The first WHAT of Spring?
What did Wilson stumble upon last night? Read on.
Phenology, the study of the times of recurring natural phenomena, is always a thing of fascination to me. Matter of fact, that's what A Sandy Beach Almanac is all about: amateur Phenology. I'm like the phenologist mail carrier except I don't have a mail truck.
Hearing the first cicada of Spring brings me as much joy as I suppose the Englishman experiences at the first sound of the cuckoo after the bitter cold departs. In Sydney, if you hear a cicada before about October the 12th (the earliest I have ever heard one, as far as I recall), not only does this indicate you are observant, but it might tell you something about the climate.
When I smell a strong aroma of the sea, it usually tells me that in four or five days time there will be a lot of annoying flies around, because when the air is strongest with maritime fragrance, it usually means there is a lot of seaweed washing up on the beach. Stranded seaweed means stranded barnacles, and stranded barnacles means soon there will be maggots and then flies. Charming, is it not?
Being a calendar freak as well as a bit of a Nature buff, I love to note when the agapanthus buds swell and to guess when they will bloom into those big, star-like flowers. Again, in Sydney, you can generally be sure that your Star of Bethlehems will be ready to grace your Yuletide celebrations; here in Sandy, they have been blooming for two or three weeks, because we are further north and in a warmer clime.
Watch closely in your garden and neighbourhood for little changes in those recurring natural phenomena, because, as the Wikipedia article on Phenology says, many such occurrences are very sensitive to small variations in climate, so phenology is useful in the study of climate change. And there is a whole lot more besides that we can learn. Plus, amateur phenology (and I am very much an amateur) is a great hobby that grounds us in our local environment and opens our eyes to part of who we are as human creatures. I highly recommend the life of the amateur phenologist.
There is a yearly phenomenon that lasts for some four or five months in many parts of Australia. Last night, with the moon half full, was a very good time to observe this annual wonder. I set out at around nine at night, uncertain that I would be blessed to see it. Then, just 1,500 paces from The Ponderosa, I had that uncanny sixth sense that I was getting close, so I walked softly lest I disturb this wondrous thing that marks the season at Sandy Beach.
Suddenly, as I came over the hill and past the trees, I saw it, in all its glory. Quickly but gingerly, as quietly as a marsupial mouse, I took my camera from my knapsack, and turned on the battery power in my pocket so the noise wouldn't disturb any nearby creature. I took careful aim, but there was some movement -- whether of my hand (as I trembled at the sight for which I had waited since March), or of the phenomenon itself, I cannot be sure -- and the consequent photograph is a little blurry, like most of those of Bigfoot, and the elusive Australian Ground parrot. But last night I did manage to capture and record an image of that early-November to late-March phenomenon of Australia, Nativitatus illuminatensis.
Would you like to see? Click for the photo.
UK Phenology Network :: Scribbly Gum (Aussie amateur Phenology) :: Google Phenology
Tagged: phenology, australia
Phenology, the study of the times of recurring natural phenomena, is always a thing of fascination to me. Matter of fact, that's what A Sandy Beach Almanac is all about: amateur Phenology. I'm like the phenologist mail carrier except I don't have a mail truck.
Hearing the first cicada of Spring brings me as much joy as I suppose the Englishman experiences at the first sound of the cuckoo after the bitter cold departs. In Sydney, if you hear a cicada before about October the 12th (the earliest I have ever heard one, as far as I recall), not only does this indicate you are observant, but it might tell you something about the climate.
When I smell a strong aroma of the sea, it usually tells me that in four or five days time there will be a lot of annoying flies around, because when the air is strongest with maritime fragrance, it usually means there is a lot of seaweed washing up on the beach. Stranded seaweed means stranded barnacles, and stranded barnacles means soon there will be maggots and then flies. Charming, is it not?
Being a calendar freak as well as a bit of a Nature buff, I love to note when the agapanthus buds swell and to guess when they will bloom into those big, star-like flowers. Again, in Sydney, you can generally be sure that your Star of Bethlehems will be ready to grace your Yuletide celebrations; here in Sandy, they have been blooming for two or three weeks, because we are further north and in a warmer clime.
Watch closely in your garden and neighbourhood for little changes in those recurring natural phenomena, because, as the Wikipedia article on Phenology says, many such occurrences are very sensitive to small variations in climate, so phenology is useful in the study of climate change. And there is a whole lot more besides that we can learn. Plus, amateur phenology (and I am very much an amateur) is a great hobby that grounds us in our local environment and opens our eyes to part of who we are as human creatures. I highly recommend the life of the amateur phenologist.
There is a yearly phenomenon that lasts for some four or five months in many parts of Australia. Last night, with the moon half full, was a very good time to observe this annual wonder. I set out at around nine at night, uncertain that I would be blessed to see it. Then, just 1,500 paces from The Ponderosa, I had that uncanny sixth sense that I was getting close, so I walked softly lest I disturb this wondrous thing that marks the season at Sandy Beach.
Suddenly, as I came over the hill and past the trees, I saw it, in all its glory. Quickly but gingerly, as quietly as a marsupial mouse, I took my camera from my knapsack, and turned on the battery power in my pocket so the noise wouldn't disturb any nearby creature. I took careful aim, but there was some movement -- whether of my hand (as I trembled at the sight for which I had waited since March), or of the phenomenon itself, I cannot be sure -- and the consequent photograph is a little blurry, like most of those of Bigfoot, and the elusive Australian Ground parrot. But last night I did manage to capture and record an image of that early-November to late-March phenomenon of Australia, Nativitatus illuminatensis.Would you like to see? Click for the photo.
UK Phenology Network :: Scribbly Gum (Aussie amateur Phenology) :: Google Phenology
Tagged: phenology, australia
Pip Wilson posted item above at 6:54 AM | Permalink
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