Ups and Downs for Raptors

 Birds of prey, as apex predators, are often used as indicators of ecosystem health. Their fortunes reflect changes lower down the food chain and can help us understand how other species are responding to wider environmental pressures.

 I have accumulated enough data over the years to begin exploring these dynamics more meaningfully. So, when I recently found myself musing that I seem to be seeing Peregrines far more often than I used to, I dug a little deeper and put that feeling into context. That thought was really the combination of two separate observations: first, a Peregrine perched on Guy’s Cliffe House, and secondly, how rare it has become for me to see Kestrels at all.

Peregrine

Raptors have had mixed fortunes in the UK, and their numbers have changed drastically within my lifetime. As a child, seeing a Buzzard in Warwickshire was a rarity; now they are ubiquitous, and it is the Red Kite that still feels like a novelty. Kestrels were once abundant; no car journey felt complete without spotting one of these wind-hoverers over the motorway. As for Peregrines, those required a special trip to places like Symonds Yat. Thirty years have passed since my childhood, so what does my local patch tell me about raptors and how they have changed?

After watching the Peregrine perched on the house for a while, I returned home and looked back over the data I’ve collected. I keep a master database spreadsheet that tracks frequency, numbers, and abundance for all bird species recorded. When comparing species, I use a relative abundance measure that weights sightings by the time spent in the field. This helps account for extraneous factors that can otherwise skew results. I plotted these values as a graph and added some contextual information.

 I chose to look at all raptor species that have occurred on my site since 2004. Owls were excluded because my survey methodology substantially underestimates their numbers. When I first started recording, there were three main raptor species: Buzzard, Kestrel, and Sparrowhawk. This has since increased to five, with the addition of Red Kite and Peregrine.

 Buzzards have always been, and continue to be, the most abundant species. They are seen on practically every visit and, pleasingly, in 2024, they nested directly on the patch. Despite low rabbit numbers, their favoured prey, they continue to do well, raising two to three young locally. This mirrors the national picture, where Buzzards are now a stable and widespread species after expanding from their upland strongholds during the 1990s.

Sparrowhawk

 In contrast, Kestrels have undergone a serious decline over the same period and are now Amber-listed. The loss of rough grassland, agricultural intensification, and increased competition are all thought to be contributing factors. Locally, the decline was accelerated by a specific event. A tree in which a pair frequently nested was damaged when a winter storm in 2022 tore off the top of an Ash, exposing the nesting cavity. The loss of that single tree has had a noticeable effect on sightings. With low national numbers and no replacement pair moving in, the area has yet to be recolonised. Despite an abundant vole population in the meadow, I suspect this will remain the case for some time.

 Sparrowhawks are common across the site, as they are around the surrounding housing estates. They remain at a steady but relatively low abundance, which likely reflects their speed and ability to evade detection rather than true scarcity. As specialists adapted to hunting small birds on the wing, they face little competition from other raptors. Short-term peaks in the data likely reflect particularly successful breeding seasons rather than a long-term trend. National Breeding Bird Survey data suggest Sparrowhawk populations are broadly stable following their recovery from pesticide-driven declines in the mid-20th century.

Red Kite

 Pesticides such as DDT had perhaps their greatest impact on Peregrines, which came close to extinction in the 1960s. Their recovery stands as a flagship conservation success. Numbers have risen dramatically, and since the turn of the millennium, they have increasingly colonised urban and suburban sites. A local example is the nesting pair on Leamington Town Hall, which first bred in 2017 and have since raised more than 30 fledglings. My patch lies close enough to this site to be used regularly as a hunting ground, and many of this winter’s sightings appeared to involve an adult teaching a juvenile. Peregrines are territorial, so I don’t expect abundance to increase further — but wouldn’t it be something if they eventually nested in the ruins of Guy’s Cliffe House?

The final species of note is the Red Kite. I saw my first one when studying in Aberystwyth in the late 1990s, when the idea of them occurring in Warwickshire seemed laughable. Now they breed within the county and continue to increase in number. They first appeared locally in the early 2020s and are slowly becoming more regular, with the county still very much in the colonisation phase following reintroductions in Wales and the Chilterns. I hope breeding will occur closer to the site in future, though that will depend on factors such as nest-site availability and competition with Buzzards.

Buzzard and Kestrel

 So, what does all this say about raptors more generally? It’s clear that my small patch broadly mirrors regional and national trends. Generalist species like Buzzards and Red Kites appear better able to exploit our fragmented landscapes and varied food sources. It shows that when persecution pressure is lifted and sufficient nest sites are available, raptors can and do recover. At the same time, it highlights that some specialists continue to struggle. Sparrowhawks, despite their specialisation, seem to benefit from the widespread feeding of garden birds; here, there is nearly always an all-you-can-eat buffet somewhere nearby. Kestrels, by contrast, remain heavily reliant on rough grassland and vole populations, much as Buzzards once depended on rabbits.

My local story also illustrates how the loss of a single tree can significantly affect species abundance. In this case, the cause was weather rather than environmental vandalism, but it underlines how vulnerable populations can become once numbers fall. The takeaway is this: national recoveries are real but uneven; declines can be rapid and locally catastrophic; conservation often hinges on surprisingly small pieces of habitat; and patch-based recording matters. It really is the canary in the coal mine, and it contributes to the bigger picture.

When data can reveal a human truth

 

There are times when I review my data simply for pleasure. Not everyone would call that fun, but for me, there’s real satisfaction in looking back at the wildlife numbers I’ve gathered on my patch since I first began tracking them.

Whenever I revisit the dataset, my attention is immediately drawn to the gaps. Little voids that tease my more obsessive tendencies and make me wonder what stories were lost. The biggest gap was in 2018, when I collected no data for three months. A fallen tree trunk had crashed into the stanchion of the old stone bridge, forcing its closure for repairs. During that time, I couldn’t reach my patch. It felt strange and, frankly, unsettling to lose my weekly visits. Smaller gaps over the years come down to bad weather or illness, but the two-month gap in 2011 belongs to a darker chapter, a resurgence of my anxiety to a state where my focus was entirely on ensuring I could make it to work each day.

Table showing the average recording survey time on my patch

An important part of who I am, something I no longer hesitate to share, is that I have Generalised Anxiety Disorder. Thankfully, mental health no longer carries the stigma it once did, and I make sure the students I work with understand that these struggles can happen to anyone, and that a fulfilling life is still entirely possible. I won’t go into the details of what lies beneath my anxiety; therapy and introspection have given me clarity, but those details are for me alone. What matters is that I’ve come to accept that my anxiety is part of who I am. It doesn’t define me, but it has shaped my personality and my life in irreversible ways.

I had my first recognisable anxiety attack at 16, and a small breakdown in the final year of university. Strangely, my patch became part of my recovery. At its worst, my anxiety manifested as an odd mix of agoraphobia and claustrophobia, seemingly contradictory, yet somehow, I managed both at once. Sometimes they alternated; sometimes they arrived together, leaving me avoiding being indoors but unable to stray too far from home.

My visits to the patch began in 2002 as a way to keep my ecological skills sharp and to coax myself out of the house. I started simply walking around and taking in the air, but the scientist in me soon began making notes, casual observations at first, without a strict method. In 2004, as my love for the patch deepened, I established a clear protocol and began recording every species I encountered. By the end of 2025, I had visited the site 982 times, spending a total of 797.7 hours there, the equivalent of 33 full days immersed in nature.

Nature has always been a powerful healer for me and can be for many others. Time outside is actually prescribed now by doctors to treat stress and depression. Just 30 minutes in nature can lower cortisol levels, lift mood, and boost immunity.  My patch has carried me through sad and difficult times, and it helped me hold on to my sanity during COVID. I’ve grown enormously as an ecologist, coming to know so many species with an almost intimate familiarity. And yet, those gaps still catch my eye. I regret not being just a little stronger, not managing even a couple of visits during those hard moments. But the truth is: those gaps tell my story just as much as the data tells the stories of the birds and animals I record.

From Blue Tits to Great Tits: Rethinking bias in conservation

 It’s interesting how we often attribute distinct personalities to different bird species, drawing on stereotypes shaped by their appearance and behaviour. These impressions are rarely about individual birds, but rather about the collective image we form of a species. For example, Blue Tits and Great Tits are two of the most common birds I encounter, both frequent visitors to gardens and parks. Yet I realise I view these species through the lens of stereotypes, sometimes unfairly.

Stereotypes about birds are deeply ingrained in our culture, think of the elegance of swans, the wisdom of owls, or the ill fortune associated with magpies. In my own experience, I’ve always seen Blue Tits in a positive light, perceiving them as friendly and cheerful. Their small size and vibrant plumage give them an approachable air, and their chirruping calls seem engaging and pleasant. At the bird table, they flit about energetically, often appearing non-confrontational, and are often bullied by larger birds, especially their bigger relative, the Great Tit.

Great Tits, on the other hand, strike me as more assertive. Their stocky build and bold black markings remind me of a mask, almost like a burglar’s disguise. This impression is reinforced by their ability to mimic the calls of other species and their tendency to dominate at the bird table. I sometimes think of them as boastful, puffing out their chests and showing off their striking uniforms, perhaps the very model of a modern major general. Words like pride and conceit come to mind when I observe their behaviour.

However, I recognise that these descriptions reflect my own biases. The reality is more complex: Blue Tits can be aggressive towards smaller species such as Long-tailed Tits and Coal Tits, while Great Tits themselves may be bullied by Robins. Watch Great Tits for long enough, however, and you will find them as endearing as Blue Tits. They share many traits but fill very different niches. They are less flighty and more confident in their actions. Unlike Blue Tits, they will feed openly on the ground and will take to prominent treetops to sing. Thinking about Great Tits now, I realise they often herald the approach of my favourite season, spring. Their calls change subtly and become more strident.

Reflecting on these tendencies, I’m reminded of the importance of questioning our assumptions—not just about birds, but about all living things. By acknowledging our biases, we can strive for a more nuanced and accurate understanding of the natural world. It has long been a problem in nature conservation that it's far easier to raise money to save a species of cuddly animal like a bear or rodent than it is for a species of spider or snake. Some of our revulsion for certain species is biologically ingrained; we have an aversion to species less like us, bilateral species, those with radically different body shapes. The BBC ran an article on this back in 2012 and Green Earth explored it in 2024

Both articles describe the innate human bias that affects our efforts to defend biodiversity. This aligns with my growing sense that nature conservation should focus primarily on habitat protection and creation. We need to ensure ecosystems are stable and functioning and allow nature to take the lead. Species recovery will follow. I recall several Dormouse reintroductions in the early 2000s that failed because too much effort was placed on releasing individuals and boosting the local population before the habitat was repaired enough to support them. Of course, habitat protection is part of species reintroduction, and the lion's share of funding comes from species conservation, but we need to find an effective way to protect all species, regardless of their appearance or our own perceptions.

A Notter - When is an otter not an otter?

 Species identification can be a minefield, and one of the most common complications regards the differences between a mink and an otter.

In actual fact, once you have seen an otter, it is clear what it is, and the difference between it and a mink is pretty clear, but it is rare to see both together, and weather conditions can make things difficult.

Earlier this month otter cam recorded some great clips of both species, and I thought it would make a nice teachable moment.

Mink and Otters are both mustelids and exhibit similar body shapes. They are also both aquatic species and are found in similar habitats.

First of all, look at the video clip below:

It shows an animal emerging from water and then scouting around a little. It is definitely a mustelid, and aquatic. We can rule out Weasel due to its size and the lack of a white/cream chest and underside like a Stoat. Its back doesn't arch as much as a Polecat, and it's the wrong colour for a Pine Marten.

It's either a Mink or an Otter. What do you think?

What about the next clip?

This clip shows two animals running across the screen before entering the water. Look at the tail and muzzle.

Now that you have seen both species in the same location, you should be able to identify which is which.

Clip 1 shows a North American Mink, and Clip 2 shows a pair of Otters.

It's understandable to think that the individual in clip one is an otter. It is quite a large Mink and obviously a similar colouration to an otter, but note the following telltale signs.

The tail - Otter tails are much sleeker and rudderlike. They slim to a point, whereas Minks have broader tails that are a bit fluffier.

The head: Mink have thin heads that are taller than wide, but otters tend to be wider than tall. Eye placement is slightly different, with Mink eyes pointing more forward. 

Ears - Otter ears are much sleeker and do not stick out much from the line of the head, whereas Mink ears seem larger and are more noticeable.

Another key diagnostic feature is how they swim. Sadly, I do not have an image of mink swimming, but they do so in very different ways. Mink are only partially aquatic and not as well adapted. They tend to sit higher in the water and paddle quickly. Otters, when swimming, often only show their heads. They are highly evolved to swim; they are more agile and playful in the water. They use their tails to steer and propel, and will dive much more often.

Otter swimming

If you want to know more, then BBC Wildlife Magazine has a nice article here

Getting to know you

 One of the highlights of the past few years was getting to know a female Roe Deer and her offspring. I saw them regularly, and she became quite used to my presence. Last summer, although pregnant, she disappeared from the area, leaving last year's does to take over her territory. In addition, the formerly dominant Buck, an impressive specimen with antlers sporting three tines, has also disappeared. Antlers are not always indicative of individuality, as they shed each year and may not regrow in the same way.

Over the past few months, two new bucks appeared, both with single-horn antlers, although one of them has only one. In the last couple of weeks, two does have been regularly seen in the company of a buck with antlers in velvet, essentially fur-covered bumps from where the antlers will grow. This new little group are certainly not sure of me, and most of my views are of their white rumps bounding away from me.

Back in 2023, I wrote a post on habituation, and I realised today that I may need to employ these techniques to better watch these amazing animals in the future. Enjoying the winter sunshine, I popped down to my patch to see if the bad weather of Storm Goretti had blown in any interesting birds. It hadn't, I was hoping for Goosander, Teal, Wigeon, maybe some Tufted Ducks, but the snowmelt had swelled the river and flooded much of my patch. As I waded through the water, I flushed the deer. Roe Deer I find will often run off and then pause to look back at you, whereas Muntjac just tear off and disappear.

Rather than just freeze, I decided to show that I was one of them. I stood stock-still and then reacted the same way they did. I tried to look panicked, and I dashed into the undergrowth, stopping and then looking back. I found the deer staring back, bemused. I made my actions fearfully responding to any bird song around me. I avoided direct eye contact and continued to look about as if looking for a predator. Within moments, one of the does and the buck started grazing comfortably, and I was able to remove my camera. I took a few shots so that they could see me with the camera, and it was nothing to be feared and then pretended not to be interested in them at all, looking around me and pawing at the earth as if looking for food.

This tactic seemed to work; all three visibly relaxed, and so I waited until they moved off at their own pace, happy and comfortable. I did not want to push my luck or stress them further, so I left them to it and carried on with my walk. 

That two-minute interaction helped build trust with them. They will never fully accept me, but over time, they won't bolt at the sight of me and will let me sit openly. It takes time and patience, and I do not want them to completely lose their fear of humans. Fear is built into prey species like Roe Deer. It is innate. Roe Deer haven't had a natural predator other than us for hundreds of years, and to breed out such fear will take possibly thousands.

When watching wildlife, always do so on their terms, never sacrifice their comfort for your pleasure or to just get the perfect picture Do not dominate nature, be part of it.