Admiring the skilled exponents of nature's construction industry

Some have come from the gutters of houses or those parts of roofs which are in permanent shade. Similarly, a walk in nearby woodlands revealed more moss which had been ripped from rocks and decaying tree trunks, with much of it discarded. It was quite obvious, however, that a lot had been skilfully harvested and taken away. I am sure this kind of scene can be found in any place where moss grows.

And the culprits? They are nesting birds. During the spring, our wild birds are frantically busy as they seek nesting materials, many of them looking for the same kind of ingredients. Warm, dry and soft moss is one of their main selections, although they do make good use of other things like sheep's wool, hair, discarded feathers, dried grass or other small plants, straw, tiny twigs and even strips of paper or plastic. Larger sticks and even mud are also used to good effect by some species.

Shortly before writing these notes, I watched three house sparrows having a tug of war with a length of dead stalk, last year's remains of a rock plant. They were attempting to haul it from the ground by a highly complicated manoeuvre which involved trying to fly backwards as they tugged at the piece. And they won! So far as moss left below house gutters is concerned, I think blackbirds are responsible.

Another keen user of moss is the great tit. It builds in a suitable hole in a wall or tree, and it will also use nest boxes where the nest is a substantial cup made chiefly from moss and dry grass, and then lined with feathers and hair.

The nest of a blue tit is similar. Each year when I clean out the blue tits' nest boxes, I feel a touch of guilt as I dismantle such carefully constructed and comfortable nests of wool, moss, hair, feathers and even dried leaves. But those nests have no further use and need to be removed before the new ones are built. An enormous amount of work and skill goes into nest-building and one wonders how the birds learn their craft.

As far as British birds are concerned, the most skilled nest-builders are probably long-tailed tits and wrens. The nest-building skills of long-tailed tits are recognised as being among the finest in the world. They are tiny, handsome birds in their black and white suits tinged with pink, their extra-long tails being a ready means of identification. Having found a suitably dense bush such as a hawthorn, they construct a domed nest with an entrance hole on one side, close to the top. As many as 2,000 feathers may be used, but a large amount of moss is also utilised, the entire nest being held together by spiders' webs. The finished job will be about the size of a coconut, cosily lined with hair and feathers. Soft and flexible to the touch, the nest is surprisingly strong and might become home to a dozen chicks as well as the parents. There is no doubt the accommodation becomes cramped as the chicks mature, with the parents folding their long tails over their backs while inside. One odd thing is that an unpaired adult might come along to help feed the demanding chicks.

A wren's nest is not quite so remarkable, although it is a very fine example of nest-building. Ball-shaped with a side entrance near the top, it is made from moss, dried grass and leaves, being usually found in hedges, old tree trunks, ivy or even in open-sided outbuildings where it could be among tools and equipment hanging on the walls. The interesting thing about a wren's nest is that it is built by the male - in fact, he may build as many as eight which he proudly shows to the female of his choice. She will select one of them, marking her choice by lining it with lots of feathers, after which it will become home to as many as eight chicks.

Among our nesting birds, house martins are also highly skilled in the construction business because they make their own cement from a mixture of mud, saliva and plant fibres. Their nests are fixed to the undersides of eaves without any means of support, unlike the swallow's nest, which usually sits on a ledge. Song thrushes also make good use of mud as a lining for their nests.

At the other end of the nest-building scale is the wood pigeon, whose nest looks little more than a thin layer of sticks thrown haphazardly together. Sometimes, the eggs and chicks can be seen from below and yet the nest is surprisingly strong, being able to withstand the vagaries of our weather and the activity of the young birds.

Some birds, of course, do not bother with nests. They are quite content to lay their eggs on the ground. The red grouse, for example, uses little more than a scrape in the earth, while the peewit does likewise, although it may be lined with grass. Lots of seabirds lay their eggs in hollows on the cliff side or even on the shore, while the infamous cuckoo doesn't build nests. Its eggs are laid in the nests of others.

One of the most fascinating tales in this region concerns the mysterious Wild Man of Whindale, a remote and now abandoned village high in the Pennines.

Today marks the 250th anniversary of his burial in 1755, but it was his life which caused such enormous interest at the time. He was not a native of Whindale, but arrived when he was a young man accompanied only by a horse and a dog. No-one knew where he came from, but he made his home in a comfortable cave in woods which overlooked the river near Whindale. At that time, of course, there was plenty of grazing for his horse, while his dog was able to survive by catching rabbits and birds.

The man himself also existed on a diet of food gleaned from the wild - he made good use of everything from berries and fruit to leaves and roots via fish and trapped animals. He did not mix with any of the villagers and it seems they were rather afraid of him. Children were told not to venture along the riverside near his cave and to avoid making contact with him, although there is no report of him ever harming a child or being a threat to any adult. On the contrary, he shied away from all human contact, and seemed very content to live his quiet life in the woods which surrounded the riverside cave.

One of his talents was the creation of clothing made from nettle stems. In this, he emulated the Danish invaders of previous centuries because they also made a rough fabric from the stems of the stinging nettle. The Wild Man made his own clothing from this source and, in addition to keeping him well clad even in the most severe weather, it also enabled him to be almost invisible as he roamed the woods.

Inevitably, his horse died due to increasing old age, as did his dog, but he did not replace them. He buried each animal near the river, marking their graves with simple stones as he continued his solitary hermit-like life.

Not surprisingly, his presence attracted the interest of historians and others who tried to discover more about his previous life, but nothing was ever found. Furthermore, no-one could approach him to ask about his past. So acute was his hearing and sight that any hint of someone approaching his lair made him scurry to safety among the trees. In his suit of nettle fibre, he was able to conceal himself until it was safe to return to his cave.

As time passed, and as the inhabitants of Whindale became accustomed to his presence and rather odd existence, it was inevitable he should suffer from his lifestyle. He treated his own ailments with herbs and self-made medicines, but it was inevitable that one day he would die. He passed away and, not long afterwards, his body was found in the cave by some exploring children. He had died in his sleep.

The people of Whindale felt they should honour him in some way and, although his name and past were never known, they decided to bury him in the local churchyard and to mark his grave with a permanent stone. Although the village became depopulated in the mid-nineteenth century, that graveyard remains and his stone stands in the eastern corner. It bears a simple tribute which says: "In memory of The Wild Man of Whindale, born we know not when but laid to rest here on April 1, 1755. A man of great simplicity. RIP."