Hunting the bunting
October 2006
UNDER THREAT: Like most birds which have adapted to an agricultural environment, the corn bunting has declined dramatically in the last 50 years.
Photo: courtesy of the royal society for the protection of birds
by Richard Firmin
Rookie birders have to begin somewhere. The aspiring ornithologist is more likely to notice the brightest, loudest and most common of the birds in his or her locality. Only after acquiring a list of these avian extroverts will a birdwatcher begin to tackle the perplexing realm of ‘little brown jobs’, or LBJs, those unremarkable species differentiated from one another by just an eyestripe, a wing bar, or a distinctive vocal repertoire.
It is no surprise that the corn bunting is not first choice amongst Christmas card designers; You could say that Milaria calandra is the quintessential LBJ. Were it not for the male corn bunting’s enthusiasm for singing, the species might still be awaiting discovery.
This anonymity does not result solely from the species’ lack of charisma. There are only 800 singing males left in the country, and 500 of them are in Aberdeenshire. Like most birds which have adapted to an agricultural environment, the corn bunting has declined dramatically in the last 50 years. Intensive methods of production and a shift towards winter cereals have contributed, as has the trend from hay to silage.
Like the other buntings, it is primarily a seed eater, though it feeds its young on a mixed diet of insects and grain. Modern farm crops contain far fewer weeds than formerly and thus a much-reduced range of seeds and host plants for the insects that the birds need. A ‘clean’ cereal crop provides poorer cover for ground-nesting species; for those which choose grass fields to nest in, the earlier silage cutting dates, compared with the traditional haymaking schedule, result in many corn buntings being destroyed before they fledge. Since the corn bunting is non-migratory, it has to find its food in the same locality the year round. With the disappearance of the corn-rick and decline in the area of winter stubble, the going is tough.
One small chink of light shines for this retiring bird. Now that the Common Agricultural Policy has uncoupled subsidies from production, the RSPB has initiated a scheme in which farmers are paid to delay cutting silage until
1 August. The hope is that this rather late-nesting species will be able to get its first brood off the ground before the machines move in.
As a researcher for the RSPB for the last few months on three farms near Inverness and three in Aberdeenshire, I have immersed myself in the world of this secretive bird to find their nests, their preference in sites, and evaluate fledging success. The buntings are reluctant to disclose the whereabouts of their homes; but it is the male who gives the game away.
Mr Corn Bunting takes no part in nest-building or egg hatching and very little with feeding his offspring. Worse than that, he often has more than one female in tow, but they forgive all these character flaws, beguiled by his song. Once you learn to recognise this song, finding him, and the nests, is just a matter of patience. It has been likened to the jingling noise made by shaking a bunch of small keys. It is less of a song, more of a small vocal explosion. The beak opens and a musical retching bursts forth, a few spluttery tics followed by a minor cacophony of squeaking, metallic notes lasting less than two seconds, though repeated endlessly.
His preferred location is a horizontal wire, a telephone cable, or a fence, or later in the season from a prominent weed, or the top of a tree. Presumably the purpose of the song is to define territory and secure the fidelity of the females, though this doesn’t account for some corn buntings’ abilities to mimic the songs of yellowhammer and reed bunting, nor provide a reason for singing in the middle of winter, which they will do on windless, sunny days.
In early June, though, he is at it all day long, perched on his wire, looking superficially like an obese female house sparrow, occasionally stopping for a bite of something or responding to the activities of his female(s). In all that she does he displays a show of interest, without helping too much. At nest-building time he might pick up a piece of grass, as if to suggest that that is what she should be doing, but he will not take it to the nest site. But by following her around and singing from somewhere close by, he draws attention to her, eventually revealing where she has chosen to build.
Once the four or five eggs have been laid, she stays put for an hour at a time, during which the observer can watch the singing male. Time and again, a momentary lapse of concentration, otherwise known as falling asleep, coincides with the female’s decision to move, and the ever-shadowing male disappears from his perch.
When the eggs are hatched, the female is more visible, though not enough to make it easy to find where she is feeding her young, as most of the food is gathered below the cover of the crop. But for her noisy mate, the observer could easily overlook her leaving the nest.
His awareness of her location is uncanny. On one occasion I watched a singing corn bunting leave his perch and fly steeply into the sky for some considerable distance, abruptly turning to travel alongside his returning mate, her beak full of food for the nestlings. It was a bit like offering to help with the shopping, though in his case, not really meaning it.
Once the young have left the nest, around a month after the eggs were laid, the male may take a share in feeding them, though his preferred activity is singing. Some pairs repeat the nesting process, frequently fatally if they choose a grass crop to build in, though with some success in spring-sown cereals. To be fair to him, though, his vigilance extends to his offspring, sometimes in a protective way. I have observed males seeing off both carrion crows and jackdaws, and on one occasion staring out a kestrel who had chosen temporarily to share his pylon. Even more memorably, I witnessed the surreal pursuit of a kingfisher.
But is it fair to suggest that corn buntings are nondescript? It cannot be. His song aside, and her prudence, caution and devotion to duty, much can be said about their distinctive characteristics. The bright pink legs they trail before landing on fluttering wings at the singing perch or feeding site. Or the energetic aerial chases which end up with both birds crashing into the field crop. Even the black blotches on the breasts of both the male and the noticeably smaller female are worthy of mention, as are their extraordinarily long claws. And, with no intent of prurience, their copulatory activity is the most delicate, yet efficient, that I have witnessed in the avian world.
By early August, in the fields to the south of the Moray Firth, most of the males relinquish their singing perches to join groups of buntings feeding in barley and wheat. Some of them will survive the following months on land where cereal stubbles have not been ploughed under to accommodate a winter crop, and in areas of set-aside and wild bird cover subsidised by agri-environment schemes.
Are corn buntings worth the investment? Yes, if they symbolise a realisation of the value of biodiversity, and if subsidised farming schemes lead to a more traditional approach to food production, working with, rather than against, nature, and benefiting all those species that have lost out to modern agriculture.
The results of this year’s research still need to be fitted into the wider picture, but some interesting points emerge. After the late spring, a large percentage of the birds that I have been studying nested not in grass fields but in undersown spring barley, where they had a much better chance of avoiding hazardous agricultural operations.
The majority of the nests that I located were within 10 metres of the field boundary, providing another key to corn bunting conservation. In discussions with farmers – which almost always touched on the relationship between consumer and producer – their job of ‘looking after’ the countryside was frequently flagged up as a role which deserved both recognition and remuneration.
This begs the question as to how the public would like the countryside to be looked after. Do we want spotless carpets of grain or ‘weed’-free grass prairies, or is it time to eschew this clinical approach to food production and to debunk the myth of efficiency which ignores the real costs of energy inputs and environmental degradation?
Assessing the real value of corn buntings in terms of human economics is anthropocentric arrogance. The sea eagles of Western Scotland may bring millions into the local economy from the tourists who flock to see them, but that is not the reason why I welcome their re-introduction.
Corn buntings will never be crowd pullers, but their place in this land is their place in this land. Our acknowledgement of that place, our accommodation of their world within ours can, I believe, only enhance our shared opportunities for survival.
Richard Firmin earns a living from a combination of ornithology and horticulture, and in his spare time enjoys birdwatching and gardening, as well as writing. He and his horticulturalist wife Ellen share their croft with Jake the German Shepherd, two cats and a motley selection of poultry.
This is an article from the October 2006 edition of Leopard Magazine. To read much more like this every month, see our subscription details.