In southern Europe, where this dragonfly is endemic, the name Southern Migrant Hawker would clearly make no sense, and there it’s known colloquially as the Blue-eyed Hawker. In my opinion this is a much better name, but the British Dragonfly Society changes its views on…. well, pretty much anything, really, with all the speed and grace of a supertanker trying to do a 180° turn in the middle of the English Channel, so I doubt it’ll be reviewing the name any time soon. To be fair, though the Southern Migrant is having an exceptional summer here, it is still coming in from Europe in observed waves of migration (probably to escape the heat that’s causing the current hideous wild-fires in France and Spain), and it will be a few years before it becomes clear if it’s managing to not only breed but overwinter at UK sites. Even the Migrant Hawker (European common name: Autumn Hawker), which has been fully resident in the UK for the better part of a century now, shows no sign of losing the “foreigner” status its name implies, so the Southern Migrant has a long way to go before it’s accepted as a naturalised species.
I did a heavy morning of desk work today, and didn’t get out of the house till mid-afternoon, arriving at Croome for a yomp down to the island at a little after 3pm. When I reached the lake, the first person I saw was Hillyblips, pausing to stalk a Brown Hawker en route back to the car from her own visit to the Southern Migrants. We chatted briefly, but time was pressing so I quickly moved on, but even so, when I reached the island I couldn’t see a single hawker, and feared that I was too late and they’d all gone to roost. After a few minutes though, a couple of males appeared and began irritating each other wildly, swirling round over the cleared channel like Snoopy and the Red Baron, while I scuttled hither and yon, getting hotter and crosser with every passing minute. This all went on for quite a long time.
Eventually this gorgeous specimen settled low down on some dead vegetation at the edge of the reed channel, and once I’d managed to find an angle that would get me a clear shot through the intervening leaves, I knew I had my photo of the day. The second male then landed a couple of metres further away, allowing me to photograph him too, which was unexpectedly cooperative of him. I’d just realised that they were both quite young and fresh – neither of them the older, more worn male of last Friday’s post – when a third male appeared, and put the perched pair to flight. Absolute mayhem then ensued, and it soon became clear that my fun was over for the day. In any case it was now well after 5pm, so I hiked as fast as I could back up the hill, stopping only to send a WhatsApp to the Worcestershire Odonutters, saying that I’d seen no female today, but a definite three males. That pause cost me an iced latte, because when I reached the visitor centre they were just shutting the doors of the café, but luckily I had a flask of water in the car.
This evening my Ōura app – normally so appreciative and complimentary – was just a tiny bit disapproving about today’s balance of rest and activity. Apparently, hurling yourself at several thousand fast steps either side of dinner, after balancing like a potato on your desk stool for five or six hours, doesn’t count as taking the best possible care of yourself. Who knew?
R: L2, C10, D67.
