The Dipper
The Dipper
If there is one bird that you ought to make an effort to see while you are in the Peak District, then it is the dipper - and you don’t have to be a skilled birdwatcher to find one, just so long as you look in the right sort of place.
“Smart”, “dapper”, “cute”; these are some of the adjectives often used to describe this enchanting little bird, in its chestnut coat and dazzling white bib, as it bobs up and down like a subservient waiter in a waterside restaurant. About the size of a thrush, but more like a huge wren in posture, dippers can be found in many Peak District rivers; the Goyt; the Derwent; the Wye; the Dove, to name but a few, but it is essential that you select a certain kind of habitat, in a certain phase in the river’s life if you want to be sure of finding one. Dippers like fast flowing rivers, with plenty of boulders, some shade from trees for at least part of the course and, of course, clean, clear water full of the little creatures that make up its diet, such as fresh water shrimps and insect larvae. So, if it is the Wye you are visiting, for example, it needs to be around the Miller’s Dale / Cressbrook area, rather than lower down where the water becomes to deep, murky and sluggish.
Having selected the right environment, dippers are very obliging and not too bothered about human company. Dippers in Lathkill Dale, for instance, seem to have grown so used to walkers, you can pass within feet of one without causing it too much alarm. This has tempted some have-a-go photographers to wade into the river in order to grab that impressive wildlife shot - of a dipper on a rock amidst the rapids, or the parents feeding their young at the entrance to a nest-hole in the river bank, but, be warned: such human intrusion has led some dippers to desert their nests, or has caused such an interruption in their regular feeding pattern that the young have not survived to fledge. There are warning notices and leaflets posted around Lathkill Dale, detailing the problem and advising would-be photographers that it is illegal to disturb nesting birds; while entering the water causes great damage to the wildlife on the river bed - right where the dipper feeds. You may not even realise you are standing near a dipper’s nest, they are so well hidden; so the advice is, to have a quiet watch, but not for too long, before moving on and keep yourself (and your dog) on dry land at all times.
When the dipper is disturbed by a walker, it will often fly ahead, land on a rock in the stream, fly again and then double-back as if it has met an invisible boundary. It has; dippers are highly territorial and occupy a very clearly defined stretch of water. Sit and watch one for a while and you will also see that it has favourite boulders on which to perch mid-stream. These will often be stained white with its droppings and, as it sits there, bobbing up and down against a backdrop of peat-stained, reddish-brown water, ruffled with foam where it tumbles over rocks, you will appreciate what a perfect camouflage its chestnut-and-white plumage makes. The bobbing motion actual mirrors the movement of the water.
Watch for a little longer and you’ll see the dipper feed. No other British bird feeds in quite the same way. The dipper will happily paddle along, stirring-up the river bottom with its feet and dabbing at creatures in the shallows, but the more remarkable sight is to see it dive under the water and either continue to walk over the rocky bed, or sometimes fly penguin-like, chasing after its prey. Then it pops up, water falling from it like the proverbial duck’s back; it is just as well water-proofed as a duck.
So well adapted to river life, the dipper even has a third eyelid, which is sometimes visible, when the bird is at rest, as a little white screen over the eye; underwater, this becomes transparent, enabling the dipper to see perfectly well, while being protected from the grit carried along by the swift-flowing current.
Dippers seem very happy with their own little piece of Eden. They stick around right through the year, rarely straying out of their perfect habitat. From the middle of the winter they start to defend their territories a little more fiercely and, if you are very lucky, you may hear one sing from a river boulder. Their call is a strident ring, delivered in a very rapid flight, but the song is surprisingly tuneful and, mingled with the sound of the river’s rapids, it makes a delightful, springtime sound-picture.
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