Lots and lots of Ravens

The Raven count I made this morning marks a significant personal milestone, as it was the 250^th solo count of the Ravens, since I first discovered the presence of the roost, in 2000 and having then been excluded from it for most of 2001, I began monitoring it in earnest in 2002. To mark the occasion, here are some rambling reminiscences, related to the counts, but not really about the Ravens themselves.

I described them as solo counts, for on four occasions I was accompanied by  avid monitor of breeding and passage birds at Rhaslas Pond, Mike Hogan. It was with the help of Mike that I confirmed my suspicion that at times, a significant number (up to 20%) of the roost’s population were leaving the roost to the east, completely unseen and uncounted by me.

On one occasion, when I was away, Mike also completed a solo count for me and although this count and the ones made jointly with him are included in the ever growing set of data for the roost, it is the personal tally of solo counts that I am marking here.

Thank you Mike, for your invaluable help and good company on those counts we did together. I’ll always be grateful: such a pity you never saw the hoped for Woodcocks.

  

Those in possession of the Raven Counts spreadsheet, may well be wondering if I have lost the ability to count, as there are far less than 250 count totals included in it. Amazingly (it certainly amazes me, as I look back on it) for the first three years, the counts were not monthly as they currently are, but were made fortnightly and it was only when I began to keep them in spreadsheet form, with the potential for graphs and tables, that I decided to enter only one count per month (I had already reduced my counts to one per month by then) so I chose the fortnightly counts closest to the time of the month I was then counting them; IE, the beginning of the month, when transferring the data to the spreadsheet.

When I began the counts, I could not drive, so had to walk the three and a half miles from my house, in the darkness, over the hill tops to the roost and then back again in daylight, after the count was over. In winter, although not particularly early in the morning, it often meant a long trudge through mud, snow and ice in the darkness, while in the summer, it meant getting up at 02:00, in order to get to the roost before the pre-dawn twilight began.

Over the years, to preserve my dark adaptation, those yomps, in the early hours were made as mostly without any artificial light and produced some interesting highlights, such as meteor showers, displays of noctilucent cloud and the Aurora Borealis. I recall one winter’s morning, almost stepping on a Jack Snipe, which bobbed up and down alongside my foot for a couple of seconds, before flying off a to a another spot a couple of metres away.

Perhaps the strangest incident occurred as I was walking over to meet up with Mike, for a joint count. It was Sunday the 5^th of December 2005 and as I walked across an open area of hill top between conifer plantations, I suddenly heard a strange rumbling boom, which came from the south east. It was obviously the sound of an explosion, or several, but it was about twenty past six in the morning, so couldn’t have been blasting in a quarry and the sound came from the wrong direction for it to have been artillery fire, on the Senni ranges. The mystery was solved when I got home, after the count and the TV news was reporting the huge explosion at the Buncefield fuel depot, in Hertfordshire; 128 miles away, as the crow flies.

One notable morning, in a very wet August, I had arrived at the spot, from which I would count the Ravens and as I began setting up my chair, I noticed my footprints glowing pale blue, in the pre dawn darkness. Looking closer, I could see that within each footprint, in the short, wet turf, even in the ones which within shallow puddles, there were many tiny specks of intense blue light; like miniature LEDs. Some were even on the toes of my wellies. I had no idea what was causing this bioluminescence  and as I didn’t have reading glasses with me, my attempted close inspection proved fruitless. I did collect as specimen of vegetation with a couple of glowing specks, but when I examined them at home, nothing could be found to account for the phenomenon. I was later in contact with Roy Perry, who suggested that it may have been caused by nematodes.

Of the winter counts, one of the more uncomfortable, but beautiful occasions was in early February 2012. There had been a heavy fall of snow, followed by a prolonged severe freeze and as there was no hope of getting my car out of the street, I walked to the roost, through knee deep snow, on top of which was a thin frozen crust. As I trudged through it, each step was accompanied by lots of tinkling; like bridle bells. The prolonged freeze had caused masses of beautiful blade-like hexagonal ice crystals, up to 10-15mm across to form over the surface of the snow, each standing on edge. As I walked, I sent them scattering in all directions, tinkling as they went. The count that followed was less magical, as it involved sitting still for 90 minutes in temperatures around -14 C!

 

As for the counting itself, I have had, over the years, had to move my counting spot three times, in response to the evolving nature of the roost; changes which altered the flight paths from the roost. Due to the often very poor light when they first begin flying out, I have to find a counting spot, from where I can see all of them against a background of sky, for in that early pre dawn twilight, they are invisible against a background of the land.

Until fairly recently, the counting spots have been close to the roost, which really connected me to the birds. It was a magical experience, sitting in the darkness, watching the first glimmerings of twilight begin to appear in the sky and then hear the first calls from the senior pair in the roost. Ravens have individual and often recognisable voices, so it was obvious that it was the same pair each time, which would begin the calling and then be joined after a minute or two, by the rest of the roost in a chorus, which typically lasted ten minutes and at the end of which, the first groups would fly out. The senior pair would continue calling throughout the time it took for the roost to empty (typically one hour) and then would be the last to leave. Sometimes they remained in the roost, with no intention of leaving.

In that former counting place, the winter counts would be further enlivened by a trickle of Woodcock flying in from wherever they had been feeding, overnight, to roost in the forest plantation behind where I sat. There were never large numbers, but it was entertaining to try spotting them coming in, fast and low, while the ravens were flying out and thrilling when they occasionally flew past so close that the wind in their feathers could be heard. Once during a summer count a female Nightjar passed so close in front of me, that in the still air I could smell its feathers.

Over the years; particularly the ones when I used to walk to the roost, I had a few hair-raising moments. I don’t believe in the supernatural, but that does not prevent ancestral instinctive reactions kicking in, when confronted by a sudden and unexplained sight or sound. Trudging down a dark forest ride, one winter morning, I suddenly heard a loud, hoarse cry repeated over and over and coming up fast from behind. I quickly realised that it was a freaked out Woodcock flying up the ride and over my head, but not before the flight or flight instinct had kicked in and although and although 21^st century man knew it was just a frightened bird, my ancestral instincts insisted on raising the hair on my neck, quickening the heart rate and pricking sweat on my forehead.

Along the same ride, on a different morning, at a place where the ride opened up onto a clear-fell area; he paler gap between black conifers suddenly sprouted a small forest of horns. I switched on my torch, to reveal a heard of cattle completely filling the ride. Luckily, they moved aside to let me pass through.

The weirdest apparition occurred one dark winter morning. I was walking the ride through a clear-felled area, near the roost, when on the slope above the ride I noticed something white. As the ride took me closer, I was a little perturbed to see that it seemed to be a figure, with longish, pear shaped body, a head and two legs, but no arms, standing motionless. Ancestral man had taken over by this point and although I knew there was a rational and possibly laughable explanation for the figure, that didn’t prevent the inevitable raised hair, sweat and pounding heart. I kept walking and watching it as I drew level with it and closer to it and suddenly it sprouted two more legs and a pair of pointy ears. It was a white horse and had been standing facing me square-on, its white coat illuminated by the street light glow from Merthyr.

How long will I be able to continue counting the Ravens? Well, things are changing and I can foresee and end to the roost. The first potential reason for the end to my counting will come fairly soon, when the NRW Forestry fell the plantation it is currently in. That won’t be the end to the roost, which will almost certainly move to another plantation nearby. Whether I will be able to count them leaving the new roost site remains to be seen. The other reason and the one that may cause the roost to eventually decline (it is already declining) and fizzle out is that the roost is where it is because of the nearby refuse tip and far less food waste is now finding its way onto that tip. As RCT encourages more food waste recycling and the domestic refuse is no longer taken to the tip, the core, non breeding population of the roost will find it far less attractive and the roost may eventually disperse. Whatever happens, I am not getting any younger, so it is extremely unlikely that I will ever reach my 500^th count.