die Scheuern gebracht ist, wenn
sich die Natur niederlegt, wie ein ganz altes Pferd, das sich im Stall hinlegt,
so müde ist es - wenn der späte Nachsommer im Verklingen ist und der frühe
Herbst noch nicht angefangen hat - dann ist die fünfte Jahreszeit.

Nun ruht es. Die Natur hält den Atem an;
an andern Tagen atmet sie unmerklich
aus leise wogender Brust. Nun ist alles vorüber: geboren ist, gereift ist, gewachsen ist, gelaicht ist, geerntet ist - nun ist es vorüber.

Nun sind da noch die Blätter und die Sträucher,
aber im Augenblick dient das zugar nichts; wenn überhaupt in der Natur ein Zweck verborgen ist: im Augenblicksteht das Räderwerk still. Es ruht.

Mücken spielen im schwarzgoldenen Licht, im Licht sind wirklich schwarze Töne,
tiefes Altgold liegt unter den Buchen, Pflaumenblau auf den Höhen ... kein Blatt
bewegt sich, es ist ganz still. Blank sind die Farben, der See liegt wie gemalt,
es ist ganz still. Ein Boot, das flußab gleitet, Aufgespartes wird dahingegeben - es ruht.

So vier, so acht Tage - Und dann geht etwas vor. Eines Morgens riechst du den Herbst. Es ist noch nicht kalt; es ist nicht windig; es hat sich eigentlich gar nichts geändert - und doch alles.

Noch ist alles wie gestern: Die Blätter, die Bäume, die Sträucher ... aber nun ist alles anders....Das Wunder hat vielleicht vier Tage gedauert oder fünf, und du hast gewünscht,
es solle nie, nie aufhören... Spätsommer, Frühherbst und das, was zwischen ihnen
beiden liegt. Eine ganz kurze Spanne Zeit im Jahre.

Es ist die fünfte und schönste Jahreszeit.

The Fifth Season - Kurt Tucholsky

When summer is over and the harvest brought into the barns, when nature lies down like an old horse that lies down in the stall,
it is so tired - when the late
days of summer are waning and early autumn has not yet arrived - that is
the fifth season.

Now it rests. Nature holds its breath;
on other days it breathes imperceptibly
from a gently heaving chest. Now everything is over: born, ripened, grown, spawned, harvested - now it is over.

Now the leaves and bushes are still there,
but in an instant that turns to nothing;
if there is a purpose hidden in nature at all: for a second the gears stand still. It rests.

Midges play in black-golden light, in the light are really black tones,
deep antique gold lies under the beeches, plum-blue in the canopy … no leaf
stirs, it is completely still. The colours are bold, the lake is as if painted,
it is completely still. A boat that glides downstream,
What is stored up is released - it rests.

So four, so eight days - and then something happens. One morning you smell autumn. It is not yet cold; it is not yet windy; nothing actually has changed at all - and yet everything has.

Everything is still like yesterday: the leaves, the trees, the bushes … but now everything is different …. The wonder has lasted maybe four days or five, and you have wished
it would never ever end…late summer, early autumn and that which lies between them both. A whole short span of time in the year.

It is the fith and most beautiful season.

Seeing Small Copper butterflies in my wildlife garden is another hint that autumn is on its way.

Butterflies and Blackthorn Blossom

Peacock butterfly, Aglais io, nectaring on early Blackthorn, Prunus spinosa, blossom

Every year I wonder when and which butterfly species will be my first sighting of the year. Often its a “classic” springtime butterfly like a Brimstone or an Orange tip butterfly, but this year it was actually a Nymph family butterfly instead.

Out of nowhere on the 17th March, a Small Tortoiseshell appeared, it landed, pausing briefly to bask on some bare earth, only just long enough for an ID then darted off in the stiff breeze.

The sighting was so fleeting, however, that it was only really when I caught sight of this Peacock butterfly, Aglais io, a week later, with is vivid diversionary eyespots, frantically nectaring on newly opened blossom on the still leafless Blackthorn branches several days in a row in my native hedgerow that I really felt that spring was finally on its way and warmer days were not too far off.

It was also a timely reminder of just how vital a habitat a mixed native hedgerow is for our early pollinators. Blackthorn, Prunus spinosa, and other early flowering Prunus species for example are particularly important both for newly emerging butterflies, bees and hoverflies as well as acting as caterpillar hosts once their leaves burst and eggs hatch.

Its often overlooked in favour of exotic non native evergreens or plain old fencing, but by the time its warm enough to spend any time in the garden my native hedge is so thick my garden’s totally private. Hopefully as wildlife gardening becomes more popular and awareness of just how bad things are for insects and the remaining wildlife that depends on them, the popularity of mixed native hedging will start to increase.

At last, it is spring!

Blackthorn,Prunus spinosa, flowers even before its leaf buds have opened

February Gold and a Fool's Spring

With the synthetic cheer of the twinkling fairy lights of Christmas in the dim and distant past, the long dark trek to springtime always feels like a brutally hard slog.

The ground seems stark, barren and lifeless. Yet all the while beneath the surface plants and trees are quietly, imperceptibly getting ready to burst out from their winter buds.

Catkins, male flowers of many common native shrubs and trees such as Hazel (Corylus avellana) and Birch trees (Betula pendula) are among the earliest augurs of that yearned for spring. As the days rapidly lengthen, golden evenings start to appear, bathing the delicate, golden chains of late winter catkins in beautiful light.

In contrast to the deep chill and bitter Beast from the East last year, winter 2019 has been remarkably mild. This February has even proven to be the warmest one on record thanks to a brief flurry of sunny mild days that heartened us all with a tantalising promise, however fleeting, of warmer days to come. One mild evening in mid-February I took advantage of the rich late afternoon light during our "fool's spring" to do a little study of the Hazel and Birch tree catkins in my garden.

I learned that branches carry both male and female flowers with the male catkins emerging first. Hazel trees carry tiny little female red flowers that emerge soon after higher up the branch stem, whereas Birch trees have small, bright green, upward curving female catkins.

Catkin pollen is intended to be windborne to pollinate other trees, there being so few insect pollinators about at the time of year, so it has evolved to have a self-repelling quality meaning that bees and other insects struggle to collect much of it, although it is a food source for them at a time of scarcity.

Despite the luscious hue of light, the days rapidly turned back to chilly ones with even our fool’s spring warmth quickly forgotten. But soon, soon true Spring will burst forth in her lush green finery and the late winter gold fade out of memory.

Male Birch tree, betual penduula, catkins

Male Hazel tree, Corylus avellana, catkin in golden light

Close up of male Hazel tree, Corylus avellana, catkin

Male Hazel tree, Corylus avellana, catkin in the dying embers

First Snowdrops

In past years, its been February before I've visited Hoe Rough to enjoy the snowdrops there out in force. But this year my first snowdrop sighting at one of my favourite, peaceful nature reserves was much earlier than usual, on the 16th January.

Almost all the snowdrop plants were still quite stubby and offering just the tiniest glimpse of little furled up white buds, there were just 2 or 3 well positioned snowdrop clumps that had opened. So for the first time I captured the very first flush.

In The Snowdrop and the Honeybee I explored the natural history and folklore of one of our earliest flowering wildflowers. Native or not, your heart can't help but lift when you first see Persephone's favourite little flower return from the depths of the underworld to a barren frosty landscape, reminding us that spring may not be as far away as it feels. 

Festive Frost

Frost covered leaf litter

December has been colder than in recent times and we've had not a few chilly, white-world frosty mornings of late.

Hoar frosts have always held a special place in my heart as they always take me right back to fond memories of frozen winter wonderland walks up on the Ridgeway back in Letcombe Regis, but what makes a Hoar frost so special?

A Hoar frost, also known as hoarfrost, pruina or radiation frost, occurs on cold, clear nights with humid air when a dew would form if it were warmer.

In a Hoar frost, leaves, grass, branches and other objects cool by radiation to well below frost point, allowing water vapour to condense directly in the form of ice crystal deposits rather than in the form of water droplets first.

A normal White frost or Ground frost is caused when water vapour from the air forms a liquid dew first and then freezes with a subsequent drop in temperature, so tends to be more globluar in shape rather than feathery or crystalline. Fog tends to inhibit Hoar frosts as it prevents radiation cooling, however can create Rime, which is an ice deposit formed from supercooled fog vapour that crystallised when it touches a frozen object.

Hoar frost ice crystal structures on a fallen leaf

Bark covered in white frost

The crystalline nature of hoar frost close up

Frost crystals on a cluster of blackberries

In Search of Autumn...

Our mellow autumnal weather seems to be both treating and playing tricks on us this year.

Mingled gold and green birch leaves

As mid October arrived I started to search for turning leaves and classic signs of Autumn, but in vain. With such mild temperatures, the trees have determinedly held on to their cloaks of green as long as possible to maximise their intake of food.

A Stroll in Blickling Estate at the start of half term week yielded some fallen leaves but the canopy was disappointingly still richly decked in a gown of glorious green, with only the occasional tree starting to offer up a hint of gold at the very top of their crowns.

At last on a visit to Wells-Next-The-Sea at the end of the week, the mood had started to shift and begun to evoke a more autumnal tone. A gorgeously mild day, I watched several Red Admirals dancing brightly in the deceptively warm golden rays of the afternoon sun, but at last, I finally saw my first fully golden-gowned birch tree!

Meanwhile, further along the pathway, a suitably russet-hued Common Darter dragonfly cast a long shadow as it perched on a fallen pine introducing rich red umber tones to the Autumnal palette. 

Phew! - our tardy Lady Autumn really has finally arrived with her gown of gold, just in time for the clocks to go back.

A red Common Darter dragonfly enjoying late October sunshine on a fallen pine tree

A still green canopy at Blickling Estate

A birch tree dressed in full golden regalia

The Snowdrop And The Honeybee

An early worker honeybee gathers nectar from a Common Snowdrop, Galanthus nivalis

The sight of this little Honeybee gratefully nectaring among the first of our Snowdrops in a local reserve made me curious about this humble little late winter flower and I discovered it had a surprising and fascinating history.

Gardening Value of Snowdrops

By February we are all utterly weary of winter's leaden skies and lashing storms and desperately seeking those first subtle signs of spring, so it comes as no surprise that Common Snowdrops, or February's Fairmaid as they are sometimes called, are such popular flowers and a staple in British gardens. It is a heavy heart indeed that could not be lifted by the sight of a milky white snowdrop flower head as it nods cheerily in the soft sunlight of a mild winter's day, or bravely peering through a late winter snowfall to earn their French name of "Pierce-neige" or Snow Piercer.  

Snowdrops favour damp woodland and stream side habitats

There are about 20 species of Galanthus in all, with the name Galanthus nivalis stemming from the Greek gala and anthus "Milky flower" and the Latin nivalis meaning "Snow".

It spreads primarily by bulb division into a dense white carpet which can form uplifting winter displays and many parks and gardens where it is long established, such as West Lexham Estate and Walsingham Abbey in Norfolk, open annually to allow visitors to enjoy their beautiful displays.

Wildlife Value of Snowdrops

For our over-wintering wildlife, the sight of a Common Snowdrop is undoubtedly very lucky indeed and a massive boon at a time of great hardship and need. Their flowers provide a desperately needed source of nectar and pollen for early insects such as queen and solitary bees emerging from hibernation, as well as beetles and flies.

In addition, their seedpods, which contain protein-rich elaiosomes, are taken by ants and fed to their larvae in undergrouund tunnels. By so doing, the ants complete the circle of life by helping the Snowdrop plant’s seeds disperse and start new colonies nearby.

Is the Snowdrop a Native Flower?

Fond of damp woodland and watercourses, many people mistakenly believe that the Common Snowdrop is truly native to Britain or introduced in Roman times, as did I until I researched this article. In fact, Snowdrops were first recorded in John Gerard's 1597 edition of "Great Herball" and they were documented in the wild only in the late 1770's. It is now believed Galanthus nivalis were first introduced into gardens in the late 1500's from Europe, where their range spreads from the Pyrennees in the West to the Ukraine in the East.

The "Flower of Hope" grew in popularity around the time of the Crimean War (1853-1856) when many soldiers returned bringing with them a new larger variety of the spring bulb, Galanthus plicatus, the Crimean Snowdrop, which they had seen bravely covering the battlefields through the harsh Crimean winters to inspire hope and augur spring.

Our love affair with these delicate yet incredibly tough spring flowers continued to grow over the years and today Snowdrops are one of the most widely traded bulbs in the world.

Snowdrops' many folklore names symbolise hope, renewal and death

Plant Folklore of Snowdrops

Its long, rich history in Europe and the UK means the humble Snowdrop is well established in folklore, literature and religion. The Snowdrop has strong Ecclesiastical associations which is indicated in some of its alternative names such as Candlemas Bells, Mary's Taper and Eve's Tears.  

The snowdrop is a flower of contradictions. On the one hand, for Catholics Snowdrops symbolise hope and purity. Snowdrop garlands were traditionally used in the Candlemas procession on 2nd February celebrating the Purification of the Virgin Mary, which is one reason why they are so widespread along traditional routes to village churches.

Yet at the same time snowdrops have a darker side to their folklore history. Perhaps owing to the flower's white shroud-like petals, Snowdrops have long been associated with death and bad luck. In ancient Greek mythology Persephone or Kore, Queen of the Underworld and the goddess of vegetation, is said to have carried Snowdrops on her return from Hades in Spring. The snowdrops she carried brought back life to a barren, wintery landscape, but also carried strong negative connotations of the Underworld they came from. 

Snowdrops spread by bulb division but ants assist seed dispersal

Also called Death's Flower, the Snowdrop became associated with death for many Victorians. According to superstition, seeing a lone Snowdrop was perceived as a portent of death and it was also meant to be unlucky to bring the first Snowdrop flower of the season inside a house.

Whatever their origins and mythology, Snowdrops hold a deep and enduring place in our psyche, inspiring hope and signalling that Spring is, at last, not far off. In Tennyson’s words “Many, many welcomes, February’s fair-maid”.

“The Snowdrop

Many, many welcomes,
February fair-maid,
Ever as of old time,
Solitary firstling,
Coming in the cold time,
Prophet of the gay time,
Prophet of the May time,
Prophet of the roses,
Many, many welcomes,
February fair-maid!”
— Alfred Lord Tennyson (1809-1892)

Autumn's Golden Gown

"So fair and foul a day I have not seen..." grumbles the ill-fated Macduff at the beginning of Shakespeare's Macbeth Play. It felt a little like that in Norfolk this weekend

I enjoyed two dramatically different walks among birch trees within twenty four hours; my first a gloriously golden morning showing off Autumn's golden cloak in all its finery and then, courtesy of Storm Angus, a  brief, soggy wind and rainswept excursion which made Litcham common feel very much like a blasted heath.

A wet spring and mild autumn lacking the autumn storms we've had of late has enabled us to enjoy a glorious long-lived golden autumn foliage season this year. But with harsher, stormier weather approaching it may be time to say one last goodbye to autumn's rich vivid beauty and face the cold embrace of stark, hollow Winter, who, after  lurking in the wings for a while and is now stretching out its dark frosty talons.

Golden light shining through the autumn canopy onto fallen leaves

A beautiful mature silver birch tree cloaked in sunlit golden leaves

A storm-swept silver birch sapling looses its leaves under leaden skies

Winter beckons

Autumn Colours and Changing Clocks

Autumn seems to get later and later each year, perhaps a sign of the times in these days of global warming. The leaves here in Norfolk are only just colouring up, so to capture the mood of autumn here is a shot from my garden instead. It's a wild carrot seed head photographed against a backdrop of autumn flowering pink sedum in my butterfly and bee flower garden in gorgeous soft golden light we had yesterday afternoon before the clock change.

There's No Place Like Home

Its been a "Staycation" holiday week for me, and when you are a little under the weather and even the weather's a little under the weather, then the soft golden light at the end of the day and pretty little signs of autumn in the hedgerows and country lanes always give me a lift.

Here a few shots from an evening stroll along the Nar Valley Way. The local barn owl and muntjac deer made a few appearances too this week, though the owl remains camera shy.

 

© Kiri Stuart-Clarke 2008-2022.
All Rights Reserved.