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

In any book on British butterflies, you’ll find our 58 species segregated into social ranks: the common browns, the blue-collar blues, the working-class whites. But turn the page, past the lepidopteral lower-classes, and you’ll find a butterfly so unique, so magnificently majestic, so breathtakingly beautiful that for centuries British naturalists have bowed before it. Draped in resplendent robes of iridescent amethyst, obsidian, and ermine the Purple Emperor has to be one of the most impressive animals on our island. In July the purple reign begins.

Aside from an alluring appearance, Emperors also possess that combination of rarity and elusiveness which has elevated them into an almost mythological figure: a butterfly bigfoot. How a large, shiny, purple butterfly manages to exist undetected in our countryside is down to an arboreal existence. Purple Emperors spend almost all their time on lofty thrones high above our woodlands. If we’re lucky we may glimpse the glide of a wide-winged silhouette as we stare sore-necked and squinting at the Sycamore skyline. Up there, in their canopy kingdom, Emperors compete in a power struggle for territory and males gather for summer tree-top tournaments. Their wings flash as they clash in acrobatic aerial jousting, and they spar and spiral high into the Sussex skies. The Emperor’s ferocity and fearlessness in the defence of his realm are famous. Butterflies, bumblebees and other insects get a battering if they trespass and, incredibly, bemused birds (including Sparrowhawks, woodpeckers, gulls and herons) also receive a warning wing-slap.

Emperors don’t lower themselves to feast on flowers like other butterfly riffraff. The Emperor sups sugars by quaffing only the finest honeydew distilled by aphids in the treetops. Yet, in complete contrast to its aristocratic high life, the Emperor has some dirty habits which drag him down to the filthy forest floor. To get his majesty’s mojo working he requires a mid-morning meal of minerals, which he obtains by probing his proboscis into the most disgusting muck he can find. Dog poo, used nappies, dead animals, sweaty feet – nothing is too repugnant. It’s like finding the King rummaging through the bins at the back of Tesco.

The female Empress does not have the shining sheen or horrid habits of the Emperor but she too descends to lower levels searching shady Sallows for a place to lay her eggs. Camouflaged caterpillars munch from August to June before giving rise to another distinguished (but disgusting) dynasty.

Recently, the Emperor has extended his empire eastwards. Once a butterfly of north-west Sussex it can now be found all across the north of the county and has been reported around Uckfield – there have even been rumoured sightings in the very heart of Brighton – so keep your eyes to the skies.

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