December 2024

I’m scrambling through the woodland undergrowth, anxious, sweating and clutching a 2kg pouch of white powder and a spoon. I may look like some Colombian cocaine smuggler, but I’ve got the perfect excuse for the police: “I’m researching my parish magazine article”. I’ve been writing articles Sussex parish magazines for many years and I’ve received some lovely comments from many people – thank you. It’s nice to know they are being read and enjoyed.

When I was a kid, I would read loads of wildlife books with names like ‘the amateur naturalist’ (not to be confused with ‘the amateur naturist’, a mistake you only make once). Each book promised to make you a wildlife detective and was filled with tips on tracking mammals in the countryside. Most British mammals are nocturnal and, after centuries of persecution, all of them are understandably rather wary of humans. We hardly ever see them. Yet these invisible animals leave behind tantalising clues which let us know they really exist: droppings, nibbled nuts, pellets. But the biggest giveaway of all are their footprints.

Primitive mammals (such as Hedgehogs, Stoats, Badgers and you) are plantigrades. We stroll about on the soles of our feet and have five toes. When we run, we use our toes and the balls of our feet. For the mammals who spend a lot of time running and jumping this basic mammalian plantigrade foot has evolved and adapted over time. Some animals have lost a toe (Foxes, cats, dogs, Hares) while the real gymnasts, such as deer, leap around on two toes, and horses race on just one toe enclosed in a hoof. Like Sherlock Holmes with a foot fetish, you can examine each footprint’s formula of toes, claws and pads to deduce just who has been sneaking around at night.

My books told me that, once you find a footprint, the best way to capture it is to make a cast – which explains why I’m crouched here in the undergrowth excitedly mixing up plaster of Paris powder and pouring it into a footprint in the muddy woodland floor. I’ve always wanted to do this since I was a kid but, well, I guess life got in the way. Now, sat proudly on my desk, I have my first footprint cast: a Badger (with five toes, a wide pad and obvious claws). And somewhere out there is a Badger completely unaware that its footprint has created a deeper enjoyment of wildlife and inspired someone to preserve it. Which now I think about it, is all I have hoped for from these articles too. I hope I’ve made an impression.

Wishing you all a Merry Christmas and best wishes for 2025.

Parish Magazine article kindly provided by Sussex Wildlife Trust. Author not named.

Our 2024 charity Christmas cards are now on sale. This year, there is a choice of 2 images – Winter Robin in a Ferring garden, and Ferring Beach Huts in the snow. Both of these pictures have been taken by two of our members. Copies of the images are here, but on the cards themsleves, there will of course be a Christmas message on the front as well.

All proceeds from the sale of the cards will go directly to St Barnabas House Hospice, and they are priced at £5 per pack of 10 cards.

They’ll be on sale at our next main meeting at the Village Hall on Friday 29 November, at the Village Christmas market on Saturday 7 December, and also at Pinkerton’s Newsagents in Ocean Parade (for which we’re very grateful). Please consider supporting this by buying your cards in aid of a very worthy local cause.

Jays by Michael Blencowe for Sussex Wildlife Trust

 Each autumn a lot of my conversations go like this: “This morning I saw a weird pink and blue bird on my lawn.” Me: “It’s a Jay.” “There’s a parrot on my bird table!” Me: “It’s a Jay.” “I’ve just seen…” Me: “It’s a Jay”. Spotting such an exotic looking bird in the back garden gets even my most wildlife-averse friends reaching for the Blencowe bird identification hotline. Yet despite looking like it has flown in direct from the jungles of Costa Rica, the Jay lives in Sussex all year round. For most of the year it withdraws to the woodlands and leads an elusive life amongst the leaves. But in October it is time for the Jay to step out of the shadows.

Jays look fabulous. With extravagant pink plumage, a drooping black moustache and a snazzy electric blue flash through the wings, it’s no surprise that the eminent Sussex naturalist, W.H. Hudson, called it ‘the British Bird of Paradise’. Surprisingly, it’s a member of the crow family. But while the related Ravens, Rooks, Crows and Jackdaws all wear black funereal feathers, the Jay obviously didn’t get the memo about the dress code! Gather the Crows for a family portrait and the Jay stands out like Danny La Rue in full drag amongst a crowd of coal miners. But, when the Jay opens its beak, it reveals its family heritage. The song of the Jay is a rough, rasping, nails-down-the-blackboard shriek, which would make any Crow proud.

The reason we see more Jays in the autumn is because they are busy. Jays are nuts about acorns and at this time of the year their favourite food is in plentiful supply. But the Jay is a clever bird. Aware that there are lean times ahead it starts making a long-term investment for surviving the winter. With up to nine acorns jammed in its beak and throat, the Jay flies far from the woodlands and hides these nuts in nooks and under dead leaves. With an impressive ability to remember exactly where he has stashed them, the Jay will return, and tuck into these life-saving larders in the cold days of winter. I’ve employed a similar strategy many times at parties! Faced with a full buffet at the start of the night, I hide a few piles of crisps and vol-au-vents behind curtains and cushions to help me get through the evening.

One Jay can store up to 5000 acorns in a season. Not all are remembered and retrieved and from these lost acorns, mighty Oaks grow. I often wonder how many of the huge Oaks we see in Sussex were originally planted by Jays. Through the centuries these birds have been architects of the English countryside: a landscape created by the forgetfulness of a pink crow.

Sussex Wildlife Trust is a conservation charity for everyone who cares about nature in Sussex. Founded in 1961, we have worked with local people for over half a century to make Sussex richer in wildlife. We rely on the support of our members. Please consider joining us. Your membership will help us challenge decisions that threaten wildlife, care for more than 30 nature reserves, and inspire the next generation about the wonders of the natural world. It’s easy to join online at sussexwildlifetrust.org.uk/join

 Shakespeare’s Starlings 

 Three Act Tragedy

Hey y’all, I’m mailing in this month’s article from my vacation at Bodega Bay on the foggy Pacific coast of California. It may be all organic coffee, art galleries, surfer dudes and flip-flops but this quaint coastal community is notorious for being the location for a most sinister film: ‘The Birds’ (1963). Alfred Hitchcock has long gone but flocks of the film’s stars still sit ominously perched on telegraph wires as if unaware that the portly director yelled “cut” 56 years ago. But unlike the local hummingbirds, phoebes and chickadees these particular birds look reassuringly familiar to me. They are Sturnus vulgaris, the European Starling, the same species we see wheeling around Brighton’s West Pier in their dramatic amoeboid murmurations. And, like me, they don’t really belong here. The Starlings are here thanks to Henry IV. Well, ‘Henry IV Part 1’ to be precise.

Act I: London, 1597. William Shakespeare scribbles the word ‘Starling’ in his epic tale of power and treachery. With that feathered flourish of his quill, Shakespeare would unknowingly be the author of an ecological catastrophe that would play out until the present day.

Act II: New York, 1877. Enter stage right Eugene Schieffelin, a socialite who would later be remembered as “an eccentric at best, a lunatic at worst”. He chaired the American Acclimatization Society, a group which, despite their nationalistic sounding name, were very keen to welcome foreigners. In fact, their aim was to import animals of economic or cultural interest from the Old World to the New. Schieffelin, a big fan of Shakespeare, had a dream: to populate America with every bird mentioned in Shakespeare’s writings. And so the bard’s birds were boxed up in England and brought to New York where Skylarks, Pied Wagtails, Bullfinches, Nightingales, Chaffinches and many more were ‘liberated’ into Central Park. The majority of them died. But on March 6, 1890, 60 Starlings (a bird mentioned only once by Shakespeare) were released in Central Park and they fared better. Much better. Today there are around 200 million of them across the United States.

 Act III: United States, present day. The story of Schieffelin’s Shakespearian motivation may just be an urban legend but the legacy of his misguided American Acclimatization Society is very real. Today European Starlings are widely vilified by Americans as aggressive pests that have destroyed precious ecosystems and turfed out native species. Which is pretty rich coming from a bunch of invasive Europeans who have been doing just that for the past few centuries! And since then there have been many who have appeared hellbent on dismantling this country’s environmental regulations which protect wildlife, the landscape and our planet. But sure, let’s blame the birds. As Mr Shakespeare (almost) once wrote, “The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our Starlings, / But in ourselves”.

Wasp Spider by Michael Blencowe for Sussex Wildlife Trust

I never thought I’d say this, but I’ve fallen in love with a spider. And coming from a lifelong arachnophobe that’s quite a claim. Whereas every other spider species sends me screaming in utter terror, the Wasp Spider has melted my heart. They are gorgeous. I met one on the South Downs last weekend and, hypnotised by her beauty, I spent hours with her; lying in the grass, staring lovingly into her eight eyes.

Wasp Spiders’ rotund abdomens are delicately patterned with exotic black, yellow and white stripes. Every Wasp Spider looks subtly different – as if each has been individually hand-painted. Their eight legs wear stripy black and white stockings – the sort favoured by the Wicked Witch of the East. This stripy, waspish appearance has given the spider its name and is used as a defence mechanism to ward off predators who equate this colouration with being stung.

They’re a relatively new resident in England. The first British Wasp Spider was found near Rye in 1922. Since then they have slowly spread across Sussex and you can find them in any areas of grassland. Here inside their long grass lair, they weave their silky circular webs which – like all spider webs – are a masterpiece of arachnoid architecture. As if proud of her accomplishment the Wasp Spider autographs her web with a unique silken squiggle. The actual purpose of this thick zigzag flourish (the ‘stabilimentum’) is a mystery; although some believe it reflects UV light, luring in pollinating insects who mistake the web for a flower.

Male Wasp Spiders don’t have it easy. Physically they lack any snazzy patterning and at 5mm are a third of the size of their hulking female counterparts. And when it comes to spider sex, she dominates the male too. During mating she turns her lover into lunch. So, as the female lies enticingly in her web, the male approaches her with understandable trepidation. It’s all about timing. After she slips out of her old exoskeleton and into something more comfortable, her fresh body is temporarily soft – and so are her jaws. This is her Achilles heel, an opportunity for the male to jump in, do his business and get out before being eaten. This sort of pressure would affect any fellas’ performance, but the male Wasp Spider has a trick up his eight sleeves: he can detach his sexual organs, leave them inside the female and scarper.

I always assumed that jettisoning his genitalia allowed the spider to survive, but almost every mating session ends in death for the male. Scientists have found that after this self-imposed castration, the spider’s sexual organs keep on fertilising the female and block other males’ attempts at mating. The spider sacrifices his own life to save his member and ensure he becomes a father. Wow, what a way to go.

Sussex Wildlife Trust is a conservation charity for everyone who cares about nature in Sussex. Founded in 1961, we have worked with local people for over half a century to make Sussex richer in wildlife.

We rely on the support of our members. Please consider joining us. Your membership will help us challenge decisions that threaten wildlife, care for more than 30 nature reserves, and inspire the next generation about the wonders of the natural world. It’s easy to join online at sussexwildlifetrust.org.uk/join

Far, far away in the south-east corner of Europe, the Balkan Mountains tower over the landscape. Their valleys were once home to the fearsome Thracian tribes, who made empires tremble when they rode screaming into battle on their wild horses. But even more ancient battles were being fought deep in these majestic mountains.

Here in the Balkans, there grew a strange and mighty tree. Its huge seeds were encased in spiky armour and its leaves were like giant hands which cast shade all around. But this tree had been cursed. Each year a plague of tiny moths would attack the tree, their caterpillars would burrow inside every leaf. Green leaves turned to brown, leaving the tree apparently lifeless and defeated. Yet each year the tree would return with renewed green vigour, and each year the moths would attack with the same resolve. And so, for centuries the tree and the moth remained trapped in the Balkan Mountains, locked in their epic, age-old battle.

Then one day men came from the west, discovered this magnificent tree, gathered its seeds and planted them in their world. And so it was that the branches and the empire of the Horse Chestnut spread across Europe’s parks and gardens. People admired it and reclined in the shade of its broad palmate leaves. Schoolboys used its seeds to fight their own playground battles. The conker tree had conquered the continent. Here in this new world the curse of the moth had been lifted and the Horse Chestnut flourished. Meanwhile, the tree’s nemesis, not a particularly strong flyer, remained imprisoned in the remote valleys of the Balkan Mountains for centuries, more myth than moth. Then, one day, the modern world arrived. Construction workers building roads through the mountains were unwittingly building the perfect means for the moth to escape and spread. Now all it needed was a lift. So, the moth stuck out its six thumbs and hitched a ride.

Incredibly, the moth, just 5mm long, was able to disperse by grabbing on to passing vehicles. And so, like the ferocious Thracian tribes, the moth rode into battle. Screaming along highways, motorways, and autobahns on Volvos, Citroens, Fiats and Fords. The ancient battle spilled out from the Balkans as the moth was chauffeur driven to every Horse Chestnut tree in Europe. The Horse Chestnut Leaf Miner moth was first discovered, identified and named in Greece in 1984. Twenty years later, in 2004, an innocent motorist pulled off the A27 in to the University of Sussex car park, unaware they had brought a sinister stowaway into Sussex. Since then, every Horse Chestnut in Sussex has been moth-eaten. Look to the leaves and you’ll see the great Balkan battle raging right on your doorstep.

Ends

Sussex Wildlife Trust is a conservation charity for everyone who cares about nature in Sussex. Founded in 1961, we have worked with local people for over half a century to make Sussex richer in wildlife.

We rely on the support of our members. Please consider joining us. Your membership will help us challenge decisions that threaten wildlife, care for more than 30 nature reserves, and inspire the next generation about the wonders of the natural world. It’s easy to join online at sussexwildlifetrust.org.uk/join