MAGICAL CREATURES
AN APPRECIATION OF THE TOAD
As I lift the discarded pond liner, she shifts, trying to get back into the shadows. Sadly, if the pond is to be finished, she must move. I lift her, cradling her in my palms. Her mottled, warty skin is surprisingly soft, and she has a grumpy expression. She shuffles a little, causing streaks of copper in her bewitching eyes to glimmer in the late winter sunshine.
At this time of year, toads usually seek solace in dead wood, log piles or compost – dark, cool places. This muddy liner has probably been just right. Although I’ve disturbed her, it’s shortly time for her to emerge anyway. Soon, adult toads will face an arduous journey as they migrate to ponds to breed. Unlike frogs, toads don’t jump much, even though they can. They prefer to walk, with an ambling, awkward gait. Male toads will wait, climbing on the larger females’ backs as they pass. By the time a female reaches the water, she may have multiple male passengers, all fighting for survival. Usually, the strongest male will be victorious and as the female lays her eggs – a double necklace of pearls delicately draped around vegetation – the male will spread his sperm over them, fertilising a new generation. The eggs that don’t get eaten will hatch two to four weeks later as tadpoles. After four months they grow tiny legs, absorb their tails and, after rainfall, will venture out of the water. Adult toads don’t actually spend much time submerged, preferring damp and dark environments to water.
Despite females laying over 7,000 eggs each, toad populations have declined 68% since 1985, and changes to agricultural practices, loss of wetland and urbanisation are all factors. Habitat fragmentation and roads pose big threats. Sometimes, more than 1,000 toads will cross the same stretch of road and so volunteer Toad Patrols, organised by local wildlife groups, now gather at such spots during migration season to help them across safely.
But we haven’t always supported toads in Britain, and throughout history they’ve been both feared and revered. In Medieval England, toads were linked to witchcraft, while in ancient Egypt, toads were prized for their fertility, and the Aztecs thought they governed the cycle of death and rebirth. But the one thing everyone felt toads had in common was magical properties.
Within conservation, maybe toads are a little magic. Their diet of invertebrates helps to control populations, but they’re also an important food source for mammals, birds and reptiles. They’re biological indicators, too, especially regarding pollution. Their skin is permeable, allowing them to absorb oxygen, but toxins can also penetrate and changes to air or water quality can be deadly. However, toads are adaptable and can live in a range of habitats, from woodland to wetland, farmland to gardens.
I resettle my new companion into some leaf litter and watch as she meanders away. And, while I can’t be sure they’re magic, this one has certainly cast a spell over me.