The “of Happiness” concept

It is entirely possible that this post is a repeat of one that I have made before. If that is the case you will have to forgive me, but the concept of a Something of Happiness has been pretty central to my life since about late 1996, which is now nigh on 20 years. In fact it could easily be right about today’s date that the phrase first entered my consciousness. And it has spread further than just me – people who never met my mate James from whom it originates use it too. The Log of Happiness on Wanstead Flats for instance (well, multiple logs actually) so favoured by passage Wheatears is one example of its usage but there are many others, springing up in parlance all over the place. All thanks to James.

He was a pretty happy-go-lucky person. Unconventional, not designed for the straight-jacket of conformance that modern life forces upon most of us. Things were pretty easily categorized – for the most part either he liked them or he didn’t. He had little time for the latter and that drove how he lived his life. He did what he enjoyed, he actively avoided what he didn’t. As a result he never settled down in any one place, but neither was he transient. When he needed to he knuckled down to it and worked his ass off. When he didn’t need to, he had no compunction about chucking it all in and telling whoever it was he was working for to go and get stuffed. When I planned a two month stay in Australia before starting work in the bank I still walk into every day, he scrimped and saved to buy a camper van and joyously quit work the day before I arrived. If there was something fun in the offing, he wanted to be a part of it.

The first time I came into contact with the concept of the Something of Happiness was in France. James came to stay with me for a few days in my student flat in Montpellier. He threw himself enthusiastically into our lives and the few days turned into several months. In fact he stayed with me until I came home again a few months later, we took the same bus. He was a little older than me, perhaps 8 years, but just like me remained extremely childish, but was also almost entirely without my risk adversity. He just did stuff and worried about what might go wrong later. Those months were among the happiest and funniest of my life, and he made a lasting impression not just on me but on a number of my fellow foreign students. A permanent smile and an insanely gregarious personality meant he was a hit with most people he met. Beaches, mountains, bars and parties, he was a force of nature. Good things were good, bad things were bad. A beach was a Sandy Place of Happiness. A telephone bill replete with expensive calls back to the UK was Shitty Paperwork of Unhappiness. He didn’t like bills, bills were unfair, as were many things to do with corporate life. Banks for example, but he did not begrudge the fact that I was about to join one.

It was the Van of Happiness that really cemented the phrase. He and I lived in this decrepit van for two whole months, a van older than me and which had a top speed that barely exceeded my age. The Van of Happiness contained a Dirty Clothes Basket of Unhappiness, and ultimately a [cracked] Head-gasket of Unhappiness, but for two months it was our home and the centre of many wonderful adventures as we drove it from Sydney to Cairns and back. The Great Dividing Range west of Cairns did for us, our grand plans to get to Alice Springs shattered as the van lost all speed going up the hills and eventually overheated and ground to a stop. We could not afford to get it fixed, but some chemiweld (Goo of Happiness) provided for free by a local taxi repair garage that he charmed ensured we made it back to Coff’s Harbour in New South Wales provided we only drove during the cool of the night. This introduced a whole new dynamic to our trip, arriving in the early morning at fabulous locations and chilling out in during the day, sometimes for several days, before departing under cover of darkness to new places to have fun, climb mountains and find wildlife. The spirit of the van lives on in some of the birding trips I make today. When I travel with Bradders there is a Purple Folder of Happiness which contains all our travel documents, maps, and bird gen. And all trips generally conclude with a Spreadsheet of Unhappiness which works out who owes who for petrol and other expenses. Mrs L uses it for various things, so do my kids, and so do a number people I work with. It just catches on.

Whilst few of the people who use the phrase other than me have ever met James, and indeed never will as he died in 2009 in the Victorian bush fires (wrong place wrong time, and sadly also an element of not quite thinking things through), but some twenty years later I think he would be pleased to know that it lives on in numerous people and is used daily to express either pleasure or moderate displeasure. But never seriously, as most things were never so bad that they were a problem, and he just navigated his way around whatever it was in the pursuit of regaining happiness. Sometimes that was quick, sometimes it took a little longer, but he mostly always got there. And so too do I. Life throws up these road-bumps, if you’ve never had to deal with one then you’re most definitely an outlier but rarely is anything insurmountable. That was how he lived his life, aiming at happiness, attempting to avoid unhappiness. Doing what he wanted to do, avoiding what he didn’t want to do or had no time for. It’s a simple philosophy, and I wish I could apply it as effectively as he did. So the next time something irritates you, just call it the X of Unhappiness and it will cease to be as big a problem. Equally if there's something that makes you smile call it the Whatever of Happiness. It'll stick, and you'll smile more. Guaranteed. 

In with the old

2015 is nearly over, and you know what that means? Yup, tomorrow many birders, including me, will get excited when we see a Blue Tit, a bird we’ve ignored for almost a year now. There’s also the excitement of “first bird” to come. Birders all over the country are no doubt in a similar state of excitement over what theirs will be. I would suggest that for most the choices are very limited. In my case it will be Robin, as it has been for the last 167 years in a row, unless I can somehow stifle the resident bird this evening. But then it just wouldn’t be New Year’s Day would it? Some traditions are best left well alone, so I’ve already inked it in.

Naturally I will be out all day tomorrow, and staying local. Along with my somewhat surprising second place in our local competition (although it isn’t really a competition at all), I would also appear to have clinched the famous Golden Mallard, which is worth at least fifty quid on Ebay. These two events have naturally fired me up for another crack at Wanstead, and so at dawn tomorrow you will find me crawling around the Flats with a large hangover.

I do however have a hankering to get a little further, see a little more. The coast is calling. Waders and exciting stuff. Perhaps that Red-rumper up in Norfolk? Trouble is I can’t be bothered to drive anywhere, and I would need a substantial kick up the backside. Oh hang on, what’s that you say Dear? The in-laws are coming round on Sunday?

Anyway, this is my last post of the year, and so all that remains is for me to wish you all a very happy evening, a bird-filled 2016, and good luck with those new lists. I’ll be back tomorrow to let you know about that bloody Robin….

Lucky Dip

My hopes of doing any birding whatsoever this weekend have been utterly dashed by work both yesterday and today. Such is life, I will make it up another time I guess. I had it easy, at least getting a few hours of sleep; others were less fortunate and got none at all. There is however a massive plus, which is that at about 10pm I had basically made up my mind to twitch the Desert Wheatear on Severn Beach, which is approximately 150 miles away from dear old Wanstead.

There were two reasons for wanting to do this. The first was quite stupid, and was that seeing Desert Wheatear would mean that I would have seen four Wheatear species in the UK this year. Pretty meaningless. The second reason was that I'd seen a photo of it perched on Lee's earring, and frankly I wanted a bit of that - remember the Izzy Wheatear and how wonderful that was? This was going to raise the wonderfulness bar. Other weekend choices included the Black-throated Diver in Eastbourne, or the Grey Phal in Suffolk, but the weather looked poor in the south-east, so Bristol it was. Except that I worked until about midnight last night, and this being an indication that not everything was rosy in that space, I decided very reluctantly to knock the Wheatear on the head and instead work on Sunday as well.

And this is the massive plus, as somebody decided to knock the Wheatear on the head and it isn't there today. Rarely have I been so pleased about working at the weekend, and my mood has been transformed from severe chuntering to a point where a smile almost crossed my face! As I needed to be back in London for mid-afternoon, I had been planning on leaving home at 6am, spending perhaps 3 hours with the bird, and then heading home. No waiting on news like I might normally do, and thus it turns out I would have been very disappointed, and caned another 300 miles and another fifty quid for nothing. So a bit of a result there.

Another result is this. Not quite Ivory Gull, which having departed Orkney only yesterday is presumably still on its way, but nonetheless a great garden record, and is probably the first in London since the departure of the regular Isle of Dogs bird about four years ago. It's currently remaining quite faithful to the carcass, and as such I'm pleased to able to announce that for a small fee my garden will be open to the twitching public from about 4pm tomorrow.

Always go see Shrikes...

What a bird, what a little stunner! All week I've been itching to go and see the juv Red-backed Shrike at West Canvey. Local blogger after local blogger has been posting point blank images, but could I get there? I couldn't even get there yesterday, being indisposed in Oxford. However by some good fortune it was still there this morning, and so after dumping Mrs L and the girls in central London, young Master L and I went straight there. Well, a slight deviation to pick up suitable optics in Wanstead, but essentially straight there, nothing could have swayed me from my course. Rule #162. I love Shrikes, and I mean love. LOVE. They're brilliant, compact little birds absolutely stuffed full of personality. And Craneflies.

On arrival we could see a small gaggle of people, and a mini proliferation of white lenses. How come so many people have them these days? Naturally I added to the congregation, trouncing everyone with the mighty 800mm. Ha! Happily I only had to lug it all of about 100 yards, and it proved its continued worth - Shrikes are surprisingly small. It was atop a small bush, a crappy shooting angle, but it soon flew down onto the fence to continue feeding there. Probably as close as 30 feet - I felt like I had died and gone to heaven. Oh, except I don't buy any of that, and anyway, this was loads better. It was one of those rare and perfect birds that didn't care. Faced with a barrage of shutter clicks, it could not have cared less, and even the presence of the photographer with as little fieldcraft as I have ever seen didn't phase it - mind you he was well behaved today. And it was a Shrike of course, which added to the perfection. I suppose if I'm nit-picking it could have been an adult male, or a Masked Shrike, but hey....

So, absolutely no apologies for a massively photo-heavy post. It was awesome. Wish I'd been there for the early morning light, as it would have been delightful, but you can't have it all, and I was pleased to be there at all. If I could have one opportunity like this every weekend, ideally with a Shrike, from now 'til the end of the year, I would be a very happy man. Actually, I'm pretty happy already. Brilliant.

 

 

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.

 

More Gallivanting: Extramadura

I am knackered, it is just non-stop at the moment. I've just returned from a whirlwind tour of Extramadura, with a day in Doñana tagged on at the end. Booked for ages, the purpose was father son bonding, with a teensy bit of birding and and even more miniscule amount of photography. Happily this all went according to plan, and he and I are now back, complete with 2000 RAW files each, and a lot of new Western Palearctic ticks bonding under our belts. I now have no trips for nearly two months, I am not sure how I will cope. Whilst I organise my thoughts, do a stack of washing, and finally change my pants (a victim of poor packing, the less said about this the better), here are a few shots straight off the memory card. In due course I'll bung a few meaningful words down about quite how wonderful Extramadura is, both for birds and opportunities to point cameras at them, but for now, I hope you enjoy these.

Oh, and before I forget, the final morning of the Harlequin twitch allowed just enough time for a spot of Black Guillemot pappage. Given quite how much I intend to spam you all with Extramadura photographs in the next few days, I thought I'd better quietly place these somewhere else....

Lesser Kestrel, Trujillo

Corn Bunting, approx one per metre in Extramadura

Great Bustards. The ultimate Turducken.

White Stork. Brilliant. Why don't we have them?

Red-rumped Swallow. Ditto.

Rock Bunting. I got quite close.....

Egyptian Vulture. Better than Egyptian Goose.

Grifffon Vulture. Stonking.

 

Black-eared Wheatear. Oh boy! Likely the subject of a blog post all of its own. Possibly two.

Garden ornaments.

Azure-winged Magpie. Kerching.

Confessions of a Grosbeak Twitcher

As I've said many times before, I'm a pretty crap twitcher. I moan about it, I stress about it, I even occasionally deny it...... But sometimes you just go, and that's what I did. However I mostly go on my own terms. No calling in sick and chartering planes, no dropping everything and leaving immediately. I pick and choose what I go for, in the sure knowledge that this will cost me birds and I'll never get to the magical 500 (though the once-magical 400 is just a stone's throw away).

There was a time when a long-distance twitch was somewhere like Norfolk. Then one weekend it became Yorkshire. Madness. Then it was Cornwall. Then it went back to Norfolk, but via Devon..... In 2011 I twitched Scilly not once but twice. In other words the bar gradually got set higher and higher. 2012 was relatively calm, two trips to Wales being the furthest I went, although I did go sea-watching off Pendeen. Shetland however was out of bounds. Too far, too expensive. As you know, all that changed this weekend. When news of the Pine Grosbeak broke in January, it was interesting, but not something I was ever going to do. Nice bird, the first for over 20 years, but it was in Shetland and therefore sheer lunacy, and anyway I'd seen birds in Finland only last year. Two weeks later and I was rocking gently on the MV Hrossey. Young Bradders, twitcher extraordinaire (that's french for filthy), suggested a trip up for it based around a few days year-listing birding in the Highlands. Was I up for it? No, of course I wasn't.

L-R: Bradders, Nick & John dipping something near Glenshee

I couldn't leave Nick on the patch to find a pile of grippers, so he had to come to, and the fourth space was taken by John A, one of the filthiest there is - up there with the Prof, 500 but a distant memory. We left on Friday after school, and made Carlisle by late evening. A nano-second of sleep later we continued on towards Scotland, dipping everything in our path until we hit Aberdeen in the late afternoon and settled down in our diesel-freshened cabin for a bounce across the North Sea. As it happened we got lucky with the weather, and the crossing was essentially a non-event. The following morning, a mere 38 hours after leaving home, we came off the ferry and drove the thirty or so miles to North Collafirth, nearly at the top of mainland Shetland. We were the first on site.

Gradually the other birders who had been on the ferry all arrived, and we surrounded the garden at Forsa. Two Blackbirds. Justin L and a few others headed off to Greenbrae, Steph M to Saltoo. Soon after the radio crackled into life; the birds was at Greenbrae. Some minor wacky races (Bradders won) and we hopped out to learn that the bird has dived from a small group of trees by the road into the bulk of the plantation and had been lost to view, and that worse, Nick had seen it having sneaked off when we weren't looking! No drama though, we all walked around the other side of the plantation and with a very calm "here it is" for his 845th UK tick, John A announced its continued presence to the masses. All fifteen of us. After a journey of almost two days, we had scored just over an hour after arriving on Shetland. Tick and run, as they say.

The bird never really left the tops of the trees whilst we were there, so photo opps were rare, but I've a few I'm relatively pleased with. Clearly it wasn't quite like Finland, but to be there, next to that plantation in fine weather, with almost no other people and otters playing on the shore below was a great experience. Plus getting a mega-tick of course. With the tick under the belt so early on, and having watched the bird for about two hours we decided that we would carry on birding elsewhere on the island. The plan was going very much according to plan.

Snuffi scores

Internet Tomfoolery

In the absence of birds, I had a lot of fun this weekend mucking about with internet. I am a dunce when it comes to internet, but happily internet realises this and has made doing things on it spectacularly easy. Nonetheless I feel a sense of achievement that what I wanted to get done I appear to have managed. Mostly this has to do with vanity. I wondered briefly if this is one of the seven deadly sins, but it appears not to be. Pride comes close, but is slightly different, so my only feelings now are those of virtue and humility.

So, the first thing is that for the princely sum of precisely three pounds and fifty-nine pence I have purchased the much sought-after domain name of wansteadbirder.com. A stroke of divine luck that it was still available....  It was remarkably easy, as was making Blogger understand about it. Like I said, the internet was designed with dumbasses like me in mind. The upshot of this is that the new URL for this blog is http://www.wansteadbirder.com/, and not the one ending blogspot.com that it used to be, though I understand that it will still work and bring you here. There. Whatever. Anyhow, if you are the linking sort, please refresh your links to the new address, as it will not make a blind bit of difference. Compelling, no?

Internet didn't let me have it all my own way though, and so as soon as I changed the URL Blogger dropped all my links, including all the photo ones that I have only recently painstakingly added. I have added as many as I can remember back on, and a few more besides, but if there is a glaring gap where once there was a link to your blogging efforts, please get in touch and remind me. Chancers welcome, you never know....

In yet another act of gratuitous pomposity, I have totally revamped http://www.justbirdphotos.com/, including migrating the whole shebang to a new hosting service called Zenfolio. I think it looks a lot better than the old one, and has the benefit of added functionality and a much lower cost. Win win, as they say. It also includes blog functionality, so all the geeky camera shit that I mostly manage to repress on here I can dribble out on there, safe in the knowledge that only fellow photography buffs will be browsing. In addition to the slide show on the homepage, each and every photo - and there are over 500 - now shows EXIF data. You can see what focal length I used, what aperture, ISO and shutter speed. See why I spare you all this normally? I've also branched out, so the Just Bird Photos name is now well and truly non-sensical, as you will now also find butterflies, landscapes, and even one of a frog. Just Frog Photos. Creating the site was childsplay, even if I do say so myself. The difficult bit had to do with repointing DNS somethings. I'm not sure what it means of course, but I had to go onto internet, and make sure that the domain name pointed to a series of numbers that looked like 123.45.678.910 instead of a series of numbers that looked like 098.765.43.21. Amazingly I managed it, and once the overnight hampster shift ended and new hampsters took over, the next time I typed in the address it took me to the new page and not the old one. And if it works for me, I expect it will work for you too. If it doesn't, please complain to Sir Tim Berners-Lee.

Countdown

I apologise in advance for what is a highly predicatable post, but one that is wholly consistent with what birding means to me. It’s about Wheatears, and their almost imminent arrival. Over the last three years, Wheatears have arrived on Wanstead Flats on March 14th, March 20th, and March 29th. Doing the maths, if you take the median, it’s the 20th; if you take the average, it’s the 21st. I wonder what the median for this post is? Anyway, this year is a leap year, obviously none of the last three were, and even though the Wheatears are likely oblivious, the earlier date is perhaps the more accurate to use. Actually it’s probably not accurate at all, the birds will come when they come, but either way it could be excitingly soon. 69 days - that's less than ten weeks.

By then the light will be birdable by about 5.20am. That’s not the best time for passerines, they tend to rise later, but it gives me a chance to get out and have a poke around before needing to be back for the school run. You cannot possibly conceive of how tragically excited I already am. In terms of excitement levels, it’s a toss up between January 1st and Wheatear arrival. Or perhaps I’m just a tosser? No matter. Non-birders, non patch-workers, may sneer at the pathetic dribble that is my life, but there is practically nothing that I look forward to more in March, not even my birthday. Which as it happens is also in March, so there is the possibility that the first Wheatear will arrive on THE day, and that I will find it. Hasn’t happened yet, but you would hear the whoops from anywhere within the M25 I reckon.

"Phwoarrrrr!"

So, just what is it about Wheatears? There are very few other regular birds that provoke these feelings. Firecrests, for example, are pretty damn smart, and I never tire of seeing them, but they’re not in the same league as Wheatears, or at least not for me. Perhaps it’s that Wheatears are the first trans-Saharan migrants to make it back each year. For us, having just gone though a miserable and dark four or five months, they probably herald the start of warmth and daylight. It’s true that I don’t look forward to the first returning autumn birds in the same way, but then again, a 1W Wheatear isn’t quite the same as a spring male. Spring male Wheatears are the birds that words like “cracking” and “stonking” were designed for. You can say that about Red-flanked Bluetails and Red-breasted Flycatchers, but deep down you know you should be reserving the accolade for talking about Wheatears. The sparkling silvery-grey mantle and head, the white forehead contrasting beautifully with the broad black eye-stripe, the warm throat and slightly buffy flanks. And the rump! The flash of white that catches your eye, that draws you in. That’s what you have drilled into your subconscious in March – visions of bounding white.

Hard Work at Stoke Newington

Returning from not seeing a Hen Harrier at Rainham, I wondered about twitching Mark's Pied Flycatcher at Stoke Newington. I am falling rapidly out of love with London year-listing, and this was a much-needed easy one. There have seemingly been Pied Flycatchers all over London this year, including a bird I just couldn't connect with in Wanstead (being in Norfolk didn't help....), and thus far I had been unable to sum up the enthusiasm to try for any of them. With time possibly running out, I had very nearly cracked yesterday, only to sink back into my reclining chair, exhausted.

Seeing as I was in the car anyway, I decided I would go. What the hell, push the boat out. Tell you what, Mark has a tough life. He is forced to work in frankly intolerable conditions, with a horrible, horrible wildlife garden mere feet away, and a really dreadful sky-watching platform only a little further. I wouldn't stand for it, but somehow he sticks at it, day after interminable day.

Realising the hopelessness of his situation, he was in deep in the doldrums when I met up with him in the garden. I could tell he was extremely depressed. Yup, he hadn't seen a Redstart for at least ten minutes, a Pied Flycatcher for over an hour, and there had been no Honey Buzzards for a whole week! I really felt for him, and in an attempt to cheer him up started trying to get some easy IDs wrong.

I am of course jesting. The place is wonderful, a haven. Tea, coffee, birdsong, a raptor-filled sky, and a duck-filled reservoir. The fact that he achieves anything is remarkable. I wouldn't have the discipline, I know I wouldn't. It's a Community Garden run by the London Wildlife Trust, and as such has loads of interesting stuff, ponds, bits of wood, a den under the platform and so on. I let the kids loose, and started concentrating on the trees that border the channel.

It was harder work than I anticipated. The garden is relatively small, but it borders a tree-lined reservoir, the new river path, and no doubt numerous gardens. It is, as they say, habitat-rich, and for the first hour or so, all I had were Chiffchaffs, a Garden Warbler, and a single Spotted Flycatcher. I thought I saw something flit through a larger tree that looked promising, but could not find it again. The Spotted Flycatcher eventually came and sat out, so I called Mark who came out for a break with his camera. Instantaeneously, the bird activity increased ten-fold. He must emit pheremones or something. I was amazed an Osprey didn't come and perch on the fence, but all of a sudden the trees near the river were alive. One Spotted Flycatcher became two, a tit flock moved through with several Phylloscs, and Mark saw the Common Redstart briefly. Then he had to resume work, so went back inside, and everything melted away. I've never seen anything like it. I decided to stick it out just in case, and after about ten minutes was rewarded by a decent view of the male Redstart in the large tree. There was something else at the back too, two birds chasing each other, but I could never get on them before they moved. Five minutes passed, with occasional glimpes of Redstart, and then there it was, a Pied Flycatcher. It may have been the bird I couldn't quite see, or it may not have been, but it certainly took its time giving itself up. It flitted over the river, over my head and into a large willow behind me, where I failed to refind it a mere twenty seconds later, so it must have gone straight through. So two hours for a five second view, hardly satisfactory on that front, but a great site tick, a real gem of patch, and I'll definitely be back.

If anyone's counting, my London 2010 yearlist now stands at 195, and I'm fed up with it. Five to go, and no real clue as to what they're going to be.

No camera today, so have a Whinchat and two Spotted Flycatchers from Wanstead Flats last weekend.

Oooh, Aaah

A quick dash after work (ahem) for the male Trumpeter Finch was a stunning success yesterday evening. I even took the Dipmonkey and still scored. I'd arrranged with Shaun to hold off during the day and go up together, and then the Monkey decided he would like to come too, despite not needing the bird. Fair enough though, the more the cheaper, er I mean merrier. And to make up the team, Muffin came too, keen to add to his list of rarities.

After waiting for Shaun to make a cup of tea, have a shower and clean his van, we were off! I was slightly worried that by arriving at 7pm the bird might have gone to roost, but I needn't have worried, and there were reassuring pager messages all the way up.

It is fair to say that the Cley Square was having a rather good evening. In addition to the Trumpeter Finch on the shingle at the end of the East Bank, there was a Thrush Nightingale at Walsey Hills, which is basically at the opposite end of the East Bank. Less than a mile east, a Marsh Warbler was singing at Gramborough Hill, and less than half a mile west, an adult male Red-backed Shrike was at Cley Coastguards. Wanstead eat your heart out.



We were obliged to go and see the Trumpeter Finch first, it being the "biggie", and after a brief slog over the shingle we were able to spend some quality time with it. It first showed very well on the fence below the ridge, and then fed right in front of us. For a bird that is pink, its ability to disappear against the shingle is amazing.


The lure of the Red-backed Shrike eventually proved too much, and we had to tear ourselves away. We left Shaun to try for the Thrush Nightingale which he still needs (the rest of us having seen one years ago), and drove the short distance to Cley Coastguards. Wow. Shrikes, you just can't beat them, and there is not much to trump an adult male Red-backed. We drank it in. Much as a Trumpeter Finch is very very rare, and pink, both qualities that appeal to me, the Shrike immediately pushed it off the top spot.


Another tick for Muffin, poor kid. Shaun was having no luck with the Thrush Nightingale, so we went and picked him up and returned to the Shrike so he could enjoy it too. Then we had a choice between standing around hoping the Thrush Nightingale would show (or sing), or standing around hoping that the Marsh Warbler would show (or sing). In the event we did neither, and went and got Fish and Chips. I don't think we missed much, certainly the Thrush Nightingale was neither seen nor heard again, although I think the Warbler did show briefly. Nevermind. Of the four birds on offer, I saw my first two choices. And in fact if I'd have dipped the Finch and just seen the Shrike, I'd have been perfectly happy.

Muffin had a great time - he got to be one of the boys. He's a proper birder, not like the three of us. Whilst we were running down the East Bank, he was stopping and looking at the resident birds. Avocets, Redshanks in flight, BT Godwits, Eygptian Geese. For a six year old, his identification skills are rather good. Satisfyingly good I might add.

Kingfishers make me happy

There is something about Kingfishers, can't quite put my finger on it. Is it the electric aquamarine, or is it that they can shoot, whilst perched, a stream of excrement well over 4 feet behind them? Whilst this is amazing, after careful thought I think it's the colouration which is probably the more appealing. Simply stunning. Seeing as I had no children today, I went to Rye Meads RSPB to see them, and they didn't disappoint. I spent about three hours watching them and came away extremely happy. If you're feeling down (I wasn't, I just like Kingfishers) then doing this will give you a huge lift. They're feeding young at the moment, so are seen very frequently. They are about to fledge, and the nest hole must by now be filthy, as each time they come out after delivering a fish they spend a long time washing, and this is when the best views are to be had. Rye Meads, Hoddesdon. Go. Go now. Well, wait until it's light outside again and the reserve is open, and then go. You won't regret it.

There are also some friendly Tufted Ducks

In other news, I have a new washing up brush. In keeping with my shower brush, it is also pink, and equally lovely. I am a modern man, and like to keep in touch with my feminine side. It won't mean I suddenly enjoy washing up, but it may make it slightly more bearable. All in all, I'd rather be birding. We have a three day weekend coming up, and Mrs L has said that I can have one day of it to go wherever I want, sans enfants. A White-tailed Lapwing has just pitched up on Merseyside, so I might be going there. On the other hand, you can only see it occasionally through a large fence (with small gaps) at a distance of roughly 300m, it will mean eight hours in the car, and the fuel to get there and back will be in the region of seventy quid. Then again, it's the something like the sixth record for Britain. Twitching is a mug's game. I only went to see the Blue-winged Teal at Paxton tonight because I had to be in Cambridge anyway....

Most unenjoyable.

At Long Long Last!

When you saw the title of this post, did you perhaps guess what was coming? Yes, I have damp-dusted the house from top to bottom whilst simultaeneously potty-training Pudding.

Not really.

Look!!

I was out on the Flats again this morning, more in hope than expectation, and as I approached the Coronation Plantation, I thought I saw a white flash through the trees. Then another! I called the news out to local birders, and then the pager, and then started looking for them. At this point I wondered if I hadn't done all that in the wrong order, as all I could see were two Skylarks. Had my Wheatear-addled brain somehow contrived to string their white outer tail feathers into white rumps? A nervous few minutes followed. Then a few more, they were nowhere to be seen! NB This is my attempt at dramatic technique. I'm not sure it's working, so you'll just have to take my word for quite how exciting it was. And anyway, I probably blew it by posting a photo before this paragraph. So, as you may have grasped, it was all OK in the end, there were indeed two Wheatears, though they unhelpfully vanished again before Paul and Stuart turned up. Not for long though, and soon they were showing very well on the old Barrage Balloon hitches.


I can't really put into words quite how happy I am. It is a mixture of elation and relief I think. Finally, they're back. Only stopping off of course, but to see them here at this time of year is somehow life-affirming. Many things change, not too many things are certain, but the return of spring Wheatears is one constant that I can always look forward to. I might have a lie-in tomorrow.

And one more....

Spring is here!

It's official, Spring is here. How do I know this? You may think that it's because today I saw a Willow Warbler, a Yellow Wag, 2 Little Gulls, some Sand Martins and a pair of Garganey, and because there are 19 million Chiffchaffs singing in Bush Wood, but you would be wrong.

Here, neatly summed up in a single image, is why:

Punxsutawney Toe

I am still going through all the photos from Australia, it will likely take the rest of my life. Digital is great, but encourages profligacy. In the meantime, here is why I didn't get quite as much birding done as I had hoped...

Coffs Harbour last week. It's fair to say it rained a bit.