February 2019

I don't know much about nature or wildlife, but I live just on the edge of town and, since I really need to take 

more exercise, I thought I'd try & encourage myself to do so but getting out and writing about the land I live 
near, take pictures of what I see and try and describe the changes as they happen. This is the first go, & as you'll
see I am still working out how to format photos to the correct size. Anyway, I hope you find something interesting 
in it.

February is the perfect time to get out between showers and take a look at what is happening in the 
countryside around us.

There’s a little more light each week – I’m counting the days before they do the final round of ‘Pointless’ and it’s
still light - the longest part of winter is behind us, and we can count down in weeks rather than months toward 
spring.

But winter hasn’t quite let go, and it’s the contrast between that dead hand and the promise of new life 
approaching which makes this time of year so interesting. Fields are beginning to show the first green shoots of
the year, although the difference a bit of shade can make is clear.

Although it may not always have felt like it, it must have been a relatively mild winter as this wild rose retains
some shriveled hips. I suppose these would normally have been eaten by birds, with any remainder blown off 
by winter winds, but now make a visible contrast with the evergreen leaves of a vigorous English ivy beyond.

Ferns, the great prehistoric survivor, are as hard to keep down as always. The low winter sun rippling through 
their fresh green leaves is as good a sign of the better days coming as any you’re likely to see.

  

Snowdrops are in full bloom, one of few splashes of non-green colour to be seen. This drift, if left undisturbed 
for a decade or so (no time at all in countryside terms) should provide a brilliant white border to the lane they 
grow beside.

Holly, too, remains in good health, although their festive red berries are now gone. More noticeable without 
the competition they will later face from other plants, they are the most luxurious, lush shade of green 
imaginable, and it’s little wonder it is welcomed into our homes at Christmas. The healthy nature of the air 
locally is shown by the lack of disease visible on these vibrant, waxy leaves.

Ivy is also more obviously visible in this period, before it is hidden by other growth. Running from blood red to 
light green, ivy, while not a parasite, makes expert use of tree trunks for support as it climbs to reach the light.

It’s hard to believe that ivy doesn’t damage in some way the host it makes use of, but the tree below which the 
ivy was scampering up seemed to be in perfectly good health. It uses the tree more as support than anything 
else, but what I had never realised was that some ivy sends out branches as thick as a small tree.

Animal life above and below is becoming more noticeable, with birdsong especially more apparent. Being a 
soppy human, I like to think of this song as heralding spring, welcoming me out on a walk and so on, although 
it’s more likely the abuse they are hurling at each other over territory disputes would make a docker blush. 
No Dr Doolittle, in this case my ignorance is definitely bliss, and the company of various robins, finches and 
blackbirds make a walk around the area all the more enjoyable.

The less musical sound of corvids such as crows is also evident. These most intelligent of birds are not, however,
blessed with the most melodic of calls and I don’t look forward to the magpie which nests near my house 
waking me up at 4.30am, croaking its death rattle warning at the local cats. However, for now they are quieter, 
fully absorbed in collecting branches and lining to spruce up their nests ahead of egg hatching season, and I 
have to say magpies are beautiful creatures to look at.

Under the ground, too, there is activity, Mole hills are becoming numerous as the little creatures clear out their 
tunnels as the earth warms. Even the heavy, wet ground around here becomes friable to the touch, reminding 
us again that they may be wee but their claws must be pretty sharp. I wouldn’t fancy my chances in a square go 
with a mole.

On the managed land, fat sheep are focused on grazing, building up energy ahead of lambing season. These 
signs of new life are a welcome sight against what remains a landscape of branches empty of leaves and s
odden, muddy ground, and remind us better than overpriced Easter Eggs in the shops that we’ll soon be walking
the dog after dinner in the daylight.

The burns are still running hard, well fed by rain from the hills. On a sunny day, by screwing up your eyes and 
ignoring the cold, the sun glinting off the water can almost make you believe you are somewhere warmer. 
Admittedly, this does take a fair bit of imagination when the wind is 40 mph, your nose is frozen and your ears 
are raw.

But no matter the weather it’s always worth getting out for half an hour and just having a look around. On a 
recent walk I found these Pixie Cup lichen (below) growing on a boulder, the ideal thing for persuading your kids
 or grandkids that the little people really do come out at night and drink dew-beer from little lichen cups while 
hatching their plans in the moonlight. It might instill a lifetime’s interest in their surroundings while you’re at it.
At the very least it’ll be a bit of fun and looking for fairy cups will put in an hour. They don’t stay wee for long, 
we have to make the most of it.

The next 6 weeks or so, as we finally leave winter behind and completely embrace spring, will see the most 
noticeable and radical change of the year in our landscapes. Migratory birds will reappear in our back doors, 
more and more plants will shove their noses out of the ground and cold, bare branches will begin to disappear 
behind buds and early leaves. It’s all the more enjoyable if contrasted with the comparative emptiness of the 
late winter, and it’s well worth a look. It’s free, it’s good for you, and it’s right there.