Malaria affecting British birds?

Also in today's Times are claims that the decline that has been seen in British Song Birds in recent years might be due to infection with avian malaria.

British birds, claims the article in the Times, including sparrows, chaffinches and nightingales are dying from malaria. At least 30 common types of bird are now infected. In some species the disease was unknown as recently as the mid-1990s but is now being regularly diagnosed by monitoring projects. Only 20 years ago less than 10% of house sparrows in Britain were infected. That figure has now reached 30% and is rising rapidly. The screening of birds such as blue tits, great tits and owls has shown even greater proportionate increases since the mid-1990s, when almost none were infected.

The bird form of malaria cannot be transmitted to humans but, just like human malaria, it kills by destroying oxygen-carrying red blood cells and is transmitted by mosquito bites. The study that identified this new epidemic was carried out by Laszlo Garamszegi, a world expert on avian malaria who is attached to the Spanish government’s Doñana biological station near Seville.

In the largest analysis carried out so far, Garamszegi compared malaria infection data from more than 3,000 species around the world, dating back to 1944. The findings follow disturbing studies from the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds that reveal a fall of up to 68% in the British house sparrow population since the mid-1990s. A survey of nightingales by the British Trust for Ornithology found a 90% decline in the past 40 years.

Harvest mice

I don't have much cause to commend the Daily Mail, but because of the stunning pictures published today I certainly do. Well done!

The Middle Gardens

After the fourth course I felt very tired and had to take a 30 minute nap. Of course I still have the 46 hour infusion of 5-FU to get through. Yesterday, in pursuit of the positive attitude, we decided to go for a walk in the middle gardens in Bournemouth. I had better explain that. The Bourne brook runs into the sea at Bournemouth (that's how it gets its name). Bourne is an old English word meaning stream or brook, so it is a bit redundant to talk about the Bourne brook. Anyway the Bourne is never more than 5 feet wide, and where it enters the sea they have built the Lower Pleasure Gardens. This has the usual seaside attractions, like crazy golf, a ride in a balloon, an aviary with budgerigars and canaries, a bandstand, an area for sunning yourself on the grass, the Pavillion Theatre, and seawards is the pier with an end of pier theater and an amusement arcade. The Lower Pleasure Gardens are sandwiched between the sea and the Square which is the largest shopping center in Bournemouth. If you like the bustle of a large city you will find it there, but we came seeking peace and quiet.

Bournemouth is famous for the chines, valleys that cut through the cliffs at regular intervals. Usually they are planted with pines and provide sheltered walks in the hot summer. In one of them, Alum Chine, there is a short suspension bridge spanning the chine. It is famous because Winston Churchill fell from it when a boy and was unconscious for several days.

The longest chine is Bournemouth Chine, which is much wider than the others and extends a couple of miles in land. The gardens, now known as the Middle Gardens and the Upper Gardens are the extension of the Lower Pleasure Gardens, and of course the Bourne runs through them until you reach Coy Pond, which I have written about before. Deserted, except for a few old fogies like ourselves, these gardens are a delight. Planted with trees and shrubs on either side of the brook, this is a wonderful time to view them. The Rhododendrons and Azaleas are in full bloom with many different bright colors, but a slow walk reveals many other blooms to identify. You almost need a guidebook there are so many different species. The viewing is accompanied by the songs of blackbirds and thrushes and a rest on the seats allows the identification of many other species of bird. We watched a couple of jackdaws pecking away at the grass.

It was warmish in the sun, perhaps mid-sixties, but then the wind blew I got the cold-induced pins and needles on my face. This was an unpleasant reminder of my circumstances, but a signal that it was time to get into a warmed car and drive on.

Once home it was back to the TV for the latest episode of 24 and then an old movie "Support Your Local Sheriff". Sad to see how James Garner has aged now, in his prime he had a laconic, laid back attitude that suited perfectly this spoof Western.

In December, we took a trip to San Francisco. In retrospect Bournemouth is a better destination for holidaymakers like us.

May

We used to have two May trees (Crataegus mongyna) in our front garden each with flowers of a slightly different pink. Over the past several years, the smaller of the two, the one with flowers of duskier pink, was clearly ailing. Pieces of bark were falling off revealing holes in the trunk, and parts of the tree refused to bear either blossom or leaves. Our gardener was loathe to let anything die so he rigged up a support structure of wooden poles, making it look like an old lady with a walking frame. When the gardener moved away last Fall we took the opportunity to put it out of its misery and had it felled by a troupe of jobbing gardeners led by a formidable lady named Cath.

For the first time this Spring has seen a lonely Hawthorn in the garden. These trees grow to a great age and I have no difficulty in believing that this tree is as old as the house; close to ninety years. It is gnarled and twisted, with a tightly packed jungle of branches and twigs, all equipped with sharp and rigid thorns. It is also infected with wood pigeons. These fat doves with their distinctive coloring and flask of white at the neck are eating something in the trees. It may be an insect, but I suspect it is the flower bud that attracts them. When we were young we used to call the Whitethorn (the same tree has many names; Quickthorn and Haegthorn are others) the bread-and-butter tree and we used to pick the fresh flower buds to chew on them. The pigeons clamber clumsily over the branches making them quiver but, unaware of their precarious balance, they munch steadily at their floral feast.

Appearing on our drives comes Timmie, the ginger Tom from up the street. He is a seldom visitor yet he stalks the place as if his own domain. Now he spots the three wood pigeons in the tree. He saunters on to the lawn and looks lazily up at the birds. The first branch is five feet up and I say to myself, "Bad luck, Timmie, those birds are too tall for you."

He stays watching them munch for several minutes, then suddenly he takes one bound against the trunk and jumps up into the branches. Squirming between the thorns he emerges mid-tree. The pigeons are aware of his presence and off they fly. Timmie disappears and then from among the foliage an orange face appears and lick his lips. Cheshire-like he grins at me before disappearing. It must have been an incident like this that inspired Charles Dodgson, the mathematician.