The Muntjac is a small, stocky deer with a characteristically hunched appearance, with its hind-quarters higher than its shoulders. Its legs are spindly, and the feet tiny: the hoof-prints, called slots, which you see in the mud are less than an inch across. These animals are native to China, and all the many thousands of British Muntjacs (possibly more than there are in China!) are descended from animals escaping from Woburn Park a century ago. I think our Muntjacs are becoming more common, unlike other deer they breed all year round and bolder too. One animal has taken to raiding my neighbours’ gardens and biting off the flowers, primulas being a favourite. When it sees me, we stare at one another for a while, before the Muntjac heads off, at its own leisurely pace, and seemingly unafraid. If you spot a dead buck (male) Muntjac by the road – regrettably they are common road casualties – take a look at the teeth. Its canines are remarkably long, like curved daggers, reminiscent of a tiger! But because it’s a herbivore, we call them tusks, not fangs!
By early March the slow greening of spring had begun, despite the continued cold, soggy ground and the nip of late frosts. Mosses were at their best, bright green and swollen with rain, and in damp spots under the trees you could find the little red bowls of Scarlet Elf-cups on rotting twigs. They say that the wood-elves drink from these fungal cups at night. Let me know if you see any!
It may have been the mildest February on record, but mild doesn’t equate with warm, and under our grey skies I have seen fewer bees than usual, and hardly any butterflies. Any butterflies and bumblebees you see in February and early March have hibernated, and there’s evidence that mild, wet winters are worse for them than cold, relative dry ones. What you do see a lot of at this time of year are tiny gnats, flying in a cloud known as a mating swarm. They don’t bite. They don’t even feed, but merely use up their tiny store of energy in the dance before, the lucky ones having mated, they all die. The female gnat dies too, immediately after laying her eggs. The solitary bat some saw flying by day in February might at least have enjoyed a good supper of gnats!
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