LITMIR.BIZ

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to hold are long gone, it still is much frequented by frogs, particularly at spawning time. It is a wonderful tiny water world, an aquatic jungle with a community of interdependent bacteria, plants, animals and insects that have provided me with interest and entertainment for many years. I always pause at its edge, and each time, even in winter, when little stirs, I learn a little more about pond life. Because this pond is in the open and receives plenty of sunlight, it is a particularly rich habitat, but its proximity to the forestry road used by family walkers makes it vulnerable to frog-spawn collectors and dogs having a swim. Hellfire Hill is owned by Coillte, and they frequently carry out works here, seemingly without any concern for the viability of the pond or its teeming but mostly invisible occupants. I have found, in recent years, their ecosystem’s husbandry to be poor at best; with regard to this particular pond I warned Coillte years ago that it was a newt habitat, and that their works were endangering these scarce creatures, but my warnings have been ignored. There are no newts there today.

      The pond water was clear yesterday, with only a wind-induced ripple to blur the underwater scene, and initially there was no sign of life. After a few minutes of careful observation, however, we spotted tiny, black, immature leeches scattered on the muddy bottom. Leeches are blood-sucking worms, of which there are 16 different species in Ireland, and 500 worldwide. Their general anatomy is much like that of an earthworm, but they have very specialised features, such as suckers to help them move, much as a caterpillar does, and an ability to attach themselves to a fish or animal and suck its blood. It is fascinating that such a small creature can have such complex parts, including a mouth that is designed to inject an anaesthetising substance so that its host is unaware that it is being ‘got at’ while it slits open the skin and has a meal of its blood. The leeches in the Hellfire pond in wintertime look a bit like the spines of a spruce tree lying on the bottom of the pond: at this time of the year they measure about 6–8mm long.

      As I was counting the leeches on the bottom of the pond, a water beetle emerged from cover, and quickly breast-stroked across the pond from one clump of weed to another. As it did so, a sudden blast of wind nearly tossed me bodily into the water, so we left the pond behind and continued on our way. On the north side of the hill the wind was gusting powerfully, punching the trees with a great hidden fist, bending them over at impossible angles. It almost seemed, however, as if the trees were enjoying the violent molestations, revelling in swinging back to their original postures as soon the latest gust passed by.

      Instead of taking the lower road past the north pond, we dropped down towards Piperstown to cut around the north-west of the hill, something we had been promising ourselves to do for some time. We found ourselves, in minutes, on a long, straight track going downhill between the trees. I once had a neighbour who professed to have great interest in, and knowledge of nature, and he asked me to take him and his two daughters up Hellfire Hill on a ‘nature walk’. My son David, then six years old, came along as well. As we ascended this track, the neighbours were about five metres in front of us, chattering away animatedly and noisily and taking in very little of the surroundings through which they walked. David, who was very observant and was quick to spot things of interest on walks, nudged me and pointed up ahead. No more than six metres beyond our neighbours, a startlingly red fox had come out from the trees, and as I looked, he paused to look downhill at what was causing the disturbance. After taking in the scene, he moved leisurely across the track and into the trees on the other side; the chattering neighbours, looking everywhere but at this wild wonder, continued uphill unaware.

      The secret of successfully observing wild creatures is to freeze as soon as you glimpse the bird or animal in question; stillness and silence will suggest to many creatures that, in spite of their instinctive urge to flee, you might not pose a danger to them. It is also important, on encountering a wild creature, not to look directly at it, but try to watch it out of the corner of your eye: they seem very sensitive to having eyes focussed on them.

      I have found that being still can persuade squirrels that you are not a threat; if you come across one, it may escape around the back of the tree to hide out of your sight. Squirrels seem to have no patience, however; within a minute or two it will peer around the tree to see if you are still there, and if you don’t move, it may assume that you are no threat, or you’re gone, and will continue with its business. Stillness usually works, but the sound of a human voice can mean danger for wild animals. Walking with Teresa along the banks of a Donegal river at dawn one time, I came to a halt where a tributary flowing into the river cut off our progress. I stood there, wondering how we might cross. Suddenly, an otter surfaced across the other side of the tributary, a few metres away, water drops like diamonds dripping from its whiskers. It turned its head, and, noticing me, regarded me curiously with big bright eyes. I raised my camera very slowly, and took a couple of shots. The automatic click and wind of the camera sounded deafening to me, but it didn’t disturb the otter. Instead, it swam slowly towards me. I was so excited that I called, without moving, in a stage whisper to Teresa, who was about five metres behind, to come and see. The otter might not have worried about the still shape on the bank, or the mechanical click of the camera, but the sound of the human voice rang loud some instinctive alarm bell, and the beautiful animal immediately disappeared below the surface with hardly a ripple, and we did not see it again.

      On the north-west side of Hellfire Hill we saw no birds other than a solitary fieldfare; the recent cold weather has had large flocks of redwings flying over the house in the morning, maybe from their roosts in the Spinney across the field, but up on Hellfire Hill the buffeting wind kept all birds in shelter.

      Glendoher, 21 February

      I like February. The air is alive with promise, growth is beginning to show itself in all plants and shrubs, and the weather is reaching out towards warmth. Plants that thrive on forest floors, such as wood anemone, lesser celandine and wood sorrel, are soaking up what sunshine filters through the leafless trees;as yet no flowers have appeared, but you can almost hear them coming.

      The garden at Glendoher has been mobbed with birds this spring – wrens; siskins; blue, coal, great and frequently long-tailed tits are coming to the feeder, while robins and chaffinches get the crumbs from the bird table, and the quiet dunnock weaves through the cotoneaster at the end of the garden. The dunnock may be quiet, but it is certainly not shy when it comes to mating. We watched a pair the other day, meeting up as they foraged through the garden. What we took to be the female immediately began to act like a chick wanting to be fed, stooping and fluttering her wings, while the male seemed initially a bit nonplussed, and didn’t know what to do. Then he began carefully grooming the female’s tail feathers with his beak. This activity must have reminded him what it was he had to do, and he dutifully hopped on her back. The consummation didn’t last more than a couple of seconds, after which they both flew off in opposite directions.

      Dunnocks, I have learned, both male and female, are notorious for having multiple partners. The female accepts partners other than her mate because the more males that think her progeny is theirs, the more assured she will be that her brood won’t go hungry. Males have been known to have two or three female friends, simply because, I suppose, they can. They are very particular about passing on their genes, however: if a male is suspicious that a female he has chosen is ‘playing away’, before copulation he may use his beak to remove any other sperm from her cloaca!

      Who loves not Spring’s voluptuous hours,

      The carnival of birds and flowers

      – James Montgomery, ‘The Reign of Spring’

      Our friendly heron is to be seen in the garden across the field almost every morning now – and I have just found out why. The neighbours there are feeding him with, it appears, bread, actually throwing it to him, and he stalks along and takes it up. I don’t think this is such a good idea.

      Our little garden pond has provided us with lots of watery fun for many years now. It was created by removing the claw foot legs of an old Edwardian bath tub, and sinking it into the ground. The plughole was blocked up, and the new pond filled with water, enriched by a bucket of muck from a nearby pond and a number of aquatic plants that I brought back from County Clare. Some of these disappeared after a short while, but others

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