A personal Rainham landmark

I started visiting Rainham Marshes regularly in 2007. If I was not wet behind the ears I was almost certainly a little damp. I'd had binoculars for many years, but they had seen little use in the UK as for some reason I believed that birding was something you could only do on holiday. The reasons for this are extremely hazy, possibly they are connected with work and family, or simply age, but for whatever reason something changed and it also so happened that around the same time I caught the listing bug and had started to write things down. I didn't count anything, merely the presence of something was enough to satisfy, and so my first record from Rainham Marshes is a list of 28 species on the 13th January 2007, including such mindbending rarities as Greylag Goose and Mute Swan. I didn't visit again until March but from April onwards my trips there became more regular. Incidentally both of these visits predate my earliest records from Wanstead - although I know for a fact that I had undertaken some preliminary excursions in the Park and on the Flats well before this (we moved here in 2004) I had clearly been insufficiently moved to commit pen to paper.

At around the same time I also discovered the, ahem, joys of twitching, and was beginning to zoom off here there and everywhere. Looking back is rather cringeworthy and not my finest hour - I had two children under the age of four and was soon to add a third. In retrospect perhaps this was a coping mechanism as when the third arrived I probably went birding even more. I feel guilty about this to this day, which is why I have taken on all responsibility for the bins and recycling and always refused to let Mrs L get involved. Errr....

Anyhow, things continued in much the same vein for a further two years, when suddenly but not entirely unexpectedly the global financial crisis came knocking on my door. With a cardboard box. I forget the exact day of the week, but one mid-morning in February I found myself relieved of my building access pass and on the street with a cardboard box under one arm and the world my oyster. Naturally I went birding. 

I didn't immediately visit Rainham - nursery fees were prepaid and so for a short while I went further afield. Real life came back soon enough though, and with the kids at home and a whole host of new responsibilities that I was woefully ill-prepared for I found my horizons drastically reduced. Rainham became a day out. 

The next two years were a delight. I was free of the shackles of work and could devote my time to my family and to my hobbies. Cash was a bit tight, but Mrs L had returned to work full time and we cut back wherever we could. It made little difference to our state of mind so we know we can do it again if we need to. If you are extremely bored you can go and read the archives of this blog - Day Zero is linked to above, but the following two years I think contain the best material I have ever written and likely will ever write. I went to Rainham all the time - planned days out and manic twitches with children and nappies in tow, kept abreast of the latest news by a small band of regulars who had my number on speed dial. The list of good birds is long and distinguished - for anywhere, let alone in the context of London.

By the time I reluctantly returned to work in late 2011 my Rainham list was 184, the final bird being the well-twitched Slaty-backed Gull - amazing to think that a decade has passed without another. My list advanced only slightly faster. In 2012 I added Marsh Warbler and Baillon's Crake, in 2013 Black-necked Grebe, Green-winged Teal and Pec Sand. 2014 and 2015 were blank years, but in 2016 an exhausted Razorbill was found on the pools and Shaun H found a Dusky Warbler at the stone barges.  I followed that up in 2017 with Quail, Black-winged Stilt and Crane, and in 2018 with Marsh Sandpiper and Rough-legged Buzzard. 196 and hard going.

There were some big gaps though, common birds elsewhere but for which Rainham's habitat was not at all conducive. I had to make an effort. I finally connected with a wintering Firecrest in December 2019, and last year I forwent an autumn weekend morning at Wanstead (a risky but ultimately successful strategy) to ensure that I got a Siskin. Another visit in December 2020 added Raven at the umpteenth time of asking for 199. All of which takes me to last Sunday....

At a loose end in lock-down, with a cycle ride to central London the furthest I had travelled for several months, Rich B found a Guillemot on the Thames. He was on the south side at Erith but the bird would almost certainly be visible from the north side. From Rainham. Is Rainham local in these uncertain times? Twenty minutes later as I skipped breezily along the river wall I felt that it probably was, and sure enough under the solid supports of Erith Pier bobbed a smart and rather lost black and white Auk. Hooray. Finally, finally, finally. It has been threatening for a while, and whilst this is of course meaningless in almost every way I cannot help but feel very pleased with myself. 

A day in the life of a London lockdown lister

I originally wrote this article for the local wildlife society's Spring newsletter, the WREN Group. The group is active in many different branches of natural history, from algae and plant galls to birds and mammals. It dates from mid-April, and I tried to stick to garden birds and species that local members might reasonably expect to fly over their houses here in East London. The brief was that the readership are not all birders and therefore to keep it as easy-going as possible. And frankly lockdown listing can be as light or as intense as you make it, although of course the slope is a slippery one as I am sure many of you are finding out!

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Like many birders I love a good list. I routinely record every bird I see or hear no matter where I am, and as time goes by so a list of birds from a defined place will gradually increase. I’ve lived in Wanstead for over 15 years, and over that time the various lists that I keep have gradually crept upwards. Were I to plot these on a graph over time there would be a clear laggard – my garden.

I think most birders keep a list of birds they have seen from their homes. However most birders also spent a great deal of time away from their homes – birdwatching is principally an outdoor activity, and unless you live somewhere exceptional then generally there is always more productive birding habitat somewhere nearby. In my case it is Wanstead Flats, and given the choice that is where you will find me.

Enter lockdown. I can still exercise on Wanstead Flats of course, but my first few forays I found uncomfortable – lots of people, perhaps more than normal, and not all of whom understood the concept of social distancing. Where I can’t catch this infernal virus is at home, and so that is where I have been spending the vast majority of my time.

It has been a revelation. My previous highest daily total of birds seen from my garden was 30 species, which came from a whole day spent in the garden looking skywards. Now that lockdown listing is a ‘thing’ and more or less my only outlet for birding I am taking it a lot more seriously, and I have discovered that I can get to 30 species well before breakfast. A whole day of effort including listening after dark produced an amazing total of 42 species about a week ago. At this point you are probably thinking that you have only ever seen a handful of birds in your garden, but that is because you have not been looking properly. And more importantly, you have not been listening.

You don’t even need a garden, all you need is a window. I have a second floor balcony which confers some advantages, but all you actually need is a room with a view, and ideally a window that can open. If there is some greenery so much the better, but it’s not critical; you will still see and hear birds.

Here is my typical lockdown listing day. Just after 6am I am out on the balcony with the first coffee of the day. The dawn chorus has mostly died down now, but the local Wren is still belting it out from the top of the neighbour’s conifer.  There is a Dunnock singing too, a rapid and seeming never-ending reel. The local Robin’s tuneful twitters are coming from somewhere too, and the harsh scolding of a Blackbird filters through from a few doors down. Blue Tits are visible in the trees, Parakeets squawk, Starlings chatter, Goldfinches switter and zing overhead, and the resident Woodpigeons and Collared Doves are perched in their usual tree.  A Jackdaw is on the chimney pots, the rough call of the Magpies betrays their presence, and the caw of a Crow comes from behind the house as a Feral Pigeon flies past. I take my first sip of coffee. I’ve been outside for at less than a minute and the list is up to 14 already. Of those I’ve seen seven – knowing bird calls is important but not vital. If you spend any amount of time in a confined space with a population of resident birds you will get to know their songs and calls soon enough. In fact you won’t be able to avoid learning them. Despite what you thought lockdown is actually good for you.

It begins to get harder of course. I know what birds to expect, it is just a question of them playing ball and early morning is the best time. Sure enough there are soon some Mallards scudding around – pretty much the only duck that takes to the skies in Wanstead at the moment but do look for the curly rear end to be sure. I’m still looking at every duck just in case! The familiar honking of Canada Geese is next, on their way from a roost site to the local ponds. If you are observant it is likely you will also see both Greylag and Egyptian Goose as well, the latter with large white panels in the wing that are unmistakable. They also sound like donkeys….

A commotion! The Magpies and Crows go mad and it is soon apparent why. A Grey Heron is flopping through the gardens, dodging left and right to try and avoid the corvids who view it as a threat to their nestlings. It emits a fearsomely loud squawk as it disappears off over the rooftops.

A dribble of gulls appear. At this time of year many species are still possible, but the most likely suspects are the (adult) charcoal grey-winged Lesser Black-backed Gulls and the light grey Herring Gulls. I get both every single morning without fail as they commute from the reservoirs where they spend the nights to local parks, ponds and rubbish tips.

I’m beginning to listen more carefully now for birds that are perhaps quieter and less obvious, or perhaps simply further away. After a little while a Blackcap sings – a repeated melodious sequence. Listen to a recording on the internet, learn its phrase, and see if you can pick it out.  I think it’s one of the most beautiful of our migrant songsters. Next up is a Chiffchaff. Chiff chaff chiff chaff chiff chiff chaff. Unmistakeable. I’ve only seen it in the garden once during this lockdown period, but I hear it singing on most mornings. Then comes the kik call of a Great Spotted Woodpecker and I quickly pick it up, it’s undulating flight a real giveaway as this largely black and white bird bounds across the neighbourhood.

Teacher! Teacher! A Great Tit is calling, and is new for the morning. It’s 6.30, I’ve been on the balcony for half an hour now and the list is up to 25. This lockdown listing is a walk in the park!

The non-stop period is now over in terms of additions, and now the law of diminishing returns comes into play. How many more can I get before I need to start work?  There are still a few certainties of course – flyover Cormorants, the local House Sparrows, a wheezing Greenfinch, but it is a lot harder to eke anything else out. Nonetheless I would still expect to hear Long-tailed Tit for example, and the local Mute Swans are flying around all over the place at the moment as the dominant males start to force the hangers on from their chosen ponds. I might get a Jay or a Green Woodpecker, and there are Goldcrests around if you really strain your ears. One of the benefits of lockdown is the reduced amount of background noise from cars and planes.

My time is up, I am on exactly 30 species for the day so far and I need to get dressed. Oh, did I not mention this? Yes, 30 species in my dressing gown…..

During the day I am mainly in meetings, but sometimes a conference call can take place by a window…. Sparrowhawks, Buzzards, Kestrels, Red Kites…. I’ve seen multiples of all of these from home during lockdown simply by looking at the sky. I scan with the naked eye, and then zoom in on dots and specks. Some lucky London birders have even seen Ospreys this month. Hirundines are back too, Swallows and Martins steadily moving north, and soon the Swifts will arrive in numbers – I’ll be seeing them every day and I cannot wait!

On some days my birding continues after dark. Ever wanted to try and get Coot or Moorhen on your garden list? During the day is next to impossible for most people. After dark however, indeed sometimes even before bedtime. Try an hour or so in the garden or listening from a window. They sound just like they do on the local pond, but out of context you may dismiss them just as noises of the night. If you have the stamina, or nothing to do the next day you can take this a stage further and stay up all night. All sorts of things fly over London in the dead of night. Sea ducks like Common Scoters that spend almost all their time on the open water migrate overland in April. So too do waders like Oystercatchers and Whimbrel. This is a whole new birding experience to delve into and is known as nocmig (for nocturnal migration). You can do it with your own ears at the cost of sleep and sanity, or for a modest investment you can set up a recording device at an open window and review the results in the morning at your leisure.

My garden list of 16 years has increased by four species in a matter of weeks, having been more or less stagnant for ages. Out of a total in all those years of 83 species, a month of lockdown has seen me record 64, including a Short-eared Owl, a Raven, two Little Egret and seven Red Kites.  My eyes have been opened to the joy of garden birding and to the possibilities of nocmigging. It can’t replace being able to go out, but it is a fine substitute in these trying times.

Stay safe, stay in, and get lockdown listing!

The great patch birding nocmig debate continues

Back to the nocmig debate I'm afraid. Pandora's box for the individual lister perhaps, but for a collective of local patch-workers the can of worms is far more accurate. One night last week I heard and recorded Whimbrel flying over. Amazing! However celebrations at the time were rather put on hold as I grappled with the whole nocmig argument.

We have a local birding WhatsApp group to share news and sightings (and now audio files....), there are perhaps ten of us on it. It has been busier than normal what with lockdown; even the most banal of birds now get shared. Then I set up my bucket and in short order have recorded a series of what are basically patch megas. The WhatsApp group has gone into overdrive - we just don't get sea ducks and waders here. The former - Common Scoter - were recorded twice last century, the most recent nearly 60 years ago, and under what circumstances we will probably never know. All we know is that there was a bird on the Basin for a day way back when. Waders, with a few exceptions like Snipe and Common Sandpiper, are basically all flyovers. Nasty weather - rain or fog - seems to aid our chances, but essentially they're as rare as rocking horse you know what.

Nocmig is making them less rare and that's the crux of the current debate. With my slightly gleeful morning reports of x y z recorded "rarities", even if heard "live", there was a suggestion that nocmigging could cause a devaluation in status of rare birds on the patch, especially for those that live a little further away and can't partake in nocturnal recording/listening. If this trend continues and noc-migging remains a thing even post lockdown, will birds that for most patch-workers were a once in a decade sighting be reduced to merely expected annual nocturnal migrants that nobody actually sees?

We're divided I'm afraid. I think we're all agreed that vision is the superior and ranking sense for people [most people - what if one of us were blind?], and that we therefore all find visual records of birds and photographs of birds more satisfying than aural records and mp3 files. We also all seem to agree that a recording of a bird reviewed after the event is just not as kosher as a heard at the time bird, and as such whereas that bird cannot be denied an entry onto the patch list for we all agree that it was indeed present, it can't be said to have actually been heard by the individual who turned on the recorder and thus can't go their personal list. Fine.

But that is where it ends. Personally I was extremely excited as I heard the Scoter and now this Whimbrel go over. Probably less excited than had I found either of them on the deck, or flying past in the daytime*, but more excited than if somebody else had found one on the deck and I'd then twitched them. I am finding that there is definitely a big element of "self found" associated with nocmig.

I was actually indoors at the start of both events, listening on headphones connected to the microphone on the balcony. Lying in bed actually! Is this allowed? To deflect the most obvious objections I took them off, opened the door and also managed to hear a call 'naturally', but I didn't bother for the Moorhen and that's now on my garden list too. It strikes me writing this that if there are issues with the use of a microphone and headphones then we may also have problems with binoculars and telescopes, both of which also augment human sensory capabilities. We have yet not had the 'webcam' debate, whereby an internet connection replaces a short cable, and hopefully we don't need to, but camera traps did get a mention.

As I have added more decent nocmig records the debate has naturally intensified. So does this argument of devaluation hold any water? To my mind not really, but I am new to all this as many of us are, and the reason I am penning this is to see if any readers would like to offer an opposing opinion, or to give their thought on nocmig and patch birding if they have already been through this stage. If anything I think it makes our collective local list more complete. We may have thought Common Scoter was mega but we were ill informed, simply not aware that each year an annual overland migration takes place. That wonderfully quick-to-market graphical representation of the Scoter migration had a lot of people similarly enlightened I expect. We also thought that poor weather saw the best chance of waders on our patch, and it probably still does, but perhaps their spring movements commonly take them over urban areas like ours in fine weather? My nocmig sessions along with everyones else's help to understand that. To ignore these records or give them any less merit than the diurnal migrants that we hear (a high percentage Yellow Wagtails go unseen for example) strikes me as counter-intuitive. The opposing argument to this is that for the sake therefore of scientific exactitude, why not set up camera traps and microphones everywhere and ensure that nothing, bar nothing, gets through unrecorded?

Where we are really getting hung up is how we list these birds. A separate nocmig list? That's one option I suppose, but only a single list can describe the totality of what birds use or fly over a patch. If we were to have a separate list for nocturnal migrants should we also have a list for diurnal migrants? A separate list for birds that we heard but didn't see? I think that as long as we clearly state what type of record each is then we're fine. Where this falls down a little is that year on year patch lists, or current and historical lists, are not easily compared in the post nocmig era. The view here is that we should mention in the annual report that a new survey method has begun to be employed, albeit in a limited way, and that this has contributed to a change in how some birds have been recorded. It will work the other way too as with significantly less coverage by local birders, passerine spring migrant records are likely going to fall. Were it not for lockdown this wouldn't be happening of course, and frankly the only way I can manage nocmig is because of lockdown. I don't have to go to the office so nobody can see the huge bags under my eyes caused by lack of sleep - these nocmig records have not come for free, especially with the "at the time" stipulation we have decided on.

If the worry here is individual lists, i.e. the competitive part of local birding - and let's face it, many of these birds are certainly becoming a lot less rare on my list. I can of course see why my new records may ruffle some feathers. I sympathise, not everyone is able to nocmig from the patch, in fact most people who keep a Wanstead list cannot do so without serious effort (Nick has been talking about it!). In that respect I and a couple of others have a clear advantage, albeit not one we have up until now ever used. Fifteen years I could have been doing this! Location is just one aspect, time is the other. There is a huge amount of disparity in the time each of us are able to devote to birding the patch, in any manner. Some of us have partners and kids, some of us don't. Some of us travel frequently for extended periods of work, others not at all. At best, I could at certain times of year do an hour or so each weekday morning, and then all weekend every weekend if I sacrificed everything else I enjoy doing. Others struggle to do more than a couple of hours every Saturday morning. At the other end of the spectrum at least one local birder spends ten hours a day on the patch during the prime months and could do more if he wanted. It all comes down to personal circumstances, there just isn't a way to level a playing field this diverse. I don't think anybody is suggesting that we introduce birding caps, and I am not going to deny the geography of Chateau L - if it's not giving the game away too much I can be on Wanstead Flats in under thirty seconds. Indeed I think last week's Whimbrel were over Wanstead Flats when I first head them. I would have no problem keeping a separate list for nocmig (in fact I do in a way, via eBird nocturnal sightings). However when it came to describing my total patch list I'd simply add them together, i.e 158 of which one is nocmig. Clearly specifying nocmig records on a combined list achieves exactly the same thing. I also feel I've made more effort for these recent records than many daytime rare birds where I've just got lucky with a flyover, a case of being in the right place at the right time.....**

But there is no denying that nocmig, a new concept for all of us here, has started out as a bit tricky in terms of reaching a concensus, and it feels like we're still feeling our way a little bit. As such, and to check that we're not an outlier in how we might deal with this, I'd like to find out how other local patches deal with these types of nocturnal records.




* **  POSTSCRIPT

Nick managed to get the crucial photo that I could not!

Three days after I made my nocmig recording of Whimbrel, two flew over me on Wanstead Flats early in the morning. This is patently absurd given all of the above, but there you have it. Patch birding - sometimes you cannot make it up! Did I feel any less elated having ticked the species a few days earlier? Not in the slightest! Did it feel like a full fat patch tick? Well, not quite, although I confess I did feel slightly and strangely vindicated. There were also a few others around who I was able to get on the birds which for me made it far more satisfactory - there is joy in shared sightings. I then also recorded another bird a day afterwards, so that's three definite flyovers in five days. Whether this is simply a 2020 phenomenon or part of a regular Spring movement remains to be seen.

Nocmig: to count or not to count

The night before last I put the recorder out on the balcony and went to bed. I enjoyed a refreshing nine hour sleep reminiscent of my teenage years, and feeling refreshed stepped out onto the balcony for a spot of early morning birding. A solid 31 species were recorded before breakfast, proving once again that all garden totals from 2006 to 2019 were half-hearted at best. Then I sat down to go through the overnight recording.

About an hour in a Moorhen called directly overhead. None of this straining to disentangle obviously distant sounds - it sounded like it was perched on the chimney before being surprised by a bat and bursting into an explosive escape. Moorhen would be a garden tick, and it is now the second time in a week that I have picked in up on an overnight recording. Worse was to come however. At around midnight a wader appeared on the recording. A distant call shaped like a hairpin on the spectrogram. "Kleep!" Fifteen seconds later it appeared again, much bolder and much louder. ......."KLEEP!!" I suspect I don't need to tell you what it was.



Well now. Oystercatcher is patch gold. It knocks Moorhen into a cocked hat. It knocks most patch birds into a series of cocked hats. It is the milliner of local birds. I can stay up listening any night I choose and score a Moorhen* whereas there have been precisely two previous records of Oystercatcher, both heard-only flyovers. And now we have a third and it was over my garden. 

Our local 'rules', mutually agreed by all those who take an interest in these things, define the boundaries of the patch, and also offer some standard advice on escapes, Cat E etc. Local patch listers have to see birds on or from the patch, and we also at some point declared that heard only birds could be added to the overall patch list, but in order to grace an individual's list had to be heard 'live', i.e. heard by that person at the time and not solely by a tape recording reviewed after the event. Thus I have added Oystercatcher to the 2020 consolidated patch list, but there is a large Oystercatcher-shaped hole in my own 2020 list. This hole is large, and deeply black...

I am taking part in two lockdown listing competitions, one local and one national. The local one is fairly unscientific, centred largely around East London and consolidated by Howard V using our long-standing WhatsApp group. It is simply the highest total that wins, so that's Fraser S who lives on the Thames. For this one nocmig records don't count, as I found out when I first recorded Common Scoter. The more geographically diverse competition coordinated by Steve G in Surrey pits your pre-lockdown all-time garden list against your lockdown garden list as a percentage, a bit like the Golden Mallard challenge. However for this one nocmig records are perfectly fine, indeed you would be foolish if you are nocmigging to ignore them, although that does of course disadvantage any birders not listening out at night. Oh my mistake, there aren't any.

So to count or not to count? If I wanted to be thorough, there is no doubt that a Moorhen and an Oystercatcher have passed over or very close to my garden. Using the usual on or from listing criteria, they would be very firmly on the list. Had I been stood in my red bucket I would without a doubt have heard them both. So the fact it is added to the overall patch list (I live in the middle of the patch, which is not entirely surprising as I drew up the map....) creates a bit of a dilemma, we now have an orphan record. 

"Oh you have Oystercatcher on the patch list, wow, whereabouts was it?!"
"Over Jono's garden actually."
"Amazing, what a fantastic garden tick!"
"It's not on his list"
"Eh?"

It really messes with my sense of order. Spreadsheets and databases deal with this kind of thing very badly. I added the records to eBird as this is useful scientific data, but this now creates a discrepancy between the list I know and the list that is recorded. Put simply, it does not add up, and for the good of my inner calm things need to add up. Irritating, and could so easily be reconciled with a slight relaxation of some unwritten rules....

But we must stand firm. Think where it could end. Yes, I am thinking Terminator. The rise of the machines. The patch list could end up being dominated by heard-only recordings that nobody has ever seen, and the annual top listing spots could be taken over by the "Zoom H2n" and "Tascam DR-05". Nick could be relegated off the podium! No, that would not do at all. This needs to remain a human activity to have any relevance.

With that in mind I spent two hours on the balcony last night until just after midnight. The result? One solitary distant Mallard. I retired to bed and left it to the machine.

The spectre of county listing

My good London twitching buddy recently moved to far flung Essex, which is not very convenient for picking me up and driving me to rare birds. We’ll have to see how that plays out and whether my UK list now stalls as I simply can’t be bothered with long solo drives. Worse than this though is that his move has started me thinking about listing again.

Everyone enjoys a bit of friendly competition, and whilst I am precisely nowhere near filthy enough to bother the scores on the national front I was comfortably ahead in the London game, mainly due to working a local patch and pursuing a London year list in 2010, which saw me get all sorts of things I probably wouldn’t normally have moved for. With Bradders now having moved away, I think I can probably claim victory in London, however a new problem has arisen – Essex. I have always maintained an Essex list as I live in Essex. Fair enough, no? I don’t, for instance, maintain a Suffolk list as I don’t live there. That said I have a Norfolk list, but only because I need to know what it is versus my Essex list in the vain hope that I can keep Essex higher. I can’t as it happens, and though it’s close I suspect Norfolk will pull away as my son now goes to school there and the various pick-ups we’ll need to do will result in some incidental birding. But back to Bradders and Essex. As soon as he had the keys to his new house he unpacked his computer and notebooks, fired up Bubo (an online self-help website for people suffering from OCD), and totted up his Essex list. He was appalled to find that he was one species behind me, and resolved to immediately start Essex listing. Then he went back outside and let Mrs Bradders and Bradders jnr. out of the car so they could see the new house too.

So, one behind, he on 261, I on 262. Annoying for him perhaps, but even more annoying for me. I had actually managed to get over Essex listing, or indeed any kind of listing. This is just not helpful. I’d not had an Essex or a London tick, or even been bothered about getting one, since 2014. I thought vaguely about Lee D’s Staines Barred Warbler, thought about the M25, and went and did something else. My last Norfolk tick was also in 2014, and I'm not sure I've been birding there even once this year! Anyhow, in a quiet moment I did the old compare and contrast thing, working out each others gaps, and we each have some tasty blockers. Most of mine come from London and on balance I think he has the easier task, but good luck with that Baird’s Sandpiper!

To cut a long story short, we both got Grey Partridge with consummate ease at the weekend, and then on Monday afternoon news broke of a Wilson’s Phalarope at Vange Marsh. Good news soon filtered through that Bradders was stuck at work, but I however played a cheeky “3pm” card, a work concept whereby once a month I can get an early leave in recognition of the otherwise rather unfriendly hours I put in – I’d like to point out to all managers or indeed team members reading that this is only the third one this year and that September is the ninth month. Essex listing aside, my notes on the only previous Wilson’s Phalarope that I saw have those dreaded three letters – bvd. It was down at Stodmarsh in Kent five years ago, and the bird was feeding on a hidden pool. Every now and again a Marsh Harrier would cruise over, and the entire avian contents of the pool would collectively crap themselves, lift up into the air, swirl around for a bit, and then dive back into the pool and resume hiding from me. Although I clearly saw the bird it was a little bit underwhelming. Naturally I ticked it immediately, but having extremely high listing standards noted I’d like better views.

So in filthy weather I caught the train out to Pitsea from work and walked from the station. This cost me £9.70 as it was outside the Oyster zone, and a judicious umbrella was £18. Optical aids were already in my pocket, else this would have been an absurdly expensive tick. To cut a long story short I got rather wet and muddy but the views of this one were a lot better, and bvd is no longer an issue. Sadly it was still there this evening, so we shall see whether a certain Essex listing fiend toddles off there at some point….

Alex Salmond rules on my list

Today is a really important day. Today the people of Scotland vote, and the responsibility must be unbearable. This is a decision that could have huge repercussions, and none is more important than my list. The vote is essentially on whether my list stays at 419, or drops to 402, for I've seen 17 species in Scotland and nowhere else. That's what Alex Salmond has basically been banging on about for the last few weeks. I mean yes, he talks about national identity, about a proud nation etc, but when he says "Let's do it!" what he really means is "Let's wipe the smile off those smarmy UK listers, coming over here and taking our birds."

This is outrageous. I've paid good money to see those 17 birds. Seven of those have been on Shetland, involving five highly expensive trips. I suppose I did manage to subsequently see Hornemann's Arctic Redpoll in Suffolk and Buff-bellied Pipit in London, but Syke's Warbler, Lancie and Pechora could be more difficult. Last year I even bloody twitched Shetland for that Pine Grosbeak. Had I known.....And then a month after that I was on the Hebrides for the Harlequin Duck. I demand a refund! And as for my exciting Yank trio of Coot, Duck and Herring Gull, well they cost me a weekend and about £30 each, and were dull as ditch-water to boot. You think I went to see them for their aesthetic value? For what they could teach me about plumage? Pah! It was for my UK list, a UK that includes Scotland. And what about the Black Scoter? That sodding thing took me seven hours to find off Blackdog. Seven hours, some of them whilst being chased by a naked man wearing a sailor's cap. Is the Yes Campaign really saying that that was all in vain? How can that be fair, it's just so short-sighted. I guess I should count my lucky stars that the Sandhill Crane relocated to Suffolk where I saw it again, even though at the time it was one of the worst things that had happened in my entire life as it meant all my mates then saw it. 

Then there's all the endemics. Where am I going to see a Ptarmigan in England, Wales or Northern Ireland? Or a Crested Tit? And what about Scottish Crossbill? Presumably all those will have to now pass a DNA test or they'll be shipped back across the border? The whole situation is nuts, and clearly hasn't been thought through properly. For starters what about all the economic benefits that birders bring to Scotland? On some trips I've forgotten the Double Deckers and had to purchase them up there, and on Shetland I reckon I've spent at least £20 on pies over the years. And this is just me! There are literally tens of other people like me who could also withdraw their custom, the damage to the people of Scotland could be immense. Westminster would have to increase their already massive subsidies to make up the shortfall. Oh, wait.....

Gone but not forgotten....

Thank God

The Big One

To be on 399 BOU just as peak migration starts is pretty good planning on my part. On 395 at the start of the year, two daring twitches to remote Scottish islands for itinerant ducks, an armchair Hooded Merg, and the weekend dash to Lincolnshire for my long-awaited Subalp have put me in a perfect position .The key question, of course, and one that Mrs L asks me almost once a day, is what will it be? I'm so excited about it I can hardly tell you. Actually I can.

Through the magic of Bubo I can sample a massive population of 1000 diehard listers to see what they have seen that I have not. Theoretically, though you have to of course disount anomolies from the old days that everyone saw (all other birders are typically very old and doddery) but that have not reoccured since. Here's that list, or the very top bit of it anyway:

1) Laughing Gull - 36%
2) Broad-billed Sandpiper - 35%
3) Pied Wheatear - 34%
4) Roller - 33%
5) White-billed Diver - 32%
6) Rustic Bunting - 31%
7) Ross's Gull - 31%
8) Sora - 30%
9) Black Duck - 29%
10) Least Sandpiper - 29%

So, Laughing Gull, with 365 people having seen one, is top of the tree. A bloody Gull, it had to be didn't it? Well that's going to knock the shine off 400 isn't it? The happy news is that this is one of these birds that has "gone rare"; I can't really think of one that I could have gone for since I started this whole sorry tale. So what about BB Sand? Another one that has declined of late - I've missed one in Essex somewhere by being in Dorset. Again, would be I be massively excited? Is it worthy enough? No. Will I care? Probably not.





Number three is an obvious choice, being a Wheatear. Perfect in fact. Trouble is they're probably all dull juvs in autumn. A spanking Spring male though, and I would be off like a shot. Ditto for number four.....this should be on my list already, but isn't due to various complications involving a flat tyre and dipping. And so to number five, White-billed Diver. Were I so inclined, I could jump in the car this coming Saturday, and drive several hundred miles and see not one, but perhaps up to double figures, for the East coast of Scotland seems awash with them. Fatpaulscholes saw eight in one morning off Portsoy about a week ago, and there's no denying it's a great bird. But a thousand miles for one? Not a chance. It's just a number.

You see, there's a good chance that I'm already past the hurdle, for I have several birds waiting in the wings, so to speak. The first dates from almost three years ago, and is the Empidonax flycatcher from Blakeney Point. A hard-earned bird indeed, it's a shame the great and the good have yet to decide what it was, and may never do so! The balance of probablility, as I understand it, is that Alder Flycatcher is by far and away the likeliest vagrant, but that might not be good enough for the boffins. If they eventually go for it, then of course that Subalp last weekend becomes number 400. And a damp squib. But what about Dom's Slaty-backed Gull? That's a 2011 bird, and another that I caught up with. Questions remain about whether it's kosher or not. I didn't think birds were even religious. Anyhow, if it goes through as well, then the Harlequin becomes number 400. I could live with that I think, though something new to celebrate as it happens would be preferable.

Then there's all the splits and so on. American Black Tern, Northern Harrier, Desert Lesser Whitethroat. Who knows? If all three of those go on, then some crappy views of Pechora Pipit on Shetland get the nod, which is not ideal. In other words, I have no idea what I'm actually on at all. Being good about it, it's definitely 399, but it could be as high as 405 if they elevate Lesser Canada Goose. Then again, maybe they'll lump Redpolls.....

A New List

As is well known, I love lists. One can never have enough, and whilst I might not equal Professor Whiteman in the list of lists stakes, I've just realised that I have a key list missing. It has quite a catchy title: "List of birds that other people have seen on my patch that I will probably never see but that I will hear about for the next 27 years". Why I didn't think of this one before is a mystery, but recent events - particularly this morning - have brought it to the fore.

I worked out at some point this morning that I have been birding for about two hours since I returned from Shetland. It might stretch to two and a half hours, but no more. That I managed to snatch that Short-eared Owl is nothing short of miraculous, and aside from that, I've seen nothing. This morning was no exception. I managed approximately 20 minutes of birding as I walked across the Flats to the bus stop, during which I saw a Pied Wagtail. Safely parked at my desk in Canary Wharf, the remaining Wanstead Birders could now open their eyes and start seeing rare birds. First up a Hawfinch (last record 1985), possibly two, circling Esso Copse. A nice addition to my new list, and with the added bonus of also being seen by a bloke on his second visit or something - extra points. Then three Woodlark west over Long Wood. Excellent, ink that one in. Oh, a Brambling in with Chaffinches - that one at least only goes onto the "missing from my patch year-list list", and finally two Golden Plover. Not too fussed about those, but you can probably sense my building frustration. And this is just today, the actual list is much much longer, and there are some real gems on there.

Happily it does not stop there, no no! There is apparently an Olive-backed Pipit near Southend. Fantastic! What better way to heap more misery on me. It shows all afternoon, right up until dusk. Comments from various people that I am missing a lot of good birds are not well received. Tony suggests I ought to take the afternoon off and twitch it, a nice thought, but with meetings from 1pm through to 6.30pm, somewhat of an impossibility, and anyhow, if I don't work, I don't earn - this is of course entirely fair, but it also means that twitching is not the frivolous affair it once was. I returned home this evening in a foul mood. Magnanimity? Not in this house.

The one tiny tiny speck of good birding news is that I managed 15 minutes birding in Canary Wharf this lunchtime. In addition to most people in Wanstead gripping me off, Parus over at Tower Bridge has also been getting in on the action. Goldcrest yesterday and Chaffinch today, to take the lead in the peanut challenge. I couldn't let this stand. The words "good birding" and "Canary Wharf" rarely go hand in hand, but bugger me if I didn't find a Goldcrest in the first place I looked, which was the nearest bit of green to my office, and was thus able to get back to my desk extra-quickly. Happy days.

Insurance Job

Plastic Fantastic, or Yankee Doodle Doo? I have no idea, but I had nothing better to do on Saturday afternoon once my hangover had abated. My gut reaction would be that it's as dodgy as they come, but amazingly if it doesn't do anything stupid and disappears in the next few weeks, concensus is that it will be accepted onto the British List, and will thus prove that all listing is utterly ridiculous. And I will thus tick it. Shamelessly. On the other hand it could still be on the same Kentish gravel pit in six months time. Why do we do it?

Hooded Merganser, Kent. 6th for Britain (283rd for Holland)

A good list and a good soaking

I didn't even make it to midnight last night. At about 10pm, yawning my head off, I looked at Mrs L and asked why exactly we were planning on staying up for another pointless two hours? Let's face it, we're not young any more, so we went to bed. I vaguely recall some fireworks (not those kind of fireworks....) that probably indicated midnight, but I didn't even open my eyes to check.

This nice long sleep meant I actually managed to get out of bed at 7am, some three hours earlier than I seem to have managed for about a week. By 7.30 I was on the patch, and I birded it 'til dusk, which I have not done for a very very long time. And you know what? It was great, absolutely brilliant - until it started to rain, which it did, very heavily, until dusk. I actually deserve some kind of patch-birding medal, as at the point it started raining I was about five minutes from home, and I could very easily have gone back, especially as I had just scored Firecrest and had equalled my January 1st daylist from last year. In the event, I pulled on my waterproofs and went round the patch again.

So how did I do? Well, I wanted 60, which I thought was more than doable, and I ended up blowing it out of the water by a huge margin. My sixty-second and final species was a Collared Dove in a housing estate on the edge of the park, which had somehow eluded me all day. But back to the beginning, might as well draw it out....

I met Nick near Jubilee just after first light, and Tim joined us quite soon afterwards. By then we were on about 20 species. Jubilee added around eight or nine entirely expected birds, and then came something rather special. Tim and I picked up a raptor overheard going west, the shape seemed familiar....Peregrine! Presumably one of the Stratford birds, but even though that's only just around the corner, for some reason we hardly ever see them - this sighting was only my ninth in six years - well, seven now. A great start, and then almost the very next bird was a good one too, a Great Black-backed Gull heading in the same direction.

"homage a Dave Mo"

We continued over the road, adding Kestrel, Skylark and a few others, and then whilst Nick went off for coffee (and excelled himself by also sourcing bacon butties), Tim and I grilled the enormous number of Gulls sitting on the playing fields. First up was either the same Common Gull with very dark streaking on the head that I saw about a month ago, or if not, a very similar one. I'll look at the photos side by side another time, right now I'm a bit gulled-out. We counted at least 30 Lesser Black-backed, about 15 Herring Gulls, and had been looking through them for at least five minutes when I suddenly noticed that slap bang in the middle of them was this:

How on earth you miss a Great Black-backed I have no idea, they're not exactly inconspicuous, but somehow we had looked through it. We eagerly scanned through them again, in case we had also missed Med, Yellow-legged, Ring-billed, Franklin's or Pallas's... but we hadn't, and so continued, refuelled, to the Alex, there to add Greylag, Tuftie and a bonus Teal. A quick search of scrub netting a Greenfinch, and then we headed off to the Park. Reed Bunting, a miss on the Flats, was notched up in the Old Sewage Works, as was Sparrowhawk, but our hopes of a clean sweep were dashed when we couldn't find Snipe, Bullfinch or Little Egret - the OSW is about the only place for them.

Tim (l), Nick (r)

By now about lunchtime, it was off to the Tea Hut for refreshments. As expected, Crufts was in full swing, and there were so many people I had to queue to get the teas in, which allowed Nick to scoop a Kingfisher behind my back, a feat he later repeated on the Roding. Firecrest in Bush Wood was next on the list, via a flock of Redpolls (24 Mealy, 1 Arctic), and on the way we bumped into Paul D, who had just dipped them. He came back with us, and whilst we all saw one, he dipped them again. At this point it began to rain, perhaps to coincide with Paul's mood. Tim, who lives near me, cut his losses and went home for some lunch, and Paul wandered back to the park. A crossroads loomed. Back home for lunch, like Tim, or waterproofs on, and over the Ornamental Waters via the Basin. Thoroughly soaked, and having just missed Kingfisher #2, I wondered if I had made the wrong decision. Arriving at the OSW again, I turned for home. Nick decided he would take one more quick spin around the area. Knowing what would happen, I turned back and came with him. And what a decision that turned out to be! We had gone less than two-hundred yards when five Bullfinches flew out of a Hawthorn, and the Little Egret was hunched up on the Roding! Leaving the site, a Chiffie called a couple of times, and the walk back home produced the Collared Doves. 62 species! Stonking. Of course that's me done until the first Wheatear turns up, but nonetheless an intensely satisfying day, and well worth a good soaking.

Long-tailed Duck in London

There is a Long-tailed Duck in Bromley, which is in Kent. Generally when it comes to Long-tailed Ducks in Kent, I could not care less. However Bromley, whilst in Kent, is also in London. Suddenly, I find that I do care. Not that much, as the bird has been there for over a week now, but every now and again I wonder if I should go see it. Then I think of the Blackwall Tunnel, and care less again. When it came up this morning, I decided it was now or never, and so piled the children into the car after lunch (Mrs L was out selfishly pursuing her own hobbies again rather than staying at home so that I can go look at birds, pah!)

I take my kids to all the nicest places....

London traffic being what it is, the 16 miles took just over an hour, and when we parked up we could see a muddy lane heading off into the trees. My research had been somewhat minimal, but seeing as it was the most likely option, and we had passed no ponds, we sauntered down there. Plenty of muddy puddles for one and all, including for a dumb son who had decided to wear trainers but did not want to be left out. They're drying on the radiator.

The path did indeed lead to a small pond, and on that pond, surrounded by Mallards, Coots, Little Grebes and a few Tufties was a very fine female Long-tailed Duck. Where it came from and what it is doing there, who can say? It passed the bread test, and in fact stayed right at the far end of the pond. This is of course the acid test with wildfowl. Nobody will actually ever know where it came from, so punters like me make up rules that can fairly easily be satisfied. We throw one tiny lump of bread in towards the nearest Mallard, which naturally snaffles it instantly, thus ensuring the target bird does not get a look in, and we make sure that we view from as far away as possible, and move if it swims towards us. Well, it behaved like a wild bird, we then say indignantly. Didn't show the slightest interest in bread..... And then we whack it on our lists. Triumphantly.

Which is what I have just done, and in doing so discovered that not only is it a London tick, but a Kent tick too! Double whammy. Actually, triple whammy, as unbelievably it gets better - a year tick! Good gracious, what a haul, what a tick-fest! Good thing I'm not year-listing!  Well worth the two hours in the car. That's the trouble with London birding, small distances take forever. I don't mind going out to Rainham, or popping up to the Lea Valley Reservoirs, but as soon as a bird turns up south of the river, or, heaven forbid, south-west London, an involuntary groan escapes me. Why do I do it, I ask myself. It's stupid, I tell myself. Never was that worse than last year, when I was trying a London year list, but even now when the pressure is off, it's still a pain. Should I, shouldn't I, and so on. Anyway, 'tis done, and it's another one I won't have to schlep round to Staines or Wraysbury for. Local listing, for people with no concept of perspective.



They will thank me in years to come



Listing Angst

Mrs L was doing the school run this morning, so I snuck out on the patch before work. Or rather, she kicked me out onto the patch - it is quite possible I would have just lazed around in bed. I am very glad that she did, or at least I think I am. It was extremely misty on the Flats, not the low mist that hangs between three and six feet in the air, but a consistent bank of mist that restricted any kind of view of the sky. Perhaps best to call it extremely low cloud, as horizontal visibility was fine. I had stopped to photograph a large mushroom when an Oystercatcher called. Wah!! Then it called again, a whole series of "kleeps". I strained to see it, I wanted a glimpse, fleeting would have been sufficient. It seemed to have come from south of my position in the Broom Fields, but try as I might one final, faint kleep and that was it. Dagnabit!

I was immediately overcome with self-doubt and introspective cynicism. When I had heard the call, I had immediately and automatically gone "Oystercatcher!" to myself. It is a highly distinctive call. I had looked up expecting to see an Oystercatcher, but the fog had prevented me seeing it. Ten seconds later and I was trying to talk myself out of it. Why? I should have been doing cartwheels, for Oystercatcher was my number one most-wanted patch tick. And this is the problem. It is too convenient. What is my most-wanted patch tick? An Oystercatcher? Right, that's what I'll go out and hear then. SImple. It's another version of seeing what you expect to see, the little cynical voice inside me said. I hung around for a while, listening out for a particularly talented Starling. I strained to turn Ring-neked Parakeets into distant Oystercatchers but could not. I could only conclude that I had been correct. I didn't really need any more convincing, but I was still plagued with small amounts of self-doubt, and so played it on my phone. Yup, Oystercatcher. My suspicion is that it had been feeding on the playing fields south of South Copse, and had been disturbed and taken flight eastwards, as I had heard nothing from the west. Shame then that I had stopped to photograph a mushroom.

For many years, Osprey was my number one target bird. I dispensed with that this September, when I was lucky enough to coincide with one flying lazily south over Alexandra Lake early in the morning. That out of the way, I needed a new target bird. I ended up choosing Oystercatcher, and, after this morning the reason why seems pretty clear. At the time I hadn't given it much thought, but now that I am bashing out the minutae, it's because it was easy with high probability of success. A common bird on the Thames estuary, large, generally not elusive, with a call that even I can recognise, with the added bonus that I could find no historical records. Brilliant, an ideal choice for a top target. I was kidding no-one but myself.

So, I need a new one, but clearly something a bit more challenging, but at the same time, it has to be at least a possibility. I might start a poll thing, it has been a while. Alternatively, please suggest something juicy in the comments box. You can see my Wanstead list here, and the Wanstead historical sitelist here.

Life lists are a load of crap

Yes, I’m sorry, yet another blog post on listing. The opportunities to waffle on about listing are many and varied, and frankly I’m amazed I don’t write about it more, for it affords an insight into the minds of many of this country’s finest birders. Or is that listers? The prompt for this post came yesterday at Landguard.

For those of you who have not been there, Landguard sits below Felixstowe on the very southern tip of the Suffolk coast. It is a short shingle spit, and like many shingle spits in this counrty, is covered in old concrete things designed to impede tanks, with yet more old concrete things that used to contain large guns with which to blast tanks as they attempted to negotiate old concrete things, or at that period in history, new concrete things. In the event I don’t think any tanks ever arrived, but that is by the by – this is not a history blog. In the middle of the spit there is a very large concrete thing that was once a fort, or something, and this is now home to the Landguard Bird Observatory. The Obs is surrounded by Holm Oaks and Tamarisks, and is somewhat of an obstacle course for small birds, being filled with mist nets and people with small bags. These people find a lot of birds, not only entangled in nets, but also in the bushes and brambles surrounding the fort. This is what happened yesterday, and Bradders and I were the happy recipients of news that either a Booted or Skyes’s Warbler had been found at Landguard. Being a mere twenty miles away, we decided, there and then, to go. Filth.

We arrived to find a lot of people already there, with more arriving all the time. The bird was remarkably obliging, feeding in the open, and sometimes just sitting around in the open doing nothing. Excellent and prolonged scope views were had by all, and the noise of camera shutters, had we been in the 1940s, would have had gunners in concrete things in a right old panic. Booted Warbler is a rare bird, but Skyes’s Warbler is even rarer. Much rarer. The two were previously considered conspecific, so nobody went to see Sykes’s Booted Warbler. Now that it is treated as full species there is a surprising amount of interest. More than a few 500+ listers still haven’t seen a Sykes’s Warbler. Oh dear, what a shame.

Can you guess what the favoured outcome of the identity debate on this bird was? Bet you can’t…..I shall put you out of your misery – amazingly, many people there wanted the bird to be a Skyes’s. Unbelievable, but true. Out of genuine interest? Not on your nelly. They wanted to be able to say that they had seen a new bird. Sykes’s would a be a tick, Booted, nothing. Nul points. At this point I should declare a vested interest. Being fairly new to this seeing vagrant bird malarkey, I had only seen a Sykes’s Warbler, and not a Booted. Booted was an outcome that suited my list particularly well. And although the bird was a challenging one, it didn’t take long for the backs of cameras to get scrutinised to the nth degree, and with Obs literature to hand, the bird quickly resolved into the one I wanted. But this was against a backdrop of very experienced birders trying to talk it into a Sykes’s Warbler, searching for tenuous things that might make it one, trying to convince others of the light. Surely this is a Sykes’s, one implored.  

My comments about teaching Nils (Van Duivendijk) everything he knows were obviously in jest. He spent some time with other people too. But even I, with my pathetic bird knowledge, my almost non-existent grasp of bird topography (I believe I got tertials and secondaries mixed up yesterday, but maybe not, that’s how clear I am), managed to look at it critically. And really, it was simple. The bird was browny-beige. The Sykes’s I had seen on Shetland had looked grey. Booted. End of. The ringers caught it a bit later and measured its eyelid or something. Guess what? Booted. Hurrah, so I get to tick it, and the legions of mega-listers came away disappointed. Not a new bird, just another bloody Booted Warbler. Wasted journey.

What amazed me is that it was obvious that some of the people there didn’t actually know the difference between the two birds. Granted that it is subtle, but the information is out there. If I can read (and mostly comprehend) Duivendijk, then trust me, anyone can. But when a bird is just a tick in box, it’s clear that being able to ID it for yourself is for some people irrelevant. I am guilty of this of course, as I am sure are many twitchers new to the glorious sport. In fact to begin with I was a hopeless tick and run machine, and my recent experience with a funny Greenshank served only to hammer the point home. But to continue to be guilty of it after twenty or more years and having seen in excess of 500 species is an exercise in the pointless.

I would not go far as to say that the size of someone’s BOU list is the inverse of their birding abilty or knowledge, but it raises the question as to exactly what the point of having a large life list is. Given that a tick is prized so highly, what exactly does it mean to have a lot of them? What does it measure exactly? Well, it is not totally without value. It measures your ability to read a map and drive somewhere. And it also takes in your ability to have a flexible working arrangement/low moral standards re work, or a large trust-fund? The UK400 club “list of lists” that causes so much furore is what then? Irrelevant? One-upmanship in tabular form? And Bubo, where I record my little-league list?

I like lists, I have no problem admitting that. I take regular medication to ensure the number of lists I keep remains sensible. I think I have about eight, if you exclude year-lists. The one that really matters to most people is their UK life list. This is the biggie, the one people brag about, the one people mistakenly think commands respect. My entry on the list of lists, were I to have one, would be 380, presumably a few more in UK400 terms. This is so lowly that I wouldn’t even get on the list. I am nothing, a birding nobody. And yet those pitiful 380 birds on my list tell people nothing about my field ability, but presumably the assumption would be that I’m not much good. That happens to be true, but the number of birds I’ve seen isn’t the reason. Isn’t that odd?  The fact that I’ve even seen as many as 380 birds is down to two things. I can read a map, and I can drive. Well jolly well done me I say. When I reach 400 I will slap myself on the back and offer myself hearty congratulations on my tenacity. But not on my skill. The two are not related. Pointless.

So what does mark a good birder out? The classic measure would presumably be a self-found list, but there is an argument to say that land-locked birders are at a severe disadvantage. Sure, they can drive to the coast, and I’m sure many do, but ultimately the guy who can be in the sueda ten-minutes after rolling out of bed will have a clear and distinct advantage. Still, I’m sure the measure has its uses, particularly as many many keen birders deliberately live on the coast. I would, and at the drop of a hat. I am however extremely tied to London, and have sworn on many occasions that I am Never. Moving. House. Again. Stamp tax is one reason. Packing and unpacking is the major one. Thus when I added up my self-found life list the other day, it came to a meagre 215. I can’t blame that on London though, a lot of it is time birding, and the relative inexperience that comes along with that. Oh, and that and I always go out birding with better birders, thus they nearly always call the birds first. Unless they happen to be on the phone, which is what happened the other day, and I was able to seize my chance. Perhaps I should distract them. “Look, what’s that behind you!”, and whilst they turn around quickly scan the juicy habitat they were about to get to. Might work. But I am thinking of a different measure. An unquantifiable one, or rather a series of unquantifiable measures. What about the birder who enthuses about common birds, the birder who can accurately draw a Blue Tit from memory? The birder who spends time counting breeding birds, observing regular activity like nest-building. How about the birder who carries and uses a notebook, an argument that gets touted again and again, and with some merit. The birder who instantly knows the calls of common birds and thus pauses when something out of the ordinary calls from a bush. The birder who can smell weather. The birder who questions facts that are known as standard knowledge, that push the boundaries. Surely these guys are the real gurus? The real masters of their craft.

Anyway, next time someone tells you they’ve seen over 500 birds in the UK, the approach is as follows. I dare you. Look amazed. Look stunned. Say “Wow” a lot. Say that you find them god-like, incredible. Then say that you are in awe of their driving skills, amazed by their ability to follow simple directions, and extremely jealous of the amount of free time they have. Do let me know what they say.