Catalogue 34.17-18

A slow-build catalogue of a year in our lives, taking note of what we’re doing to our fellow earthlings. Tempered and influenced by one human’s experiences, over one year of her life, of her small encounters with some of these earthlings: from goldfinches and long-tailed tits on her feeder, to an urban cat mistaken for a fox and a feather-strewn lawn in the aftermath of a hawk’s pigeon breakfast. By Sophie F Baker

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Last day, snuck up on me!

My final post of the year. That went quickly, like time does these days. A whole year where something could have been positively achieved for wildlife, but where so many unbelievable things have taken place, have disappeared, have continued without our collective, knowledgeable consent towards an oblivion that is utterly predictable. I hope the next twelve months mark a turning point, because it's overdue.

But at least, today, I woke up to an extraordinarily loud dawn chorus, building up to spring despite the fog and rain, full of so many birds I couldn't count them all, or even name them all. And hopefully we've enough left of everything that there's some hope for restoration of a sort. Altered, undoubtedly, fragile, yes. But something apart from just our own stupid species, spinning impotently on a bare rock until we too die out. I'm trying to be optimistic, but I can't say it's easy, however good spring feels.

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There are so many front lines for the protection of our planet at the moment that's it's scary to try and keep track. But people being murdered whilst trying to protect our 'common heritage', that's something that should be more widely derided than I've seen. We have wrought so much damage on such a large scale that everything feels like it's at a tipping point. Each attack on these front lines, each extinction, each animal taken as a pet or bush meat or for 'medicine'. It all chips away at the numbers, at our expectation of the numbers, at our resolve. We must stand strong and resist this normalisation of the diminishing.

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Trapped in bed today.

But I managed to ID a bird we saw on our last day in Northern Ireland - a female stonechat. No less fun figuring it out in hindsight and listening to the song a few times to convince yourself. No less fun seeing a bird in person in full-throated song without knowing its species. Nice to put the two things together.

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Wrenverywhere a wren.

Not one stop off in Northern Ireland this weekend wasn't accompanied by a wren singing its operatic little heart out. So much gorse about to sing from in full bloom, but even cliffsides and beaches and full dripping mossy forest hosted them. Loud little noiseboxes and beautiful flitty fliers. I'm glad they seemed in such abundance there.

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Glenariff mosses. A black moss like mole fur, with droplets of mist in its fronds. Just one of so many types of moss that I lost count today at Glenariff Forest Park on a low-cloud day in a waterfall valley full of pine and deciduous forest. Birches and oak and willow and conifers, all with their own mix of resident furry green or brownish, dripping rocks with whole additional colonies and fern fronds, and deadwood with even more to discover. Soft moss cushioning covered the whole of the valley, pretty much, And so many bluebell leaves. Such a late spring that they showed no signs of buds yet, and my first ramsons were only today. In amongst the dingly dells, a grey wagtail too, and chaffinches galore. Northern Ireland is a delight for greenness.

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Rathlin Island. Full of sea birds! Saw some gorgeous guillemots and razorbills, as well as my first knowingly-admired fulmars. Spring is definitely in play on the cliffs, with kittiwakes in full song-of-their-name and the hares gadding about in surprisingly large numbers. We even saw one of the rare Rathlin hares, golden coloured with blue eyes. A genetic mutation from the Irish hares we saw an abundance of - and only four on the island as a whole, which made us feel even more privileged. I've never seen hares in that way before, in full run mode, alert mode, lollop mode and (weirdly) lynx mode, where they walk like a wild cat. It's easy to understand how myths built up around them, with their different colours and modes of movement.

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Giants' lichen. So many lovely sights today, but I enjoyed the lichen most closely. So many amazing patterns and colours: some that looked like maps of a country divided into states; some that were furry; some with lumps and bumps like pale toad skin. Made me want to get up close and feel them all, to compare. Even though the little nubbins with holes in make me feel a little bit sick, for some reason.

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Northern irish rooks.

Got up close and personal on the north coast with some rooks today as they fought the sea bluster and helped themselves to worms on everything from scrubland to rugby pitches to golf courses. Lovely nothing-but-themselves corvids, the same as you find in so many places - but craggy and deliberate they kind of fit better here, in a way.

I think we spotted a shag, too, fishing in the bay with a real flair for the dive from sit-bobbing in the waves. Always reminds me of the poem about their eggs and crumbs and wandering bears - though we didn't see any of those just yet.

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We had a great crested newt survey (by a licensed professional!) at work today. Loads of the cresty chaps in our backyard pond. Along with plenty of smooth newts.

I didn't realise that Cambridgeshire is a particular stronghold for them - or that the UK was their primary location. Worth all the protection, and not just because of their handsome crests!

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Yes - this. Let's turn a potential catastrophe into a powerful, fundamental change to the way we think about the environment - and make governments hold themselves to account with the law. Yes.

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Greenfinch.

They are so unbelievably rare these days - so all the more delightful to see one on my feeder this morning. And it makes me grateful that I clean my feeders regularly to help protect from the devastating lurgees that seem to abound.

On the flipside, I've had to chop down a big old clematis today which was dragging down the fence it had consumed. No big deal in and of itself, but I've seen so many small birds chattering in its branches, hidden by its twigs, that I did feel sad to be clearing their hang-out. I hope it doesn't diminish their presence in the gardens, or drive them away. Especially the bold and pristine wren who seems often to be feasting on my compost bin flies.

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Allotment beetle. Not the best sort of day to be working on the allotment - water clodded earth and drizzle. But I planted out my rhubarb and a goosegog bush, and the digging revealed this chap. I love beetles, and this is the kind I used to hear a hedgehog munching on when I walked home late at night after going clubbing in Newcastle, all those years ago. A later walk revealed Paxton Pits as a flood of Ouse, with the greenpecker laughing away and the molehills on higher ground and the black-headed gulls having a field day, literally, all fighting and shouting and enjoying the sodden fields. I can hear more rain now, too, which means we could have it even deeper in the morning.

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The frog's back.

My pond-works haven't scared it away completely. It swam, in fact, from under the old pot I took out into the green cover of my oxygenators. Properly swam, with its breast-stroke legs a masterclass in propulsion. Which means my new pond is big enough for it to swim, even though it's really a bucket-based water feature.

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Big birds gliding.

Lots of birds of prey seem to be around at the moment. In the last week or so I've seen at least a dozen kites, six or so buzzards, a sparrowhawk and a windhover. I don't know if it's a spring thing, or a weather thing, but they never stop being a thrill, hanging threateningly in the air like they do. Especially kites, which are such a success story in conservation terms. And if you are anywhere near the A1 these days, a sighting of their forked tail is almost guaranteed.

And so many laughing green woodpeckers, even at the antiques fair. While I was perusing the vintage buttons. And not one reaction from those around me.

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Rain today.

Lots of rain. I am glad to see it, though, as it feels like we haven't had our proper share in recent years. That's probably anecdotal, but spring is definitely for showers and wet and grey amidst the sunshine, as much as it's nice to feel a proper strength of sun on my skin as the days inch longer.

Bonus - a flock of (I think) siskin in the hedges on the way home. And a memory of seeing my first yellowhammer (knowingly) at Lilbourne the other day. Such a thrill to see so many breeds of bird around and about. Though I'll always enjoy the blackbirds, tits and spuggies I get all around my house, too, and even - yes even - the pigeons. They're in huge flocks at the moment, in fact. Enough to draw my eye to the sky over fields and through trees at some point almost every day.

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It's nice to see some good news, but it does make me worry for all the wildlife that isn't mobile enough to take advantage of our gardens and flit off again, and all the wildlife we can't feed in this way, or don't know to.

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Skylarks and reed buntings.

A work trip to Lilbourne Meadows meant I got to hear my first skylark of spring today, and see it ascending up and up, then float down and down, even in the blustery winds atop a bund. And singing all the time its busy, lyrical song. And buzzards and sparrowhawks and lapwings, teal and wigeon. All topped off by the joyous sight of so many tiny lambs - Herdwicks and Shetland and Hebridean. Gorgeous little things, all wobbly-secure on their new legs and pointy toes. So full of gambolling and fun, climbing all over their mums and cuddling up with each other in the feed troughs.

And then at Paxton Pits my first sighting of a reed bunting, though I have heard them before. Lovely little birds with their big black face markings and delicate spiced brown wing flecks. A good wild day.