The Petrified Forest of Lesvos was formerly a large wooded region that was covered by volcanic material and fossilised in situ when covered by volcanic material over 20 million years ago. The trees have been preserved in great detail in both standing and fallen positions with both morphological and anatomical structures clearly visible. Identification of the trees and other flora that has been preserved in the area has given a valuable insight into the habitats of Lesvos in historic times. Excavations in the area has also revealed the bones of fossilised animals such as the dinotherium, the ancestor of the modern elephant. The area is now protected and is included in the Natura 2000 list of important areas for protection in the European Union.
The Isle of Lesbos in June
Emerging from the turquoise waters of the Aegean Sea, approximately 6 km off the Turkish coast, lies the island of Lesvos. It is the perfect island for a naturalist for it sits on the frontier of Europe and Asia, drawing its creatures from both, and in the spring and autumn it is a stepping stone for vast flocks of birds travelling between Africa and the North. Of the numerous scattering of Greek island across the Aegean, Lesvos is one of the largest and is richly forested with olives, Mediterranean pine, chestnut and oak trees. The mountainous island is dominated by Mount Olympus rising from the central regions to a height of 967 metres. The island is also host to one of the worlds largest areas of petrified forests.
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- Woodland of chestnut and oak on the Island of Lesbos
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- The dominant Mount Olympus arising on the horizon of Lesbos
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- Arid grazing and scrub land on the fringe of the salt pans
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- An expanse of salt pan on the island of Lesbos
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- Pale sanded beach on Lesbos
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- One of many tiny red tiled roofed villages on Lesbos
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- Mediterranean scrub on Lesbos
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- Mediterranean scrub and arid grazing lands
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- One of the many dirt roads that criss-cross the island of Lesbos
The island throbs with history and Classical Greek mythology abounds, though the island is perhaps best known as the birth place of the poetess, Sappho, who wrote emotionally charged pieces about doing naughty things to women. The meaning of the world lesbian is derived from the island’s name and this association has made Lesbos a Mecca for lesbian pilgrimage, much to the consternation of the resident conservative Greek Orthodox population!
For those with an interest in natural history, the island is famous as the outdoor laboratory for the Greek Philosopher Aristotle in the 4th century BC. His observations during his time on Lesvos gave rise to his book Hisotoria Animalium (486 BC) from which came the birth of the new science of biology. He was systematic in the classification, naming and description of a hundreds of species on the island, particularly fish. He noted that some species resembled each other more closely than others and classified them into larger groups based on similarities of appearance. In addition he observed that dolphins, though resembling fish, breathed air and suckled their young and so placed them in a group of their own, Cetacean. His successors ignored him for sometime and continued to group them with fish. This was the beginnings of a system of biological classification that we have today.
Aristotle - a forgotten founder of biology?
I spent two weeks in June on this marvellous island and spent many a day marching along its sun bleached beaches and salt pans, through the pine forests, over the mountains and among the olive groves and chestnut woodlands. The sun shone high and bright in azure skies and it was a remarkable event to spot even a distant cloud. Across the tranquil sea the unblemished skies stretched ever on over the lands of Turkey.
Inside the Moth Trap
It was the same feeling as those I had in Christmases past. That tingling sensation caused by the excited anticipation of peering into the unknown and being pleasantly surprised by what you then found. I was that five year old boy again. But, instead of unwrapping a parcel, I was removing the lid from a moth trap and carefully inspecting the egg cartons within, searching for any moths that might be clinging them. The warm, muggy nights with an intermittent covering of light cloud was perfect for attracting moths. On the negative side, I did have to compete with a mercury vapour street lamp which was only a few metres away. Anyway, these were some of the goodies I found inside the moth trap…
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- Lesser Swallow Prominent
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- Large Emerald
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- Silver Y Moth
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- Poplar Hawkmoth
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- Poplar Hawkmoth
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- Burnished Brass
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- Garden Tiger
Other species included several Dotted Clays, Lesser Yellow Underwing, Lesser Broad Bordered Yellow Underwing, Brimstone, Beautiful Golden Y Moth, Antler Moth and Light Arches.
The Cairngorm Summits in July
July is the fulfilment of summer’s promise when the days are long, warm and lazy. Night barely gains the mastery over the mountainous regions of the Scottish Highlands and becomes more of a Simmer Dimmer as the Shetlander’s put it. The high tops are mostly clear of snow and the birds which inhabit these vast open spaces are busy feeding young. Among them is the Dotterel and in a reversal of the parental roles, it is the male that is left to bring up the family and in reflection of his duty, he is less colourful.
A male Dotterel on the tops of Cairngorm
Whilst the Dotterel is a bird of the woolly fringe moss and swaths of wind shortened grass, the Ptarmigan is happier among the boulders and screes. Here it can conceal itself with it’s plumage of greys and browns matching perfectly the moss and lichen embellished rocks. Sometimes a rasping croak, like a Hebrew at prayer, or a curious head poked up above the skyline, is all that betray their presence.
Ptarmigan on the tops of Carn Ban Mor
With it’s simple fluty song, the Snow Bunting is an enchanting bird, the black and white male often seen hopping from rock top to rock top. The drab females are often found beside or one the last remaining snow patches, hunting out seeds. All these birds of the mountain allow close approach and seem almost to ignore the bipedal mammals that are lumping around their homes.
Snow Bunting in the top of Cairngorm
Ailsa Craig, Ayrshire
The diminutive Glorious sputtered out from Girvan harbour thrusting her bows into the wind-whipped malignity of the Firth of Clyde. Abaft the rolling farmland of Ayrshire ran by in fertile green bands. Athwart stood the island of Ailsa Craig as it had done for the past eight thousand years or so; a dumpling of volcanic rock anchored amidst troubled waters, its feet wreathed in white froth and seemingly unassailable.
Our eyes strained to make out the contours of the cliffs, ravines, peaks and beaches of the island, but it remained a mysterious silhouette of smudged colour, all detail obscured by distance. Alongside a steady stream of manx shearwater glided by on taut wings skimming the heaving musculature of the sea. A fulmar veered inquisitively toward us and as our eyes met I thought of the Albatross in The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. Whereas the protagonists’ of that tale had too little wind, our expedition suffered from too much. It followed in our wake for a time and I considered it a good omen despite the scoffing attitude of my rationale self. Puffins, guillemots and razorbills gathered in rafts that bobbed and bottled on the roiling grey-green mantle of the sea. Flocks of gannets soared high above, folded back their wings and asynchronously plummeted like pied darts into the sea sending up tremendous spouts of water. I’ve often wondered how many have collided, perhaps striking each other unconscious, as they swarmed under water like wayward torpedoes.
Dark tendrils of greasy smoke belched from the engine as the tiny boat laboured against increasingly volatile waters. The freshening wind was now sullied by the sickly stench of old fish and burnt diesel now filled our nostrils. My anxiety grew as the mainland diminished further into the distance and the tiny boat throbbed further into the mountainous seas. Any minute I was expecting the famous line: “Captain, I’m giving all she’s got but, she canna take much more of this!”.
McCrindle was our skipper and wasn’t nearly so excitable. I looked upon his back as he gazed calmly out from helm with both hands resting lightly on the wheel. He was a softly spoken, weather beaten man who had been plying these waters for nigh on thirty years, and thus I felt him to be trustworthiness personified. He gave warning that the trip would take an hour longer than the usual forty minutes due to the obstinate mood of the sea. His sallow companion lounged indolently in the cramped wheelhouse with a smouldering cigarette wedged between two heavily nicotine-stained fingers. He didn’t heed the pitch and roll of the tiny boat and began vigorously scratching at an armpit.
Alas, my aged father could not match this fellow’s fortitude. He had stood at the prow to endure the untempered motion of the sea and consequently was afflicted by the ills to which he was prone. The convolutions of his inflamed bowels were now ejecting his breakfast a remarkable distance out to sea. Fearing that he would toppled over into Davy Jones’ Locker, I brought him aft so he could safely remonstrate with his stomach. To this end I provisioned him with a plastic bag whose bottom then burst asunder at the force of his latest complaint. Hunched pale and glowering over the side of the boat he contented himself with a baleful glare before retreating once more to his contemplation of the boat’s sides, too apathetic to think of anything except his ills.
The Craig, which had for so long grown imperceptibly closer, now loomed above us. Great cliffs, dark and menacing arose sheer from the waters as we approached an apron of beach and green low-lying land. Upon the beach the bleached lighthouse stood like an admonishing finger telling you were to go, and even above the boat’s engine we could hear the peevish cries of gulls. Beside the lighthouse was a dilapidated wooden jetty upon which the hawsers were secured, and we gratefully step ashore. Safely ashore the colour returned to my father’s hollowed and pale cheeks and he looked as if spring had sprung in a land long oppressed by winter. Unfortunately, my body still thought it was out on those heaving waves and I walked with an odd rolling gait as if taken by too much strong ale.
On its landward face the steep slopes were a riot of purple with bell heather blooming amid the grassy banks and bracken. The shore was a graveyard of shattered rocks, smoothed by the sea and high above, a Raven croaked in proclamation of his maritime heritage. The downy young of Herring and Lesser Black Back Gulls scampered across the boulders like miniature Ostriches flapping their stumpy and useless wings. In their fury, their agitated parents unleashed a rain of guano upon us and the flourishing flora about the gull colony was testament to its enriching properties. Gazing seaward, the fins of a pod of harbour porpoises broke the waters surface several times as they did laps around the bay. Here and there Seals bottled in the shallows whilst others lazed on the rocks like oversized sausages.
We turned south from the jetty along the apron of flat beach that leads up to the steep east side of the Craig. Perched on the hillside loomed Ailsa Craig Castle, a square keep with a vaulted basement bearing the crest of the Kennedy family. During the 16th century, King Philip of Spain attempted to seize the Craig as part of a wider ambition to impose Catholicism on Scotland which lead to the construction of the defensive castle. During the Scottish reformation of the 1600s, Ailsa Craig became a refuge for Roman Catholics. The island once belonged to the nearby Crossraguel Abby, but in 1565 the Earl of Cassilis roasted the head monk over a fire to force him to sign over ownership of the Craig to the Earl’s family. The descendent of the Earl, the 8th Marquess of Ailsa, is now selling the ill-gotten isle for £2.5 million. Nowadays, the island is the abode of birds with the last human inhabitant departing in 1990 with the automation of the island’s lighthouse. The derelict companion buildings to the lighthouse had largely succumb to the twin forces of time and the elements. Further along, a small rundown, white-washed cottage stands at the foot of the cliff with three ruined neighbours. It was the last evidence of a community of twenty-nine people who once dwelled there over a century ago: granite miners and lighthouse keepers, farmers and collectors of bird feathers for ladies high fashion.
Upon the cliffs sat the third biggest gannet colony in Britain, and offshore small rafts of guillemot, razorbill and puffin bubbled up and down with the play of the tide. In the 18th century the Puffin colonies of the Craig apparently numbered in their thousands, but by 1934 they had become all but extinct due to the ravages of ship wrecked rats. In 1990 a serious programme of poisoning began which resulted in the eradication of the rat from Ailsa Craig and ever since breeding Puffin numbers have been recovering now numbering over two hundred birds.
The Glorious chugged back alongside the jetty to convey us back over that hateful sea to Girvan. Mercifully, the firth was kinder and we rolled and rocked with greater smoothness. Safely ashore we looked upon Ailsa Craig with new eyes and watched a sanguine sun drop behind the rock and the rhythmic twinkle of the lighthouse began to wink at us from out of the darkness.
The Deer Years
“When I found the skull in the woods, the first thing I did was call the police. But, then I got curious about it. I picked it up, and started to wonder who this person was, and why he had deer horns”
Jack Handy, Saturday Night Live 1991-2003
On the 26th April 1992 a Fallow Deer had been seen by my aged sire at Mashbury, Essex and upon my return from school I was regaled the full story. He had been to Nightingale Wood and observed a number of fresh slots at a point where the deer frequently crossed a ditch to access the wood. When he cast an eye across the field a single buck Fallow Deer was wandering toward him. It had only recently shed it antlers and the ends of it’s pedicles were very raw. One whiff of my ancient companion and the deer bolted. I suppressed the obvious comment regarding hygiene and betrayed the thought only with a smile.
As a lad of ten years, deer were a symbol of the elusive and enigmatic. Here we had a large mammal who, betrayed by their numerous presence with slots, droppings and bark stripping, but very rarely showed themselves. Ever was I keen to see one from myself and ever more so after my father had recounted his ungulate tale. The following Sunday we arose at five o’clock to a mauve dawn still chilled by the lingering cold breath of winter. Cycling along Chignal Road, leaving the housing estate behind, we pressed further into the gloom. Suddenly as we came abreast of Bushy Wood, four doe Fallow Deer stood in the road ahead us causing us to brake hard in wonder that it had only taken us fifteen minutes to find success. Our eyes met as they stared back at us, dark and motionless in the dawn gloom, before almost as one creature they lightly sprang off the road and into the fields. Back on the peddles we continued on up the road, us deer stalkers, and ventured into another wood called Blatches. Here we had seven doe Fallow Deer lying out in a grass field beaded with dew bordering the wood, chewing the cud and basking in the newly risen sun. We had only been out for a couple of hours and all within two miles of home. I thought of my father as the great deer hunter and this was to be the beginning of many years discovery about the local deer.
We have experienced over years that at times Fallow Deer will allow close contact and will often hold their ground it they are familiar with the trespasses of people on footpaths in their territories coupled with an escape route. On a few occasions they can even appear a tad curious of intruders. Whilst you’ll probably never pat a wild deer on the head, I had as a twelve-year-old boy faced a young buck Fallow Deer. He was grunting and stamping his right front leg and I did likewise whilst advancing on him. I managed to get within ten metres of the animal before his nerve broke and he spun on his heels grunting as he went. On another day, deer appear to have that third sense that they can employ when they really don’t want to be disturbed and apparently melt away unseen into the foliage.
We began to branch out and explore other parts of Essex for our ungulate friends. A month after out initial sighting, we had managed 95 individual sightings of Fallow Deer in groups between one and eight. Much of these came from the Writtle Forest, the site of a old deer park used by royalty and nobles with others from Pepper’s Gree, Oxney Green and Roxwell. Whilst walking along a track on Writtle Park Wood we were met with very loud barks coming from two well hidden animals on either side of the path. Eventually we deduced them to be Muntjac as when he delved into the foliage to flush them out we discovered very fresh droppings and slots. This deer has spread to all corners of Essex. It has been pulled out of the mud on the Dengie by the RSPCA after a concerned member of the public reported it as a distressed dog! An individual required assistance when it had got itself stuck in some railings in Chelmsford town centre and another was seen running along the beach at Holland-on-Sea.
In contrast the corridor containing the A12, railway and river appear to be effective barriers to the expansion of Fallow Deer to the lands in the south-east of Essex. We had only managed to find a few slots from a couple of animals on the east side of the A12 at Shenfield near a road bridge to Mountnessing and Moulsham Thrift Wood. In each case, for further advancement they still would have needed to negotiate Brentwood and in the second case Gallywood and the new A12. Due to their herd forming instincts, Fallow Deer find crossly roads challenging. An example is the Writtle Road which passes through two intensely populated deer woods. Once we observed a herd of thirty Fallow Deer prospecting to make the crossing. Pacing up and down the edge of the wood they were highly aware of the traffic zooming past them. It the evening rush hour and so traffic volume is heavy as many motorists forget to change their speeds accordingly once they are off the motorways. A short break in the traffic flow and the lead deer jumps out into the road the rest follow, but a car then hurtled along. Panic and consternation ensures with deer bolting in all directions. The feet of deer are not designed for travel over hard surfaces and when one landed on the road each leg pointing to each cardinal point of the compass. Struggling upright, it bolted straight into a bush, from which it then had to disentangled itself, before making another attempt to get off the road and realising it was opposite side to the rest of the herd. The traffic by this time had come to halt at this ungulate spectacle, which was just as well as ol’ rubber legs decided to make another dash across the road, giving a high kick as it went and disappeared into the adjoining fields.
In the environs of the Writtle Forest, the Fallow Deer were starting to form ever largely herds and one day we watched 127 Fallow Deer cross a field from Monks to Ellie Wood. It was a most impressive sight, though it is perhaps not such a good thing to have so many vegetarians foraging in one place. At the beginning of the 21st century both Fallow and Muntjac Deer were becoming an ever more frequent sight in the fields and woodlands adjoining the fringe housing estates of Chelmsford. Though we could now see Fallow Deer at will they are still somewhat unpredictable and can still surprise you. For a year you may go without seeing an impressive buck Fallow Deer and then, on one sunny afternoon, you will find a herd of twelve large bucks lying out in the field without a care in the world as two men, a dog and two horse riders pass them by. All they did was continue to chew the cud and flick away flies with their ears.
With Essex becoming a well trodden land, we started to look elsewhere and in Norfolk and the Scottish Highlands we stalked our quarry. On a trip to the Thetford Forest, we succeeded in finding four species of deer: Red, Fallow, Roe and Muntjac within the same day. The Highlands of Scotland taught us a new definition of the sentence “impressive herd” as we counted a herd five hundred strong on the hills Cairngorm and across the flow country of Sutherland. These were the deer forests, which conversely are wide areas of moorland and acid grassland nibbled to their roots and often hosting no so much as sapling. We adult eyes I have walked the woodlands of Essex and observed that their hearts have been gutted by the trepidation of deer. The flora is not so rich nor the regenerating trees as vigorous.
At the beginning of my quest to see deer as a small child I lamented the seeming callous shooting of deer to control their numbers. Why would we want to control the numbers of such as wonderful and majestic animal? So thought I. Now, eighteen years later I am of the thought that ever conservationist or any other folk at least concerned about the state of our countryside should do a good deed and order several plates of British venison. Bon appetit!
Art and False Morals
In the lower Glen Feshie, within a walled area, is a curious collection of figurative sculptures carved from both sandstone and wood. It is the work of the late Frank Bruce (1931-2009) who developed a style of Archetypal Abstraction many of which had written descriptions influenced by base human emotions and deeds. The Forestry Commission placed the sculptures within an old walled garden in on the edge of Inshriach Forest in 2007. A series of trails were constructed to provide viewings of the sculptures and the art work blends well with the rich carpets of mosses, lichens, ferns and birches.
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- Third World – a mother clutches the dead body of her infant
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- The Millennium
Along the edges of the trail there had been a proliferation of False Morel fungi and their red-brown convoluted, brain-like fruit bodies were particularly frequent beside the pine woods. This fungus contains a toxic chemical called Gyromitrin, a toxic and possible carcinogenic chemical. It has been implicated in serious illnesses, such as stomach upsets and even death, though some people claim to be able to eat them without any visible side effects.
False Morel
The Snipe
I remember well the first time I heard and saw a drumming Snipe. I had emerged from the ancient birch woods of Lynachlaggan and the wide spaces of Insh Marshes stretched out before me. The leaves and grass blades were beaded with droplets of water from the frequent light rains that dampened that particular Scottish summer. The quickening wind blew through the tattered grey clouds that hung over the landscape in a mournful gloom. But, nothing was to dampen the ardour of the Snipe as he plunged from the sky, with his wings held back, rushing through the air with that strange drumming sound echoing across the marsh. Ever since I have retained a soft spot for Snipe and my summer is never a truly happy one unless I can, for a short time at least, sit beside that enchanting marsh and listen to their displays. When seen they are instantly recognisable with their cryptic brown plumage and over-sized bill giving an appearance similar to their woodland cousin, the Woodcock.
Whilst the marshes are locked in winter slumber and the flood waters dominate, the Snipe is away in warmer climes, perhaps coastal Britain or further afield in southern Europe. As April wears on the majority of the Snipe have returned to the Badenoch fens, and their drumming fills the air both day and night. Once the male has attracted a mate and has her with nest, he returns to his drumming display. The nest is often disguised within a thick tuft of grass and the longer blades are often bent over to form a loose canopy for better concealment. Two or more brown flecked eggs are laid and brooded by the female and when they hatch, for the first few days at least, they are dependent on her for food. This is unusual among the waders as most chicks are able to feed themselves immediately after hatching.
Snipe nest on the floodplains of Badenoch
Snipe chick
The adult birds use their long bills to probe the wet and easily penetrable soils for invertebrates such as leather-jackets and earthworms. But, they will also pick off invertebrates from foliage and even imbibe a certain amount of vegetable matter. The length of their breeding season is often dictated by the moisture content of the soil as this affects their ability to reach their prey. For instance, a lowering water table causes soil invertebrates to retreat further into the soil and out of reach of probing bills.
Across the British Isles and Europe, the Snipe has undergone a significant decline in breeding numbers. This is mostly as a result of habitat destruction, such as the large scale drainage of wetlands from agricultural intensification and development. Large wetland ares such as Insh Marshes form important areas for Snipe and hold significant populations.
Of Orange Tips and Lady’s Smock
Orange Tip Butterfly
High winds and heavy rain dominate. Brief scraps of blue sky appeared overhead. For a short time the temperature rose and like a coiled spring, the insects erupted from the sheltering foliage to take full advantage. Dozens of female Orange Tip Butterflies flapped along the margins of the floodplain in search of Lady’s Smock. On the stem just beneath the flowers they would plant a solitary white egg that within a matter of hours turns bright orange before moving on to another flowering spike. Male Orange Tips patrolled the edges and glades of the woodland and floodplain seeking out unmated females and tussling with one another for supremacy. In my native Essex, the Orange Tip is fond of Jack-in-the-Hedge, but in the Scottish Highlands it is the Lady’s Smock that is the choice of food-plant for their larvae.
The Orange egg of the Orange Tip Butterfly on Lady's Smock
Lady’s Smock, also known as Cuckoo Flower, is a lover of moist places and has suffered decline due to drainage of it’s wetland habitats. On the floodplains of Badenoch it thrives and together with the Bog Cotton Grass turns much of the marsh into a riot of white during May and June. The leaves of the flowering plant were used as a traditional remedy for chronic skin complaints and asthma. The young shoots and leaves also had a culinary use either cooked or raw and was a popular component of spring salads due to its pungent cress-like flavour. In folklore, is was said to be sacred to fairies and thus it was bad luck to bring it indoors. For the same reason it was not included in May Day Garlands.
The Terrorist
On the quiet streets of Dunblane, a winged terror is abroad. It strikes, without warning, those who are fool hardy enough to wander pass the train station with any form of pastry. Apparently it has a sweet tooth. A flurry of wings whooshes past my right shoulder, barely touching as the black plumaged menace came past. Now atop a lamp post, the Crow cried out it’s frustration, waited until I passed again, then made another attempt to seize a bite. It seemed this was a tried and tested technique: to fly close to a person and surprise them into dropping a tasty morsel. After failing yet again to win it’s prize, it took up position on another lamp post and made several more attempts until I had finished eating. With a final harsh cry of annoyance, the Crow turned back and took up it’s lofty vigil upon a lamp post, awaiting it’s next victim.
