conservation grazing

Not everybody wants to leap out of bed at 6.30 on a Saturday morning but it's the best time of day to be out in the meadow if you have cattle to check. There's hardly anyone about - just the odd roe deer browsing and a few sleepy butterflies waking up in the early morning sunshine.

This morning I startled a fox and watched it bound over tall tussocks of grass to the edge of the wood. I wasn't quite speedy enough to catch it on camera but it was a beautiful beast with deep brown fur and a black tip to its tail.

In our main paddock, 19 Fresian steers and one jersey cross (affectionately known as "cadbury) came bounding to meet me at the fence. Dairy breeds are not the normal choice for conservation grazing but they seem to do well on our site. They were given extra feed yesterday as the grass is so dry and were clearly hoping for another delivery this morning. Their loud chorus of mooing made a happy greeting. Empty-handed, I had to send them back to work to eat the scrub and keep the meadow, well, meadow-like.

After the ice age and before humans swarmed in large numbers across the British Isles, most of the land was covered with forest. Grassland and heath were created by clearances for agriculture and remained open landscapes thanks to constant human management - largely by grazing. When extensive sheep and cattle rearing disappeared from lowland Britain after the Second World War, these open spaces quickly scrubbed over and reverted to woodland. With them went the natural flora and fauna adapted over millennia to these habitats.

So grazing is back in conservation and it's big news. One wildlife trust even maintains its own grazing herd; other organisations borrow animals from farmers, offering free food in return for a living mower. The thing is: animals do a much better job than mechanical mowers from a conservation perspective. They graze the sward to a variety of different heights, creating mini-habitats for lots of different flowers and invertebrates.

Since grazing was reintroduced on our site some 15 years ago, the main paddock has been sprinkled with a carpet of violets every spring and attracted the spectacular silver-washed fritillary whose caterpillars feed on them. A rare plant, the wonderfully named corky-fruited water dropwort (above right), was once restricted to a single clump. Since the cows arrived, they seem to have spread it across a huge swathe by carrying the seeds on their feed. Yellowhammers with their distinctive song: "A little bit of bread and butter and a piece of cheese" have also recolonised the meadow.

Orkney

My musings from Orkney are long overdue: I spent ten days on the islands in June, around the summer solstice. In the long-enduring daylight I caught glimpses of so many birds I have never known before, watched common seals basking on the beach with their pups, gazed across thriving heathland at majestic green hills, and photographed delicate Orcadian flora. So much space, light and tranquility. If you love wildlife and wild places, go there!

One day I walked around the coastline of North Ronaldsay, among the sheep grazing seaweed on the beach. There were dozens of common seals hauled out on the rocks, many with young pups. As thick mist descended, they disappeared from view but I could still hear them singing: a haunting, eery sound. It's easy to understand how myths developed about mermaids, and here in Orkney, selkies - shape shifters who could change between human and seal form.

On parts of the shore I was dive-bombed by arctic terns defending their nests on the shingle and accompanied by the squabbling cries of fulmars tucked into nooks and crannies on shallow sandy cliffs. Meanwhile little ringed plovers, turnstones and the (on Orkney ubiquitous) oyster catchers scurried around at the edge of the waves.

More on the birds, flora and a beautiful beetle in future blogs...

Dawn, deer & damselflies

A pair of roe deer were waiting for me at the edge of the glade when I arrived to check on cattle grazing our site very early this morning. The doe was half hidden in dappled shade just beyond our temporary electric fence line; her mate stood just ten metres away from me, proudly displaying his antlers.

For five minutes the young stag looked straight at me, tongue licking the air as he tried to catch my scent, moving a few steps from time to time but showing no signs of fleeing. We gazed at each other as equals in the morning quiet. I kept still, not wanting to spook him. He seemed unconcerned, even when I turned my head as a butterfly caught my eye. Eventually I walked away slowly and he remained exactly where he was. Somehow I felt deeply honoured by his willingness to let me watch him.

An hour later a large hawker dragonfly darted around my head on the edge of a woodland ride. It reminded me of this week's news that the dainty damselfly, absent from the UK for some 50 years, has just been spotted again in Kent, probably blown across the Channel on a southerly breeze. It is only about three cm long with beautiful pale blue bands along its abdomen.

The previous UK population, confined to a single pond in East Anglia, was swept away in catastrophic floods in 1953. Now it seems to be spreading northwards across Europe again, possibly as a result of climate warming. Welcome back - I hope you stay!

dormice

What could possibly be cuter than a dormouse - even when it's gazing longingly at its woodland home through a plastic bag. That round face with apple-pip eyes, big ears and twitching whiskers - all designed to find food at night. Their paws have little sticky pads which help them cling to the thinnest of twigs as they scuttle through the canopy.

Don't be alarmed: this business with the bags is standard practice for weighing mice during monthly monitoring checks, all done by qualified and experienced licence holders who carefully return the animals to their nest box unharmed a few minutes later.

Today we were checking boxes in hazel coppice stools along a woodland edge in southern England. We found seven dormice in total, scattered among 50 boxes, including a female with "pinkies" (newborn young, which we left undisturbed), a couple preparing to breed and a pregnant female. Dormice are clearly thriving here, despite their national decline, and small wonder when you look at the food sources around them: hazel trees bursting with ripening nuts, sprawling bramble covered with pink berries and a plentiful supply of insects.

Dormice are exceptionally lively at this time of year, even though they normally sleep during the day. As we tried to transfer them from nest box to weighing bag, they scampered and leapt around a giant plastic sack and tried to escape by running up our arms. Inside the box, they weave cosy nests with strips of honeysuckle bark and moss, on a bed of fresh green leaves. In its heart is a small cavity lined with soft dry grass for the breeding den.

They seem to favour remnants of ancient woodland on the site which offers a greater diversity of plants and insects. The wood borders a field of wheat where we spotted a roe deer among the corn, a silage heap popular with basking adders, and shelters a number of badger setts.

Of course dormice are quite capable of nesting without our wooden boxes. We put them up so that we can monitor population numbers and breeding activity on different sites. If you see one, please leave it in peace. Dormice are strictly protected by law, as a fast declining endangered species, and you need a licence to disturb or handle one.

Badgers

Yesterday was a black and white-letter day for badgers when the Badger Trust won their appeal to stop the cull in Pembrokeshire. It reminded me that I've neglected this blog for far too long and prompted me to write up my badger-watching evening in early June.

It was pouring with rain as we headed uphill through woodland on a chalk scarp to a rudimentary bench positioned above an old sett. These holes are no longer in use as the badgers have moved along the hill, but they still remember the peanuts scattered by the local ranger and return to forage regularly.

Badgers are not the least bit bothered by a bit of rain, especially when it brings worms and other delicious morsels like slugs out into the open. Two badgers were rooting around on the edge of the slope when we arrived, but shot off on hearing our footfalls. A little later a shy rural fox eyeballed us from the meadow below, decided we were dangerous to know and trotted off.

After an hour, three badgers (an adult and two cubs) appeared in the field at the foot of the hill and two emerged from the woods higher up. Slowly they hoovered their way around the piles of nuts, snuffling audibly. They didn't even look up when a large herd of Ayrshire cattle trudged past the fence, mooing loudly and reaching up into the trees for new shoots.

My closest encounter came when a young badger popped up a few metres to my left from behind a large tree stump. He was so near, I could hear him munching peanuts and I'm amazed it took him ten minutes to catch my scent and make his exit.

Birdsong

A symphony of birdsong has been following me through woodland, heath, allotments and gardens over the past two weeks. Is it my imagination or are the birds calling louder and more determinedly this spring, after a long hard winter? I'm certainly recognising more of their calls after persevering with CDs of British birdsong - picking out the laughter of the green woodpecker, the lyrical song of the blackbird and the repetitive plea of the great tit.

Heathland was never my favourite habitat but I'm being forced to revise my feelings about it as I work on a low wetland heath into the spring. The site is alive with tiny lizards waking up from hibernation. I almost stumbled over a tiny woodmouse peeping out of its hole in a heap of dead bracken and we eyeballed each other for a second before it scuttled away.

As I raked up dead bracken last week I felt as if I were sitting in the middle of an avian orchestra, with green woodpeckers playing the melody, greater spotted woodpeckers drumming the percussion, and a curlew trilling its solo performance from the sky.

I've just started reading Rachel Carson's Silent Spring - long overdue in my natural history education - and I guess I have her (and her many followers) to thank for saving birds and so many other creatures from the deadly potion of DDT.

Much to my surprise and joy, I have just landed my first part-time job in countryside management and will be helping to look after an ancient common and newer country park near my home. Water voles are thought to be in residence on one of the sites - how I'd love to see one.

Houses for dormouses

We spent yesterday morning putting up dormouse boxes in hazel coppice on a corner of wet heathland. Some 15 to 20 years ago a dormouse was found nesting in a bat box there, and since the habitat is good for dormice, we're hoping to find evidence that they are still around.

The hazel coppice stools were wearing their early spring jewellery - dripping with yellow catkins and sprouting tiny dark red flowers along their stems. Undoubtedly, the first herald of spring. For the first time this month, birds were singing constantly in the wood and we heard a buzzard call as it flew overhead.

We spotted bubbles of dark brown jelly fungus growing on a tree and I took a small piece home to identify with the help of my Roger Phillips fungi bible. After doing a spore print overnight and examining it closely again in daylight, I settled on Witches' Butter. What a wonderful name for a fungus covered in tiny warts. Not edible! We also picked up a freshwater mussel shell, possibly dropped by a mink, and I'm hoping to work out the species with a bit of online research.

Woodland is indisputably my favourite habitat - so rich in biodiversity. I hope some dormice find the nest boxes. I wonder what they make of them - a handy wooden box, with an entry hole pointed away from the prevailing winds, tucked into a favourite food tree, and connected to the canopy by trailing honeysuckle.