I'm on a Roll(er)!

Not content with the Dusky Thrush last weekend, notching up as it did the big 4-00, today I have started down the path towards that next major milestone. Yep, 410 is well and truly in my sights.I was doing a spot of sky-watching from the terrace this morning when my phone alerted me to a Roller in Hampshire. A quick check of the map to determine which bit of Hampshire, and I was in the car and rolling in under five minutes. And this with two children, snacks and diversionary items. Yup, I've still got it!

Roller and I have a somewhat sad history - it remains one of the few birds I've ever dipped, a tediously long diversion on the way back from Scotland for the long-staying Yorkshire bird which chose that particular day, well, afternoon actually, to hide, reappearing in exactly the same spot the following day. The previous Suffolk bird, which all my twitching compatriots scored, saw me with a puncture and little available time. But with two gettable birds in two years, I felt my chances were good. Not that I was expecting it this weekend you understand, but I'll take it.

My ridiculoulsy relaxed state of mind when it comes to all things birding still persists from last weekend. A wader or a gull and I doubt I would have moved. Roller however, being large and blue, and generally awesome, and the twitchometer went off the scale. The journey was long and painful, taking at least an hour longer than it ought to have done, but by 3pm the girls and I were gazing at a lump of glorious turquoise. Great scope views as it flew around, but too distant for anything other than record shots.

News of a Terek Sand on the way home, albeit a large detour, had me thinking briefly of a two tick day, but the girls had spent long enough in the car so we went straight home. If it's there tomorrow I might go for it, but it scores very few points in the large and bright blue section. Instead I'm going to have a day behind the camera. I've barely touched it recently, and I'm getting a very itchy trigger finger. Unable to go out this morning, I spent some time in the garden lining up the local Collared Doves. They came out OK, but not quite what I had in mind. Hopefully I'll get a bit closer to some more interesting birds tomorrow. Then again, maybe news of yet another mega will break and I'll be forced to go and twitch it. I seem to be on a bit of a roll, so why not ride the wave while it lasts?

This Land isn't your Land

This land is your land, this land is my land
From California, to the New York Island
From the redwood forest, to the gulf stream waters
This land was made for you and me

Many of you will recognise these words, penned by American songwriter Woody Guthrie, king of the political protest singers, inspiration to Bob Dylan and countless others. Although written about the US, the sentiment can be applied to just about anywhere. I think it is very apt today.

I am about as unpoliticised as they come. Mention politics and I switch off more or less immediately. It holds no interest for me, and I've yet to come across a politician or a political party where I've sat back and thought "Yes, you know what? I agree with you". Perhaps I never get that far? I'm one of the silent majority, the uncomplaining masses who get up every morning, go to work and pay their taxes, and let it all wash over them. My interest lies in birds. I have other interests of course - eating, drinking, cricket, popular music, even photography, but my life is so full I don't have enough time to pursue all of them to the obsessive extent of which I am fully capable, so birds is generally where it's at. Politics doesn't get a look in, and I don't have time to be an environmentalist.

I am not about to come out with a grand statement along the lines of "Well, all that changed today", but I have to admit that the level of fuckwittery I've learned of this morning has moved even me. Sufficiently so to not only send a few tweets, but also to pen a blog post - this is unfortunately the modern way, the equivalent of what used to be "Dear Sir, I wish to complain in the strongest possible terms....". Yes, I'm so annoyed I tweeted about it and wrote my blog that six people read. Way to go!

I am not known for moaning; typically my posts are upbeat, light-hearted and positive. Not today. Our leaders are a bunch of vacuous and incompetent self-serving elite who are not fit for office. Like I said, I'm not political. So why the fuss? Well, quite simply, this land isn't your land. It's somebody else's, and you and I are not invited. I read today that something like 80% of this country is owned by 0.5% of the population. Naturally I don't wish to generalise, but those half a percent of people typically have different ideas on countryside management to the other 99.5%. To them, the countryside is a place to have a jolly good time, and a jolly good time means shooting things. I just don't understand blood sports. I suspect I never will, but to a few people it's one of the finer things in life. Fair enough, whatever floats your boat. I mean I like country music for Christ's sake, who am I to comment on what is acceptable and what isn't?

Without wishing to be judgemental, shooting living creatures isn't the most lovely of hobbies, but I appreciate that we're only here for a short time, and that time should ideally be spent enjoying yourself. OK, so you shoot a few birds, so what? It's not like you're Maltese is it? And the birds you shoot are essentially placed there in order for you to shoot them, not wild birds. Raised in cages, they get fattened up on food people put there for them, and when the time is right, normally a glorious day in August, they get let out, whereupon a small number of people massacre as many of them as they can as quickly as possible. What a great hobby, and truly sporting. I will never, ever, go on a shoot.

But here's the rub. Pheasants, being large, dumb, and tasty, are not just of interest to the Purdey brigade. Given the chance, a few of our wild birds and mammals will also show an interest. Who would have thought it? The commissioned "science" is ropey at best, but yes, Buzzards might take a few Pheasants. Not many, and certainly not with the veracity that White-tailed Eagles take lambs and children, but enough that it makes the tiniest of dents in the pockets of the already obscenely rich landowners. And that, clearly, cannot be tolerated; the Buzzards must die. Lucky then that they're a protected species.

Ah.

Not content with ridiculously flimsy legislation and a pathetic sentencing regime which allows codgery old gamekeepers to act with almost total disregard for the law, it now transpires that shooting-estates can successfully apply to Natural England (the governmental guardians of the countryside, whose mission statement includes "Securing a healthy natural environment for people to enjoy, where wildlife is protected") in order to get a licence to remove the Buzzards eggs and nests. Remove as in permanently remove. How can this be possible you might ask? Surely any agency worth it's salt would simply deny the aforementioned request, seeing as Buzzards are recovering from historical persecution and are legally protected? Just like our recovering population of Hen Harriers. Oh, wait...

What you have failed to grasp is that we don't live in a democracy. A sweeping statement I acknowledge, but any political system where the Minister for the Environment and Rural Affairs is a millionaire landowner with Pheasant-shooting estates and miles of fenced-off riverbank cannot possibly be democratic. I know, I can't quite believe it either, but you can see how convenient it is for the 0.5% of the population to have somebody like this in charge. Buzzards protected? Don't worry about it, if it costs you even the tiniest amount of money, we'll sort it out. And it is all about money. A proper blogger would have gone and got all the facts. How much revenue shooting estates generate. How many families they support (about 17). How much tax is paid, that kind of thing. I don't fancy doing that, so you'll just have to take my word for it. Shooting stuff is expensive. The landowners themselves probably don't shoot much, but they can raise a fabulous amount of money by letting other people do so, and there are plenty of people, it seems, willing to fork out. If a local Buzzard nobbles a few Pheasants, or even if it didn't and it was something else (perish the thought), that's one less bottle of port for a guy called Ronald with five middle names. Many more and he could be down a Range Rover. Yep, it's that serious.

So you can see why it makes complete sense to kill Buzzards, to eradicate Eagles, Kites and Hen Harriers, to cull Badgers, Gulls, and anything else that was here first in order to preserve that income stream. And what's more, you don't have to risk getting slapped on the wrist and being fined fifty quid because now you can get a licence from your lobbied-up pals at Defra and Natural England and do whatever the fuck you like with complete impunity. Everyone's a winner!

Except you, and me, and the indigenous wildlife, whose land this isn't.

Garden Tickery

In addition to my brilliance at driving to Margate and seeing yet another bird that somebody else found, I've also been putting in the hard yards in the garden. Drinking tea early morning is pretty tough going, and as for sitting around in the sunshine listening to TMS, well, frankly I'm a modern-day hero. My dedication has paid off however, with two garden/house ticks in three days, one each side of the completely genetically pure Duskyish Thrush.

Friday morning was #80. I had been going great guns since about 6ish, and with thoughts of breaking my personal garden best (not that I would ever be so sad as to record that*) I noticed two ducks coming in from the north. Bins up and they looked pretty white, but disappeared behind some trees before I could nail them. In nervous excitement I swung to the other side of the trees where I predicted they would reappear, which they duly did and were Shelducks. Superb, long-awaited, and if I'm honest fairly likely. Whilst watching Shelduck from Wanstead Flats, on numerous occasions I've been struck (and annoyed by) the line they appeared to be taking. Today that promise came good, albeit in the other direction.



I don't think I took a single photo of anything on Sunday, so here is another of the Cuckoo at Reculver

So, come Sunday, and having spent the entire previous day triumphantly wandering around Kent, I felt that the best place to be was at home en famille. The test match was on, and heading towards a rather thrilling conclusion. The sun was out, a less serious version of cricket was taking place in the garden, and it was all rather pleasant. Had a rarity been reported anywhere beyond about five minutes away, I doubt I'd have moved. As it turned out I didn't need to. On Friday morning I'd thought I'd heard the final phrase of Lesser Whitethroat, you know, the rattley bit, as opposed to the starting scratchy bit. It was very distant, from the direction of Bush Wood, and I couldn't in all good conscience rule out a phrase of Chaffinch. I was still highly suspicious though, even more so when on Sunday morning Nick reported Lesser Whitethroat from Bush Wood. Anyway, at some point during the day I heard it again, but closer, and this time I was even more convinced. Typically though it was only once so I carried on bowling, and may have succumbed to the temptation of chilled Rosé. I finally nailed it about an hour later when I heard the entire song coming from about four gardens away. #81. I let Tim know, as he lives pretty close, and it later transpired that Bob got it from his house as well - so three happy local birders. It continued to sing in brief bursts for the whole rest of the day, and I'm pleased to report that the entire family, man, woman and child(ren) got to hear it. Not that they keep garden lists of course. And naturally I don't keep garden lists for them....

*32. I didn't top this - the lunch break I had been hoping for never materialised, and I remained on 27 with several notable and easy omissions.

Saving it up for the BIG ONE!

It could have been several birds. It may yet be several birds, but for now, and as far as I know now, today's Dusky Thrush is my 400th UK tick. And that, as I'm sure you'll agree, is a pretty big one to get there with. Before you all rush to congratulate me on this magnificent achievement, my only "skill" is being able to drive and read a map. Twitching is all about the thrill of the chase; some people take it a step further and turn it into a competition, but that's not for me, although obviously anyone who has only seen three hundred and something is a complete loser. If I look back at all the birds I've seen between 200 and 400, just two have been found by me at the point they were lifers for me (by found I mean actually found, a genuine surprise, rather than rocking up to Cairngorm and 'finding' a Ptarmigan). So, there are many many people out there, from selfless patch-workers to full-on rarity finders, who have contributed to this monumental total, and to each and every one of you, Thank You.

Of course this takes nothing away from my stellar performance. I now enter the lower-mid echelons of the birding elite, and I can tell you I am feeling pretty smug. The last three weekends have been very tough, poised at 399 but with no driving necessary at all. Today however it all changed. A chance late-evening look at Twitter and a twinge of excitement at noticing a mega message. Dusky Thrush? Hmm, not seen one of those. I wonder if Bradders has seen one? Nope, he hasn't. In fact, I later learned that nobody had, or at least not in recent memory. Plans were hatched that accomodated people that had been boozing all night, and the alarm was set for silly o'clock. Margate Cemetery for 5am, and we were the first people there!

Not really, several hundred were keener than we are - not a huge surprise for what is effectively a first for Britain as far as those funny people called twitchers are concerned. As usual the standing around held no interest for me, and so I started poking around elsewhere. And then, of course, you notice people running back past you. A quick look at my phone (on silent, don't want all those twitchers year-ticking Corncrake!) and two missed calls! Gah! Retracing my steps in a calm yet efficient manner, a mass of people are where the original line was. Some indecorous running around from a great many middle-aged men, and then the bird did the decent thing and perched right up in the top of a tree where everyone could see it. A collective and audible sigh went up, and I believe several people actually fainted.

From then on in it was plain sailing. I became the most relaxed person on the face of planet Earth. Nothing, and I mean nothing, could possibly have phased me. The rest of the day was spent wandering around north Kent in a semi-soporific state. A ringtail Monties and a male Red-backed Shrike at Reculver were excellent, with a nice supporting cast of summer visitors, but I could have seen anything and barely noticed. In a daze, pleased to be outside, totally knackered after a long week at work and no sleep, but running on a turdus-induced high. I managed to get it together for a Cuckoo, and the Shrike was of course magnificent, as they always are. 

As I type, I am still in a daze. It has been a long old road. On the 11th August 2007, with nothing better to do I drove to Oare Marshes and saw a Sharp-tailed Sandpiper and several hundred people all going a bit nutty. Roll forward to 15th April 2009 and I was at Landguard with all three kids seeing my 300th bird, a Hoopoe. The next fifty took just over year, with number 350 being a Gull-billed Tern in Devon, a crazy day that also involved numbers 349 and 351 at opposite ends of the country. Since then progress has been slower, mainly due to my lack of appetite for dipping....

Then 2013 came around and the madness took over: Shetland, North Uist, my armchair, and finally Lincolnshire just under a month ago. 399, and the next one really counts! I mused over the top ten likeliest candidates, and got it spectacularly wrong. I'm pretty sure nobody would ever have tossed Dusky Thrush into the ring, but there you go. There have been plenty of surprises along the way, and no doubt there will be many more. Except that I might retire....

Getting it wrong

I recently decided that I would like to listen to the Zac Brown Band. I'd heard them on the wireless, they sounded pretty tight, it was my kind of music (i.e. had a banjo in it), job's a good 'un. The recommended album was called The Foundation, so I nipped onto Amazon and there it was. Click. Fairly expensive at £7.49 (most of my music is so deeply unpopular that I end up buying the CDs for a few pence) but hey, I was feeling flush, and I did really want this album. A few days later it turned up, so I eagerly unwrapped it, popped the disc into the player, and pressed play. What the?

Turning over the back of the CD case, the first track was called "Solid Rock". Not so bad surely? Second track, "Come Thou Font". Eh? The Zac Brown Band are bunch of good ol' boys from Georgia that sing about Fried Chicken and other mature themes, or so I thought. I skipped down the track listing. "What a friend we have in Jesus". "Holy Holy Holy". "O Come O Come Emmanuel".

Shit.

Here, encapsulated in one simple photo, lies the very real danger of online shopping.

In a way it's rather unfair, it's just too easy a mistake to make. Zac Brown Band, The Foundation vs The Brown Band, Foundations. Even the reviews of the ever-so-slightly religious one are in fact meant for the other one, and thus it gets five stars and glowing comments. Sucked me in I can tell you. As you can tell from the photo I now own both, and the one I actually wanted is excellent, properly good. So good that despite the fact they're a support act for Springsteen later this summer at a gig I've got a ticket for, I'm also going to see them the following evening at the Shepherd's Bush Empire. I booked it online, so let's just hope I don't turn up and find it's the God Squad...

Regressing

I'm currently looking at a large black lump that says 'Canon' on it. Poor spelling, and it doesn't even look like a cannon - I thought they were more pointy. It has lots of buttons on it as well, and a bit you appear to look though, although at the moment it's all dark. I thought cannons had a big hole in one end, and a bit you lit at the other, and that was it? I'm guessing it must have a use, though I'm buggered if I know what it is. No doubt it will all become clear in time.

Once upon a time I used to be an amateur bird photographer. Almost every morning I'd wake up early, pick up a camera, attach something called a lens to it, and go out on Wanstead Flats looking for birds to take pictures of. I can't tell you the last time I did that, I'm too busy to do anything but base functions. Sleep. Eat. And sometimes I don't even do that.... When I'm not sleeping or eating, I find myself staring at a couple of computer screens in Canary Wharf for like, ages. For this I get money, though this is no use to me as I have no time to spend it. I remember that I used to enjoy taking pictures, but I'm not sure I even have the cameras anymore. There is a suspicious-looking black lump in the corner of the room, but even if that did turn out to be a camera I doubt I'd remember how to use it. A real shame, as after many years of fruitless toil there came a point I felt I was actually getting somewhere. Nevermind, perhaps one day I'll be able to take it up again.

Mrs L told me I took this picture of a bird. I don't recall taking it, or even what the bird was called, but the photo does have my name in the top corner so I guess it must be true.

Dieting

Good old-fashioned exercise is not for me. I'm bad at it, and I don't have time. My poor dusty trainers. It's not as if I'm a complete slob though. I average out at roughly an hour per week on the sofa I think, and about a minute of television, if that. I walk a lot, typically carrying heavy and thus I assume calorie burning loads. Or maybe that's just back-breaking. Anyway, I walk far further per day than the average person walks in a week, and a gazillion times further than the pathetic government guidelines. Nonetheless, I would be the first to admit that a certain amount of excess baggage is lumped around my person. Mostly in the middle.....

Enter the new wonder diet that is the five-two diet. Five days off, two (non-consecutive) days on. I've tried the watching what you eat diets, they don't work. I assiduously watch what I eat, and then decide I would like some more of it, and so watch my myself eating that too. I just get fatter. I've no idea if this new brainwave will work for me either, but psychologically it's a lot easier. How hard can it be to get through a single day on minimal calories, knowing that a bagel is just around the corner? And then have several days off not even needing to think about it? Easy - and so it is proving. As I already said, the first five days of my new regime were incredibly easy as they were off days. Monday was my first on day, and it was a bit of a struggle. No breakfast, though mainly this was due to wall-to-wall meetings. A light lunch of pasta topped out at 260 calories, a miniature tuna sandwich can't have been anything at all, and I had plain roast beef for dinner which I estimated at around another 300 calories. The only slightly worrying fact pattern is that with a couple of coffees thrown in (can't give up the sugar, eeeugh) that left no room for anything green to pass my lips. Anyhow, I made it - and this on a work day when I had to have my thinking cap on, which I told burns the cals like nobody's business. Was I grumpy when I got home? Ever so slightly, but not so as you'd notice..... But this meant that yesterday was a complete joy! Poached eggs and hash browns for breakfast. Chicken, chips and salad for lunch. Smoked salmon, champagne (a minor celebration, more on this another time), a miniscule steak and a crème brûlée for dinner. I barely noticed I was dieting!

Today was my second on day, and it has been awful. I blew it big time at 9am with 250 calories of buttered bagel, and since then have had to suffer in silence. I've just eaten the world's smallest home-made (especially for me) turkey burger, a single cherry tomato, and a thimble of couscous. 120 calories? 150? I am starving, but this is OK as it would appear that I have at least 200 calories to go before I hit the magic 600. Fantastic, so what'll it be? Well, rather than waste this veritable bounty of as-yet unconsumed pleasure on food, I have just looked up what's in a glass bottle of wine. 550 for white, 510 for Red. I propose to push the boat out and open the white.

Happier times.....