Having been dancing around the issue of getting a pointer for the past six months, the issue was carried forward on Friday when I was lent Oscar, the Heather Trust mascot. Oscar represents more or less everything I want from a pointer, and I was itching to get him up onto the Chayne on Saturday morning, despite a roaring south westerly loaded with stinging rain droplets. Running the two dogs together (labrador and pointer), the difference was immediately apparent. In the time it takes a labrador to run a hundred yards, the pointer had covered three hundred. While the labrador did a relatively thorough job of working the ground in a fifty yard radius, the pointer scoured everything withing two hundred and fifty yards.
Up onto the hill, Oscar reached the high plateau where most of the red grouse are now settling. They were far too wild to hold for a point, and they stiff little shapes catapulted themselves into the gale as soon as they saw us struggling through the wind. As we turned and began to descend from the far end of the ridge, I spotted Oscar crouching down and working his shoulders into a point position, then saw something rise chaotically up from the moss. It was immediately hidden by a low bump in the ground, but I ran forward and saw that dear, heart-swelling shape curl out and barrel off into the roaring wind. At two hundred yards, it was impossible to tell its age, but there was no doubting the sex or species. For the first time in several months, I was looking at a blackcock on the Chayne. Whooping, laughing and throwing my hat after the retreating figure, I watched it swirl and tumble through the wind until it was out of sight, almost a mile away.
This bird is extremely significant and will be covered in more detail in due course, but suffice it to say that I would never have found it without Oscar. Once it had gone, the pointer showed me where the blackcock had been lying up in the rushes, and I found five stubby pieces of shit in a shallow form. He had been lying into the wind, tucking his breast behind a tussock of brown cottongrass. Conspicuously larger than red grouse shit, the blackcock had left these white capped cylinders for my dissection, and I found that they were mainly made up of rush seeds, grass stems and shiny brown seed cases. The forage is not great on the Chayne at this time of year, and it will only get worse as the winter comes in and the lack of heather starts to take its toll.
But nothing is quite so motivational as finding fresh hope after months of gloom. The rest of country has had a great year for black grouse production, and yet it had seemed that my birds had gone quietly into non-existence at last. Even this single bird puts fire back in the belly.
Just worth noting the impressive crop of cranberry which seems to have come through this year. There are patches of cranberry all over the Chayne, although the extent and quality of these colonies varies from a few threadbare whisps to entire riggings which seem to bind the moss into a netted cushion. The berries themselves always seem disproportionately huge against the tiny plants, but you can’t argue with their value for gamebirds. Cranberry seems to convert a far larger percentage of its flowers into berries than blaeberry does, and I wonder if this is because the small, inconspicuous cranberry blooms are easily overlooked by sheep and deer.
Further to my post (below) about the benefits of new woodland, I visited an estate in Perthshire on Thursday where over 100 acres of a 5,000 acre moor have been planted up with a range of hardwoods, scots pines and larches. Unlike the commercial plantings in Galloway, these trees have been put in specifically for black grouse, and will be thinned as they mature so that they never shade out the undergrowth.
The trees were planted with a christmas tree machine, which is a much less intrusive means of getting saplings into the ground, and seems to depend upon carefully discing the ground, popping in the plugs, then rolling them back in together again. This sidesteps many of the advantages of commercial planting which were listed previously, but it is worth noting that the tree species chosen for planting are of particular value of blackgame in that area of Perthshire. In this way, the birds won’t get the boost of fresh planting, but they will get some of the slow-burning (and usually much over-rated) value of forage amongst the trees.
It is also a huge advantage that, rather than fence off areas of woodland, the estate has recently erected an enormous enclosure around almost 1,000 acres of hill country, so that the trees can be planted without any protection required. If nothing else, this means that the woods have no hard edges and that as they grow up, they will merge into the moor without the obvious divisions which are usually a consequence of wire and post.
During the past four years of planting and game management, the black grouse numbers on this estate have gone from a scattering of small leks in twos and threes to an estimated population of more than fifty birds. This is partly to do with the fact that there are strong populations of black grouse in the area, but it certainly does indicate just how quickly the birds can spring back from defeat.
The birds in the photograph (above) were part of a pack of ten blackcock which was being accompanied by a single greyhen. They flared up from the roadside as we drove past in the land rover, presenting quite a stunning picture of proud black and white plumage suspended for an instant in the air before fluttering neatly down a few yards away. As I watched them settle again, I couldn’t help noticing that more than one of the blackcock pecked keenly at the young pine leaders, and the keeper acknowledged that, although the wood was specifically intended for black grouse conservation, he would prefer it if they would at least let the trees get started before they began destroying them. With the landowner’s committed vow to maintain these trees solely so that they will retain their conservation value, it will be interesting to see how the birds deal with the gradual development of woodland over the next few years. From a human perspective, I will be fascinated to see what the landowner is forced to do in order to keep the birds interested in the trees as they mature.
Purely as an aside, it takes just over two hours to get to Perthshire from my corner of the Galloway hills, but the transformation of terrain and landscape is extraordinary within that short journey. Having woken up in my own bed on Thursday morning, I had seen a golden eagle and innumerable “highland” red stags before lunchtime. There are golden eagles and stags in Galloway, but it is pleasing to remember that “the highlands” are never quite so far away as they sometimes seem.
In March, a comparatively small area of moorland near the Chayne was ploughed by the foresters, who then planted it up with sitka spruce trees. This process is probably the single most irreversibly damaging thing that you can do to a sensitive (and peat based) moor, but it is interesting to see what sort of ground is created in the immediate aftermath of commercial planting. This kind of habitat is the classic false sanctuary of black grouse, providing them with everything they need and leading (at least traditionally) to great population explosions for a few short years before turning into dark, gloomy jungles of hostile spruce trees.
The most striking thing I noticed today when I walked through the plot is that there is a huge amount of heather and it all looks in very good shape. The area that will become a wood has been fenced off from the sheep, and I have seen a stalker moving through the high ground during the summer. As a result, the moor has had a near total reprieve from grazing of any sort, and already you can see the benefit. At close quarters, some of the folded turfs have got little heather seedlings on them, and it is clear that a huge amount of seeds, nutrients and fertile potential has been unleashed by the plough. Add to this the fact that, where the plough blade has hit stone, fans of grit are easily visible on the surface of the peat. On vegetation alone, it is perfectly easy to see how these young plantations were able to boost black grouse numbers when they were put into the uplands from the 1960s on.
More subtly, the actual terrain itself has been altered to the advantage of blackgame by the passage of the plough. Darwin noted that blackcock evolved to be well camouflaged against a backdrop of heather and exposed peat haggs, and when it comes to furrowed moorland, the hiding places are limitless. Also, the numerous trenches provide cover and shelter against the elements, as I was forced to discover as a scouring rain shower came raking in from the west, leaving me without any shelter for several hundred yards in any direction. I crouched down into the haggs and was relatively dry when it ended a quarter of an hour later.
It was recently pointed out to me that, because it is black, bare peat holds its heat. The effects of the sun have a strong warming effect on peat, even in cold, damp conditions and particularly where it has shelter from the wind. When you imagine a cold, wet black grouse chick staggering through the heather behind its mother, you can picture the rejuvenating pleasure it would get from squatting down out of the wind on what is effectively an electric blanket of exposed soil. In no time, little birds can get a big boost from warm peat, and even if they are not being brooded, they can still stay cosy and warm without any trouble at all. With acres of exposed peat, perhaps that is yet another reason why black grouse responded so dramatically to plantation ploughing.
Where plantations were made up of Scots Pines (more on the northeastern side of Britain), blackgame could annihilate the young saplings, but on the west coast where sitka spruce has been the Forestry Commission’s weapon of choice, the damage had more of a mechanical nature. The blackgame would eat some of the buds and shoots (particularly with larch), but the worst damage was as a result of clumsy perching, snapping off the spruce leaders and spoiling the shape of the mature tree. I’ve written on this blog before about the way birds were persecuted as pestilent villains during the days of the big plantings, and in many cases it seems like they deserved their reputation.
When an upland area is ploughed for trees, all kinds of negative knock-on effects upset everything from salmon to short eared owls. Black grouse were one of the only species to really capitalise on extensive planting, but their success was inevitably short-lived. As the trees grow, the habitat changes and it is obvious that if I try and return to this spot (in the picture above) in ten years time, I will see a drastically altered piece of moorland. I don’t know if there are blackgame on this small plot, but they are certainly nearby. The dog put up three red grouse shortly before this picture was taken, demonstrating that it is not only blackgame that benefit from the plough in the early days.
Unfortunately, the illusive boom in black grouse numbers following this form of management has given the Forestry Commission the idea that black grouse love commercial woodland. They don’t seem to understand that it is only ever a one-off blip which accompanies the ploughing of virgin white moorland, and that it has nothing whatsoever to do with spruce trees. When you read their literature, they keenly explain that black grouse like “young plantations”, as if there is something that really turns the birds on about regimented lines of softwood saplings. The fact that there are still some black grouse on Forestry Commission plantations says more about how good the ground used to be, so that even after it is decimated by trees, it can still support a handful of birds.
When an area of mature woodland is felled and replanted with a new crop, there is no boom in black grouse numbers. This is partly to do with the fact that the area has (through neglect) been given forty years to fill up with foxes and corbie crows, but is mainly because the huge benefits of the plough are not called for again. If the heather and blaeberry do somehow respond to the brief window of sunlight allowed to them between crop rotations, neither will have time to prosper before the canopy closes again and the land is lost to darkness for another forty years. Usually, the thick mat of pine needles means that nothing comes through anyway.
If there was a way of freezing this habitat transition from moorland to woodland, we would have nothing to worry about when it comes to black grouse conservation. As it is, it would be difficult to imagine a more destructive process for the uplands.
During an aborted attempt to climb Cairnsmore of Fleet this afternoon, it became horribly apparent just how badly damaged Galloway’s larch plantations have been by the much talked of Phytophthora ramorum. Although driving rain forced us to abandon the walk in from Clatteringshaws, there were some gaps through the cloud to look north and west from the steep face of Millfore onto extensive stands of dead and dying timber. Back down by the goat park, where the inmates feign captivity and gloatingly feast on the donations palmed to them by idle tourists, it seemed that every gateway and stile was festooned with precautionary (and somewhat patronising) signage drawing the general public’s attention to the danger of transferring Phytophthora to other larches. I may just be cynical, but I was quite impressed to see a microscopic spore rendered as a cartoon character.
As usual, the goats themselves were in evidence by the side of the road, laughing unpleasantly and casting a sour odour over the soaking valley. Seeing goats from a great distance last week on the back of Corserine, I was taken by the romantic appeal that these roguish characters seem to exude amongst the dripping rusty bracken. Coming eye to eye with them next to a hay heck was a very different experience, and it was almost a shame to see them nuzzle and beg for scraps of food, dragging them back to their “feral” status when elsewhere they seem to come so close to being truly wild. Far better that they should be out in the wild open country, where, aside from anything else, nobody can smell them.
I was very interested to see some old gamebooks from a sportsman who plied his trade across Galloway between 1911 and 1937. The books are now in the possession of one of his descendents who has a farm near the Chayne, and it was fascinating to see the story of sporting life in the south west of Scotland a century ago. Not only are there staggering columns which list double (and in one case treble) figure days on black grouse within a few short miles of the family farm, but they also reveal another unexpected absence. On a day’s shooting during the 1920s, four blue hares were added to the bag on a farm that shares a boundary with the Chayne. I assumed that it must be a mistake, but the following year on the same piece of ground, another four blue hares were joined by three brown hares. This was clearly no error.
The implication I can draw from this discovery is that, because the property runs uphill into the Chayne, it is almost certain that there were blue hares on my ground within the last ninety years. Nowadays, the nearest blue hares are probably ten miles away, and those are few and far between. It is a sorry state of affairs when you gradually come to terms with how much has been lost and how quickly. I have a habit of blaming commercial forestry for a great deal of the southern uplands’ woes, but I can’t help feeling justified in a belief that sitka spruces have played a part in the fragmentation of hare habitat. The neighbouring property where the hares and blackgame were shot during the twenties is now under its second generation of commercial woodland, and the whole farm has been growing trees for the past fifty years. That is not to say that there were still hares on the place when the ploughs came, but it certainly does mean that they won’t be back now.
Interesting rumours beginning to come through of a massive cull of Galloway larch trees as a result of the major phytophthora outbreak which has taken place in the Galloway Forest Park. I posted about this a few months ago when I came across a huge area of dead larches on the Border between Galloway and Ayrshire.
In an attempt to control the spread of this hugely destructive water mould, the forest authorities are apparently seeking the destruction of what will amount to tens of thousands of hectares of larch trees, in addition to the huge amount that has already been killed. Larch is a particular species of concern for foresters since it transmits the dangerous spores to other trees, unlike most other plant species which merely die and have a limited infection capacity. As a result, the tree is called a “sporulating host”, sharing this ability to infect and transmit phytophthora spores with rhododendron and (worryingly) blaeberry.
Aside from the logistical enormity of felling millions of trees, there will be huge knock-on effects for supposed “forest” species like black grouse. Although I remain totally unconvinced that commercial woodland has any real value for black grouse whatsoever, larch trees are one of a few mitigating factors which have meant that birds can get some value from plantations. Despite the fact that larches are not native to Britain, they have been here for centuries. Peter Hawker shot black grouse from a stand of larch trees above Moffat during the early 1800s, and the link between blackgame and larches is nothing new. Greyhens use the larch buds before laying in the spring, and the fresh, emerging needles are a welcome nutritional addition to the all-important moss crop which appears in March and April. Blackcock are also fond of the fresh shoots, and I have seen birds using younger trees with great enthusiasm.
Add to this the fact that larches are deciduous, allowing some growth to persist beneath their branches. Heather won’t really thrive under the shade of a larch, but the more shade tolerant berries sometimes manage to produce some forage, and there is something to be said for a young crop of larch trees, particularly during a cold winter’s day when the needles are off. On balance, it would be better to have willows or birches, but if it has to be a “commercially viable” softwood, larch is not the worst thing.
Aside from anything else, larches traditionally break up the relentless uniformity of sitkas, creating some all-important habitat edge in a world of straight lines and regimented planting. Unfortunately, their value decreases as the plantation matures, although they are never quite as useless as sitka spruce trees.
It will be very interesting to see what comes of the proposed larch cull in Galloway. Sadly, the future of black grouse in the south west of Scotland is now intrinsically bound to the vagaries of commercial forestry, and any decision made by the foresters will have far reaching effects on the few remaining birds. More will follow in due course.
I am used to thinking of the Chayne as “hill country”, so it is often humbling to head a few miles west to take in some real wilderness. By comparison to the Rhinns of Kells or the Awful Hand, the Chayne is a short stump rising out of the moss. These massive ranges block out the entire western horizon, making vast, rolling silhouettes which seem to challenge the awesome bulk of the Peak District to the south. Heading over to visit a friend at Meikle Millyea yesterday, I was reminded of the sheer brilliance of the Galloway Hills, where red deer, pine martens and goats create an atmosphere reminiscent of the Highlands while still keeping hold of a uniquely “south west” flavour.
Up on the face of the Meikle Lump, grouse rose up from the wiry heather, and a blue hare provoked Scoop by winding through the broken stones just inches ahead of her nose. Nothing can make ground on a mountain hare when it has its native moss beneath it, and the determined labrador soon fell by the wayside as the hare turned and glided up an almost vertical cliff face. There are blackgame on the lower ground, and although we didn’t see them there, it was not hard to imagine that the white, rustling grasses held greyhens crouching with their grown broods. Browning sprigs of myrtle and heather seemed to taunt me every few yards, and I stopped again and again, certain that the jutting plants were really the periscope heads and shoulders of cunning blackcock. Interestingly, we saw a ring ouzel bobbing through the stones as we climbed. Ouzels are officially described as being “extinct as breeding bird” in Galloway, and while I would question the accuracy of this statement, I would imagine that this bird had started its migration from further up North and was merely passing through to the Mediterranean.
Sitting above the Dungeon Loch, my friend and I listened to stags bellowing in the distant forestry as the evening came on and the stars began to come out. A party of four hinds worked their way around the contours of the hill, pausing two hundred yards below us to browse amongst the heather. Out on the scree banks to the north where the eagles sometimes nest, small white spots indicated where the goats were moving. They must have been a mile away, and we crouched on the stones to rest our binoculars as the roaring from the forest grew louder and more clear. Ravens clocked and rolled over the steepest faces, dropping themselves off precipices and catching themselves at the last minute with crackling, bony wings.
It is an odd thing about Galloway’s red dere population that they use the trees so keenly. I am used to seeing red deer in the highlands, where an exposed landscape leaves them little in the way of cover. Now that so much of the Galloway Hills has been planted up with sitka spruce trees, it seems inevitable that the deer should have got used to life in the woods. After all, that is where they started. But it seems odd that they emerge like roe deer in the last whisps of daylight to ghost their massive heads through the midges. We watched a stag as he thrashed the bracken and then looped his neck into a long, ringing bellow which reached our ears several seconds later.
A beautiful three quarter moon danced in the Solway as we walked up over the cairn at Meikle Millyea and began to descend via a long, shattered corrie of granite, moss and running water. We could have been anywhere in Wester Ross or Sutherland as the vast landscape gathered a blanket of gloom around itself, without a single pinprick of electric light as far as the eye could see. Stags roared in the darkness and snipe rose skreiking from the puddles and splashes of the path. The great spread of mountains from Curleywee to the Cairnsmore of Fleet fanned out to the southwest, while the humps of Blackcraig and Carsphairn broke the horizon to the northeast.
It felt as though we had walked all night by the time we returned to the car, but in reality it was only a little after eight o’clock. I know the Galloway Hills quite well, but this was my first time on Meikle Millyea. Because it sits so near to the massive bulk of Corserine, the 749m high mountain often looks small and unremarkable by comparison. Perhaps it is not one of the best known mountains, it certainly has an engaging charm in October amidst roaring stags, bog myrtle and a rising gibbous moon. All this within twelve miles of the Chayne.
Interesting to note what an effect the changing seasons are having on the short section of hedge I put in this spring. Over the summer, the blackthorn, hawthorn and guelder rose plants have come on very nicely, and many of the rugosa roses and dog roses flowered during July and August. There are now a few fat hips swinging like ripe crab apples in the breeze, and the general impression is one of encouraging natural prosperity. I could only afford to put in two hundred yards of hedge during 2013, but having saved up over the past few months, I hope to do much more next year.
I am particularly interested in the grass margin between the hedge plants and the fence, where a surprising array of plant species has appeared. There are remnant borage and phacelia plants from last year’s bee and butterfly mix, as well as naturally regenerating clovers and a patch of oxeye daisies. These are the margins that are so important for grey partridges, and they will come into their own over the next few years as the hedge plants come up and the enclosures become corridors across the farm. Already, I have seen a huge range of finches in the strip, as well as everything from redpolls and linnets to twites taking from the spent thistleheads and dock stems. The expense and sweat involved in stock-proofing this small strip has already repaid itself many times over in its first year, and I’m looking forward to visits from redwings and fieldfares when the hawthorns mature and the berries begin. And that’s before I begin to get excited about the prospect of feeding black grouse.
As an aside, I was very surprised to find that a fistful of sunflower seeds which was mixed in with the turnip crop has actually shown fruit in the form of two dozen fantastic flowers. It is getting a little too late in the year for the insects to make full use of these dish-sized blooms, but it certainly does look odd to see them bobbing around cheerfully against a backdrop of rushes, heather and bracken.
While it’s hard to describe an outbreak of heather beetle on your own ground as a good thing, the beetles that have destroyed an area of heather on the Chayne this year have served an important purpose by allowing me to study them at close hand. Readers of this blog will have watched the attack progress since the end of July, and I was oddly gratified to find that the adult beetles themselves hatched almost precisely as predicted last Thursday. Although it was a small trickle at first, by Saturday the ground was wriggling with beetles. As I tried to get close to them for a good look, I found that they were very shy indeed. The slightest vibration or sudden movement would make them fall straight off the heather shoots into the moss, and it was only with a surprising amount of careful stalking that I was able to get in amongst them.
Serious infestations of heather beetle can mean that there are more than 1,000 larvae per square metre, so while my outbreak was quite dramatic, it was nowhere near these almost biblical proportions. I watched the adult beetles working away at the heather leaves until the rain drove me in, but although I vowed to return with the camera on Sunday, work got in the way. On Monday the weather was terrible, and then yesterday I was in England, so this morning was the first opportunity I’ve had to get back up the hill with a camera.
The arrival of a sudden bitterly cold wind has turned much of the mellowing shades of autumn into the stark bleakness of winter over just a few hours. The change must have had an effect on the insect life, because despite searching for over half an hour this morning, I could not find a single heather beetle. Caterpillars, spiders and a single grasshopper all revealed themselves during the finger-tip search, but I was totally unable to clap my eyes on even one of the brutes that had been so gaily eating my heather on Saturday. It led me to think just how easy it is to suffer from terrible heather beetle damage without ever even seeing a beetle.
When I was down in the Peak District on Tuesday, I saw some pretty serious beetle damage on a moor near Buxton. Ninety percent of the heather on the 70Ha moor has been damaged in one way or another, but neither the keeper, the landowner or the ecologist I was meeting with had seen a single beetle. You would think that if your heather was being eaten alive by a swarm of beetles, you’d be able to spot the buggers responsible, but as I found this summer, the larvae are very well camouflaged and the beetles themselves are only really around in any great concentration for a few days of the year. The rest of the time, these insects are buried away deep in the sphagnum, invisible to the human eye.
The case in the Peak District is very worrying, particularly because outbreaks often have a habit of lasting around three years. The fact that this massive attack took place without any warning or precedent would suggest that it is not yet over, and it could be that recovery work will be hampered by further damage. The beetles will start to be inhibited by a lack of heather if they persist in a single area, but that is no consolation to the syndicate that has worked so hard to turn rank moorland into a productive moor. The best strategy we can have in these situations is to put the pieces back together quickly and stay positive. As is the maddening nature of these things, it is impossible to plan for the beetle’s next move –