Frogs or toads? A simple choice, one that I put to Twitter last week to gauge people’s feelings towards these two amphibians. I was motivated partly by the fact that the spring amphibian emergence is underway and I very much welcome their return, but mainly I was motivated by a desire to see to what proportion of people shared my preference.
Just for the record, I do of course acknowledge that this is an absurdly reductionist way of looking at these two wonderful creatures. But yes, I hereby declare I am a fully paid up member of Team Toad.
I was surprised, therefore, by the both the outcome and the margin of victory. 74% for frogs, vs 26% for toads. A clear preference, by a country mile. I genuinely thought toads would edge it, or be around 50/50 at the very worst, so I was oddly disappointed.
First, I wondered if there was an element of misidentification at work. Perhaps folk have trouble telling the difference between the two, and assume every froglike thing they see is a frog? It’s not always obvious, to be fair, so for the avoidance of doubt:
Frogs
• Mostly smooth skin, wet or slimy in appearance.
• Very long hind legs, usually with dark bands.
• Moves by hopping and leaping.
• Two ridges along its back
• Dark patch behind the eye
• Pupils tend to be somewhere between oval and circle-shaped.
Toads
• Skin looks rough and warty, but more importantly it looks dry.
• Moves by walking rather than hopping.
• Pronounced linear bulge (which is a gland) behind each eye.
• Pupils tend to be horizontal slits or perhaps rugby-ball shaped.
• Eggs are laid in long lines of spawn rather than clumps.
• Not everyone will agree, but I think toads look more grumpy than frogs!
But the simple question I posed wasn’t accompanied by images, and didn’t rely on people being able to correctly identify a frog or a toad. Regardless of whether we can correctly identify them, I’m sure we all have some notion of the two creatures in our minds.
The question perhaps, therefore, offers insights into the baggage that each creature carries around with it in our collective consciousness. And if that’s true, it’s possible that toads either have more negative baggage compared to frogs, or that they simply have fewer positive stories to tell.
It could of course, be a question of familiarity. We know frogs. At school we all study frog tadpoles and watch them grow. Most people would therefore be able to tell you the life cycle of a frog. Could we do the same for a toad?
Both species are largely nocturnal but toads are certainly more secretive, hiding away in leaf litter and burrows. The only time they do become conspicuous en-masse is during the short-lived spring migration.
A survey by the RSPB in 2018 found that frogs were present in 75% of UK gardens, whereas toads were only in 20%. Again, I suspect there might be some misidentification at work there, but frogs, with their attention-drawing hops and close association with water, are certainly more obvious in the outdoors for more of the year.
But perhaps there’s something more subtle going on? Something unconscious and engrained?
I had a glimpse of this just the other day, when I was leading a school group of teenagers through Mar Forest. We encountered a large frog on the path, which I picked up so everyone could get a clear look. The kids were all eager to get up close, and formed a tight circle around the frog.
Fascinated at their reaction, I put the same question to them.
“Which do you prefer, frogs or toads”
“FROGS!” was the unanimous reply.
“Why?” I asked.
“TOADS ARE UGLY!”, came the clear (shouted) response.
Still sitting in the palm of my hand, I brought the frog closer so that it was looking right at me. Face to face, its bulging eyes were trying to escape out the side of its head, its expression was comically puzzled, and its massive throat was popping in and out.
Hmm. Was this creature any less ugly, or any more attractive than a toad? I certainly wouldn’t want to evaluate either’s worth based purely on looks, and yet, as an emotional being in search of a connection I have to admit I do have a clear preference.
I feel I know toads better because they lend themselves well to close study – they are extremely good at sitting still. Although, don’t let their stillness fool you. Toads will range a considerable distance from their ancestral ponds – some a few hundred metres, while others will travel several kilometres.
But with their smaller eyes and squinting pupils, and their grumpy-looking jaw, toads appear to be, to me at least, in deep thought. They look solid, immovable, hardy. Their bumpy bodies and dry skin make them look like statues, perfectly hewn from stone like wee meditating Buddhas.
And oh, those beautiful copper-coloured eyes!
I like frogs too of course, but the frog’s glassy thousand-yard stare looks straight through me. And while yes, their characteristic hopping gives them an animated charisma that toads lack, their tendency to hop at any moment always keeps me on edge. I’m usually up close, studying said frog, when it jumps away suddenly. And even though I’m expecting it, it’s always so unexpected. Yep, the frog jumps and so do I!
Put simply, I find I can relate to toads in a way I can’t with frogs. They’re somehow more human. More knowable. I feel a connection, however unreal and delusional that may be.
So yep, I was genuinely baffled how the wet, slimy, goggle-eyed creature in my hand was managing to trounce its more relatable (albeit grumpy-looking) cousin in the amphibious beauty pageant.
That in turn made me wonder whether the toads of people’s imaginations are in some way scarier or uglier than the reality?
Toads do have something of a reputation, after all. If you’re playing quickfire word association I’d expect one of the instant responses, upon hearing the word ‘toad’, would be to say the word ‘warts’.
The belief that touching a toad can give you warts still persists. It can’t, but a quick scan of toad folklore online turns up all kinds of craziness about that, and about toads in general. Most bafflingly, a 12th Century account from England of how King Stephen’s enemies were thrown into dungeons to suffer ‘cold, hunger, stench and attacks of toads’. Eh!?
I’m also reminded of how readily we employ toads as disparaging comparisons, especially for politicians and other weasely types (see what I did there?).
How many times have you heard someone describe a person as ‘a lying toad’? What have toads done to deserve this slur on their character?
Not that frogs don’t feature negatively in folklore, of course. Both frogs and toads have a long history of association with witchcraft for starters, but certainly when I was growing up, I encountered more positive representations of frogs than toads.
There was Mr Toad I suppose, in Wind in the Willows, but entertaining as he was, he was petty and conceited. A figure of fun and ridicule. If I had to choose between Mr Toad or Kermit, I’d rather have Kermit as a friend. What’s more lovable and fun than Kermit the Frog?
And who, of a certain age, could ever forget Paul McCartney’s irritatingly catchy Frog Chorus? Would it have worked its same magic if it was a Toad Chorus?
Funnily enough, a Toad Chorus would have made more sense, as there’s little tunefulness in the common frog. It doesn’t ‘ribbit’, it croaks like an old cat purring. Whereas the higher pitched chirps of the toad arguably give it a voice better suited to song.
If you ask me, McCartney would have been better using a more inclusive amphibian ensemble, with frogs doing the bass and baritone, and the toads doing the tenors and sopranos. One glorious amphibian chorus!
But I’m digressing.
It’s also a well-known fact that frogs turn into princes when you kiss them. Does the same happen for toads? Has anyone ever tried? Even if a princely outcome was assured, I imagine most people would hesitate before kissing a toad. Go on, admit it, you’d be scared of getting warts wouldn’t you?
The idea that physical contact with a toad can provoke an adverse reaction isn’t entirely without foundation, though. Toads have glands behind their heads that can release a ‘bufotoxin’ when the toad is threatened (‘bufo’ meaning ‘toad’ in Latin). This is why you might have seen frothing in the mouth of your cat or dog when they have licked or eaten a toad.
Being unpalatable perhaps goes some way to explaining why toads are in so much less of a hurry, unable to hop, as their frog cousins. Their defence puts many predators off. But I’ve never seen a toad do this in any of my close encounters, nor have I seen any substance released when I’ve physically helped toads across a road. These are harmless creatures, just going about their business.
But whatever the reasons, whether it’s all or none of the above, the toad does appear to be regarded as the frog’s wartier, uglier, less knowable relation. But understanding and knowing an animal, especially from an early age, is undoubtedly key to overcoming or pre-empting any reticence or aversion you might develop towards it later in life. So to redress the balance somewhat, here’s some toady lowdown….
Toady lowdown
The UK has two species of toads. The Natterjack and the Common. Both are present in Scotland but the former is restricted to the Solway, while the latter is much more widespread. It’s therefore the Common Toad that we’re talking about in this article.
Completely absent from Ireland, in Scotland the Common Toad is found across most of the mainland, and a few islands where they aren’t native but have been introduced.
Up to about 10cm long, toads are found across most habitats, especially grassland and woodland. They are, however, neither as fond nor as needy of water as frogs, generally only returning to water for mating.
Toads aren’t as vividly coloured as frogs, nor do they have the frog’s striking black bandings or patches. But there is still some variability in colour.
Until I moved to the Cairngorms, most of the toads I encountered in Fife’s Lomond Hills were dark brown or grey, with a lighter underside. But at Mar Lodge I’ve seen some beautiful olive green ones, for whom their colour offers incredible camouflage in the grassy habitats. And last summer I encountered a stunning wee brick red juvenile in Morrone Birkwood. The first time I’ve seen one that vivid.
Common toads are surprisingly long-lived too. Between 7 and 10 yrs isn’t unusual in the wild, while in captivity they can live to 40! So if you have resident toads in your garden, you could be seeing the same individuals year after year.
And if you’re fortunate enough to have said toads in your garden, they are most definitely your friends. They will eat slugs, snails and other creatures likely to take an interest in your blooms.
This time of year, early spring, is the time when toads are waking up from winter slumber in cool, dark nooks and crannies. They’re on the move, crawling back in a mass migration to their ancestral ponds to mate. Sometimes a male and female will link up en route, which is why you’ll see the larger female literally carrying the clasping smaller male on her back.
Once at the pond, other males, chirping away incessantly, are likely to squabble around the female, forming large balls of writhing toads that can sink to the bottom of the pond and ultimately drown her.
Assuming she survives, she lays thousands of eggs. But unlike frog, the toad’s spawn is laid in long strings that wrap around water plants. They too hatch out into tadpoles, with a similar transformation into adult toads as frogs undergo, and the whole process takes about four months.
I’m very much looking forward to having their grumpy wee faces as occasional encounters throughout the coming months, and hearing that adorable chirping noise in the upland ponds. I’m also looking forward to being surprised, as toads have a habit of turning up in odd places.
I once found a tiny toadlet sitting on the shoe I was wearing, indoors, an hour after I’d come in from the garden. I also once found four tiny toadlets in a bucket outside my front door. It was a quarter full of rainwater, but because it was large and high, with smooth sides and an overhanging rim at the top, there’s no way the wee toads could have climbed up there. There’s no way they could have fallen in there. So to this day I have absolutely no idea how they managed it!
Most memorably, for several weeks last autumn the same toad would appear on my doorstep every night. It became a weirdly comforting companion for a wee while, and I’d excitedly open the door at 8pm every night to check it was there. I was quite bereft when it finally disappeared, once the colder nights took hold.
Here at Mar Lodge Estate I haven’t actually seen my first toad of the year yet. Frogs, yes. They were out a couple of weeks ago, and frogspawn is already filling ponds and puddles. But with the days now warming, I expect my first toad encounter very soon. Hopefully on my actual doorstep!
The inevitable bit at the end
It does sometime feel that in every article I write about wildlife, there’s some inevitable concluding section dedicated to its decline. And sadly, albeit unsurprisingly given the ongoing biodiversity crisis, the common toad is no exception.
The profusion of toads observed during mating season, and especially in any pond where the water seems full of them, can give a false impression of abundance and can mask wider decline.
In some parts of the UK, in common with many other creatures that have ‘common’ as a prefix, the common toad is increasingly less so. The UK as a whole has lost more than two thirds of its toads in the last 30 years or so. A more accurate name, therefore, would be ‘Not As Common As It Used To Be Toad’.
Studies into its decline are underway, but it’s thought to be a mix of loss of suitable ponds, urban development and the loss of connectivity between suitable habitats, garden pesticides (for slugs, for example) and disease.
Existing roads, and especially construction of new roads across ancient migration routes, have exacted a particularly heavy toll on toads. The amphibian and reptile charity, Froglife, recently estimated that 20 tonnes of toads are killed on UK roads every year.
Happily though, in one of our more successful and inspirational interventions in wildlife decline, an army of dedicated individuals have in recent years sought to redress the balance somewhat.
Known toad crossing points are staffed, almost entirely by volunteers, at the key time of year. Typically on those first mild, damp evenings of the early spring. They put up road signs, speak to drivers, and physically help hundreds of exhausted and disorientated toads across the road.
These toad crossings are found all over Scotland, but Holyrood Park in Edinburgh is one of the higher profile ones. In a fantastic example of making space for natural cycles and indeed, educating the public as to their value, the Historic Environment Scotland rangers close the high road around Arthur’s Seat to traffic in order to allow the toad migration to proceed safely.
Of course, Toad Crossings aren’t 100% successful. In 2022, over 11,000 toads were still killed by vehicles at the 187 registered toad crossings, but 92,734 toads were safely escorted across, and 760,000 toads have been safely escorted across roads in the last decade!
I have a rather inspirational friend in Lincolnshire who helps to organise her local toad crossing every year, generating local media interest and a considerable increase in awareness of the toad’s plight. But you don’t need to staff a toad crossing in order to help toads.
If you do nothing else, my advice would be to at least anticipate amphibian movement across the roads on those first wet evenings after a long dry spell, and then drive more slowly.
Away from roads and closer to home, you could leave part of your garden or local greenspace ‘messy’, letting it grow wild. This benefits plenty of other creatures too, but making a space for leaf litter, and making wood or stone piles is great, as they will all provide valuable refuge and over-wintering habitat for amphibians, including toads.
Toads, like all amphibians, need our help and attention. So the next time you encounter a toad, don’t baulk. Don’t assume it’s ugly. It won’t give you warts. Get up close, take time to study it, to know it. And then maybe we can get that percentage up to 50%, on a par with the friendly frog. But really, seeing as I’m on Team Toad, let’s be aiming for 51%!