The house sparrow is a little bird with a big CHEEP! Mostly brown, the male has a black face and bib, while the female is duller. They’re scruffy things, birds of big hedges and neglected waste ground. They eat seeds of dandelions and other ‘weeds’ such as sowthistle and knapweeds. They nest in loose family groups in holes and under the eaves of houses, and often nest next to each other. They can have up to three broods a year. They hang around in flocks, in which they forage, bathe and CHEEP! together.
The house sparrow has declined by over 70 per cent (that’s around 22 million birds) since the 1970s, but is still the most commonly seen garden bird in the UK. For 20 years it’s held the top spot in the Big Garden Birdwatch, an annual bird count that takes place on the third weekend of January. It’s still common, but it’s the rate of its decline that’s worrying, and scientists can’t quite work out what’s going on.
In urban areas it’s thought a combination of loss of nesting habitat and invertebrate food, which they feed their chicks, is contributing to the fall in numbers, with populations completely disappearing from some neighbourhoods. Habitat loss comes from house renovations – holes are filled in and cavity walls insulated to make them more energy efficient, while the eaves of new and refurbished homes are now sealed, so sparrows can’t get in. The loss of invertebrate food means fewer successful nesting attempts – a study in Leicester blamed a lack of insects for the number of chicks found starving in nests. It makes sense: urban spaces have less greenery than rural areas so fewer leaves for invertebrates to eat. Add to that the increase of paving in both front and back gardens, decking and plastic grass, and it doesn’t take a genius to work out why the chicks aren’t getting the nourishment they need.
In rural areas the situation is different, with declines linked to changes in farming practices such as the loss of winter stubbles and hedgerows, along with measures to prevent sparrows from accessing stores of grain. But studies are not conclusive. They could be declining for reasons no one’s thought of yet.
The thing about house sparrows is that they’re a sedentary species, which means they spend their whole lives in one territory, they don’t move around like other birds. If the habitat starts to disintegrate – for example if holes in houses are filled in or there are too many paved-over and fake-turfed gardens – they just stick it out, gradually finding less and less food to feed their chicks, their house literally crumbling around them.
If you have them in your garden you probably have a lot of them – that’s the nature of house sparrows, they hang out in big groups. But that doesn’t mean they’re not struggling and it doesn’t mean you can’t give them a helping hand.
In gardens they’re easy to cater for. The invertebrates we have lost from urban areas are just aphids and caterpillars. Virtually all plants attract aphids, the key is to leave them where you find them and not try to take nature into your own hands by spraying them to death or rubbing them off with your fingers. They rarely harm plants and can be a lifeline for these little brown birds, which balance precariously on stems and pick aphids off them one at a time, before carrying them back to their nest. How do I know? Because I watch them do it. Every spring I know when the chicks have hatched because the house sparrows descend on the garden and frantically take aphids from every leaf and bud. Two weeks later the fresh, fluffy chicks with gaping yellow beaks line up on the fence and tumble into shrubs and trees, not quite sure of their weight or how much space they take up. I watch their parents feed them but also teach them how to find aphids on roses, teach them where the pond and bird bath are, the feeder of sunflower hearts. At dusk they descend on the big hedge in next door’s front garden and CHEEP! loudly until it’s time for bed.
To increase numbers of caterpillars in your garden, grow native trees and shrubs, including hawthorn, beech and hazel. Let them grow scruffy and wayward or grow them as a hedge, so the sparrows can roost in them at night. Let areas of grass grow long, which will entice a variety of egg-laying moths and butterflies, along with other invertebrates such as aphids but also beetles and bugs. Having taken some of the invertebrates from the grass, the sparrows will return to take seed from the grasses and any wildflowers that have grown into the thatch.
Nesting sites are important, too. There’s a pub near me, a fancy thing on the seafront, that has always had house sparrows breeding in its many holes and crevices. When the new owners bought it and the refurbishment got underway, I emailed them and explained how house sparrows lived there, how they are sedentary and likely to just stay put even if the habitat declines, that they nest communally. They responded by erecting 30 boxes on the north side of the venue. Thousands of people visit every week and never notice the house sparrows, but when I walk past them I always say hello and smile, because 30 pairs of house sparrows are raising chicks on the side of a fancy seafront pub, thanks to a couple of emails.
When I bought my house I had six nest boxes retrofitted into its cavity walls, three each for swifts and house sparrows. A pair of great tits nested in one in the first year, and house sparrows often start but then abandon nest building in the swift holes. But the boxes are there for them if they need them. As they nest communally you can erect several boxes together, just make sure they have an entrance hole with a diameter of 30mm. You can buy a ‘sparrow terrace’, which has three boxes in one. Erect them under the eaves of your house (away from any swift or house martin nests), and keep your fingers crossed. With nesting opportunities and good chances of invertebrate food they would be foolish to stay away for long.
January
The New Year comes with yet more rain. The garden is sodden, the water butts spill over the sides and I can no longer empty them into the pond – it’s all too muddy. I worry about the insects – wet winters are terrible for them because they can’t hibernate properly and also because they can literally rot. I check my red mason and leaf-cutter bee cocoons in the shed and, sure enough, there’s a light coating of fluffy mould on them. I brush it off and arrange them in a way that will ensure more ventilation around these precious parcels. I have never seen so much rain.
And then it turns cold again, as the jet stream wobbles to the left, forcing mild conditions south and locking cold air in the north. We are lucky this band of winds has just brought very wet, then very cold weather. In North America the jet stream delivered a ‘bomb cyclone’ that brought temperatures of -50ºC to regions as far south as Texas, and then three weeks of rain to drought-stricken California, bringing flooding and chaos. Meanwhile Europe has experienced one of its worst-ever heatwaves, with temperatures almost reaching summer levels in some countries. Poland’s capital, Warsaw, recorded temperatures of 18.9°C on New Year’s Day, more than 5ºC higher than the previous record set 30 years ago. Bilbao in northern Spain reached 24.9ºC and Switzerland saw 20ºC. It was barely reported on the news.
Here we’ve had flooding, along with ice and snow, but nothing too bad, nothing ‘extreme’. UK winters are always a slog, always dark and go on for too long. But this one has largely been uneventful, and I’m grateful.
I broke my toe in the first week of January and so haven’t been able to do anything outside. There have been no winter runs, no frantic bursts of exercise, no New Year promises to do more, be less. Neither have there been winter treks up the Downs. There has been very little outside for me at all, save for hobbled dog walks in the park behind my house.
I have taken the opportunity to rest, to stretch out the Christmas theme of putting my feet up and eating biscuits. I repot houseplants and sow chilli seeds. I clean and refill bird feeders. I plan my gardening year, sketching out beds and thinking of what could be done better, and look at photos from last summer for inspiration. I’m distracted by summery scenes, by leaves and insects and light. I shudder at the thought of drought. I eat biscuits and watch more TV.
The constant flux between mild and wet, and dry and cold is frustrating. I worry about the hedgehogs, wondering if they keep waking up and losing energy searching for food that isn’t there. Or is it there? Early one morning I walk into the garden and find mating earthworms. They, too, should be hibernating, tucked beneath the frost layer in a slime-coated ball. I keep the hedgehog feeding station out all winter, a small dish covering the biscuit bowl to stop mice from nicking the lot, but which would be no bother at all for a hungry hog to move. I check it daily and it’s not been moved, nor are there any hedgehog droppings nearby. I hope they’re managing to sleep.
I have seen no bees, and I am grateful for that. No butterflies or moths. Others do. Twitter is full of early bees and slow worms, of butterflies and hedgehogs. ‘Will they hibernate yet?’ some people ask. ‘Will they be OK?’ Others just write tirades of despair.
There are frogs in the pond, not in amplexus (the mating position) or showing any signs of mating, but in the pond nonetheless. I count five. Five frogs in water that keeps icing over and then melting again. I put the camera out, positioning it at one end of the pond, facing the wall, where they are congregating. On mild evenings they stick their heads out of the water, their eyes periscopes surveying the world above them. I watch cats and foxes paw at the mysterious shapes gliding beneath the surface. I watch ripples and bubbles of ‘activity’. Nothing significant; when it’s cold it’s colder than last year; when it’s mild it’s ‘a few degrees above average’. The frogs are later to get going this year and I’m glad. Still, I’m hopeful we are on track for a late-February spawning.
Red-tailed bumblebee, Bombus lapidarius
The red-tailed bumblebee is a gorgeous thing, all velvet black coat with a rusty red tail. The queens are large and have a deep buzz. Workers look like the queen but are smaller, while the males have a yellow band across their thorax and a beautiful lemon ‘moustache’. Short-tongued, they feed on rosemary and dandelion flowers in spring, white clover, bird’s foot trefoil, cranesbill geraniums and greater knapweed in summer. Some suggest they have a preference for yellow flowers.
They nest underground, beneath sheds and also walls, and there is anecdotal evidence that they prefer their habitats to be damper than those used by other bumblebees. It was a red-tailed queen that made her nest in the old duvet that had been thrown out in the yard all those years ago. The duvet had become damp and smelled mouldy, so it would make sense that a damp-loving bumblebee would choose it for her home.
It also makes sense that there are fewer red-tails where I live in the dry south-east than the wetter north-west. Of course, with climate change, the species is also moving northwards.
2022 was a bad year for bumblebees. Plants produce fewer flowers in a drought and flowers produce less nectar, so there was less food available for them. Also bumblebees overheat quickly and struggle to fly in temperatures above 30°C. As a result, during the heatwave, bumblebees couldn’t fly for large portions of the day and when they did forage they couldn’t find much food. This meant far less pollen and nectar will have been taken back to bumblebee nests to feed bumblebee larvae.
Towards the end of summer, eggs of daughter queens hatch into grubs and the workers gather food to feed them. As adults, the daughter queens and new males mate, before the daughter queens hibernate and the original nest dies. If there was less food available then fewer daughter queens would have been raised, so fewer may emerge from hibernation in spring. Perhaps the damp-loving species struggled the most in the dry weather – results from bumblebee monitoring surveys may offer some clues.
Numbers may bounce back with favourable weather conditions, although these are never guaranteed these days. But we can all step up to give them a helping hand: grow their favourite flowers and keep them watered in dry weather (save rain water in water butts and use grey water when you can). Create damp habitats for them – perhaps make a ‘bumblebee nest’ (find instructions online) in a damp or shady part of your garden. Like many bumblebees, the red-tail queen digs herself into the soil to hibernate. If you and your neighbours reduce the amount of hard surfaces in the area, the soils will be less likely to become waterlogged in wet winters, so more hibernating queens will survive. We can’t adapt our way out of everything, but we can understand the needs of the species who live among us and give them the leg-up they need to survive.
February
I take Tos to meet her best friend Alfie in the park. I chat with his mum, Rhi, while Tos and Alf chase each other around, Tos biting his legs, Alfie weeing on hers. Another dog joins the melee – it’s Twiggy! I will ask Twiggy’s mum if she has a pond.
We talk about dogs for a while and then I clear my throat. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask, do you have a pond?’ She says no, and I start gabbling on about toads and how I heard squeaking from the direction of her house, and how I thought I’d ask because ‘you have that lovely mixed native hedge in the front and anyone with a lovely hedge like that is likely to have a pond.’ She says next door had a pond but they filled it in, but she finds toads by the shed sometimes.
‘Should I bring them to yours?’ she asks.
‘Oh no,’ I reply, ‘they’ll find their own way; they can smell algae from the water from miles away.’ We talk about frogs and I start describing the difference between the two species and realise I have to stop now, while I’m still only just ahead. She is a nice woman, and tells me her name is Rachel. She will look out for toads for me, and let me know if she sees any.
At home I look on Google Maps and Rightmove to see if I can find the neighbour’s filled-in pond in the ‘sold house prices’ section. I do – it’s tiny! A small triangular thing wedged among a sea of decking. I can’t imagine toads would have chosen to breed there. But they might have, I suppose, if there were no other options. There must be somewhere else.
Later, I bump into Johnny from over the road, and the conversation turns to ponds because he has an allotment pond that he has been meaning to clear out for the last three years but still hasn’t got around to doing it (he tells me about it every spring). It’s full of leaves and algae, he says, again, and he doesn’t think he’ll get any frogspawn this year, although he always does. But his neighbours dug a pond and got frogspawn straight away.
‘WHAT NEIGHBOURS?’ I ask.
‘My next-door neighbours,’ he says, not on his allotment but here, on this road. He tells me they had their whole house done up and as part of their renovations they made a pond with a little water fountain and got frogspawn immediately. I am delighted.
‘I’m pleased, Johnny, I’m so pleased you’ve told me about that pond!’ We chat about toads for a while and the mystery of where they came from. He says he has definitely had toads in his garden, which is currently paved but is soon to be un-paved and planted with trees and shrubs. ‘We will have a hedgehog hole,’ he promises. He tells me to get on to Google Earth to see where other ponds are, and I tell him I have, obsessively, and not found any. I tell him about a house I viewed on the adjacent road five years ago, which had an enormous fish pond in the back. ‘It was horrible,’ I say. ‘All decking and then this huge pool. But it could have attracted toads.’
‘Wouldn’t the fish have eaten the toadpoles?’ asks Johnny, and I say no, and explain that toad tadpoles are slightly poisonous and therefore usually avoided by fish. I tell him that I have looked and looked on the sold house prices section of Rightmove but not found this house and I think I’m going mad. It must have been filled in, and the decking removed. But if it was filled in and supported toads then where are the toads breeding now? This whole thing remains a mystery.
