World Book Day

I have not mentioned them a great deal of late, but I do still have a family! Yesterday was World Book Day, and it's a pretty big deal at school, teachers dressed up too, with a competition and prizes, and generally just a lot of fun. When I say competition, what of course I mean is intense competition between the mums as to which of them can make the best costume. Mrs L has therefore been slaving away for what feels like months, and my place at the dining table has been taken up by a sewing machine since about January. The results are below, with Toad of Toad Hall, Emerald Star, and Hermione Granger all kitted out and ready to go. To cut a long story short, we didn't win (Booooo!), but at least we didn't take the cop-out route taken by many parents and send our children as Ariel from the Little Mermaid or Storm Troopers, of which there were legion, ha ha.

I really enjoy taking photos of the kids, and whereas usually they view it as chore, yesterday they were more than happy to pose. In the keeping of the Victorian setting of Hetty Feather's adventures, I've processed the final photo in a 'vintage' style, which I think works quite well. I can't believe how big they all are now - I've been blogging about them since 2009, and my youngest has gone from a baby to a six year old - wow! Would that I could go back to being a full-time house husband - I look back at that period with great fondness, and I'd do it again in an instant. Especially as they're now all at school and spring is about to start...

Is Wanstead actually the Brecks, and what happened to the big one?

Think about it for a minute. We get oodles of Redstart, regular Tree Pipits, bi-annual Stone-Curlew, and millions of Goshawks - Wanstead must be part of the Brecks. Bradders Birding Tours was running it's annual Breckland tour in search of year ticks, er sorry, I mean birds that the tour leader doesn't see very many of. That's because he doesn't live in Wanstead, where such birds are nothing out of the ordinary. Tree Pipit? Had a couple already. Stone-curlew? Whatever. Redstarts? Only about six. So far. I got a couple of year ticks admittedly, as did Nick, for instance a smart Red-footed Falcon and Very Short-billed Duck, but essentially it was same old same old, but in a different context. Such is the life of a dedicated patchworker in urban London; there are no surprises anymore. It's one of the reasons I love Scotland, as I rarely see Pine Grosbeaks and Harlequins in Wanstead.

After stitching Nick up with a heard-only Golden Pheasant lifer, we stopped off at Thetford for the Otters, one of which showed amazingly, but not quite in the desired location. Instead I spent some time with a new species of Duck I'd not come across before, namely the aforementioned Very Short-billed Duck. If you're eating, or have small children on your lap, I suggest you look away now, as despite being a mega rarity it's not what you might call a looker. Otters are pretty cute and cuddly though aren't they?

Dabbling is going to be problematic. The sooner the Otter finishes the job the better.

A quick diversion to Lakenheath for a Red-footed Falcon was very pleasant in a shirt sleeves kind of way, and before long we were into proper Wanstead, sorry, Breckland birding. A singing Tree Pipit, a few Stone-curlews, a handful of Redstarts and the odd Woodlark. If you don't have time to put in the hours in Wanstead, it has to be said that a quick spin round the Brecks can be nearly as good at the right time of year, and we were able to show Bradders all of our specialities in pretty short order whilst wandering around in the sunshine in a calm and relaxed manner.

On the whole though, it was far quieter than I was hoping it was going to be. The "big one" was notable for it's absence. A scattering of Purple Herons, a few Red-foots, a Black-winged Stilt. Nice spring overshoots for sure, but not the monster that a Bank Holiday weekend could have been capable of. Should have been capable of. So I've done what all dedicated listers do, and sat around in the sunshine either in the garden at home. This gained me, in total, six Buzzards, two Kestrels, three Sparrowhawks, upwards of twenty Swifts, and my first two Wanstead Hobbies.

Basically the weekend has been all about Wanstead, in many ways just as it should be. I finished the weekend at Wanstead Cricket Club, having a beer in the sunshine. My eldest has been keen on cricket for some time now, but for the first time my daughters went along as well. It's early days, but they play so much in the garden (forced into it I suspect) that they seemed quite keen to go and do it for real. I'm well aware that it has been some time since I mentioned the kids on this blog, and that it's all become worrying one dimensional, i.e. moaning about stuff plus the odd photo, so it's good to get back to basics. Almost unbelievably they're now nine, seven and five. Where did it go? Anyway, I am still a doting (if strict, grumpy and shouty) father, and today I spent a happy few hours in the sunshine watching the kids run about and have fun. I could have pissed off to Maldon to get Black-winged Stilt on my Essex list, but sometimes, just sometimes, other things take precedence. The fact that I was well over the limit is neither here nor there. Anyhow, here's a few fresh off the memory card to show that I still have them.

Pudding, five

Pie, seven

Muffin, nine

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.

 

Snow, snow, snow

A few more Lapwings today didn't really repay the effort I put into the patch this weekend. I jacked it in at lunchtime and came home to play with the kids. The Lego-fest I had had in mind never materialised, as Muffin has now caught whatever Pudding had, and thus felt more like throwing up all over the place than playing. Poor kid, he had to watch his sisters playing in the snow whilst he felt rotten indoors - as a nine year old that's pretty much the last thing you want to have happen. Pudding's troubles lasted three days, so this is just the beginning, and we still have a kid to go. Touch wood neither Mrs L nor I have yet to go down with it, but I have this horrible suspicion that it is only a matter of time, and that is about the last thing I need. Though of course fairly good news from a weight-loss point of view. Anyhow, it's been a while since the kiddos made it to these pages, so here are a few from the snowman-making in the garden this afternoon. He's called Nathan, and I forgot to take a photo of him - perhaps tomorrow if I'm stuck at home talking down the big white telephone...

 

 

 

Doing nothing on Mull

My usual style of holiday blog post tends to be day by day. Were I to do this for my recent family holiday to Mull, each day you would get to read about how I sat on a bench consuming liquid calories and admiring a wonderful view. It was a magnificent view, but reading about it for six days on the trot might make this blog even duller than usual, so I propose a slight change. For starters though, here is the view. Horrible isn’t it.

Although not much happened, the odd boat, the odd Gannet, the odd Eagle or Hen Harrier, I found myself transfixed, and this largely accounted for a holiday spent not doing a lot.  This was perfect, just what the doctor ordered. Birding holidays are knackering, and after Norway and Bulgaria in relatively quick succession, I needed a break. This was a proper holiday, with a proper lack of ambition. I am brilliant at doing nothing, and spent the week proving it.

Beyond sitting around doing zip, there were three things I wanted to do

1)      Hear Black Guillemots squeaking in Oban Harbour

2)      Take the family to see Puffins

3)      Go to Iona for Corncrakes

So let’s deal with the sitting around doing nothing part. I had booked a cottage on the basis of a single photo and some vague knowledge of where it was, and the setting turned out to be perfect for a lazy family holiday.  It was on the northern shore of Loch Tuath, with a view over to the isle of Ulva, and out west towards the Treshnish Isles and Tiree. If I wandered down to the shore and looked left I could see Ben More, the highest peak on the island, and if I looked right, out towards the open sea. From the cottage itself, the panorama was sensational. I wasted hours.

There were sheep in the “garden”, and across the road (fifteen cars a day? twenty?) a field with iris beds and a stream sloped gently down the shoreline. For the children this was extremely liberating, and we were perfectly happy for them to cross over and explore, and with the added security of two-way radio contact (which was generally used for bird reports rather than to advise of near drownings) we sometimes didn’t see them from one drink to the next. I had bins obviously, and caught glimpses of them now and again, but we could never do this in London. This is a real shame, as it would be wonderful to just kick them out onto the Flats after school and have them come in for dinner, tired, scuffed and muddy, when they were ready. This is of course how children used to grow up, and even though I am very very young compared to most birders, I remember being allowed out to play for hours and hours. Partly the difference is that I lived in a cul-de-sac in Cambridge, rather than in London, but mostly it’s a sign of the times. The greatest fear is of abduction, but there were probably just as many freaks and weirdos out there when I was a child as there are today, but now each and every case of a child disappearing makes the headlines, and as a result parents are far more reticent to let children out of their sight, and I’m not going to be the one to buck the trend. So few children are allowed out and about by themselves these days that the pool of potential targets, for want of a better phrase, is much reduced; ergo any children that are allowed out are at higher risk than would have been the case when there were loads of children running around all over the place   – that at least is my logical conclusion. Still, far more dangerous is the increased traffic, especially where I live, and the tendency – not precisely where I live, but certainly in surrounding areas - for mindless violence, even amongst children. This I think is different to when I was growing up, even if Cambridge was relatively genteel.

 

Today kids carry knives. In my day people punched each other, kicked each other. I got punched on the way home from school once. Yep, in middle class Cambridge. I remember it well, and so I hope does Daniel whatever-his-name-was – it was unpleasant, but survivable.  If you get stabbed, the outcome is more uncertain....   It sounds unlikely still, and so I ask myself, who would stab an eight year-old? And then I read in the paper about ten-year olds carrying knives. And I also read in the paper about material acquisition being the dominating factor in most children’s lives – playstations, x-boxes, mp3 players, mobile phones, tablets and so on. And with life getting tougher, the ability to acquire these essential and kudos-enhancing items in a legal and earnest manner also gets tougher. I got mugged; the kids - for that’s what they were, likely no more than sixteen - wanted my phone. I gave it to them, but they hit me anyway. It confirmed what I already knew, more than a few kids don’t look up to their elders any more. Although my children don’t (and won’t) carry phones etc, that fact alone is so unlikely that they would likely be hit anyway, or worse.

I had not meant this to turn into a moan about a society in decline and the rapid degradation of moral fibre. But now that I’m back, it means my children are once again confined to the garden after school. Show me any responsible London parents who operate differently. It’s very sad, but that’s just the way it is. Kids, if you’re reading this, I’m sorry – the world is not the rosy and carefree place that you believe it to be, and I will shield you from the reality of it for as long as I can.  But when it comes to telling it like it is, I won’t hold back. Anyhow, the metropolis of Ballygown on Mull suffers from none of these problems (or none that have hit the national press!) and I was delighted that the kids could finally have the freedom to roam that is denied them at home. On Iona we met a local family whilst our children played together on the beach. They confirmed that their children basically had the run of the island. It’s small and everyone knows everyone; dangers of the sea aside, it’s a safe place. Whilst their children were having what seemed like a fantastic childhood involving sandy beaches and no constraints, was it too isolated perhaps? There was no secondary school, so once they reach that age they have to board in Oban during the week, and that sounded miserable. Maybe you enjoy it while you can, and move at that point?

So the kids did what kids should be doing. Crabs were discovered in rockpools; a dead one became a prized possession for a while. Shells were collected, and hills and trees were climbed. Injuries were remarkably few and minor - some grazes, a couple of bruises, nettle stings and midge bites. We took it all in our stride, and enjoyed what the bay had to offer. Wheatears and Rock Pipits bred on the rocky shoreline, Common Sandpipers bobbed. Swallows were nesting in the barn next door, but remained unseen as it was locked. Far better were the House Martins on the side of the cottage constructing a new nest, or perhaps repairing an earlier structure. We watched them fly into the field, collecting mud at the stream, and come back to add it on. I tried waiting by the stream, but they simply chose another. Most days we saw a ringtail Hen Harrier quartering the iris beds, and Buzzards (Gah! Somebody shoot them!) were usually overhead. The piping of Oystercatchers was a constant feature in the landscape below the house, whilst the chimes of Willow Warblers were ever-present above. With glorious weather every day, the place was the closest I have come to idyllic in a long while. It took thirteen hours door to door, but once you’re there you forget about that bit, especially when you see a White-tailed Eagle on the crossing, and come face to face with Black Guillemots squeaking at you in Oban Harbour.

Attaboy!



 My son has been spending a lot of time birding with me recently. Let's face it, it's May, and if he wants to see me.... I jest, he is actually quite getting into it. Or that's what I tell myself anyway. In truth, and like many small boys, he just wants to be like his dad. Poor kid, he will learn. Already at school they must think he is a complete freak.

"So what did you do at the weekend?"

Normal child: I played on my Nintendo and watched eighteen hours of Telly.
Muffin: I did some skywatching on the patch, went to Lakenheath Fen, got loads of ticks including self-found Cuckoo, then saw a Black-winged Stilt, and then twitched a Tawny Pipit at Landguard. What is Telly?

I figure that if he comes out with me for long enough, then possibly, just possibly, it will spark a lifelong interest. And if not in birds, then perhaps in photography. He has been practically ripping the camera out of my hands recently - unlike birding, this is something I have definitely not shoved down his throat. I am of course very keen to teach him exposure theory, and how an SLR works, but he has been the driving force here. And here are some of the results. Ok, so he's a lucky boy in that he is able to use really quite a nice camera, but having good kit is in no way related to being able to take a good photo. And before anyone suggests that I set it all up and he just walked up to the tripod and pressed the shutter button, absolutely not. These were all hand held using a small lens, and he employed fieldcraft to get closer to the subjects, including keeping a tree between him and the Wheatear until the last minute, staying crouched and so on. Really impressed, especially given the setup weighs close on 3kg, and he is only eight. The post-processing is all mine, but I did nothing different versus what I might have done with my own shots. Admittedly we delete a few more, but that's all part of the process, and he has improved hugely in just a few weeks.

Please click on this to enlarge it and see just how nice it is. The catchlight in the eye is fantastic. And it's a Wheatear of course....

So now I have a birding and photography companion. When Mrs L asks what my family contribution will be over the weekend, I can just say that I am altruistically taking Muffin out so that he can pursue his hobbies. In other words, I have carte blanche to go birding whenever I want. Does it get any better?

The One Dancing Princess

Ideally this post would be about a Roller I've just seen, but the timings just didn't work out. There'll be another, and right now my twitching urges are at a low ebb. In fact I am at a low ebb, but that's one for another time. However I am very pleased to bring you a production by the local dance company, performed only this afternoon in our middle room.

The company have apparently been working quite hard at this, the first in a series of works, to be performed one-a-night all week. There has been hushed practicing, and back-stage (or the hall) has been a hive of activity. After a couple of false starts, including the leading lady forgetting her name three seconds after being reminded of it, they were ready, and this is the stunning result. The children have inherited my dancing genes it appears, they are very lucky. I am not sure of the exact story, no doubt more will be revealed tomorrow. Listen carefully for the outpouring of sympathy from the director (who also plays Taylor, the hunter) very near the end of the production. I have no idea who was in the audience.....

It's only a couple of minutes long, I encourage you to watch until the very end. Or if you're busy, just skip to the final fifteen seconds.

Work or Vomit?

Pudding has been sick, on occasion copiously, five times in the last 24 hours. In bed at 6am yesterday, just I was heading out on my latest Wheatear hunt. Then, highly inconveniently, at about 8:20am yesterday, just as we were gathering ourselves for the school run. That was the BIG one, and of course she was sitting on her freshly-made bed, with the sheets from the previous one still going round in the machine...  At 9.15am, in the car on the way back from a very fraught school run she was sick for the third time. Ok, so fairly used to it now, commando roll out of the car and so on, but the car is brand new. On Tuesday afternoon I had handed back the old one, which incidentally smelled of vomit from a previous splurge, and was enjoying a pristine, new-car-smelling car. It made it to about 36 hours old, with about 25 miles on the clock before it was christened. You could see it coming frankly. This one required the shower to restore the child to a clean condition.

That was it for the rest of the day, but there were several false alarms, and lots of scurrying with towels. And of course a tremendous amount of washing. By the afternoon she seemed herself again, and I tentatively tried a slice of plain toast. This stayed down, and so we progressed to plain rice for dinner. She ate the lot, seemed fairly chirply still, so we put her to bed with high hopes. Hopes that were to be dashed just before midnight. Mrs L dealt with Pudding, I put the sheets on to wash.

The time: 3am. The place: her bed, obviously. Apparently I was unwakeable, so I only learned about this in the morning. But it must be true as I am currently washing yet another sheet. There is something special about needing to unload a washing machine full of child bedding in order to fill it again with the vomit-covered bedding that you had unloaded from that very machine only the previous afternoon....

I am sick of sick. The smell of sick. The sight of sick. I'm sure she is too. Of all the things that children can get - and believe me when I say they can get a lot - stomach bugs rank as my least favourite. I would, I think - but I am still not quite sure - rather be at work. So far today, no more though. We survived the school run, with Pudding wrapped tightly in a towel. A big thank you to Adam's mummy and Sophie's mummy whom we fortunately met outside the school gates and who took the other two in. We are not sure what disease she has, but so far none of the rest of us seem affected. I am spraying anti-bacterial stuff with abandon, and washing my hands about once every three minutes in scenes reminiscent of Macbeth. Meanwhile Pudding is watching Angelina Ballerina for the twenty-seventh time in three days. There are times when I really love that mouse. She seems not to tire of it, and this means she stays put. I can thus create a vomit-zone that should hopefully limit any damage and mean that I don't have to wash the sheets again until tonight.

A Young Environmentalist

A quick tour of a small part of Wanstead Park today, namely the Dell and the southern end of the Ornamental Water - this area has been the most productive of late - Lesser Spot, Siskins and Chiffchaff amongst others. Target - puddles. Muddy ones. Muddy puddle walks, or sometimes muddle puddle walks (if you get into a muddy) are de rigeur in this household, and are often used as a pretext to go birding. The kids seek out puddles to jump in, I seek the birds. 



As we were on the point of leaving the house, a text from Nick C alerted me to a Treecreeper in the Dell. Interesting news - I had recently been looking for the bird from near the Grotto in November without success, and was afraid that the cold snap had killed it. Seems that along with our Turaco, Wanstead's Treecreeper(s) is(are) also pretty hardy.

The Dell held a few Siskins but not much else. I gave it a bit of time, but the puddles were substandard so we left in search of the real deal. We found some decent ones down near the Ornamental Water, and some trees to hug. Before you ask, this was spontaneous. Pudding found a tree just the right size, and proceeded to wrap her arms around it - I have no idea why. Next time I'm at Dunge I expect she'll chain herself to the Power Station. As I captured the moment, some insistent piping and soft trilling caught my attention. Could it be? It took me about fifteen minutes to pin it down, but Tree-hugging had indeed located Tree-creeping. The bird was in precisely the same spot as in November, wouldn't you know it? The same bird that was in the Dell perhaps? We found some more puddles, and then went home for tea. I love my life. When I get a job, weekdays just won't be the same....

Slinking guiltily back to the Patch

A slight lie in the morning on account of being awake most of the night listening to Aggers talking about rain, but nonetheless out on the patch by 8ish. Two steps onto the patch and two Goldcrests were chasing each other about, followed closely by a Dunnock, neither of which I saw on the Flats yesterday. Funny how it goes. That was about as good as it got though, and despite a good tramp around both the Flats and the Park, I was unable to add any patch yearticks. Where have all the Siskin gone?

As promised, I was back home by eleven, and straight back into family life. Family life today meant disposing of the Christmas Tree. This is almost as ritualistic as decorating it in the first place, with sombre children each choosing a decoration to take down, before passing it to Mrs L for wrapping and stashing. My role was to tangle up the lights, and get rid of the actual tree. This was achieved by picking it up and shoving it through the front window. Last year I dragged it out through the front door, resulting in about an hour of vacuuming, and I continued to find the odd needle in every single month of the following year. So today I was pretty pleased with myself - minimum mess elsewhere, and a tree neatly plonked on what passes for our front lawn. That was until I discovered that I had turned into a porcupine. When disposing of Christmas Trees, I am here to tell you that it is inadvisable to wear a woolly jumper. Rookie Error. I ended up vacuuming myself, and still had pine needles falling into my lunch.

When that was all done, I took Muffin out onto the Flats to play football. This was not a pretext to go birding in any way. We had bought him a new football for Christmas, and he has been wanting to take it out for a kickabout for ages, but the playing fields have either been covered with snow, or really muddy. Yesterday was about the first day we could contemplate going, but I ended up going to Norfolk instead. Poor parenting. So today was the day, and to say he was eager is somewhat of an understatement. We played goal to goal, which basically means we take penalties at each other non-stop until he gets bored and asks to go home. I lost 16-11, mainly a measure of his warped thinking on what constitutes a goal or not, but also because about half way through I noticed an adult Great Black-backed Gull flying east over Capel Point , and he took this opportunity to fire several past me whilst I was excitedly following it through my bins. You knew I took bins, right? Anyhow, GBB was a new one for the year, and they are not an easy one to get by any means. A quick look at the stat counter shows I have seen just eight in six years. Almost mega.

Alexandra Lake was very choppy today.....

Kiddos

Not a lot doing today. Went out today on the Flats to gorge myself on flyover local scarcities. Came back licking my wounds despite a candidate for Yellowhammer that initially sounded really good, a brief "Tsip" as it went over, but I found I could not confidently rule out a funny Reed Bunting. Such is life. Either I need the full bread and cheese, or to see something bright yellow. A brief "Tsip", whilst encouraging, is ultimately a bit frustrating. On balance, I prefer Shetland.


I've spent the rest of the day so far at home with the kids, who have put on a play for me. Something about trolls and a bear. Nod and smile, nod and smile. It's been a while since you were treated to photos of the kids, it's just been birds birds birds, yawn, so time for a bit of a change. My prerogative. Normal service will be resumed tomorrow.

JL Taxis

Two down, one to go. Pie (that's the middle one) started school this week. When I say 'started', she has been to the school, but the first week is a somewhat lame succession of late starts and early finishes. No sooner have I got home then it is time to jump in the car and go and get her again. So far this week I have been to the school eleven times, which will rise to 14 tomorrow. The only reason it isn't going to be 15 is that Mrs L did the school run on Tuesday.

Needless to say, the short window between delivery and pick-up has not afforded me any significant birding opportunities. There was a north London Wryneck earlier in the week that would have been gettable, but the finder declined to tell people where it was, so many thanks for that. Not that I'd have twitched it, obviously, as I simply don't twitch Wrynecks. Ever.

Despite the inevitable slant towards all matters domestic, for loads of washing, and bouts of dusting and vacuuming lend themselves well to short gaps between taxi trips, it has been a very enjoyable week. Topping the happiness charts by a clear margin this week has been the sheer exuberance of Pie, my big school girl. She has been waiting for this moment for months. Perhaps even an entire year. She's finally there (albeit for five minutes a day) and she is on cloud nine. You can see her blossoming daily, she is dressed in her school uniform and ready to go before I'm even up.

Next week we start properly, and I get to take and deliver children at the same time. What with Pudding in nursery for two days a week, by my calculation that's, errr, two days a week without children. The possibilities are frankly endless. For instance, I could go birding. Now there's a thought. And it's autumn, very dangerous. Back in the spring, I successfully twitched the Lesser Kestrel on the Suffolk coast. This is about the limit, distance wise, and builds in no time for traffic issues, nor any time for actually looking for the bird. It's basically got to be there as I arrive, sitting up in a bush cooperatively and showing salient features, and then I have to leave again.

But what it does mean is that a day spent bashing Wanstead Flats is eminently do-able. Ditto Rainham, and most places in Essex and London are in range with some time for actual birding.

Can't wait.

40 Dunlin, 2 Knot - Rainham

Soggy

Today has been wet. The kids and I have sheltered inside, and climbed walls. As I type, it is still raining, and Mrs L is out again. Pining, I am sitting here concocting plans to wantonly burn brownie points as soon as humanly possible. Largely these involve Cornwall and sea-watching. Sea-watching is poor in Wanstead, and so requires going somewhere else. Somewhere else is mostly far away and expensive to get to. As I sit day-dreaming about rows of Manxies, a child appears. "Daddy, [insert other child's name] did [something bad] to me". Porthgwarra becomes even more appealing.

So I forget about Shearwaters and Petrels for a while, and go and get on with my life, which today can be summed up as a being a referee who also gets to clean the pitch. Four weeks to go....
How can I occupy them, what will keep them quiet for half an hour? These thoughts obscure thoughts of seabirds perfectly, and I get busy entertaining and clearing up.

The phone rings. It is Bradders with the latest gripping installment. He is currently lapping up rare sea-birds on Scilly, and so I end up thinking about south-west headlands again. As I plot, fighting breaks out once more. I send them to their rooms, and the boredom that ensues gradually draws them out onto the landing where they start playing nicely. I can concentrate on Procellariiformes once more. Bradders has seen Wilson's Petrel, his main target. Played for and got, so well done him. And two Great Shearwaters no less, doubling the number he has ever seen. Stonking views apparently, I should expect good photos. He had better be careful with the gripping, lest I feel the need to bring up rare Petrels....

But nevermind all that, all I want right now is some dry weather so that the kids and I can get out and let off some steam. The longer we're stuck indoors, the more trivial the arguments become. We want to play cricket. And football. And fly kites and stuff. We do not want to sit indoors getting on each others' nerves watching the rain pour down.

Potty Training Complete

Well, that wasn't too hard. Obviously I left it longer than I needed too, but almost unbelievably, having started on Monday, she is basically there as I type this. No accidents yesterday, and only one today, but today was the big one. And I mean BIG. Number ones, fine, however the reaction to potty training was to stop doing number twos. For seventy-two hours. Given that the last one was trodden into a wicker chair and then padded all over the downstairs, I have been somewhat on edge of late. It finally arrived today. I was tidying the kitchen when I heard an immense "KERPLUNK" from the toilet. I dashed over to find a beaming child, only one thing on her mind - Chocolate Animal Biscuits. Plural. Not one, but two. A wee had been getting her a single biscuit, but for the holy grail (not on a chair) two had been promised. Frankly I was delighted to hand them over.

"My want chocolate an'mal biscuit NOW!"

Sorry if this is a bit scatalogical, but I have been dreading this. I wasn't involved with the first two kids in any way, I was too busy looking at leveraged financing or something. This has been an entirely new experience for me, and, bar one horrible incident that required a hose, has been fairly painless. I'm tempted to say that it was rewarding, but that might indicate a keeness to go through it all again, which is, I assure you, a very long way from the being the case. I have one more day to get through, and then it's the weekend and Mrs L is in charge. That's fair, I've done the hard bit.

I suspect you didn't come here for that, so, any birds? No, not really. Having said that, for obvious reasons I have not left the house, so it has been all about the garden. I've been getting roughly twenty Sand Martins a day come through, the vast majority heading North-east. Earlier in the week I had my first Common Buzzard for the patch this year, which drifted vaguely towards the house before veering off east, and I've heard Coal Tit calling on two consecutive days. This is one of only two birds on my house list that I have never seen, the other is Tawny Owl.

I've managed to drag my lazy arse out of bed early only once this week, which resulted in me seeing a Jay. Awesome. Tried Rainham this evening but the Whimbrel flew off before I got there, and the Gropper hasn't been heard for a few days now so has perhaps moved on. Like migration, my London list has rather stalled. Still, I have the whole weekend.

Father-son Bonding. With Birds.

" Hi there!"

This post concerns a short trip to the Highlands, and will contain Chaffinches. If you suffer from Chaffinchophobia, or just don't think you can cope with a lot of Chaffinches, you should skip to the next post, which whilst not written yet, will be about Rainham, and have a lot of Reed Buntings in it. If you also struggle with Buntings, well, that's a problem. Come back tomorrow.

So, whilst our trip to Scotland was a family holiday, I also managed a short trip away, barely twenty-four hours in fact. Billed as father-son bonding, I have to say it was a great success. As you know, all my children have been brain-washed into liking birds. This is particularly true with Muffin, who, more than the other two, seems to be genuinely interested. Or he's just better at lying than the other two. I promised him a bird-filled adventure, with particular emphasis on raptors, his favourites.

We left after lunch on Tuesday, and by mid-afternoon he was looking at his first Osprey at Loch of the Lowes. He found this amazing, and as he whispered "Osprey" with a mixture of awe and surprise, I could only smile. I have no recollection of seeing my first Osprey as a kid, and indeed it is possible that I never in fact saw one, and that my first one was as recently as 2006 at Loch Leven. Reliving my childhood through my children? Never. We also saw a Red Squirrel here, and some of the tamest Siskin I have ever come across. I left the awestruck child with the Osprey, and had a bit of a play.


I won't go in to huge detail on what we saw when, how and so on, that would just be boring, much like repetitively posting Chaffinch pictures, but suffice it to say we cleaned up. We got Ptarmigan from Glenshee without leaving the car, and Muffin self-found two Black Grouse feeding in a tree in the Aviemore area. The following morning we got a stunning male Capercaillie at Loch Garten, an experience worthy of a post all of its own. In the Findhorn Valley we saw at least 3 Golden Eagles, including two in the same scope, Red Grouse on the Farr Road, and then a showy Crested Tit at Loch an Eilein. We didn't go looking for White-tailed Eagle, and bar that, the only thing we missed were Crossbills. In addition to all these "ticks", we saw 3 Peregrine, another 2 Osprey, 50+ Buzzards, a Sparrowhawk and 3 Kestrels.




The best bit of the trip, both for him and for me, was when he found the Black Grouse. I had heard the rasping call, but couldn't find them. Then he said he thought he'd found them - just with bins. He gave me pretty good directions, and sure enough I soon had two Black Grouse in the scope. Are kids eyes simply incredible, or is there something else at play here? He was delighted, and this one moment may yet make him a birder. I don't think I have ever seen him so thrilled.



So what else? Well we had fish and chips for dinner, slept in the car in the middle of nowhere, got up at 5am for the RSPB Abernethy Mallard Watch (see what I mean about needing a separate post?), and had a marvellous time. We didn't talk about Lego once, but I did have to try and answer a lot of questions about Jupiter. When he gets to science at school he'll be ace at the nature stuff, but he may have some rather strange ideas about the laws of physics.

So, my poor child is now even more abnormal and geeky than he already was. I wonder how long before he rejects all of this as uncool and detrimental to his social standing? I reckon I've still got a few years left.

Happy Easter!

I'm not at all religious, so I don't know a whole lot about Easter. Muffin however appears to have already been indoctrinated. His school is not a faith school, but at significant events in the Christian calendar they invite various people in, and they appear to have grasped this opportunity with both hands. And a guitar, naturally.

So today I have learned a lot about Jesus. Very nice and all that, but not really my thing. What is interesting is that the kids don't bat an eyelid whilst they talk about crucifiction and death. They must get a watered down version of the Easter story, light on detail. Mind you, they are all five or six, so reducing them to tears with the barbarity of life in Roman times is probably not the best way to successfully spread the word.


But whilst I'm not a buyer of the message, it is nice to spend some quality time as a larger family, Hoopoes at Rainham not withstanding... Gutted, but there was just no way I could get there today. Mrs L would have crucified me..... So I let it pass, and have attepted not to be grumpy about it. Instead I played a bit of football with the kids, and had an Easter Egg hunt in the garden. Jesus organised one of these for his disciples, in the Garden of Gethsemane I think, and they all enjoyed it so much that the tradition has passed down through the ages, the only change being that we now use chocolate eggs, and sometimes rabbits wrapped in foil as well. There are some parts of Easter that I'm only too happy to help perpetuate.




The football was particularly entertaining. Hilbs has his stag-do coming up in a few weeks, and part of the day is devoted to this strange pastime. Seeing as I gave up all forms sport about twenty years ago, I've been exploiting my children in order to try and get some practice in before the big day, and in doing so have discovered quite how hopeless I am. I cannot for the life of me kick a ball in a straight line. I gave up in the end and just took photos of them all.


Sorry, no birds today. There is a possibility I may be granted the chance to go and see some tomorrow. If I'm good. Flowers would apparently help my cause.