Of Owls, Larks and Hedgehogs

By Kerry Williams,  Communications Officer – Conservation, Sussex Wildlife Trust

I’ve always been a night owl. I’m writing this as my creativity kicks in; unhelpfully that’s usually around 9pm. I spent my childhood howling in resistance at those who dared tell me it was bedtime. I would read until 3am and be virtually dragged from my bed for school in the morning.

Despite what my mother says, it’s a real thing. We are genetically predisposed to different chronotypes associated with our circadian rhythm. There are owls (those who wake and sleep later), larks (those who wake and sleep earlier) and ambivalent (those who are more adaptable to sleep pattern changes). I used to long to wake up earlier and make the best of the day. Especially as a keen birder it would be advantageous. If I ever do it’s glorious. The air is different in early morning. There’s so much light, so much time. But there are perks to the night too. It’s quiet; everyone else is asleep. It’s peaceful and less distracting. And the best bit, of course, is watching nocturnal animals.

I live with another owl. Together, we slink about the local nature reserve at dusk. Hushed tones to fit in. Eyes adjusting to the perceived blackness. There is rarely anyone else around. The damp smell of the reedbeds seems stronger than in the day. The gravel and parched grass crunch louder underfoot. The world feels bigger somehow, yet more tranquil. We detect dancing bats who whizz past our faces, saving us from nibbling evening midges. We walk directly past Rabbits on meadow buffets, who barely look up to note us. We take in pre-roosting bird calls; Reed Warbler, Song Thrush, Blackbird, Robin, and skyward silhouettes of those returning for the night; gulls, corvids, a Peregrine. A Fox on patrol stops to watch us with an air of disdain; ‘It’s my turn now’.

Once we’re out of the reserve we stop at the usual spot, at the usual time, and wait. Then we see it. Squat legs, busy snout and about 5,000 spines scuttle across the car park and along the kerbside dandelions. The Hedgehog crosses the road; it’s not busy but it’s still a risky game, and I once flagged down a startled mini-bus driver to allow for safe hog passage. The Hedgehog continues along a footpath, and through a fence hole cut by kind urban wildlife heroes.

These sightings feel like treats to which few of us are party. I’ve not only accepted my night-time owl form; I completely embrace it. Just don’t ask me to make plans before midday.

SWARD WARDENS: the incredible role of dung beetles                                June 2025

By Kerry Williams: Communications Officer – Conservation

There’s a subject we’re not great at talking about in the UK; poo. However, there’s a group of creatures that are far more celebratory of the topic, with their diet testament to their appreciation. Aptly named, dung beetles eat poo. And they are amazing.

You are likely to conjure the image of Heliocopris, giant dung beetle species which reside in Africa and Asia, manoeuvring huge droppings kindly deposited by some of the Earths spectacular megafauna. Although these beetles don’t match the size of the one that rolled a football into the 2010 World Cup opening ceremony, they are hefty for a beetle, reaching lengths of up to 7cm.

Our dung beetles are more diminutive, but no less vital. The UK is home to around 60 species, which are split into three groups: Aphodiines, or the ‘dwellers’, sized 3-13mm who live directly in dung, Onthophagus, at 4-11mm; ‘tunnellers’ who tunnel up to a metre below the dung, pulling down small amounts to lay their eggs in, and the largest ‘tunnellers’ at 8-26mm, the Geotrupes.

Mostly, they consume dung of herbivores and omnivores. The ultimate recyclers, dung beetles are ecosystem engineers, meaning they modify their environment to provide services to other species with whom they share the ecosystem. In the case of dung beetles, this is a poop removal service.

Not only do they improve grazing pasture by clearing grasslands of waste, but they also recycle vital nutrients, keeping soil healthy. Tunnelling aerates the soil and prevents compaction, which in turn mitigates against flooding. Whilst this waste processing keeps down the population of flies, the beetles also remove parasites living in the dung. The beetles are, in turn, prey to others, such as birds, bats and Hedgehogs. It’s all rather harmonious and, as nature does best, it’s a perfectly symbiotic relationship.

Yet, like most of our native wildlife, dung beetles are in trouble. Largely this is due to modifications in agricultural practices; changes in land-use and an increase of pesticides, whether this be directly onto fields or via livestock ingested worming medicines. These chemicals disrupt the brilliantly balanced natural process, especially when used large scale and preventatively. Landowners can support dung beetle populations by reducing pesticides; more dung beetles mean fewer parasites, so by protecting these species a free service is being retained.

We owe a lot to our dung beetles and must protect them. They’re a critical part of our ecosystem, yet many of us don’t know they exist here or appreciate their unglamorous and thankless work. To be frank, without them we would be up to our knees in poo. Metaphorically and literally.

Cuckoo: sound of spring                                                                             May 2025              

By Kerry Williams – Communications Officer: Conservation

It’s become a tradition of mine to go camping locally for a few nights in May. Being emersed in nature, spending evenings by firelight, and absorbing the abundant buzz of wildlife; it’s a good-for-the-soul time to be outdoors in Sussex.

Hawthorn, or the May tree, is flowering in fragrant blooms. Bats are flitting enmasse from maternity roosts at dusk to forage. Badgers are on the trundle and Foxes on the trot. And yes, there are loads of lovely baby bunnies. In Sussex, we are lucky to retain a population of visiting Nightingales, and on uninterrupted May nights the males are in full rattling, palpitating symphony. Tawny Owls ke-wik and Barn Owls shriek. Woodlands burst into carpets of indigo as Bluebell scent fills the understory.

Amidst this, an undulating ‘beep-boop’ can be heard, a natural metronome. It is one of our most recognisable bird calls, and the onomatopoeic sound of spring and summer; the Cuckoo.

Arriving from Africa in March, Cuckoos infamously lay their eggs in other birds’ nests, sneakily replacing an egg of an unsuspecting parent for them to incubate, feed and fledge. The not-so-little Cuckoo nestling shunts other eggs, and even youngsters, out of the nest, outcompeting any remaining for resources, becoming the last chonky chick standing. Regularly hoodwinked are Reed Warblers, Dunnocks and Meadow Pipits.

Mostly insectivorous, with a penchant for Hairy Caterpillars, adult Cuckoos spend their days feeding prior to their homeward migration. Having not had chicks to rear and fledge, they leave around June, with the new generation following later in summer.

Overall, it sounds like Cuckoos are having a pretty easy time of it. However, as is the story of so many of our native species, they are under threat. Cuckoos have declined by 65% since the 1980s and are now on the UK conservation Red List. The usual suspects are at play of habitat loss, climate change, and pesticide use resulting in food scarcity. Additionally, these issues have befallen many of their host species, leading to similar population declines, or, at the least, Cuckoo-bewildering behaviour changes such as earlier breeding.

Despite their size and familiarity, these elusive birds are not an easy spot. In a second act of mistaken identity, their barred chest can often resemble that of a Sparrowhawk. Although their calming calls have accompanied many a spring sundowner for me, I’m still yet to see one myself. Perhaps this year could be my year. Maybe.

Bluebell Hues                                                                    April 2025

By Kerry Williams: Communications Officer – Conservation

Like many people, Bluebells are a blast of nostalgia for me. I remember woodland days out as a kid; clambering up trees and scrawling thrilling finds like ‘Woodpigeon’ in biro in soggy exercise books. Bluebell season always required a visit. There’s not much like the all-encompassing violet thwack of Bluebells in ancient woodland. Sickly-sweet scent in your nostrils, the hues of the rich indigo carpet somehow also hanging in the air, and the understory buzzing with busy pollinators, who, just like you, are making the most of this abundant explosion.

We love a limited edition, a special experience that we must make the most of. Like one-off characters in your cereal box, like happy hour, like Nightingales. And Bluebell fever is no different. Every April and May, Sussex woodlands erupt with millions of these vivid beauties, announcing that spring truly, finally, fabulously, has sprung. This early flowering provides a welcome bounty for struggling wildlife and allows Bluebells to make the most of the sunlight before the woodland canopy becomes too dense.

Like many of our native wildflowers, the British Bluebell is up against it. At risk from habitat loss of precious ancient woodland, and threatened by a changing climate, the plant is also in competition with an interloper; the Spanish Bluebell. A non-native species, the Spanish Bluebell tends to outcompete its native counterpart for resources such as light and space. It can also hybridise with our native species, diluting the native Bluebell’s characteristics. So how can you tell these two species apart?

The native Bluebell, Hyacinthoides non-scripta, has narrow leaves and tubular-bell shaped flowers of deep-violet blue which curl back at the edges. The flowers are generally down one side of the stem, which has a distinctive droop to it. The Spanish species, Hyacinthoides hispanica, has broader leaves and a paler blue, conical shaped flower. The stem is upright and covered with flowers on all sides. A big difference between the two is the Spanish has no scent, whilst the native Bluebell smells sweet.

The idea of plants ‘escaping’ your garden invokes notions of under-the-cover-of-darkness creeping, but it’s easier than you think for non-native species to go astray. Uncovered cuttings and garden waste can easily blow into communal areas or can be carried by animals, to proliferate in new, wild areas. If choosing to plant Bluebells in your garden, it’s best to choose the UK species for this reason. In a small way you could be supporting our native species to recolonise our wild woodlands, and to keep them smelling sweet.

 Flying Colours  

By Kerry Williams: Communications Officer – Conservation                    March 2025

Let’s get the smug bit out of the way. This January I visited an incredible bird watching and conservation organisation in the Western Ghats, India, run by highly skilled and welcoming environmentalists, spotting 75 remarkable bird species, many endemic to this region. #sorrynotsorry.

A notable feature of these tropical species is their astonishing colour palette; vivid reds, brilliant pinks, and intense greens. There are a few reasons behind plumage colour. Bold colours can be flaunted as a display tactic in males to impress females and shame rivals in competition for a mate or territory. Colour can be used as a camouflage and survival technique, whether blending into surroundings, or by confusing predators with reflective iridescence.

A fellow Brit commented on how our birds don’t really compare when it comes to colour, but there’s some spectacular species to prove them wrong. Back in Sussex, spring is just starting to peep in; the season where we finally experience those explosions of colour after such a long wait. Aside from an excuse to show off about my grey-escape holiday, I thought a celebration of our most colourful birds was due.

Firstly, Kingfishers. They also reside in India, but they’re too bright and beautiful to not make the cut. A wetland and reedbed regular, these fabulous fishers take blue to another level. There’s no mistaking their tiny turquoise shimmer as they dart down a watercourse, or perch stock still on a branch, ripple-peering.

A regular on feeders, Blue Tits can be overlooked. Take a moment to appreciate that lemon and azure plumage, merging with navy and tinged with green. Once another common garden staple, Bullfinches are sadly now a rare treat to see. If you spot a male, peachy-coral chest set against muted hues of grey and black, it can’t be anything else.

Although wowing crowds with their aerial acrobatics in murmuration, you could be forgiven for thinking Starlings individually are somewhat ordinary. Think again. Up close, and in the right light, Starlings are a mass of beautiful iridescent purples, greens and golden yellows.

Corvids are considered a little plain, but what about an emerald Magpie tail or the sapphire flash of a Jay feather? A Jackdaw’s pale iris can seem blue against dark feathers, and sometimes, in low summer sun, jet-black Rook plumage can look purple.

Who needs a Malabar Trogon or a Flame-throated Bulbul? Not me! Well… not for 11 months of the year anyway.

 THE LITTLE KING                                                                        February 2025  

By Kerry Williams: Communications Officer – Conservation 

In this, our littlest month, I’d like to celebrate our littlest bird, the Goldcrest. Crowned with a yellow tuft, this aptly named species has an equally grand and, if you ask me, quite adorable, Latin name: Regulus regulus, or ‘little king’. 

At a mere 9cm in length, the Goldcrest weighs a featherlight 5-6 grams; the same as a 20 pence piece. Despite their size, Goldcrests are a surprisingly easy spot. A fan of coniferous and mixed woodland, these birds can often be seen zipping about in pairs in your local gardens, parks and nature reserves, picking morsels like spiders and moth eggs from tree needles with tiny expert beaks. Their characteristic squeaking refrain, a ‘fiddle-di-di’ on loop, is so high pitched that not everyone can hear it. If you think you hear one, stop, wait, and listen, as you will most likely hear it again.  

The only real confusion species is the similarly diminutive Firecrest, Regulus ignicapilla (meaning ‘fire-capped’). This rarer species, whilst sharing in the Goldcrest’s olive-green plumage, has notable black lines around the head and eye. Think of the Goldcrest as having not yet applied its eyeliner. Following the on-point naming convention, the Firecrest has an orange crest. This creates an additional challenge for identification, as the male Goldcrest does have a line of orange feathers hidden within their crest, which they show during territorial displays. 

Goldcrests breed around April time, creating intricately curated nests of moss, lichen and spider webs high in the treetops. Overall, Goldcrest numbers are stable, with a 600,000 strong breeding population throughout the UK. These are joined by a Scandinavian migratory population for the winter, boosting your chances of seeing one during the colder months.  

Despite their success, Goldcrests are at risk from several threats. Their size means they are vulnerable in the cold weather, so the more erratic weather patterns we experience due to climate change, including unexpected cold snaps and storms, are a danger to these birds. As with all UK species, habitat loss is a problem, and in the Goldcrest’s case this includes deforestation.  

If you are walking in woodland and catch a glance of a little ball of energy in the treetops, try to spot them with binoculars to be rewarded with a millisecond’s glance of their worried-looking little face, before they’re off again, much to do. Heavy is the head that wears the crown. 

January 2025 – A case of the January News

By Kerry Williams: Communications Officer – Conservation

Happy New Year! I hope you all celebrated the festive period with cheer and are still basking in the twinkly afterglow, hoovering up remaining treats and reminiscing over time spent with loved ones.

As that sparkle fades to a glimmer, don’t give in to that looming January chasm of grey-blue doom. Instead, focus on the new. Think of Month 01 as a springboard for all the things that await you this 2025; new wildlife, new experiences, new Parish magazine article authors… and with that shameful segue let me introduce myself.

I’m Kerry, ‘Communications Officer – Conservation’ for Sussex Wildlife Trust. My role consists of running the Trust’s wildlife information advice service, WildCall, and also writing content for blogs, our website, and social media.

In December, Michael Blencowe signed off with his last Parish Magazine article about footprints, fittingly leaving me mighty big shoes to fill. Flicking back through the past library has been a wonderful read, and considering Michael’s term of seven years (!), it’s a challenge to find a fresh new topic not already covered. Seeing as it’s a new year, how about newness itself?

So, to January newness. I’m looking forward to fieldfares and redwings delicately tweezing berries from treetops. Huddling on Brighton Pier, amid ghost train squeals and the smell of sweet doughnuts, to watch Starlings sky-dance. Drops of snow and Snowdrops. Chilly stomps up the Downs on roaring fire Sundays.

From now on, the days ever so slowly get longer again, giving more precious minutes to get out there and explore. Last year I visited Ebernoe for the first time, searching for Fungi in early autumn. I look forward to heading back to experience its Old-England-come-fairy-whimsy in the crunching frost. I’ll head back to Rye Harbour to hole up in hides, be-gloved and binoculared, to spot winter waders and hovering Marsh Harriers.

I will search for paw and hoof prints in the snow or the mud. I’ll be vigilant for too-witting and wooing Tawny Owls and scan darkened woodlands to see one; I never seem to succeed, but maybe this is my year.

Whatever you choose to do with this often-condemned-as-miserable month, I hope it instead brings you joy. Let your only January blues be that of the sea and sky. Here’s to 2025!

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.

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”.