Ashes to ashes

Last night, I found a newt lying apparently dead on a country lane. I picked it up and it moved a little, so I decided to take it home to check for damage (a car had just passed):

Male Smooth Newt

It seemed ok and survived the night, so I took it up to the local stream and released it there.

The stream runs alongside a country lane that is edged on both sides by Ash trees:

Craigs Road with Ash trees

Given that Chalara fraxinea has been detected not far from here, I rather suspect that these trees won't last much longer (hence the title of this post). This will, of course, be disastrous from the perspective of the trees, but Ash isn't the obligate food source of very many fungi or insects, so the impact on overall biodiversity is not likely to be as bad as it could have been.

The stream runs alongside the right-hand side of the road in the deep shade of the trees, and is a great source of water plants, with numerous liverworts and mosses on the rear wall:

Opposite-leaved Golden Saxifrage with the liverwort Conocephalum conicum

Many of these plants like dark, damp conditions, so I suspect the rear wall flora will be altered until some other trees grow to provide more shade.

The stream is where I always find the first flowering specimens of Lesser Celandine, and a few flowers were just beginning to open:

Lesser Celandine just opening

Just as I was taking the above shots, I heard the unmistakeable deep croak of the Raven. I looked up and saw a pair circling overhead:

Ravens over Craigs Road

They circled and kept me in view for quite a while before flying off west. I managed this shot showing the very distinctive tail:

Raven

At the top of the stream, where it emerges from an underground run, there is a wall that is always good for a few moss shots. This is a back-lit shot of Tortula muralis:

The moss Tortula muralis

I like to think that the setae (the 'stalks' that hold the capsules aloft) are light pipes, driving sunlight directly to the interior of the plants.

The capsules of many mosses are held well clear of the foliage in order to enhance the chances of spore dispersal, but Grimmia pulvinata continues to puzzle me with its insistence on keeping the capsules buried deep under the leaves:

Grimmia pulvinata, with buried capsules

You can just make out the brown capsules in that shot.

This shot of Barbula unguiculata would make a nice banner for somewhere:

Barbula unguiculata

 On the other side of the road, we have an untended copse where dead wood is ideal for fungi. This white crusting fungus is Meruliopsis corium:

Meruliopsis corium

There are also a few patches of Snowdrops in the same area:

Snowdrops

A quick check on the Willows showed that the catkins are well advanced, so perhaps spring is on the way after all.

Willow catkins

Synchronisation

Each year, species come and go with the seasons: in spring we have the early flowers, such as Snowdrops and Primroses. In summer we see a wide profusion of insect life, and in autumn we find fruits and fungi. On this grand scale things are pretty much set: we won't find many butterflies in mid-winter and few fungi are seen in spring. But within this fixed schedule there is much fine-tuning: each year has different weather, leading to different temperature and humidity on any particular day in different years. This difference can cause annual variations in flowering and emergence dates, so although the general trend is predictable, the precise dates of first (or last) sightings are not: each year is different. Within this variable environment, however, all is not random: we have synchronisation to consider. Synchronisation is a fundamental driving force in our wildlife: when there is a strict dependency between two (or more!) species, they must be together at the correct time. For example, if a larva eats the leaves of a particular plant, then the larva needs to hatch when the leaves are available. The larvae of many moths and butterflies fit into that category. This synchronisation can be quite 'soft' - a few days won't make much difference to availability of the correct food - but other species need a much tighter synchronisation. If a parasitic wasp lays its eggs into the larvae of flies that eat particular fungi, then:

• the fungus needs to be in place
• the fly needs to have laid its eggs in the fungus and 
• the larva must be nearing full size.

Considering that the life of a particular mushroom specimen can be as short as a few days, we can see that the synchronisation required for this parasitic wasp to be successful is extremely tight: its annual opportunity is measured in hours.

So what governs this synchronisation? On the grand scale, we have the year: the amount of time it takes for our planet to go once round the sun. Most lifecycles are governed by this unit of measure. Then we have the day: the amount of time it takes the planet to turn once on its axis. These units of measure are absolutely consistent (within the lifetime of our observations). But what is much more variable is day length. The shortest day is 21st December, with the longest being 21st June. The day length follows a sinusoidal curve between those dates and is the major indication of time of the year. If you know the day length, you know that it can only fall on two particular days of the year. And it's this dual identity that leads me on to the first of today's pictures.

In springtime, I expect to see Celandines and Willow catkins as the first signs that a new year has begun. Over the past few years, I have seen Celandines in late November. This is clearly the wrong time of year, since winter is just arriving: ice is imminent, which will cause flower damage and there will be no insects to help with pollination. But if you look at the 'proper' flowering time (February around here), you will see that the 'proper' flowering date and the 'wrong' flowering date are an equal distance from the shortest day: the day length is roughly the same in each case. So the plants have detected that the day length is correct, but have failed to notice that the overall trend of day length is decreasing rather than increasing. Something is causing confusion.

When I find the early Willow catkins, the first pollinators to be seen are queen bumblebees and early solitary bees such as Andrena clarkella. These bees need Willow pollen to get their annual nests started: their larvae will feed on this pollen, so the bees are stocking up from the only pollen supply that is available. (I should point out that Andrena clarkella is a prime example of synchronisation: the female gathers only Willow pollen, so she can be seen only during the Willow pollen season, which is around 60 days long. When it comes to the bumblebee, the synchronisation is tight for the queen, but more relaxed for the workers, since many flowering plants will be available when they hatch.)

I previously mentioned that I had seen a queen Bombus terrestris gathering pollen on two occasions recently, and wondered where her workers were going to get pollen over the winter. This weekend, I found out:

Willow catkins

Willow catkin opening

I have never seen Willow catkins opening before February, so this was a huge surprise. Queen Bombus terrestris have been known to make overwintering nests in the south of England, but I was still very surprised to make two sightings of a working queen this far north in late October and mid November. It appears that both the bumblebee and the Willow have been triggered by the same stimulus and have both synchronised at the wrong time. It will be interesting to see how this all develops.

Moving on to things at the 'right' time: now is a good time to look at mosses. Most mosses need microscopy to identify for the first time, but once the initial identification has been made, most species can be readily identified in the field. I spent some time photographing specimens on an old wall at the south of the town.

Homalothecium sericeum can be identified by the pale, pointed growing tips:

Homalothecium sericeum

Tortula muralis can be found growing on wall tops:

Tortula muralis (with Grimmia pulvinata in background)

The setae ('stalks' that hold up the capsules) catch the light very well. I'd love to think that they act as light pipes to drive sunlight deep into the base of the plant. I have previously covered the complex lifecycle of mosses, (here and here) but for now I'll point out that the setae and capsule are not wholly from the original plant, but are partly a junior generation that is parasitic on an older generation.

Most mosses have setae that carry capsules well clear of the parent plant in order to maximise the opportunities for spore dispersal. Grimmia pulvinata continues to puzzle me by its insistence on burying its capsules under the leaves of the parent plant:

Grimmia pulvinata showing 'drooped' capsules

Orthotrichum anomalum can be tricky to identify due to its extreme similarity to other mosses, and also due to a high degree of variability when wet or dry:

Orthotrichum anomalum

Growing on the same wall, I found:

The lichen Caloplaca flavescens, which normally dies away in the centre, although I think this specimen has had some assistance from molluscs:

Caloplaca flavescens

And Ivy-leaved Toadflax, which I think flowers here all-year round, now:

Ivy-leaved Toadflax

Just to add to the absurdity of the flowering Willow, here is a shot of Galerina clavata taken on the same day on my lawn:

Galerina clavata with frost

Dry and warm

A high pressure weather system has been lurking to the south of Ireland for a few days, bringing some dry and warm weather. This morning was bright and warm, so I dashed off to a likely spot to see what I could find. An inspection of the stream bank revealed hundreds of Lesser Celandines in bud, and a single flower which is - to all intents and purposes - open:

Lesser Celandine

And right beside it, a single specimen of Creeping Buttercup in flower:

Creeping Buttercup

A nearby boggy area revealed Ivy-leaved Water Crowfoot in bud:

Ivy-leaved Water Crowfoot in bud

And Brooklime making strong green growth:

Brooklime

Further along the hedgerow I found a couple of specimens of Tubaria furfuracea, which is a Hawthorn associate:

Tubaria furfuracea

And Gorse in flower:

Gorse

Whilst examining a wall for mosses (more of those later) I spotted a few Snowdrops with open flowers:

Snowdrop

Well done to anybody spotting the small fly on the flower sheath!

Mosses are truly beautiful in all their parts, especially when they have sunlight to brighten them up. Yes, they are very small, but if you 'get down to their size', both physically and metaphorically, you will find beauty that is almost beyond belief.

This shot shows three specimens of Tortula muralis:

Tortula muralis

Here's a close-up of the maturing spore capsules:

Capsules of Tortula muralis

I'm convinced those setae (the 'stalks' of the capsules) are light pipes that transfer light directly down into the dark parts of the mosses.

Grimmia pulvinata has globular capsules that never emerge much beyond the leaf tips:

Grimmia pulvinata, showing hidden capsules

Bryum capillare has 'nodding head' capsules on long setae:

Bryum capillare capsules

Is this really early January, or did I miss a couple of months?

Little things

This is a great time to have a look at mosses: many of the fruiting capsules are ripe and ready to release their spores for the next generation. I really like the setae ('stems') that support the capsules: many of them are translucent and come in various shades of green, yellow or red. If you can get a back-lit shot, then the results can be very beautiful indeed, as this shot of Tortula muralis shows:

Notice that the red capsule lids are sliding upwards over the capsules as they expand to make room for the growing spores.

There has been a recent trend to 'dumb-down' the names of many species of mosses, lichens and fungi by giving them 'friendly English' names. Tortula muralis would be known as Wall Screw-moss if this system became more popular. I'll stick with the latin binominal.

Since the primary purpose of the setae is to give the spores the best chance of distribution via exposure to wind and/or rain, I find the system used by the moss Grimmia pulvinata to be almost perverse: the setae are invariably strongly curved, leading to a situation where the capsules are always buried below the leaves of the parent plant:

I cannot think of a reason for this system, but Grimmia pulvinata is one of the more common mosses on our wall tops, so it obviously works well enough.

A quick couple of flower shots:

Snowdrops fully opened

And a glimpse of the first daisy of the year: Groundsel: