Bog Myrtle & Peat

When the east wind dropped, I could hear lapwings calling in the moonlight. And in the morning with a clear sun exploding on the downcast fields, there were black and white tumultuous shapes in the air. I have so often bemoaned the lack of lapwings in this part of Galloway that these new arrivals felt like a dream or a gift from kind subscribers – but they’re real, and as a red kite flies between the ash trees on the river’s edge, the waders pound him into retreat.

Lapwings haven’t bred here for decades, but unlike curlews which are such heartbreakingly loyal birds, lapwings are able to respond to change in the landscape. They might love a place for a year or two, then move away and never come back. Equally, they can seem to ignore a place for many years and then suddenly arrive when something stirs their curiosity. None of this is known or proven in any scientific sense, and it flies in the face of conventional wisdom which believed that if you have lapwings, those birds are your own. It’s likely that some are more devoted to specific locations than others, but it’s also clear that in certain years, lapwings will abandon old favourite places for the chance of something better. 

This is relevant to me because there has been a change in my part of the world. A neighbouring farm was sold in 2021 and the new owner is keen to work the land. Old pastures are being overhauled and reinstated, and at first I grieved for the change. There were all kinds of grasses in a forty acre field which lies directly beneath my front window, and the beds of cocksfoot grass made a happy hunting ground for the short eared owls. I hated to see the land being sprayed and overturned with disc harrows for a new crop of kale, not least because it felt like a backward step towards “intensification”.

The kale was fair and the sheep did fine, but a brassica crop like this is rarely an objective in its own right. It has value, but it’s actually part of a rotation from old grass into new. It’s inherently messy work, and a field which has been grazed overwinter on kale or rape is usually in a horrible state by the time the spring comes. But that’s part of the plan, because the livestock are preparing the soil for the new sowing – and all the clods of stubborn turf from last year’s field are mashed and broken open. It’s how the field which runs up to my house has looked since February, and it would be hard to describe a grimmer, less inspiring sight from the kitchen window.

But lapwings love the mess and the fallout of a field of kale when winter finally melts into spring. Nobody understands why, but the churn of stumps and weeds is particularly attractive to the birds as they begin to lay down territories for the year. It’s nothing new, but farmers in Lanarkshire noticed this connection a few years ago, and they’ve pioneered a process of growing kale and drawing lapwings to breed in the aftermath of the eaten crop. It works, and they found an extraordinary number of nests in a highly concentrated area of mashed-up stubble (which is more technically described as “brassica residue”). Not only did their lapwings lay lots of eggs, but they also produced chicks which became adults and flew off into the world. As a management technique, it’s not the solution to wader decline in its own right – but it’s a useful piece of the puzzle, and a refreshing counterargument to the idea that nature simply needs to be left alone or rewilded. In certain respects, the more dramatic the change and upheaval, the greater its appeal to farmland wildlife.

The problem is that mashed-up kale is just a step along the way towards a new crop of grass. There’s a cruel twist of fate in the fact that farming calendars clash with the lapwing’s nesting schedule, and no sooner have the birds laid their eggs in the residue of last year’s crop than the whole thing is harrowed in and sown with grass seed – the eggs are destroyed and the season lost. Those farmers in Lanarkshire are happy to leave the residues for as long as the lapwings need it – and as the summer goes by, weeds sprout and the old kale stumps regrow to create a really nice habitat for lots of birds. But away from the people who care or understand the connection, the net effect is often worse than nothing at all. Because if lapwings are looking for good habitat, it’s unfair to sucker them in to something which looks promising – then wait for them to make an irreversible investment there before destroying it all. 

Even as I type these words, I see those lapwings turning above the remains of the messy field. It’s heartening, and what courage I take from their ability to explore and gamble in the world. But the job is a long way from completion, and nothing has been proven beyond the fact that certain birds respond when new habitats become available. I can now do what I can with the farmer to ensure these birds have a chance of success, but there’s no way to do this on anything more than the most local level. These lapwings have turned up by accidental quirk of agricultural planning – and it’s also an accident that they’ve decided to nest by the home of somebody who will do everything he can to support them. 

But if they aren’t damaged by agricultural operations, they could easily be eaten by badgers or robbed by crows. There’s every chance that it’ll be a wet summer anyway, and the chicks will drown or chill in the rain. And given that the new crop is heavy grass, what chance do the youngsters have of getting away? – plus, if it’s all in grass from this point onwards, it’s likely that the birds won’t come back to nest again in 2025. This isn’t to be gloomy or pile up the weight of challenges which rest against these birds – only to say that if you love lapwings as I do, the puzzle is never-ending, and even if new chicks are fledged and away for the autumn, I’m simply paying them forward into a wider pool of birds that I may never see again.

I have been doing this for long enough to know that it’s madness to pin my hopes on success – I can only do my best.