Ruminant in the rushes
When Carolyn Cowan went on a late evening bird survey, she had an encounter that certainly bucked the trend.
Springing and skipping, his white rump blinked in and out of my sight.
As a field ecologist, I delight in the sense of discovery when first visiting a survey location. A well-studied map manifests as a vivid landscape. One summer’s evening, I was doing a bird survey in a small patch of meadow in northeast England. The site was a riot of colour, invitingly warm in the glow of late evening.
My survey route took me deep into the meadow, where the reeds and rushes grew thicker and taller and the diversity of plant life buoyed my spirits. In no time at all, the soft, bristling reeds were overtopping my head. Creatures once consigned to ground level were now at eye height. Sticky black slugs clung to stems all around me like gummy sweets, tiny spiders fastidiously abseiled past and butterflies settled into the canopy for the night.
I pushed on through the tall vegetation and listened for a moment. Song thrush, wren and the thin, staccato chirring of a reed bunting. Purring traffic on the dual carriageway nearby, assorted clicks and chirrups of creepy-crawlies.
“Bwweahh!” Something large suddenly rose through the reeds close by. A tawny form obscured by foliage. Bigger than a fox. The sound rang in my ears.
“Bwweahh!” Then it leapt. It was a roe buck, taking to the air, clear of the reed tops, an otherworldly bound of staggering height. His proud antlers and velvety face caught a glint of setting sun as his body twisted in mid-air. Springing and skipping, his white rump blinked in and out of view as he bounced away and out of sight.
The buck must have been hunkered down in the grass, rudely interrupted by my blundering intrusion.
In the UK, we have so few large mammals, and no wildlife of particular danger to humans. But even this small patch of meadow – a seemingly insignificant square on a map – had yielded a startling, wild surprise.