Wild Goose chase!

Yesterday I finally got that elusive 119th species for the patch year list. This is the one that surpasses 2013 to make it my most productive ever patch year. Covid has been awful for many reasons, but time on the patch has been perhaps one of the few silver linings, and I think many of us locally have seen our lists of all types increase dramatically. For me it has mostly been my garden list that has benefitted, but I've also had four patch ticks as the year has progressed. Three of those were unsurprisingly from the house, although Whimbrel was subsequently seen whilst out and about a few days later, with the final and latest addition the two Common Cranes in September. I won't forget those in a hurry. The final target for 2020 was to beat my previous best score, and I was beginning to worry that I might fall short. Well, fall equal.

A most welcome White-fronted Goose has ensured I have made it over the line. A blog post I did a couple of days ago laid the foundations - tales of wild Geese, winter Swans and other goodies swirling around the edges of London in the murk. Yesterday's weather was more of the same, a rank start that didn't really improve much as the day went on. I spent the first hour on the balcony peering out into the gloom. At around 7.30am a flight of around 40 Greylags came through on their usual early morning commute from Walthamstow. They sounded like Greylags, but it was impossible to discern any details. Five minutes later another 16 came along. It was a teensy bit lighter and the birds were a teensy bit closer. This allowed me to at least establish that the regular very pale bird was amongst them, but nothing beyond that. 

Meetings beckoned. Meetings always beckon. But late-morning I managed to create a small window and headed out for the patch. Tony "prescient" Brown had suggested that the patch could be harbouring a decent Goose, and nearby Walthamstow had one as did Regent's Park. With a spring in my step I hastened over to Alexandra Lake.....and found nothing. Well, not nothing, but roughly the same number of Greylag that had flown over in the morning, including the pale one, and all the usual fare. I surveyed the western end from the mound, and then walked the southern edge of the pond stopping at the eastern corner and looking north. Nothing. Nada. Nichego. I returned home via hundreds of Common Gulls and not a lot else, but hey, at least I had tried. You have to be in it to win it.

The first message on my phone upon my return home concerned news of a White-fronted Goose. On Alexandra Lake. The same Alexandra Lake I had just returned from. Well that's a bit odd isn't it? Bob and Nick trundled over there and confirmed it, and so a short while later I had no choice but to manufacture some more time and head over myself, this time by bike. It is hard to describe my feelings. I would like to think that if I went out specifically looking for a White-fronted Goose that I wouldn't look straight through a White-fronted Goose. I suppose it could have been hiding around the corner, certainly it was not associating with any of the other Geese, but there remains a tiny niggling feeling that I've dropped a real clanger. It would not be the first time would it? I would swear it wasn't there when I was but I suppose I will never know. The happy ending to the tale though is that at the end of my short cycle ride a White-fronted and 119th Goose was waiting for me. This is only the third time I've seen this species on the patch in fifteen years, so a real rarity. The last time was in October 2016, which still ranks as one of my all time greatest patch moments. I didn't have a camera yesterday, but happily the goose was still there this morning when I did and the weather had improved dramatically. The big question now is whether I can add one more for a nice round 120? I know, I know. Never satisfied....

For anyone into latinised binomials this is the Euro-Russian sub-species of White-fronted Goose, Anser albifrons ssp albifrons. Albi means "Big duck thing", and frons means "not from Greenland". Or something.

The Rainham tick trail redux

There was news yesterday evening of a Marsh Sandpiper at Rainham. I sat and thought about it for a while. Marsh Sandpiper? Don't think I have seen many of those, did I see one in London? Not sure, let me check. As it happens if I had seen one in London I would have had to have been nine years old, as the last record was in 1984! This then was my Saturday morning - a twitch. Rainham is OK, a bit far I suppose but I have not twitched anything since the Little Bunting at Walthamstow in January so I didn't mind doing a few miles. This would be a triple - Rainham, London and Essex, so surely worth it.

With the weather having turned, I was confident the bird would be there this morning and whilst I got up relatively early I did not try that hard - unlike Rob "insomniac" Sheldon who commonly hits the patch at 5am. That was my plan too - there is currently a glut of Little Egret on the Ornamental Waters/Heronry, counts approaching 40 have been recorded and I was keen to get in on the action. However when the news came through at 6am that the Marsh Sandpiper was still there I regretfully abandoned thoughts of Egrets and drove straight to RM. Howard, his usual altruistic self, was there opening up and Ruth B was just setting out to the northern boardwalk where Andy was currently watching the bird on Aveley Pools. We didn't hurry, had a little natter, and were soon approaching the first viewing platform where we could see Andy, Hawky and TB. 

"Quick it's flying!" exclaimed Tony.

Of course it is, great gag TB. Funny man! OK, so where is it?

"I'm still on it, just to the left of the radar tower, high!" said Hawky. "I've lost it", said Tony.

"I though you were joking, you know, larking about!!?" 

"Nah, it flew with a Redshank just as you arrived, wondered why you weren't hurrying!"

Well crap. 34 years and I'm 15 seconds too late. High south. Not coming back. Next stop Sussex. Poo. So, pleasantries were exchanged, never let a big dip get in the way of being polite etc, and then with a nasty black cloud looming Gripper Tweed and Gripper Hawkins left, high-fiving every three paces. Ruth and I looked at each other and then at the cloud. It was easy decision, and so with Gripper Brown in tow we returned to the visitor centre passing Dippers Bacon and Mo on the way. So, not the ideal way to resume my twitching career after a six month break, but one should not dwell on these things or they will consume you. I've seen many birds come and go this year and not felt the slightest twitchy inclination, so not seeing another one didn't sting in the same way it might for others.

I hung around the visitor centre for a while chatting to a few London birders I'd not seen for a while having been "out of it", and then made my way home. There were after all several tonnes of Little Egret to go and count on the patch. Just as I turned off at Ilford the Marsh Sandpiper landed back on Aveley. The North Circular junction at Ilford is under a flyover and you can therefore get straight back on should you so choose. If for example you had just dipped a rare wader out on the A13 and were headed north on the A406, you could swing around and head south again if the bird was relocated. Very convenient. I arrived back at RM shortly thereafter and repeated my journey out to the northern boardwalk, this time without the rain. And this time at the end of my trot there was a Marsh Sandpiper, so all was well that ended well.

The bird was right on the other side, so I had excellent scope views but did not bother with the camera. Here instead is a twitch photo. Note a much happier Steve B on the right. This is my 195th Rainham species, and my 258th for London. I've some way to go to join the top listers of course, but lists are not everything I find. A fair number of the Wanstead guys had made the journey as well, and the viewing platform was all smiles and happiness, including Ruth who had staked serious money on the bird coming back. I should have listened to her! I saw the Prof as I left, on his way to erasing 34 years of pain and anguish. Apparently not living in London is no barrier to maintaining a London list. I have trouble maintaining a Wanstead list, not sure how he does it! Anyway, the rest of the day has been spent in the normal fashion piddling around in the greenhouse and earning brownie points. Ah yes, good old BPs, they still feature very heavily.....

What do you mean you can't see it?

Dedication's what you need!

Roy would be so proud, I'm a record breaker! In a last gasp score before the working week arrives, and with it February, I have secured my 72nd species for the patch in January. I am delighted, as for the last week I have continually drawn a blank on my frequent early morning forays to the Park. Today I trudged another seven miles, all the way to the OSW and then a full loop around the Ornamental Waters with Richard. And all for practically nothing - the Ornamentals are looking really quite good having now filled up again but are mostly devoid of birds. As we returned to the Perch Pond I decided to have one final look at the manure pile near the stables, and as predicted by Nick a Grey Wagtail flew up from alongside the heap and over towards the indoor paddock.  Yay!

My alternative was to go and hang around near the Roding for the Woodcock to come out and feed at dusk, something I really didn't fancy very much, so this eleventh hour tick saved me from having to do that and I was able to have a nice leisurely lunch at home avec vin. I will probably now see a Peregrine on the way to work tomorrow and a Snipe the day after that, this is how it goes sometimes. So a big score to top off a productive weekend which saw yet another trip to the dump (goodbye a bent bicycle wheel, a rotten wooden bird feeder, some more rusting tins of paint, and other assorted junk from our now 100% clear and functional shed, as well as some garden waste and the packaging material from our new bedside tables), some more DIY, the tidying of one of the understairs cupboards, and a trip out to Essex to pick up some plants.

Today was as dull as predicted and I didn't take a camera. In anticipation of this I saved this Great Crested Grebe from yesterday. I suspect that's the final photograph I will take in January, it has really been dreadfully unproductive - I've saved a mere 34 photos from the one morning that there was a hint of sunshine. 

A momentary lapse of reason

"I thought you had stopped twitching?"

I got that a lot at Spurn the other day. Er, yes, well. I'm not staying I've started again, but that bloody Accentor at Spurn called to me for some reason. Very contrary. I've managed to not be arsed nearly all year and consequently not seen some amazing birds, and then when a colourful Dunnock turns up I'm in the car like a shot. As Col put it: "I don't do twitching anymore preachy preachy oh hang on, Sibe what? Oh go on then."

With a frankly ridiculous crowd in the dark, I very quickly realised why perhaps it was that I had 'quit'. Hundreds of people all with the same thought. Must. See. The. Bird. At. All. Costs. A sudden surge to the fence line, like somebody had fired a starting pistol, then the masses sheepishly hauled out of the undergrowth by the local birders. I watched, irritated, from the pavement, and joined the queue that was then formed. This was a million times worse that the Lancey on Shetland, but this is mainland UK twitching in 2016. If you want to see the birds, this is what you sign up to. OK so it was worse than normal, this being the second ever UK record of Siberian Accentor, and the first gettable one without spending upwards of £500 - which more than a few people apparently did last week for the first one on Shetland. Nonetheless I suspect my twitching career could still be in its final throes.

It had calmed down by the afternoon when we went back for seconds, the 1200 or so having been sated, but that early morning stampede was amazing. It reminded me of the Kent Dusky Thrush in terms of the desperation, when will people ever learn? They won't.

Spurn itself was amazing. I've only been a few time before, but today was easily the best. Howard, Sam, Bradders and I were almost overwhelmed by the numbers of birds dropping out of the sky. 6 Woodcock, 15+ Ring Ouzels, 4 Redstart, Black Redstart, Shorelark and Jack Snipe accompanied thousands of Redwings and Robins. Chiffchaffs probably numbered 100, and whilst we didn't see all that was on offer, a Dusky Warbler and another Little Bunting were excellent value. Meanwhile Bean Geese, Brents and White-fronts chugged south as we picked through sheltered spots. A Firecrest in a ditch here, exhausted Goldcrests at our feet there, birds falling out of the sky almost everywhere you looked.

Goldcrest

The Little Bunting was a major tick for Sam, his number one bogey bird after a lifetime's birding. I remember being with him on Scilly as we dipped a one on St Mary's and then another on St Martins. In the intervening seven years he still hadn't bumped into one, so when Bradders and H called one along the path at Sammy's Point it was a special moment that I was glad I was there for. It showed well too, albeit briefly, and then with the number of birders about caused gridlock at the end of the road - we could barely get back to Easington. All in all a rather spectacular days birding, even if we didn't see all of what was there - simply too many people for that. When brigade numbers of green-clad warriors are actively twitching a Shore Lark you know something is very very wrong. 

Little Bunting

Shorelark

So will my twitching career now see a resurgence? I doubt it, but as with many things in life, never say never. I once said I would never eat a chickpea again for instance, but I had one yesterday. So the odd choice bird perhaps, but I can safely say that the herd mentality isn't for me. That said the earnest evening phone calls, the midnight pickup and whispered conversations in the driveway, and then the drive through the night (thanks H!).... well it was like old times, palpable excitement building in the car, adrenalin overcoming tiredness. And of course the journey passed with the sharing of memories, past glories and silly stories in good company. And it's that as much as the bird that often make these days as good as they are. A solo drive and a brief glimpse just wouldn't be the same, it's a shared experience, success or failure. Happily it was a success, as it frequently is. Spare a thought however for the eight birders who haven't seen a Siberian Accentor this year.

Dusky Warbler

Twitching - did I waste my time?

My twitching efforts this year have been practically non-existent. I flirted with a Broad-billed Sandpiper in the spring, and turned around about half way and went home after it flew off. That’s it. I have not travelled to Cornwall to see a Pelican. I did not go to Devon for the Lammergeir. I didn’t go to Suffolk for the Purple Swamphen and have no plans to go to Lincolnshire for it. A White-winged Scoter that spent several months in Aberdeenshire was spurned, and an eminently gettable Cliff Swallow on Scilly was similarly ignored. No doubt there are several more examples of crazy megas that I have simply not bothered for.

I have recognized for a long time that my annual tick haul has been going down and down, however to fall off a cliff like this has surprised even me. You could say that I have grown up. Alternatively you could say that I have been unable to stay the course. Both are I think accurate. On the former point I have just had several face-to-face encounters with Pacific Golden Plovers. The views were fantastic, incredible even. I savoured them, I spent over an hour watching a single bird on a beach. A couple of years ago I haired it up to Norfolk to get distant views of one near Salthouse. The experiences could not have been more different, however only one of them increased my UK list by a species. I enjoyed the close-up encounter far more, the listing element has somehow diminished in importance.

But there’s the rub. Back in 2009 it was important, or it felt like. I’ve never been the type of manic twitcher who drops everything and just goes, elevating a tick on a list above any other consideration. I’ve been quite restrained really, however I have made a significant effort to see many of the 435 birds on my UK list. Some of them have been trips that required huge amounts of planning, time off work, and return journeys of 1500 miles. Others have required ridiculously early starts, driving through the night, staggering down unpleasant shingle spits, getting wet, cold and in some cases trampled. All to add a single bird to a list. So to all of a sudden completely stop, to consciously decided that I am not going to bother to add a bird to list (or attempt it at least), how does that reconcile with the immense effort that I have previously put in? Was it all in vain? Why, basically, did I bother if I wasn’t going to keep it up?

Well I didn’t know that at the time I suppose, and also I don’t like the attitude of not bothering to do something if you think you’re going to ‘fail’. It was what I did and [mostly] enjoyed during a particular time in my life. I was driven by the exuberance of youth. Yes, early thirties is still youth. Pffff. But now I’m not particularly interested anymore and it’s other thrills that are taking precedent. Like gardening for instance, a hobby far more suited to a middle-aged duffer like me – my early forties have seen a marked change in my approach to adrenaline….  Admittedly I’ve been interested in plants for almost as long as birds, but the appeal of a thirty yard walk to my greenhouse is not lost on me versus, say, Bodmin.

a memorable bird for all the right reasons

Nonetheless I still look back with some fondness on some of those twitches. At the time the vast majority of them did not feel like a chore in the slightest, and I had a lot of fun. Some of did of course fall into the “going through the motions” category – birds I had almost no interest in seeing other than the fact that they were new for my list. Short-toed Treecreeper. Zitting Cisticola. American Coot. American Herring Gull. Black Duck. The last three I saw in a single weekend, so the pain was condensed into a very short period, but honestly, talk about dull. These few however were eclipsed by a multitude of glorious birds, some of which I’ve barely seen anywhere else. Oriental Pratincole. Black Scoter. Cream-coloured Courser. Harlequin Duck. Northern Waterthrush. I could go on and on. Some others were glorious but only briefly so, leaving more of a feeling of relief rather than elation, much less satisfaction. Lesser Kestrel. Common Yellowthroat. Blue-cheeked Bee-eater. All fall firmly into this category – mad scrambles resulting in rubbish views, all for that magic counter to tick upwards by one digit.

As mentioned, this year that counter has not advanced at all, or at least not through any action on my part. There remains the beauty of armchair ticks, new birds you can add to your list without needing to do anything. Brilliant! Absolutely perfect for my current frame of mind. I was probably abroad encountering very rare UK birds at extremely close range, and when next hit wifi I discovered I had gained a couple of armchair ticks with the 2011 Rainham Slaty-backed Gull and the somewhat dubious Kent Chinese Pond Heron in 2014. How on earth did that one get the nod? 

Whatever. It's just a number.

Oh my poor buttocks

Following on from a recent post where I said I had been looking at my bike, today I did more than just look at it and got on it. Now before you say 'hang on a sec, I didn't bloody click on Not Quite Scilly', this is Jono and not Gavin. I'm just having a moment, you'll have to indulge me. Now last year in about May I had a health check up of the sort than many newly-minted 40 year olds have. The results were hardly astounding. Eat less, drink less, do some exercise (you podge) and you will lose weight, your blood pressure which is a teensy bit high will go down, and your blood sugar which is definitely too high will go down. I did none of these things, at least not meaningfully, and carried enjoying my if not entirely sedentary lifestyle, one which was rich in the finer things in life. Like gin. And bacon. Not together.

This Christmas was the usual gluttony and excess, and on January first I went off birding, not realising quite how incapable I had become. 12 miles should not have been so hard. This is pathetic I decided, and resolved there and then to do something about it. This involved less stuffing my face, zero booze (for as long as I can bear it), and the dreaded exercise. On January the second and third I put in another few miles despite the intense pain, figuring that I ought to just man up and walking doesn't count as exercise, and then today, with the shins still smarting and the toe wincing, hopped on the bike. I have not cycled anywhere for a long time, and it was surprisingly refreshing.

There are a number of things I like about it, there are a number of things I don't like about it. Let's start with those. Just because.

Cons

• Oh my God how much do my buttocks hurt? I know from prior experience that this will lessen over time and eventually disappear altogether, but I also know quite how awful the second ride is. Today this came only eight hours after the first, but boy did I know all about it. I am dreading tomorrow morning
• The commute home. Mornings are fine really. It is light, you are fresh, the promise of gainful toil awaits. In the evening the story is entirely different. It is dark, you are tired from mental strain, you wish to be home, and your buttocks hurt like hell. That DLR seat never looked so good.
• Your colleagues get to see you dress up to leave...
• Lycra

Pros

• It is actually faster than public transport! No word of a lie, even with a pudgy birder doing the pedalling. 35 minutes there, 37 minutes back. Six miles each way and I've shaved 20 minutes off my daily commute.
• No public transport crush. No other peoples' armpits.No waiting. No strikes!
• I can have a shower when I get to work, and emerge onto the office floor looking and smelling radiant, as opposed to the Central Line turning me into a bedraggled mess.
• Better still, when I get home I can have a shower again, and the key benefit of this is that I will change into normal clothes. Stupid though it sounds, not spending the evening in work clothes could dramatically change my outlook on life.
• It is free!! OK, so I have just spent the equivalent of a month's travel pass on getting my bike serviced (new brakes, new cables) by this will soon pay off. I just cashed in half an annual tube ticket and the princely sum of £500 is soon going to land in my grubby little paws. I am going to spend it all on booze in February.
• And then of course there is the pure satisfaction of just doing it. I've not yet experience the endorphin rush or whatever it is called, but even though I am knackered I have to say I feel a little bit perky. Strange but there you go. 

I'm very interested to know how soon I will notice a difference from this minor lifestyle change. Presumably my body will do its utmost to preserve those carefully squirreled fat-reserves, so I will need to stick at it for a while. What I will be able to notice, instantly, are the miles I eat up and how I eat them up. None of this silly little bike computer thing with a doofer on the wheel, no that is severely outdated technology. These days you just use your phone, assuming you have not dropped it. I have been pointed in the direction of something called Strava. You touch a button to say you are leaving, you touch again when you get there. Like Oyster but free. This amazing app then records your time over individual segments of your journey, so you can see if you are getting faster. Or not as the case may be. It also shows you the times of those segments achieved by other users of the app......ah. So, on the nice smooth ride away from my house and through the middle of Wanstead Flats I am currently the ......509th quickest person to do it. Somebody called Buster did in two minutes what took me three and a half. But I know why. On that stretch of road there are several sets of traffic lights, and I bet you that Buster stopped for NONE OF THEM. As a brand new cyclist (kind of) I am very good and stop for all of them, however after just 12 miles I can already begin to see why so many cyclists completely ignore them. I hope to remain good, but the lure of the stat could see the odd transgression!

I am Pomegranate

I've just been to a spa for the third time in my life. The second time was last night. The first time was at Heathrow about a week ago, which involved a lady trying to rip my spine out and which subsequently needed a great deal of Champagne to aid recovery, Luckily I had a nine hour flight, and so limped on board and mumbled something like "Grand Siècle and keep it coming" before collapsing. But clearly it wasn't mentally or physically damaging enough to put me off as I've just been twice on the trot. This is the new metrosexual me, and the most recent visits were wonderful. I'm not talking the kind of spa where people have bits of cucumber stapled to their faces, or are karate-chopped to within an inch of their life, though this is available too should you require it. The 'signature' treatment involves being lain in a bath and converted into a giant living piece of sushi with hebridean seaweed, but I didn't go for that either. Instead I went for something billed a thermal experience, with all sorts of different rooms of varying heats and latin names, as well as a couple of pools with SIGNIFICANT BUBBLES. In this respect it is somewhat similar to the turkish baths I once and never again went to somewhere in north London about ten years ago. Booked by a highly cultured friend keen on the finer things in life, and as a latin teacher someone in the know, a lowlight was entering one particular room to find one fat naked man whipping another comparably fat and identically naked man with some kind of stick contraption. I've never really recovered from seeing that and have not set foot in any remotely similar establishment since. Until yesterday.

I had a somewhat short turnaround from Poland to Glasgow, where I now am. Did I mention I went to Poland? No? Well, more on that later, but my three hours of sleep between airports did not have the kind of refreshing impact anticipated, and so after a solid day of work I retired to my hotel and noticed that it had a spa. I've stayed here many times before, so many times in fact that the loyalty points would get me a 52-piece cutlery set that I don't need. But I have never been to the spa. Colleagues who have also stayed here report that the spa is in fact the main selling point, whereas I had actually thought it was the bar. Not feeling in the mood for cocktails, and noting that the spa might have a relaxing effect conducive to the kind of sleep normally reserved for the dead, I shimmied into the provided bathrobe and headed to the dark recesses of the basement. And what a revelation! I enjoyed a pool with side-mounted and upper-back height water jets powerful enough to downgrade a certain lady at Terminal 5 to a mere tease, as well as a something billed as a vitality pool whose main draw was the ability to to create thigh farts at will and inflate my trunks in about three seconds flat to then cause a massive bubble explosion. Yes, I am very zen. There was a sauna which was too hot, and something called a saunarium which was bearable but incredibly boring. Top place however went to a steam room infused with pomegranate. No, really. It was like stepping into a tetrapak and then being microwaved. I swear that when I sneezed a pip came out. There was some guff on a sign near the door about pores, but reading it would have meant less time inhaling fruit. Wow! I am a convert, a slave to the lure of steam and tropical aromas. And with apologies to anyone visiting the Blythswood in search of purity, abundant health and things like that, pomegranate must have unique healing properties as the massive blister acquired in Poland slogging it up mountain tracks has almost completely disappeared. 

My Patch is Incredible!

I am almost lost for words. Not quite though. Sorry. My patch is incredible. Amazing. Good, e-ven. This evening I saw my third Wryneck in four years. I live in zone three. I am about four miles from Canary Wharf, that bastion of avian dreams. I am surrounded by humanity, my patch is overrun with activity. And yet the birds still come. Two Stone-curlews, innumerable Whinchats and Wheatears. Annual Pied Flycatchers. And now yet another Wryneck.

Bob found it. Or refound it, an interloper (cheers James!) had found likely the same bird earlier in the week. In the same hawthorn that the Nightingale had been in earlier in the week, sitting in the sunshine. Admiring the patch. I don't know what to say, it's bordering on the sensational, and I am quite emotional about it. I can scarcely believe that I live here, and have all this literally on my doorstep.

I spent an hour or so kicking bushes, after nearly expiring whilst running over to the Broom Fields. It had unfortunately disappeared. I pretended to leave, and naturally it popped up. Cries of "Jono!" from Bob and Marco had me scurrying back and there it was. I drank it in, euphoric, and then nabbed Nick's camera and took a quick shot. Hope it's there tomorrow!!

Basic needs

I studied French and Management Studies at university. The French bit was fairly obvious - Zola, Maupassant, Cezanne, asking if you have any pets, Chagall, Magritte, that kind of thing. I can still vaguely recall some of the texts I read, some of the paintings I studied. I've still got quite a few of the books, as well as various coffee-table books of the paintings. What I gleaned from them I can barely remember, but I did find my dissertation in which I managed to insert a Darth Vader quote right under the noses of the examiners. On the Management Studies bit I am less clear. There was something about EU Competition Law, and the amusingly titled Abuse of a Dominant Position, which even as a 19 year old was quite amusing. We also did some kind of case study on The Pier, a shabby chic home décor chain which clearly didn't listen to us as they closed down in 2008. Whatever else I did in those three years I am completely unable to say, but I came away with a piece of paper denoting achievement and glory. None of it, to my knowledge, has proved of any use whatsoever, beyond being able to show people the piece of paper when asked.

So I was very pleased to have my memory jogged by the BBC News website recently, when it published an article about Maslow. For those of you that don't know, Maslow was a man who studied human motivation, and devised the eponymously-named Maslow's Triangle, or Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs. I remembered it instantly, though the context remains lost in the past. Presumably it was some kind of wishy-washy Human Resources module. The theory is that you start at the bottom with very basic needs, food and warmth for instance, and gradually move up the triangle until you reach the peak, which is complete fulfilment and happiness, and, presumably, uninhibited productivity for your employer. I'm nearly there.

However to one side of the article was a fresh interpretation of Maslow's most famous work, which I have nabbed and posted below. It made me giggle, not quite as much as photo-shopping Tropicbirds it has to be said, but sufficiently to motivate me to write about it. It's sublimely brilliant, hat's off to whoever first came up with it - there are endless variations on the net. Pure simplicity, but so true. I'm as guilty as the next person, as my recent visit to Ireland proved. Food - sliced bread that was left over from a gull photography session. Water - one bottle lasted three days. Shelter - Nissan Qashqai. Warmth - Nissan Qashqai heater and a sleeping bag. All of the above are completely superfluous to surviving in the digital age, but wifi? Critical. I need to check Twitter. I need to look at RBA. I need to see if anyone has emailed me. I need an internet connection. Food, water, not bothered. Warmth? Whatever, what's the password? Shelter? Will it work through the walls if I'm sat in the Nissan?

The need to be connected at all times beggars belief. I was having dinner in the rather nice little village of Skerries just outside Dublin. All alone, I spent the time watching the other diners. At a table of four just in front of me, the young lady in the party spent the entire meal, and I mean the entire meal, on Facebook. She chatted a bit, responded to the conversation as it ebbed and flowed, but her right hand always held the phone, scrolling back and forth, seeing whatever pathetic updates and links have come through from a pile of people she barely knows. I suppose I'm hardly the ideal person to be criticising this ridiculous over-use of the internet, but that never stops me on other topics, so I got to wondering what it is like to be completely off piste? Is there even anywhere? I reckon most places I go, all of them now have wifi. It's the first thing people ask for, so it's the first thing that people install. It's a selling point. How many hotels have a crappy little telly and tea and coffee making facilities? They all do. My last hotel had a trouser press, how quaint! Nobody cares, they just want wifi. My hotel on the tip of Tobago had wifi, Kilbaha (population, 9) had wifi, various places in Morocco had wifi, the Shetland ferry in the middle of the North Sea has wifi,. Where can I go that doesn't have wifi? I want to see if I can survive more than a day.

Post Holiday Blues

They have struck. Are striking. Will continue to strike. Jeez I love holidays. Other than birding the patch, ahem, they're the best thing ever. However yesterday's eleven hour day in the mines banished all thoughts, all memories, all recollections of what was a fabulous time away. It is amazing how quickly it fades. My boss described me today as being in post-holiday shock, and which looking at my three page to-do list (none of it involving relaxing or having a good time) I can well believe. Apparently I have been very quiet, a sure sign, she says, of stress. She is probably right, the last couple of days have been intense. The happy news is that as of that eleven hour day on Monday, I was once again a permanent employee. Pensions, holiday rights, healthcare, and an opt out from the 48 hour European Working Time Directive. Oh yes, I am back. This is no mean feat I will have you know. My chosen sector is not an easy one to get into, especially after time away. So despite my grumblings, I am quietly pleased to have managed to get back in. I am a conservative and sensible person, a full-time job is a must have, and I always felt slightly uncomfortable being a contractor.

I am of course back at the same institution that dispensed with me some four years ago. I had just started this blog, which I hope was unrelated. A short while later, the news came and I was one of those people you read about in the papers, stood outside a shiny building with a cardboard box in my arms. I faced the future with aplomb, of course, and threw myself into the job of becoming a full-time domestic goddess. I became amazing at this, by my reckoning. By Mrs L's reckoning, I just about scraped average some weeks. It did make for better blogging than when working of course, and in the two years I had away from a career I put in the groundwork to become a better photographer. So in 2009 you got a load of crap, which at the time I felt was stunning, whereas now you get this, which in a couple of years I may well also dismiss as total crap, but which currently, and humbly, I think is pretty good.

Such a beautiful gull

You also got domestic poetry. How long has is been since I was this creative? And of course, blue sky thinking, with clarity of thought that remains as true today as it was then. Re-reading some of these posts with yesterday's news in mind, it is clear that I am very weak and, at the time, somewhat unrealistic. Never go on the central line again? Ever?! Pah - I am a total idiot! And how much gardening did I do? Precisely none, and the garden only got sorted out when I returned to work and hired a gardener. Many of the things about birding were true though. So, there you have it, I am back.

Of course, I've been back for a long time. Back on the central line almost two years ago in fact. Nothing actually changed yesterday, it is purely symbolic. But it's still interesting to go back and read my incredibly naive posts from a time when my life was moving in exactly the opposite direction, and see what I felt about it then. Was it a peak, or a trough?! How will I ever know? Hah! I think I know well enough, and the fact remains that the two years I spent not working are right up there as amongst the two best years of my life. I probably didn't make the most of them, certainly not in terms of changing direction, but then I am very very lazy deep down. But I did have a fab time with my kids who at the time were small and appreciative of daddy being at home. Look how big they are now!!

Life moves on, and my holiday is over.

Belgium Minibreak

As if I have not travelled enough recently, on Sunday I made a last minute decision to visit Belgium. The reason? Heroism, pure and simple. Heroism comes naturally to me. As naturally, say, as wishing to have a large stock of excess Brownie Points available for twitching far-flung Hebridean islands. So it was a pretty easy decision to for me, on finding that Mrs L and two thirds of my descendants were stranded in Belgium, to mount an immediate rescue mission. The problem? Mrs L, handbag connoisseur and noted security expert, had had her car key stolen in Brussels. To be absolutely clear, it had not fallen out, unnoticed, from her massively-overstuffed handbag that does not close properly. Never in a million years could that ever have occurred, and I most definitely have never mentioned this ridiculously obscure possibility to her. No, stolen. Stolen by a heinous criminal gang who had used incredible guile and agility to somehow gain entry to her handbag - amazing that they weren't suffocated by Tesco receipts in the process.

After an afternoon of faffing about with the Belgian RAC, after which it was determined that they could not start the car, nor now lock it back up again, the obvious solution began to dawn on me. The quickest way to regain access to the car and thus return the family to Chateau L and domestic bliss would be for me, Superfatherhusband, to personally and immediately travel to Brussels with the second car key. The second car key is my car key. It lives in my pocket, which I pat approximately once every twenty seconds to ensure its continuing presence. I am not paranoid at all. I gave my pocket another reassuring pat. Yup, one car key, all present and correct. Amazing, and so the plan sprung into action. My brilliant neighbours could take Muffin overnight, so he packed a small bag. Meanwhile I retrieved my passport from its ultrasafe secret hiding place, checked that my wallet – on a CHAIN attached to my belt was still attached – and that the remaining Euros from Spain were still in it. Check. Ipod zipped up in jacket pocket? Check. House Keys in case Mrs L had lost them too had them stolen too? Check.

With the Eurostar website down, I had no choice but to go to St Pancras and chance it. Chance is a fine thing, and so I got a seat on a train leaving 20 minutes later. Not long after that I was in my fourth European country in a week, and under cover of darkness I infiltrated Belgium, my fifth. The location of the car was pre-set on the sat-nav on my phone – attached to me via ANOTHER CHAIN (OK, so I am perhaps a touch paranoid; then again, have I ever lost my phone or wallet?) and so also still present (for the avoidance of doubt that means that it hadn't fallen in a puddle, or down the toilet.... ) but in the event it proved unneccesary as Mrs L's good friend and object of Brussels visit, Jo, was there to meet me, probably in disbelief that I would be on the train and needing to check it out just to be certain. A taxi to the car, and we were reunited! Rejoice! And then Mrs L and the girls came down the stairs - more rejoicing!

The moment of truth. Did I still have my car key, or had the Brussels phenomenon struck twice! Hah! Of course I had it, one simple click and the car was ours again. Family in, seat adjusted, mirrors set, and we were off. Warp speed through northern France as, already approaching midnight we needed to catch the last shuttle before a serious gap in the schedule. We made it with quite a bit of time to spare. A scary moment when the car wouldn't start when we arrived in Kent; not because it  wouldn't start at all, but because in order to start it I had to entrust Mrs L with my key whilst I fiddled with the battery. Luckily she managed to keep hold of it for five seconds and we were off again, once again with me selflessly taking the wheel and guiding us safely to Wanstead. A great success, up there with the best of twitches!

I was in bed by 3am, and in work on time the next morning, though the coffee consumption was excessive by anyone's standards. So, a lovely little trip - I've never been to Brussels before, and I have to say that during my lengthy stay it looked pretty nice. Of note were the taxi driver not having the faintest clue where he was going yet driving at about 100kph through suburban streets, and a Nespresso shop where on another day I might have sourced some decaf, of which I have run out. Next time I have to rescue Mrs L from a foreign city I'll be sure to research the retail options before leaving.

In addition to the above heroic tale, I have three other pieces of news. The first is that I almost accurately predicted that Sunday would be a great day for Buzzards and Red Kites on the patch. Before I was called upon to don my cape and mask, I had scored three of the former, but the Red Kite came through the following day when I was at work earning money for Eurostar tickets.

The second is that also on Sunday, I had a first winter Gull go over the Flats with a very clear black "W" starting on the leading edge of the upper wing. Distant, I could not pick it up with the camera for an ID-clinching shot, and in my excitement I didn't think through the options very clearly and am thus forced to concede that I cannot assign it safely to either Kittiwake or Little Gull, even though it was undoubtedly one or the other, and I need both for the patch. Upon reflection, the flight mode was that of a Gull and not a Tern, though this is hardly a concrete ID feature. So, elation tinged with bitter regret on that front.

The third piece of news is that during a short break from saving the world, I have managed to find time to put together a post of gratuitous photos of Lesser Kestrel from my second-most recent European trip. You can find it here, meanwhile I am off to check on the progress of the Telephone Box being installed outside the house.

 

Hard work

The patch is hard work at the moment. After having been bracketed by Green Sands, I've been out at five in the morning two days on the trot. The rewards have been scant to say the least. I picked up what is probably a record count of Greylags, when a flock of 16 landed on the playing fields, and thus added themselves to the family of nine on Alexandra Lake, but the mere fact I am mentioning Greylags is an indication of the slimness of the pickings.

There has been little time for much else. Towards the end of the school year about a million and one events take place, so I have been to two sports days, one parents evening, two ballet classes, one cricket session and a lot more besides. Happy news today from the latest sporting extravaganza is that Muffin is officially the fastest kiddo in Year 2, or at least he was today. Fastest boy I should add, he didn't race against any of girls, but some of them looked pretty speedy. It's all down to me of course. Not the DNA I hasten to add, that wouldn't help him, but we have watched Chariots of Fire seven times in the last two days, and I've been giving him Mr Mussabini pep talks, including one right before the race about not looking at the other kids during the race. Not all of this is true by the way. He did win though, attaboy!

Here, have a Grasshopper. I once saw a totally amazing photo of a Grasshopper in this pose. I can't remember where, but I remember being dead impressed and wanting to try and recreate it. This does not come close to the perfection of the particular photo I have in mind, but it's a start, and seeing as Wanstead Flats is Grasshopper Central at the moment, I should have many opportunities to have another go.

One to go

Another day of ups and downs, but ending on a high. I started the day with a tick, always good - an early start in the garden. I was determined to get Meadow Pipit on the garden list given the increasing numbers on the Flats of late. It took over an hour, but finally two birds went over with a bouncy flight and giving the required squeaks. How I had failed to get one until now I have no idea. Oh, wait....

Anyway, finally I could go out on the patch, which is what I had wanted to do from the start. One more piece of toast and I was on my way, though not for long. The pager kicked into life just as I had completed the SSSI and Broom Fields with news of Guillemot flying west past Crossness. Gah! Another awesome seabird flying up the river on strong westerlies. What goes up must come down, so off to Rainham I went and plonked myself on the balcony, there to watch the river. Which was dead. I picked up a Sanderling on the Crayford foreshore, but it was otherwise very quiet.

On the Serin Mound, Paul wasn't having much luck either. That was until the Raven flew past him. Knowing I was on the balcony looking for auks on the river, he quickly called me, and I ran through the visitor centre to scan over the A13 where it had been flying.

I'll save you the agony, I didn't get it. I think needing to squeeze through the door sideways may have slowed me down. Also, I think it had been dropping steadily, and perhaps I wasn't looking in quite the right direction. Still on the phone he told me it had dropped just as I got onto where it had likely been flying. Another one that got away, and an exellent London bird. Bummer, as they say, and a bit of a downer. I was almost unable to believe that I had been so close to seeing it and had missed it, but there you go, that's birding. I missed an Arctic Skua by approximately the same margin earlier in the year and managed to claw it back. This is the second time in recent days that a Raven has been seen in the area, so I'm hopeful of picking one up soon if I spend enough time on the reserve.

Still on the ramp, my phone rings again, this time it's Johnny A from Beddington with the good news that the Pectoral Sandpiper has been relocated. Up, Down, Up, Down. I wasn't quite sure which this was. On the one hand it was a bird I had never seen in the London area, and one more towards 200. On the other hand there was a Raven nearby and the possibility of a Guillemot drifting down on the ebbing tide, and, as I have mentioned, Beddington is a right old trek.

Obviously I went to Beddington as that was the most hypocritical option available. It didn't take nearly as long as I remembered, perhaps because I took the motorway instead of trying to navigate across South London. Once there I followed Johnny's directions and found the lagoon. It didn't have a Pec Sand on it. Arse. I scanned the three lagoons for over an hour before Johnny joined me. He concurred that I wasn't just being useless and that it genuinely wasn't present, so suggested we look at the pools at the top end of the farm that it had been favouring a couple of days ago.

We went cross-country - no way would I ever have found the correct route, the site is enormous - and eventually arrived at the pools. Nothing doing. Hmmm. For some reason I decided I'd have a quick look at an unlikely looking pool with no muddy fringes, and there it was, feeding on a small island. Result! The cap was extremely rufous, I can see why Johnny had considered Sharp-tailed for a moment initially.

Such a smart bird, and easily the best view I have had of one. I approached to the edge of the pool, as close as I could get to it, and took a few record shots. With all the nonsense over the London year-list record attempt last year, I'm trying to document as many of the birds that I see as I can, either with a photo, or by seeing them with someone else present. And anyway, I like taking photographs, as you probably know by now. When I get a moment, I'm going to create a London 2010 page on this blog so that people can check up on me. For now though, here is the proof.

Pec Sand is a new bird for the London area for me, and also happens to be #199 for the year. My thanks to Johnny, who generously let me in and showed me round, and who probably wanted to go and have some lunch rather than trek across Beddington again. So, one more required, and then I can relax. I wonder what it'll be? Lapland Bunting perhaps - I have learnt the call in readiness. If I get there, I suspect I'll still go for things, but without all the angst. Well, without some of it perhaps. Bar the guy who holds the record, I'm not sure anyone has ever done 200 within the LNHS recording area in a year before. Yes, I know, I have no idea how I will cope with all the kudos and adulation.

Patch Milestone

Cornwall was fairly gripping. I was out of mobile range for much of the time, and whenever I did momentarily get a signal, my phone was bombarded with a flurry of text messages. Most of them were from Wanstead, where the faithful were seemingly having a rather good weekend. Tree Pipits, Wheatears, Whinchats, Spotted Flycatchers and Redstarts were all on the menu, and languishing on 99, my Wanstead yearlist dearly needed the latter two.

Despite a marathon eight hour journey from Cornwall, including popping my offside front tyre on a sadistic and unnecessary curb, my first thoughts were to get out on the Flats to see if they were still there. I am ashamed to say I didn't even go home first.

Nick was still there, fiercely guarding the Hawthorn of Redstart happiness from all comers. I decided to have a quick look for the Spotted Flycatchers first, and was rewarded with two very close birds for a 2009-equalling 100 on the patch. Last year I didn't get there until December 22nd, so who knows where I'll end up. 101 perhaps?

I returned with my camera from the car, but the Flycatchers had relocated to a more distant area of bushes so I decided to concentrate on the Redstart instead. These are amongst my favourite of all birds, and seeing it was the work of moments. I stayed on one side of the bush, Nick walked towards the other side. He hadn't taken more than a few steps when a female-type Common Redstart hopped out into the low branches on my side. I whistled and gave the thumbs-up, Nick stopped, and the Redstart hopped back in. We had retreated and started chewing the fat when I noticed movement a bit further away. We moved round a bit for a better angle, and found a male Redstart sat low in some burnt brambles. Superb, and definitively 101.

I need to go back and re-read what my goals for 2010 were, but I think I'm right in saying that getting 100 on the patch was one of them, and possibly it was getting more than 100. Whichever, I'm an achiever, and anything else is a bonus. Osprey please.

Seeing as I'm done so early, I may add a late goal, which is to find an unfortunate photo of Bradders and post it up here in high-res. He has very cruelly taken advantage of my broken foot and associated reduced speed of camera-avoidance, and whilst on Blakeney Point a couple of weeks ago snapped me in a rather unflattering pose. I suppose I do need a haircut, but to compare me with a C-list celeb like Susan Boyle is most unkind, even if people do come up to me on Porthgwarra and ask how my toe is.

Kestrel hunting small mammals sheltering in my hair.

A tale of two Es

The other day I went back to Canary Wharf, E14, to sign the final bit of "Goodbye" documentation. What an extraordinary place, did I really work here? In shorts and flip-flops, and with two children in tow, I was rendered miraculously invisible to the average Wharfer, and so was able to peer, unobserved, into their world, which used to be mine. Tall, blonde, athletic-looking men with swished-back hair talked a variant of Scandinavian at each other as they walked briskly by, no doubt it was highly highly important. A smartly dressed and very pretty lady clutched a three foot tall latte. A man marched by attempting simultaeneously to type on a Blackberry. The over-riding impression was one of a lack of time. Everyone seemed in a massive hurry. I knew my new life wasn't quite as pacy as before, but have I slowed down so much that it becomes that marked?

This scene contrasts sharply with Leytonstone, E11, today. As I walked to the Post Office, I passed a pub with some tables on the pavement. At one of these tables lounged a tatooed teenage bint, who, as I approached, took a large swig of lager, lit a fag, and then sauntered ahead of me to the Post Office. Laden with child, packages, and an additional 12-15 years, I ended up behind her in the queue. She proceeded to draw her benefits, in tens, and was back in the sun enjoying the remainder of her pint and a new cigarette by the time I passed by on my way back to the car. She didn't seem in too much of a hurry.

I have no point to make really, just that people adjust to whatever circumstances they find themselves in. I'd like to think I was never really one of the Canary Wharf crowd, but probably to an onlooker I would have appeared just like the people I saw the other day. Neither would I like to think that I have anything at all in common with the wastrel I saw today, but there are certain parallels. I haven't yet started boozing it up in the afternoons at the taxpayers' expense, but there are sunny days where I accomplish virtually nothing other than staring at the sky. Not today though. Today was a day of high achievement. Sainsburys, Beckton. The Biscuit Aisle, and a revelation:

Over the course of a year, the savings could be substantial. This packet also has "Scilly '09" written all over it.

Just reward for bashing the patch

There is something special about working a patch. Partly it is getting to know an area really well, going out with specific targets in mind at certain times of year, sometimes scoring, sometimes not - but there is an aura of excitement on every trip, else you would stop going. Partly it is that you have it to yourself. In your eyes, it is your patch. Yours. Nobody else's. Everything there for you to discover for yourself. And partly of course it is just luck.

I left the house before 6am this morning, and the luck kicked in. Given I had risen at stupid o' clock with the firm intention of finding a Ring Ouzel, this was somewhat of a welcome surprise...



...and meant I could do this, a rare occurence. As expected it was well twitched, with at least 29,000 3 other birders turning up.

Hip Hip Hoopoe!

Bit of Sun headline there, sorry. Anyhow, as the children and I were breakfasting this moring, I had a text from Bradders that said "Hoopoe at Landguard now...." I generally have my pager on silent, as it annoys somebody, so I had not seen this message yet. Interesting... could it be done?

Four Lethbridge's were on site by 10am, three of them coerced, and we all had a good look at the bird as it fed on the ground on the shingle. Tick. I am now a member of the BOU 300 Club, hurrah! Brilliant birds Hoopoes, really rather special - you feel privileged to be watching one. I lifted the children up to the scope one by one. Tick tick tick. I must get round to doing the kids' lists one of these days, before I forget what they have seen. In the years to come they will surely thank me.

Oh the quality...

Bird out of the way, I let the brood loose on the sunny beach, and much fun was had with pebbles, sand and lumps of wartime concrete. The mist then came in and it got a bit cold, so we headed for home and played Lego all afternoon - fair is fair.

Played for and got

Up at first light this morning, straight out, no tea, no breakfast, there were Wheatears that needed finding. It was a glorious morning, and I mean fantastic. A slight chill in the air, and a bit of frost, but a clear sky and stunning sunrise. There was nobody there bar me, not even a dog-walker to appreciate the clarity of the morning. The whole place was mine mine mine, which is how it should be really.

I went straight out to the fence-line that remains from the Thames Water pipe-laying, and walked the entire length. Nothing. Well, Mipts, Skylarks etc, but no Wheatears. But right at the end, as I had given up all hope and was turning around, what should fly off one of the goalposts and perch up on a little mound, flashing a little white bum? He shoots, he scores! It allowed a reasonably close approach, and then the morning's first dog appeared.... The only dog I could see on the entire Flats and it happens to coincide with the only Wheatear, what are the bloody chances? Luckily it didn't flush far, and I soon relocated it post-dog on the top of a hawthorn, bit bizarre for a Wheatear really. This turned out to be extremely convenient, as it allowed Paul, a local birder and Wheatear-related text recipient, to scope it from his living room window without even getting dressed. Chuffed to bits I headed for home, where I knew there would be pancakes and maple syrup. I have lost a stone since getting axed, proving that weight gain is directly related to stress and fried breakfasts.






Later that morning I cunningly chose the playground on Dames Road for the family jaunt. The day was screaming "Large Raptor", and our usual playground near the Green Man would have been rubbish, whereas at Dames Road you can scan the whole of the Flats. As the children fell off various climbing frames onto the bouncy green stuff, I happily looked at the sky, and roughly an hour into proceedings a pale Common Buzzard drifted over SW, very very high. I didn't see a Buzzard on the patch at all in 2008 as I only birded early mornings, so I have put that one right very early on. Osprey and Red Kite next please.

Buzzard, 2 megapixels