NORTH DOWNS & BEYOND

The unfurling of a crocus is all that it takes for me to believe that an invisible line has been crossed in the progression of the seasons. Winter might still hold all of the trump cards, but Spring has peeked over the parapet and has taken a look around. After spying that crocus, I spent an hour at Priest Hill and was delighted to hear up to four Skylarks in song and display - the first this year. This species has been otherwise sullen so far. A Common Buzzard also crossed the airspace (the first since early autumn here) and drew an escort of corvids that frantically and noisily chased it away. We have quite a marked Spring passage of this raptor, and I wouldn't mind guessing that this is an early migrant. We may still see snow, frost and freezing cold, but the next season in line has already put a marker down.

We used to have four seasons. When I was a lad, September meant chill mornings, the first ground frost, wind and rain. October was all about fallen leaves, bare trees, mud and the smell of garden bonfires - and a lot more wind and rain. November - well, that was proper winter. Now it seems that we have just the one season, a largely benign, mild twelve-monther that has the odd hot day (which will be 30C +), the odd windy day (force 9-10) and the odd wet day (a month's worth in 24 hours) - so a procession of bang ordinary weather interrupted by a few extremes. It can be as warm in December as in June, with more rain in July than in February. It's all over the place. Even though it is November 1st tomorrow I've been walking around in a shirt, could have worn shorts, got sunburnt, swatted away loads of flies and have seen plenty of butterflies and dragonflies. There were few clues to the actual season from the birds, with no 'summer' or 'winter' migrants,...

Today was the first time that I felt as if it were autumn. The vegetation is starting to look tired. Red Bartsia, Harebell, Common Toadflax and Nettle-leaved Bellflower are starting to flower. 3 Chalkhill Blues were dancing over the short sward on Park Downs (where I finally recorded Knotted Pearlwort in Surrey). The orchid fields have changed - the top picture was taken this morning (with Common Ragwort and Marjoram being the predominant providers of colour) and the bottom image on 23rd June (where the yellow was courtesy of Rough Hawk's-beard). The orchids have largely gone. Other butterflies seen included several hundred Gatekeepers, a handful of left-over Marbled Whites, Dark Green Fritillary and 3 Red Admirals. Across the road in Banstead Woods at least 4 Silver-washed Fritillaries patrolled the rides and a very large dark butterfly was briefly glimpsed as it hacked through the top of some oaks - I have a strong suspicion as to what it probably was! Something that gave itself ...

What's going on? In Leyton (proper busy London), there is a Reed Warbler and two Whitethroats happily wintering; a Barred Warbler seems to be cosily at home in the Portland Bird Observatory garden (feeding on Cade's Pippins); Ring Ouzels are still popping up around the south coast; a Blyth's Pipit has taken a liking to industrial Yorkshire; there seem to be more Yellow-browed Warblers scattered about than Bramblings. What next - churring Nightjars? Whatever the reasons behind all of these unseasonal birds, it is sad to think that one proper cold snap will see them off or see them dead. But, for the time being, lets enjoy the September feel to December 2014. Maybe January will follow suit and be more like October?

Red Bartsia - it must be summer When do you know it's really summer? Are you one of those people who think summer begins with the summer solstice? Or when the schools break up for the six-week holiday? Is it when test cricket starts, or the football season ends? For me it's when I see Red Bartsia in flower. There is always a mixture of pleasure at seeing it again and sadness that the year is yet again careering onwards. I then start to think of summer as becoming long in the tooth when I see the first Harebell - as much as I like what the autumn brings, an air of melancholia briefly visits me when the first pastel blue bell nods my way. From a moth perspective, a Copper Underwing in the MV leaves me in no doubt as to it being summer. Birds are trickier. My problem with 'summer' birds is that I reckon that the first signs of autumn passage appears as early as June, when waders such as Lapwings and Green Sandpipers start to bother the notebook. Therefore I'd plump ...

Each year, as winter marches on into February, and the first stirrings of spring start to show, I become readied. Ready to welcome the growing number of moths to the MV. Ready to start taking in the first flowering violets. Ready to be made happy by the first flash of Wheatear white or the flick of a hirundine's wing. Time slows down, with each day of late February and early March revealing just a little bit of what's to come. Slowly, ever so slowly, it is adding to the building anticipation. And then - WHOOSH! It happens all at once. From bare trees to riots of blossom - from winter thrushes to summer swallows - from a lone Brimstone to a veritable selection box of butterflies in the garden. It happens too quickly, as if winter suddenly gives up the ghost with a violent shudder and instantaneously sheds its skin to reveal spring finery underneath. Every year I feel as if I've somehow missed the moment when this metamorphosis takes place. I want to rewind and take it al...