Shingle Street is famous for lurid stories about mysterious wartime fatalities on the beach, but we also had a better-documented one here last year. Our coastline is home to many rare and beautiful plants, none more striking than the Sea Kale that creates a wonderful swathe of foaming white blossoms on the shingle banks in early summer. Sea Kale is a kind of cabbage and when it emerges it looks for all the world as if the beach has suddenly sprouted gigantic cauliflowers everywhere. After Dungeness, this is one of the best places in Britain to witness this natural phenomenon. The Kale has to cope with an extreme environment, of course. It’s doused with salt spray, exposed to constant winds and parched by the sun; there’s no fresh water and almost no soil; while the shingle itself is unstable and constantly shifting. But the Sea Kale is specially adapted to cope with these testing conditions. It has very deep roots (up to two metres long) to suck up moisture and pale fleshy leaves to reduce water loss. The plant’s a survivor.
Sea Kale on the beach at Shingle Street. Photo: Jeremy Mynott.
Something very strange happened last year, however. Summer came and went but the kale didn’t bloom in the stretch of shingle in front of the houses, where it has been such an annual delight to residents and visitors alike. What happened? Theories abounded. Had the plants just got too old and were declining naturally? Was it some disease? A caterpillar plague? Were they being nibbled by hares (which do visit the shingle)? Or perhaps by the flocks of wood pigeons we have everywhere now? Or even by human foragers – after all, although it’s strictly illegal now, people used to pick Sea Kale as a culinary delicacy when the plant was common back in Victorian times and it was even recommended as a tasty alternative to asparagus in Mrs Beeton’s celebrated Cookbook of 1861. But none of these theories explained why the Sea Kale should be affected like this just at Shingle Street and not along the beach from a few hundred yards south and all the way to East Lane, Bawdsey, where it was still flourishing,
Sea Kale damage. Photo: Liz Moon.
A vigilant insomniac here eventually came up with what seems to be the answer. She noticed that our resident muntjacs had started boldly browsing on the beach at night, maybe because the inland plants had been desiccated by last years’s long spring drought; and her observation was later confirmed by some close-up photos that showed the Sea Kale stalks nipped off cleanly at the top. What will happen this year? And what’s the solution? Is it a choice between cabbage and venison?
Jeremy Mynott April 2026
Nature Note: Buckthorn Beauties
Not long to go now. March is the beginning of spring in our meteorological calendar. It was the first month of the year for the ancient Romans, who called it ‘Martius’ after Mars, their God of War, because it was the season when the weather became good enough for them to start fighting again. We have inherited the name and for us too it marks a beginning, but happily of a more creative kind. It’s the start of that unstoppable rush of new life, light and growth as the green wave of spring moves northwards through Europe and reaches our shores. We all have our own markers of this annual rebirth: the daffodils flowering, the hedges leafing, a chiffchaff singing in the copse on its return from Africa, or a wheatear in fresh plumage foraging on the beach. But for me one of the most stirring is that first sight of a butterfly on the wing, probably a lovely brimstone floating round a sheltered garden on a sunny day in early March.
A Brimstone butterfly. Photo: Jenny Desouter.
They are so-named after the colour of brimstone, the old name for sulphur (remember ‘fire and brimstone’ in the Bible?). The male brimstone is a gorgeous buttery yellow, the female paler (and slightly larger), but both unmistakeable on the wing with large rounded wings hooked at the tip and a strong buoyant flight. When they settle they always do so with wings closed and their wonderful camouflage is then displayed, their greenish veined underwings looking for all the world like leaves. It has been suggested that the male’s striking colouration is the origin of the name butterfly itself, a ‘butter-coloured fly’ – an attractive thought, but unlikely alas. Brimstones appear this early in the year, not because they have just emerged from a chrysalis but because they are one of the few British butterflies that actually overwinter as adults. At the first hint of any warmth in the sun they come out from their winter hiding-places, where they have been concealed in thick ivy or other evergreens like holly, and search out some reviving nectar. They’ll often suck it from early flowering daffodils and primroses, but their most favoured sources are purplish flowers like knapweed, teasel or thistle, and in the latter two a brimstone can reach down into the plant with its long proboscis further than most other butterflies.
The favourite food plant of their caterpillars, however, is buckthorn (common or alder), which is not very widely distributed so they need some nearby to lay their eggs on. Brimstones are also one of our most long-lived butterflies, emerging one summer and lasting right through to the next. Worth planting some buckthorn for?
Jeremy Mynott February 2026
Nature Note: Charismatic Guests
This is the time of year, as the days darken into winter, when some charismatic visitors arrive to dispel something of the dank and gloom. They come from the forests and fields of Scandinavia, arriving usually by night – long-winged, silent travellers seeking a milder climate and more readily available food supplies. Short-eared owls. Every year they grace our marshes and grasslands, patrolling them for the small rodents which are their staple fare, especially field voles. Unlike most owls these short-ears hunt by day. They rely on a combination of sight and hearing, both exceptionally acute by human standards, to locate their tiny prey from above and seize it in a sudden plunging descent. It makes for a wonderful spectacle for bystanders. The owls quarter the field, flying low over the ground, now gliding, now slip-sliding or hovering for a better look; then the final, and for their victims terminal, deep dive. You can often watch them close-up from the roadside and marvel at their variegated plumage of soft browns, buff, tawny and in some lights ochre-tinted colours, contrasting with dramatic orange eyes set in black mascara-lined sockets. Their numbers vary by the year, depending on the fluctuating cycle of rodent populations. It is said that they can consume some 2,000 voles in their four-month winter sojourn among us – did you realise we had so many? Some short-ears linger into the spring and occasionally even stay to breed on local marshes and seawalls. Further north in Britain they breed regularly on the moors and uplands but here they are thrilling seasonal visitors.
Long-eared owl
Their name sounds faintly ridiculous and indeed the small protrusions on their heads are not ears at all but just little feather tufts. Their real ears are lower down on the head, invisible through the thick plumage and positioned asymmetrically, one higher than the other, to give them a better positional fix on the faintest rustlings below. There is also a better-endowed owl called the long-eared owl (LEO, to birdwatchers), with very prominent long ear-tufts. These are resident in Britain and quite widely distributed but are purely nocturnal, very secretive and rarely seen. Their numbers are supplemented by migrants from Scandinavia in winter, too, and LEOs are occasionally spotted in their temporary winter roosts. A neighbour of mine had a magical epiphany the other day when she drew back the bedroom curtains in the morning and saw one sitting on a horizonal branch just a few feet away outside, staring directly in at her. Wisely, she didn’t broadcast this great discovery so the legion of owl-obsessed bird-photographers never troubled it and it left the next night like a fading dream.
Jeremy Mynott November 2025
Nature Note: Here be Dragons
One thing we lack in Shingle Street is fresh water, so our small garden ponds can be a real magnet for wildlife. One recent visitor at ours has been a magnificent Emperor Dragonfly, fiercely patrolling this tiny kingdom, as the scientific name Anax Imperator ‘Lord and Ruler’ suggests. As lord of all he surveys, the dragonfly sees a great deal. They have huge compound eyes made up of some 30,000 separate facets or lenses, so they can see objects in all directions simultaneously and with very great precision. They really do have eyes in the back of their heads. The ‘dragon’ in their name, which probably comes from a Greek word denoting sight, suits the dragonfly well since they are ferocious hunters of other insects, including butterflies, which they can seize in the air, manoeuvring at high speed in any of six directions – up and down, left and right, forwards and even backwards. The aerodynamics of dragonfly wings inspired the design of the flight-blades for the first Royal Navy helicopters named ‘The Dragonfly’ and more recently influenced modern drone technology, still catching up with nature’s own exquisite artifice.
We get little blue damselflies over the pond, too. You can tell a damselfly not just from the size and shape – dragonflies being large and bulky, damselflies petite and thin – but from the way damselflies hold their wings tightly folded when resting, rather than open like an aeroplane as dragonflies do. Damselflies also have their eyes touching close together not separated. It’s a gentler, more feminine name, suited to their dainty proportions, but they too are carnivorous, feeding on smaller flying insects. At the other end of the scale there was once a massive prehistoric dragonfly, the Meganeuropsis, about the size of a crow, but we’ve fortunately missed that by about 250 million years.
Female Emperor Dragonfly. Photo: John Rainer.
If you look closely you’ll see that a dragonfly is composed of three parts: a head with those all-seeing bulging eyes, a thorax (body) and an abdomen (tail). The thorax is the engine-room, where the muscles that power these aerial feats are located, while the tail can have a further function. Our visitor was a female and was pausing frequently to insert her long ovipositor (egg-laying tail) into the weeds to eject a stream of eggs that in about three weeks should develop into dragonfly larvae, which will in turn live in the pond for months, gorging on tiny aquatic life and emerging eventually one night as adult dragonflies. Their reign in the skies will only last a couple of months, alas, but these gauzy beauties are emblematic of a sleepy English summer and fleeting dreams of impossible creatures.
Jeremy Mynott August 2025
Nature Note: What’s Missing?
It’s easier to notice changes when they involve presences rather than absences. We may be very aware of a new person in our community but we can forget that we haven’t seen old so-and-so around for quite some time, now that you mention it. It’s the same with our wildlife. It makes the headline news when charismatic species like red kites, ospreys and white storks are re-introduced into Britain, but how many people realise that in the meantime we’ve lost 70% of our humble house sparrows?
Sparrows used to be one of our commonest birds. From earliest historical times they thrived around human habitations in cities and farms, to the point of becoming pests. We exported them to the USA in the mid-nineteenth century (a few were released in Brooklyn in 1853) and in no time at all they had spread from coast to coast; indeed, by the 1940s there were more sparrows than people in America. And only 30 years ago in Britain they were still as common as, well, sparrows. The ‘Cockney sparrow’ was the affectionate nickname for this small, cheeky little bird living alongside us, with its touch of endearing vulgarity. But there’s been a crash in the population and you can search for them in vain in London now. A friend of mine used to birdwatch in Hyde Park every day and in ten years he never saw a single sparrow. What’s happened?
House sparrow
Scientists have come up with explanations ranging from habitat loss, climate change, improvements in domestic architecture (so fewer nesting holes), growing predator numbers (like magpies and cats), pesticides and air pollution (especially from diesel vehicles); but none of these seems fully convincing or specific to sparrows – why, for example, are there still plenty of sparrows in other big cities like New York and Paris? One more inventive speculation is that house sparrows are essentially social creatures and if the colony size drops below a certain level they can’t any longer function as individuals, especially as they are also extremely sedentary and localised. Sparrows don’t migrate, even short distances, to occupy empty niches elsewhere, so they find it hard to recover from a decline brought on by other factors. Could it be like the human situation in the remote Hebridean island of St Kilda in 1936, when the population had declined to 36 people and they could no longer be self-sufficient so had to be physically evacuated and resettled?
Here in Shingle Street we still have a small colony of house sparrows, I’m glad to say, but they’re getting rarer. Should we be resettling sparrows here as well as kites and storks? Could be an interesting negotiation with an export-minded US president.
Jeremy Mynott July 2025
Nature Note: Look up, Quick
I was taking a stroll on one of those lovely long midsummer evenings, watching the swallows swooping low over the fields for their final feed of the day. They were calling occasionally, a gentle veetveet, which is their standard conversational contact call. But suddenly one gave a much louder, piercing cry and they all instantly scattered as if in a shock-wave and dived for safety. I looked up and knew what I’d see – the sinister dark silhouette of a falcon shearing through the sky. This was the swallow’s special ‘hobby alert’ call.
Most of our common birds of prey – kestrel, sparrow hawk, buzzard, peregrine and red kite – are resident in Britain throughout the year, but we have one that is just a summer visitor, the hobby. Why only in summer? Well, that’s when its favourite prey is available, the swallows, martins and swifts, which it follows here each spring. And it’s the only raptor with the specialist aerial skills to catch them. Swifts and swallows are wonderful fliers themselves, of course, but they are no match for a hunting hobby, which is capable of breath-taking twists and turns at high speed to chase them down on the wing. It’s such a deadly threat that the swallows have evolved this special call as an air-raid warning. Hobbies also take dragonflies in large numbers, which they do with almost nonchalant ease, plucking them from the sky as they cruise along and then nearly stalling in mid-air to strip out the soft bodies and consume them in flight.
Hobby (photo: public domain)
Seen close-up, hobbies are very handsome birds with slate-coloured backs, white cheeks, black moustaches and rufous feathered ‘trousers’. But they are quite easy to distinguish in flight, too. Unlike a kestrel they never really hover, but scythe around, alternately soaring and diving on sharply angled wings, rather like huge swifts. They are much smaller than, say, buzzards. Indeed, their Latin name is Falco subbuteo and since a buzzard is a buteo this literally means ‘a falcon one size down from a buzzard’. And herein lies an etymological curiosity. Do you remember the table-football game called Subbuteo, which was very popular in the last century? The inventor of that game, one Peter Adolph, wanted to call it ‘Hobby’, partly because it was a hobby in the other sense of ‘pastime’ and partly because the hobby was his favourite bird. But when in 1948 he tried to register it as a trade-mark under that name, the Patents Office refused him for some reason, so he called it by its Latin name instead and they approved that. A little natural history sometimes helps.
Jeremy Mynott 9 June 2025
Nature Note: Yellow Bird of Summer
Sometimes just a momentary experience can release a whole theatre of memories. Walking a nearby country lane, I glimpsed a flash of yellow atop the hawthorn hedgerow and heard a hoarse jingle that conjured up the seemingly endless summers of childhood. A yellowhammer. The first half of the name is clear enough; while the second half probably comes from the Old English amer, meaning a bunting, so they are really ‘yellow buntings’. The males have brilliant canary-yellow heads in spring, with a paler suffusion on the underparts – to my eye, a much happier blend with the palette of colours in the English countryside than the harsh yellow glare of the rape fields I see beyond. The hoarse song is traditionally rendered as ‘a little-bit-of-bread-and-no-cheese’, though it actually sounds more like the less grammatical ‘little-bit-of-bread, cheeeeze’ (a stutter followed by a wheeze). The song isn’t exactly euphonious –Coleridge likened it to someone filing brass – but they will now go on singing this refrain tirelessly until autumn and its repetition would be grating if it wasn’t so evocative of hot summers, dusty roads and healthy hedgerows.
A Yellowhammer. Photo: Jenny Desoutter.
One of the yellowhammer’s old country names was ‘scribble lark’, because their eggs are delicately inscribed with a loose series of wavy lines resembling even worse handwriting than mine. Other regional names invoke different associations. The Welsh name (is melyn yr eithin, meaning ‘yellow bird of the gorse’; while I hesitate to explicate the Scots name yorlin, which Robbie Burns exploited in a double-entendre so coarse that the BBC’s spoken rendering of his poem, ‘The Yellow, Yellow Yorlin’, comes with a trigger-warning …
To recite these scraps of folklore may be thought to view the yellowhammer through a golden haze of nostalgia, however. The countryside is changing. The rape fields whose colour seems garish and alien to me have been with us since the 1980s, so are already a part of a new tradition for others. And one remembers how the nineteenth-century peasant-poet John Clare bitterly lamented the enforced replacement of his familiar open-field landscapes with the very enclosing hedgerows that we in turn seek to preserve and restore. Nonetheless, if the yellowhammer eventually joins the other local casualties of intensive agriculture like the corn bunting, the turtle dove and the tree sparrow, I can’t just view that as an inevitable secular process. I feel these losses as an impoverishment, not just another change. And it’s no consolation to have this diminution of our natural heritage diagnosed in technical Eco-speak as the ‘Shifting Baseline Syndrome’, whereby each generation adjusts to a new and diminished ‘normal’. What we need is an Ascending Recovery Scale.
Jeremy Mynott 4 May 2025
Migrants
21 Apr 2025
Seven different warbler species singing in the bushes and reedbeds, plus a fine male whinchat perched on the fence at Lavender Cottage!
Jeremy
Nature Note: Local Knowledge
Grass starts growing again at about 10°C (50°F) and you can track the movement of that isotherm across Europe from the Mediterranean to the Arctic, a green wave travelling north at about fifty kilometres a day, bringing with it a new season of light, warmth and growth – and a feeling of renewal. Surfing that green wave are our migrant birds, and none bears a greater freight of these associations than the swallow and the swift, arriving here from southern Africa, respectively in mid-April and in early May. I eagerly look out for them at their due dates every year, usually returning faithfully to exactly the same place at the same time. And I get a fizzing shot of adrenaline when I first see and hear them back again. I’m not alone. These two species have been among our traditional spring and summer markers for centuries, welcomed back each year with relief, as the poet Ted Hughes put it, ‘that the globe’s still working’.
A swallow, photo: Laurie Forsyth.
Swallows and swifts were the favourite birds of the eighteenth-century naturalist Gilbert White, who inspired a new tradition in nature writing in Britain. White was an obscure country curate who lived all his life in the same house in the equally obscure village of Selborne in Hampshire (population about the same as Hollesley). But his account of the daily changes to nature in his village through the seasons, The Natural History of Selborne (1789), became one of the most widely-read books in the English language, still in print today in multiple editions. Its attraction was precisely its parochial focus, stressing the richness of the local, the particular and the familiar – or at least what you thought was familiar until you really looked at it. He urged the importance of deepening one’s knowledge instead of just extending it: ‘Men that only undertake one district are much more likely to advance natural knowledge than those that grasp at more than they can possibly be acquainted with.’ Not in favour of eco-tourism, then!
White was an amateur in its literal sense and he touched a chord with thousands of ordinary people. He also attracted the admiration of such different figures as Charles Darwin, John Constable, William Wordsworth, George Eliot and Virginia Woolf, all of whom remark on the book’sapparently artless simplicity and charm. White had effectively invented a new literary genre and so became the patron saint of today’s many nature diarists. He also kept a daily journal and one of his most striking diary entries is an ecstatic two-word exclamation on 13 April 1768, greeting the first returning swallow to Selborne by its then scientific name:
‘Hirundo domestica !!!‘ (his exclamation marks).
Jeremy Mynott April 2025
Nature Note: New Moon Bird
If asked about their favourite bird songs most people might plump for the skylark, the nightingale, the blackbird or the song thrush. But you could make a strong case for the curlew too. The name is onomatopoeic, of course, referring to its call, a clear liquid curlee, delivered with a rising inflection on the second syllable like a cursive flourish in signing off its name. The call is thrilling enough, especially when a whole flock of them takes off from the marshes in winter chorusing in unison, but the fulll song arouses an even higher level of emotional intensity. It’s a long rippling trill, choreographed in a slow descending ‘air dance’ with the wings held open and raised above the head as if in exultation. It’s a song that has moved poets to almost spiritual responses. Robert Burns wrote, ‘I never heard the solitary whistle of curlews on a summer noon without feeling an elevation of soul’; while
Ted Hughes rhapsodised, ‘Curlews in April hang their harps over the misty valleys…a wet footed god of the horizons.’ They even get a mention in one of our oldest poems, the Anglo-Saxon Seafarer, ‘I take my gladness in the… sound of the curlew instead of the laughter of men’.
Curlew. Photo: Margaret Holland.
It’s hard to hear this song in East Anglia now, though just a few pairs are still holding out in the Brecks. You have to go to the main breeding grounds on the moors and rough pastures of northern England, Wales and Scotland, where the lonely landscapes render the song even more wild and wonderful. We still get large wintering populations of birds on our coastal marshes and estuaries, however, escaping colder temperatures in northern Europe. They are the largest of our wading birds, the females larger than the males, and they are easily identifiable not only by their voices but by the obvious physical feature of that long decurved bill. The full scientific name of the curlew is Numenius arquata and the first part of that, the generic name, means ‘shaped like the new moon’; while the second part, the specific name, just in case you hadn’t got the point, means ‘bent like a bow’. So this is the ‘new moon’ bird, an image almost as lovely as the song.
Even in their strongholds in the uplands and bogs the number of breeding curlews in Britain and Ireland is declining fast, however – from changes in land use, drainage and reforestation schemes, and predation. They have been put on the Red List of endangered species and there is an admirable charity advocating for their support (Curlew Action – check it out).
