Seven Sisters Country Park

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I’m sure even those of you who live in foreign places have heard of the white cliffs of Dover, the famous chalk cliffs that you see when you sail across the English Channel from France, the cliffs that have been immortalised in rhyme, prose and song lyrics, photographs and paintings. Well, forget them, because they are nowhere near as impressive as the Seven Sisters, the chalk cliffs that form part of the coastline between Eastbourne and Seaford, in East Sussex.

Yes, I’ve been away again, stayed for a week at a hotel in Eastbourne from where I explored, walking a lot of miles, mostly birding, the area along this coast.

It had been seven years since I’d last been to East Sussex; before Covid, I used to visit the area quite regularly as I had a friend who lived locally, but I hadn’t been there since those dark days of 2019-2020. And this is such a stunning location, one of my favourite places in Britain, that a return visit was definitely long overdue.

Today’s blog, then, doesn’t focus on one particular species of flora or fauna; it’s more about scene setting, about showing you some of the spectacular landscapes in this area.

First up is the Seven Sisters Country Park, an area of just under 700 acres (280 hectares) of grassland, the meandering Cuckmere River, saltmarsh, and those chalk cliffs that give the park its name – there are seven peaks or high points in the cliffs that undulate in an easterly direction from the Cuckmere to Birling Gap.

You can walk out to the sea from the roadside visitor centre on both sides of the Cuckmere River, alongside the river itself and along paths that hug the edges of the valley on both sides. I walked all these paths last week, twice, because each gives different views and, for me, the opportunity to see a wide range of birds, from the waders that prefer the watery channels to the ducks and geese that graze in the fields.

One of my visits was on a day of blue skies and bright sunshine and, as it was a Sunday, the park was very busy with both locals and tourists – not my favourite situation but I went early in the morning so avoided the worst of the crowds. My second visit was during the week, on a day of big scudding clouds and strong cool winds – common here, as you can tell from the sideways-leaning trees and stunted growth of some plants. Both days were glorious, reminding me that I really must visit this beautiful area more often.

A Beech mast year

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During my recent walks, whenever I’ve strayed beneath Beech trees, the immediate crunching of shells beneath my feet has alerted to me to just how abundant Beech seeds are this autumn. And that’s a surprise, because 2025 was recorded as a mast year for both Oaks and Beeches.

I’m sure you know but, just in case you don’t, a mast year is when trees produce enormous numbers of seeds. In Britain, such years are particularly obvious in Oak and Beech, and scientists believe the trees developed this strategy as a way of counteracting the feeding habits of creatures like deer, squirrels and Jays, and rodents. By producing more than these creatures can eat every few years, there should, in theory, be enough seeds left to grow into new trees. As the production of such large quantities of seeds requires a huge amount of energy, trees usually go through irregular cycles, of 5 to 10 years, between these masting events. So, to see the Beeches having two mast years in succession seems highly unusual.

I felt like I was sliding rapidly down a rabbit hole when I began googling ‘what factors contribute to a Beech mast year’ but I did notice an interesting article on the Oxford Academic website about research done in Sweden in the early 2000s into ‘mast year frequency, mast crop size and the relationships between mast year and climatic variables’. Their analysis showed that

while the average mast year interval was 4–6 years from the end of the seventeenth century up to the 1960s, the mean interval has decreased to 2.5 years during the most recent 30 years, and there have been two consecutive mast years on two occasions during this later period. Mast years have often followed years in which the temperature in July and September was higher than the 30-year mean. However, there were significant variations in the amounts of beechnuts produced between different mast years, and beechnut production increased with increasing site index. Climatic changes, especially increases in temperature, may have been responsible for the higher frequency of mast years, but increased atmospheric nitrogen deposition may also have been a contributory factor.

And it seems that scientific research by the Department of Conservation in my New Zealand homeland, supports the theory that ‘Masts are triggered by a summer that is warmer than the previous one’. There, Beech mast years can create huge problems for the survival of New Zealand’s iconic native birds, because the populations of invasive non-native predators like rats increase dramatically through their consumption of Beech seeds, so the Department of Conservation tries to predict mast years in order to manage predator numbers.

I’m going to stop now before I disappear forever down that research rabbit hole. Two things seem clear – our changing climate is affecting our trees and, if each summer is hotter than the previous year, we may well see Beech mast years much more often.

Ivy bees, and friends

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I simply can’t let the season pass without a mention of my favourite bee, the bee I find most attractive, and one of the easiest – for me, anyway – to recognise. This is, of course, the Ivy bee (Colletes hederae).

These bees are usually on the wing from early September through to November, though I think those dates can be affected somewhat by factors like the weather and the availability of their food source, Ivy pollen and nectar. And the male bees tend to emerge a couple of weeks earlier so they are ready to pounce on females as soon as they appear.

I had wondered what would happen if they emerge before the Ivy flowers are open but an article on the Sussex Wildlife Trust website explains that they will also take nectar from other flowers, though the females gather the pollen they deposit in their nest burrows for their larvae to feed on exclusively from Ivy.

As it is a relatively late flowering plant, Ivy is also popular with many other insects, and those shown here are just a tiny sampling of the many species of flies and hoverflies, bees and wasps, and butterflies like Red admiral that I’ve been seeing on our local Ivy this year.

Wood cauliflower

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Firstly, I want to admit that I didn’t discover this unusual fungus unaided. The previous night I was inputting that day’s finds in to the database of my local environmental records centre when I noticed another recorder had entered this find and, never having seen it myself, I took a note of the grid reference so that I was able to plot the site on a map. The location was a park in north Cardiff where I’d previously seen some nice autumn fungi so I decided to visit the following day.

This is Wood cauliflower (Sparassis crispa), named for its rather superficial resemblance to the vegetable of the same name, though cauliflowers are produced on the stalks of plants growing in soil and this fungus grows on the roots of conifers, particularly pines. Also, though the fruiting bodies are off-white when they first emerge, they quickly turn cream like the ones I saw, and eventually rot to a brown mush.

Fortunately for the tree, the fungus is not a killer; instead, it restricts its root damage sufficiently for the tree to continue producing timber for many years – a parasite that limits its appetite to protect its food source. My guidebook tells me these cauliflowers are produced annually between July and October, and a quick look at their distribution map on iRecord shows records from throughout the UK, presumably wherever conifers will grow.

An arctic tern on passage

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When an exciting alert appeared in my local birding WhatsApp group on Friday 2 October, I was off. First, I had to run for the train – I’m old, I never run, but there are only two trains an hour to Cardiff’s northern reservoirs and I was conscious that migrating birds often don’t linger long.

And, at first, I thought that was exactly what had happened because, when I got to Llanishen Reservoir, I was told the Arctic tern had just flown off high to the south. Fortunately, as you can see from my photographs, after about 10 minutes, the bird reappeared and proceeded to entertain me and several other birders with its aerial display.

This particular Arctic tern had an interesting routine. It was favouring the northern end of the reservoir, where it would fly back and forth over the water in its constant search for food, occasionally dipping low to the water, sometimes splashing right in. When it eventually caught a sprat, it would fly to the reservoir embankment, perch on the stones to eat its prey, and let the food digest for 5 to 10 minutes before taking flight to repeat the process once more.

By the end of the day, the Arctic tern (Sterna paradisaea) had flown off, hopefully well fuelled to continue its epic migration journey – the longest of any bird – to spend the southern summer in Antarctica.

Feasting Greenfinches

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This was an unusual sighting during one of last week’s local meanders.

I’d checked out Cardiff Bay Barrage for any migrating birds (found one lovely female Wheatear dotting about on the grass), and continued from there on the footpath that runs along the top of the Ely embankment, where the River Ely flows in to Cardiff Bay. A couple of our winter-resident Turnstones were tootling about, stone-flipping and poking in the vegetation, but the stars this day were two juvenile Greenfinches.

At this time of year, there is often a small flock of Linnets nibbling on the seeds of the many Herb Robert plants that grow all over the embankment stonework but, on this particular day, the Greenfinches were messily enjoying a feast. Greenfinches are usually a little more wary of being close to people, I find, and the footpath can be very busy with walkers, the river with marine traffic and kayakers but, perhaps because they were young birds, these Greenfinches hadn’t yet learned to keep away from such potential threats. They were a delight to watch.

The also-rans

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From a birding perspective, my recent trip to Weymouth and Portland was my most successful so far, with 85 species logged, and the unforgettable thrill of seeing, albeit fleetingly from the train, my first ever White-tailed eagles perched like statues on the edge of Poole Harbour. In this last blog from that trip, I want to feature some of the also-rans, the birds I loved seeing and managed to photograph that didn’t get their own blog but still deserve to be admired.

One of the many Blackcaps that were passing through on migration.

On a blustery day when birds were mostly sheltering, this delightful Dunnock appeared and posed nicely.

Though there are quite a lot of trees around RSPB Lodmoor, and a small woodland to the north in Lorton Valley Country Park, I was still a little surprised to hear this Great spotted woodpecker pounding at a tree trunk right by the water.

A Great white egret looking statuesque in the soft morning light.

Lodmoor was looking quite autumnal, and this female Marsh harrier sitting on her lookout post seemed to blend right in.

RSPB Radipole was mostly a disappointment this time around, a site that’s suffering from the neglect of the RSPB, who steadfastly fail to see the potential of one of their most accessible reserves to help the general public become more aware of and appreciate the wonders of Nature. It seemed appropriate that, on my final afternoon in Weymouth, the last bird I saw there was this Pheasant.

This was the day of the Stonechats! During a walk of the path along Portland’s east cliffs and the fields around the Bill and the Obs, I counted more than 20; the next day almost all were gone, braving the English Channel to migrate south for the winter.

I didn’t see many Wheatears this time around but this beauty popped up on top of a bush right in front of me one morning at Ferrybridge.

I think you can tell there was an autumn chill in the air this early morning just from looking at this Woodpigeon.

Sika deer

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Well, this was a surprise!
I was at Lodmoor, standing watching two Stonechats dotting around their little patch, when this pair of Sika deer appeared from behind some bushes.

I’m not sure which of us got the biggest shock to see the other but, sadly, the stag bolted and the hind immediately followed him.

They trotted quickly across the nearest body of shallow water, paused for a moment at the half way point to turn and consider me, then retreated at a gallop further in to the reserve’s reed beds, giving me delightful views of their white, heart-shaped-furry bottoms.

Though I was sorry to have scared them, I was exceedingly pleased to have got such close views of these handsome creatures.

Entrancing Lapwings

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My personal challenge to take better photographs of Lapwings continued during my recent visits to RSPB Lodmoor. However, the quality and zoom length of my camera equipment is limited, so the alternative was to get as close to the birds as possible – not always, indeed not often, an easy task with these less than confiding birds.

After a couple of Lodmoor visits, I’d mostly figured out where the currently resident Lapwings preferred to position themselves. Then, it was a case of using my field craft to approach those that were closest to the footpaths at a time when no other humans were passing – not as easy as it sounds, partly because many locals use the nature reserve paths at all times of the day for jogging and to walk themselves and their dogs, often talking loudly while doing so, to each other, their dogs, and on their phones, and partly because there was a distinct lack of vegetation to hide behind in the places the birds were frequenting.

Through patience and perseverance, and visiting both in the early morning and late afternoon, I managed to get a few images that I’m happy with, but my challenge will definitely continue when next I visit. Why, you might ask? I just think that, from their ‘head crest like an upward stroke of calligraphy’ (Tessa Boase, Into the Red) to the eye-catching palette of metallic hues in their feathers, they are entrancingly beautiful.