Nature’s Top 40: Britain’s Best Wildlife

1 Diving gannets (#litres_trial_promo)

Index (#litres_trial_promo)

Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)

Keep Reading (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

Foreword (#ulink_77c31861-db01-59d7-95b5-ab84682370d8)

by Chris Packham

I made my first list when I was about eight. I thought nothing of it; it seemed perfectly natural. I was obsessed with reptiles at the time, which seemed normal too, and I’d come down from the heady heights of the dinosaurs to the British Six, as my list was called. Adder, grass snake, smooth snake, sand lizard, common or viviparous lizard and slow worm were the words so neatly inscribed in my book, even if I didn’t know what viviparous meant and had to be careful spelling it. I had four out of six ticks alongside them, not bad thinking about it now, but seriously disappointing for the obsessive young naturalist who had to wait an eternity – until he was twelve – to put the final mark alongside sand lizard. Lying in bed that May night wrapped in the warmth of smug satisfaction, I then wondered if I could be the youngest person ever to see the all of the UK’s native reptiles.

Several things are revealed by this admission: that list-making is a very important part of any naturalist’s behaviour; that an incomplete list can cause real distress and lead to an increase in obsessive behaviour; and that lists have a strong competitive component. When you think about it, they are only made to be completed. Shopping lists, wedding lists, they are all made up of things that we need, and the difference between want and need is a notable one. So, listing things is sometimes helpful but patently questionable, and I’m not sure that it makes you particularly happy sometimes, either. But I am certain that it gets you out of bed and that it can act as a wonderful fuel to get your life lived more fully. Oh, and people say that listing is geeky. So what? If you’ve picked up and paid for this book you are at least a little bit geeky, and that’s good; be proud of it!

It’s tempting to imagine that naturalists invented listing, but I’m sure it would be hotly contested from many sides. Historians are also consummate listers, and collectors of anything are listers par excellence, but I think we hold our own. I have a British bird list, a world bird list, a garden bird list, a dogwalking bird list, a garden moth list, a British butterfly and bat and amphibian list, an orchid list, a travel list … and, to be fair, that’s nothing. I’m an amateur when it comes to listing. But these are all empirical lists; there are also the subjective lists – and these are very exciting because they are dynamic and more interactive. We brag about the former, but we debate the latter.

My Top Ten Favourite Films Of All Time (the last bit is fabulously childish, but necessarily demonstrative, and should follow all such list titles) obviously bears no resemblance to the list from which I was trying so hard to tick smooth snakes and sand lizards, although Raquel Welch of the One Million Years BC era still features in several lists. And it can be thrown into turmoil by a single release; it can require a systematic reappraisal, taking hours and contentious ‘discussion’ with my movie guru James. And that is great, too, because opinionated lists must be argued about as a matter of honour. I mean, how can this self-appointed ‘guru’ have Blade II in his Top Ten? Or, more to the point, how the hell did black grouse lekking make it into the Top Five of this list when glow-worms are languishing in the 30s? And who seriously thought: it’s right that a spider’s web is not Top Ten material? And, to my mind, puffins should not be seen or heard in any list, gaudy little chavs. Starlings, swirling about going to roost, good, but so passé. That’s like still having The Italian Job in your Top Ten Movies. I mean, come on, update will you?

What is even more exciting about Nature’s Top 40 than the order is that it’s a UK-based list, and that it finally gives us a chance to bunch together a set of spectacles, which undeniably deserve their status, if not their final positions, in your or my opinion! It proves beyond doubt that the UK is not the land of ‘little brown jobs’, or ‘quite good for its seabird colonies’, or ‘has a few nice spots’; it is rich in things that can stop you in your tracks, make your heart miss a beat, make you hold your breath, make you travel a hundred miles, make you want to shout out loud, make you make lists of things it will make you do!

Joking aside – and I know that many of you will immediately count through to see how many of this 40 you have already seen – the actual ‘final’ positions don’t matter. What does is that you use this list to get you out to experience and enjoy these spectacles first-hand and that you get some youngsters out there with you. Ask yourself this: how many twelve year olds today have seen all the UK’s reptiles in the wild, or, more importantly, lie awake wanting to? If this list is to endure, we need some more of these apprentice listers, and that could be down to you.

Chris Packham

2008

PS The answer is … I’ve seen 37. I haven’t seen the roosting parakeets or the wild goats, and I would most like to get to grips with adders dancing.

Introduction (#ulink_a2a87a04-a682-582f-a4d5-b0f2721cfabf)

Music charts lend themselves to a list according to their popularity based on the solid statistics of sales volume, as do films, and of course computer games and books … but wildlife? Some may wonder how we dare make a Top 40 list of Britain’s greatest wildlife spectacles in such a manner, and may feel that the act of giving each of our chosen entries a number might even cheapen the very spectacle we have filmed and written about.

Others will be indignant that their favourite spectacle has unfairly been demoted to the lower regions of the Top 40. But look down any of the numerous Top 40 lists that have formed the basis of a variety of television programmes, such as the Funniest Moments on TV. Undoubtedly part of the fun is exclaiming in a faux-indignant way that the clip of talk-show host Russell Harty being attacked by Grace Jones is not as funny as the lower-ranked, but hilarious, moment where a slightly-worse for-wear Delia Smith screams, ‘Lets be having you!’ to a bemused Norwich City football crowd at half-time. There will also be those wildlife purists not best pleased that immigrant (and therefore ‘lesser’) spectacles, such as ‘parakeet roosts’ and ‘rutting goats’, have audaciously elbowed a spot in the list and now vie for attention alongside our native British spectacles. And, come to think of it, why are badgers playing and kingfishers fishing completely absent from the list altogether?

Our Top 40 was compiled from contributions by members of the public, following a request on the BBC Nature’s Calendar website for their suggestions. The 40 most popular suggestions put forward were then ‘moulded’ into an order by a panel of wildlife experts who argued (I believe well into the night) on the relative merits of each species and exactly why, for example, the thrilling clouds of butterflies, which was positioned at no. 27, deserved a higher spot than the enchanting light show put on by glow-worms at a more lowly number 38.

The factors taken into account when compiling this list included a combination of how unique the spectacle is to Britain, and a ‘thrill-ability factor’. Some of the entries in our ‘wildlife chart’ involve huge numbers of one species, such as pink-footed geese returning to roost, or bluebells flowering synchronously in a spring wood; others comprise either fewer or single individuals with particularly remarkable or fascinating behaviour, such as spiders building webs or great crested grebes courting. The best spectacles inevitably involved large numbers of one species (or a combination of species) acting in a remarkable manner, with Britain additionally being the best place in the world to view that event. The prime example of this is gannets diving, which deservedly made our number 1, because Britain holds an astonishing 63 per cent of the world population of gannets, and the very sight of flocks of these birds pelting into the water is frankly breathtaking.

It is important to bear in mind that these spectacles have not, of course, evolved for our viewing pleasure, and we are nothing more than voyeurs in what serve as vital functions in the mating and survival games of each of our entries. So, in addition to helping you find out more about how to come across each spectacle, the body of the book is primarily written to enable you to understand exactly what is going on and why, which should hopefully enhance your enjoyment and renew your appreciation of the wonderful wildlife still eminently viewable on and around the British Isles.

We make no apologies for the order of our Top 40; you may not agree with it but, hopefully, it may just occasionally form a stimulus for conversation in place of the latest TV series plotline. Perhaps you will be encouraged to make your own ‘Wildlife Hit Parade’. The primary motive behind the series and this book is, unashamedly, to encourage people to jump off their sofas, turn off their television sets and stow away the computer games console in order to get some fresh air in their lungs and a few spectacles under their belts instead.

Finally, with some insider information, the vast majority of these spectacles can be seen with a little planning and the requisite luck. Only when the joy or ‘Gospel of Wildlife Watching’ spreads to as many people as possible (irrespective of the order in which we place them), will these plants, the animals and their habitats be truly cherished, valued and conserved for future generations.

40 Mating natterjacks (#ulink_81703c59-3808-5f9d-9458-b84404badccc)

The ‘Birkdale nightingale’, ‘Bootle organ’ and ‘Thursley thrush’ are all regularly used colloquial monikers that, in certain regions, have replaced the more commonly accepted name of our smallest and rarest British toad, the natterjack. The reason why such a seemingly inconspicuous and rare toad should been given so many local nicknames is purely down to its incredible ratchetlike call, which marks the highlight of its breeding season, and is also a tremendous spectacle for anybody with a penchant for toadspotting.

Natterjack toads

WHEN

April to mid-May

WHERE

Ainsdale NNR, Merseyside; Caerlaverock Nature Reserve (WWT), near Dumfries

‘Do not park here! The solid yellow line is the key identification feature of the natterjack toad.

David Woodfall

This diminutive relation of our common toad is entirely restricted to Europe, with its heartland being the Iberian Peninsula, and becoming progressively rarer further north. In Britain the natterjack was widely if locally distributed around southern and western coastal locations, but healthy populations can now only be found along the northwest English coast around Merseyside and in southwest Scotland centred on the Solway Firth.

To the untrained eye, natterjacks are similar to the common toad, but their size of no more than 75 millimetres, dry brownish to olive-green warty skin and yellow stripe, which runs the length of their backbone like a ‘no-parking here’ line, easily distinguishes this wonderful and mercurial little toad. In addition, natterjacks have short hindlimbs, giving them the ability to run at surprising speeds over short distances. Unlike common toads, where the females are generally larger, there is little difference in the size of the natterjack sexes, even when the females are bursting with eggs and ready to spawn.

Natterjacks in Britain are now found almost exclusively among sand dunes and the periphery of salt marsh close to our coastlines; they will always be below 100 metres above sea level. Befitting a species that is most abundant in Spain, it is no coincidence that this is one of the warmest habitats in Britain. These sandy spots are also perfect for a species that is a compulsive burrower, meaning that natterjack toads are easily able to dig down to escape from the extremes of temperature. The short, dense vegetation attracts lots of invertebrate prey, and, as sandy places are also well drained, natterjacks have evolved to breed in ephemeral freshwater pools and ponds in the dune slacks. A typical breeding site will often be no more than a small, sandy, shallow and unvegetated pool with a maximum depth of 30 to 50 centimetres that will often have completely dried out by the height of summer.

In common with all our native amphibians and reptiles, the natterjack is a species that opts out of the coldest autumn and winter months by hibernating. In the case of natterjacks, this time is spent underground in self-excavated burrows either alone or with other toads, with the largest number – an astonishing 44 – recorded by the celebrated herpetologist Trevor Beebee.

On good nights you might get the impression that you had dropped in at the Okavango delta or the Amazon basin at dusk rather than it being just a misty night on Merseyside!

After this period of torpor, the toads then emerge into the light in March or early April once the air temperatures have warmed up sufficiently to sunbathe.

Adults leaving their hibernacula, or winter residence, have usually only two things on their mind, and the first of these is food. The toads emerge to start foraging at dusk and may move several hundred metres from their burrow to feed in the dune slacks before returning to the same burrow before dawn. The natterjack is much more athletic than the common toad and hunts actively by running down its prey over short distances. The long sticky tongue then shoots out at lightning speed to ensnare the unfortunate ant, bug, beetle or fly. Smaller prey is swallowed immediately while larger prey often takes a while to gulp down and can be disposed of by the toad’s ingenious ability to retract its eyeballs back into its head, thereby applying pressure to the roof of the mouth and, hence, helping to crush and swallow the food.

While natterjacks will eat virtually anything that will fit into their mouths, the adults themselves have comparatively few predators due to the nature of their skin, as the larger warts contain parotid glands that secrete a poison when molested. This deters most predators, with the exception of some members of the crow family, which have learnt to disembowel them leaving the skin behind, and grass snakes, which seem less susceptible to the poisons. A secondary defence for the natterjack when faced with a grass snake is to puff itself out like a little balloon and stand high on all four legs to give the impression that it is larger and more menacing than it really is.

Having fed, the toads are then keen to move on to the details of mating. The first stage involves the short migration back from their winter quarters to the breeding site of choice and this generally occurs in late March or early April on evenings where the temperature is above 8°C. The males are the first to arrive at the pond and initially tend to occupy burrows close to the water. It is easy to tell when the breeding activity starts in earnest as the natterjack has the distinction of being Europe’s loudest amphibian and its calls can easily be heard from a mile away on a warm, still night. After sunset the males emerge from their burrows to take up evenly spaced positions in the pond margins. They then adopt a stance with their forelimbs straightened to keep their head and, more importantly, their vocal sac clear of the water.

The sight and sound of a male in full voice is an unforgettable experience. Its strident call is produced by an inhalation of air through a couple of slits in the bottom of the mouth, which is then shuttled backwards and forwards between the lungs and the vocal sac. This results in an enormous inflation of the vocal sac so the toad’s actual head becomes three times its normal size. As the normally purplish or bluish throat distends, in the light of a torch it appears ghostly white and translucent and is very reminiscent of a child’s bubblegum bubble. Normally, a male will be stimulated into calling by the churring of other surrounding males but even passing vehicles and planes can initiate a chorus. The call sounds like a ‘rrrrRIP’ that lasts for about a second before a slight upturn at the end, and individual males will usually call continuously for around a minute before taking a short rest and winding up again.

Calling males vastly outnumber the females on any given night, as the males may well stay for the entire breeding season, and a visitation by the female could be confined to just a few hours on one night of the year. As the ratio is skewed towards amorous males, much time is often wasted in chasing, grabbing and releasing other males in a case of mistaken identity. This error is soon sorted out by the grabbed male, who makes a small croak to let the other male know it is ‘riding the wrong chariot’; he is then immediately released. Females do not often arrive until after dark and are usually grabbed by the first males who chance upon them. In each case the male then proceeds to lie on the back of the female and keep hold by using his forelimbs to tightly clasp around her armpits in a grip called ‘amplexus’, which is strengthened by rough nuptial pads on the digits of the toad’s forelimbs.

This coupling process is a lot more gentlemanly than with common toads, where an unmated female can become covered by a writhing mass of males to the extent that she may even occasionally drown. With natterjacks, however, there seems little territorial behaviour or aggression, and, once a male has attached himself to a female, it seems often to be taken as read that the female is no longer available and the couple are left unmolested as the female selects a suitable shallow spot to begin spawning.

Most spawning takes place at night but can occasionally be seen in broad daylight after particularly busy nights. The egg-laying itself is a protracted process taking around three hours, with the female ejecting eggs in a long string, in between periods of rest; the male then fertilises these externally. The natterjack females will produce between 3,000 and 4,000 eggs in this way; the strings are easily distinguished from those of the common toad after a period of 24 hours, as the eggs develop into a single row as opposed to the double row of their common counterpart. As soon as the spawning is finished, the male swims away to look for more mating opportunities, while the female leaves the water, spent, her breeding season over and wanders off to feed.

During sunlight hours, natterjack tadpoles are visible in large numbers at the water’s surface or along the pond edges. This contrasts with frog tadpoles, which are much more shy and retiring. The tadpoles must grow quickly as they will all die if the pond dries out completely. Those that survive the high summer droughts and the jaws of predatory insects – the minority – metamorphosise, and head to the land and a brave new world in which they must fatten up in preparation for hibernation.

39 Wood ant nests (#ulink_de8649ad-f389-5363-976e-b5b57d8cd276)

Ants are a subject to which many people have never given much thought, unless it is how to extinguish them when they invade our houses. The best thing to do, though, is to take a moment to watch ants, rather than exterminate them. There is much to be admired about an organism with levels of societal organisation that are the envy of the natural world.