Ospreys, Kingfishers and Elephants

This morning was a bit of a write-off after some beers last night. The tipple of choice was "Osprey", and I am afraid to say that I over-indulged. Paying for it this morning, I wondered what I could do that would add meaning to my day. Ah-hah, I had it! I would go to a local wildlife reserve and photograph Kingfishers from a hide. What could possibly go wrong?

A Hawk and some Ospreys

Just about everything it transpires.I almost don't know where to start it was so painful. For ten though, to the woman in hob-nailed boots who came into the hide possibly eight times in three minutes, walked a circuit and then left again, if I ever see you again it will be too soon. To the fat, lumpy, green-clad dudes incapable of being quiet, and whose mission if life it was to excitedly and loudly point out the Kingfisher every time it flew in, I am in awe of your crassness. To the man with the velcro jacket who opened it and closed it again upwards of ten times in an hour, you nearly died. To all those with cameras who inexplicably rattled off a thousand frames when the bird was about half a mile away, I hope you enjoy your fuzzy blue dots and that they win prizes. To the ineffectual volunteer who any time anyone brushed the screen netting said not to touch the netting as it would scare the birds away, and yet failed to mention that shouting, pointing, stomping, slamming, waving and running might also have the same effect, I have no idea what to say. You are selflessly giving your time, and for that I salute you, but you are also completely wasting your time.

Stomp stomp stomp THERE IT IS!!! Slam Stomp stomp slam click click clickclickclick click stomp IT'S COMING CLOSER!!! please don't stomp click touch the stomp click click netting you'll IS THAT THE MALE? OH LOOK IT'S GONE INTO scare the birds THE HOLE click stomp stomp slam stomp away stomp ! LOOK AT THAT!!! stomp click stomp click OOOHHH!!!! IT'S HERE!!!!!!!!!!!!! WAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!! Oh, it appears to have flown off........

Gah!

I tested my exposure about eight times while I was there, and took one photo of the bird before realising I was wasting my time and leaving. There was no way it was going to come anywhere near the hide, the entire length of the window has been covered with scrim netting with just a few blank spots (with good reason, but it is highly irritating), the distortion through the glass was nearly impossible to deal with, and the place was chock full of absolute cretins.

I hate hides. I hate the occupants of hides. If it were just me in a hide, I could probably just about stand it, but even then I reckon I'd probably end up hating myself after a few hours. We just don't get on. OK, so the saturday of a bank holiday weekend was never likely to be the best hide experience I was ever going to have, but the lack of any common sense whatsoever was mind-blowing. If you're in a hide to watch birds, especially sensitive schedule 1 birds like Kingfishers, but really any hide, surely you must realise that sitting still and being quiet are of paramount importance? And if you don't, why don't you? And more importantly, how are you going to learn?

I suppose the mission of the RSPB is to raise awareness of birds, and to have people enjoy birds as if they enjoy them then they will help look after them. Fair play to them for keeping the hide open to allow that to take place, had it been me I would simply have locked it up for the duration. But if you're going to go to all that effort, why not make it absolutely clear as to how you behave in a hide? Silence, and no fidgeting.  No clogs, and no running. No shouting, no waving, and no screaming. Or you're thrown out. Easy.

I wandered around for a little bit, but my heart wasn't really in it, and the arrival of rain was in many ways a blessing and I went home to have a good old moan. I'm a big fan of my local wildlife reserve - I'm a voluteer there in fact - and I know I shouldn't be rude about it (and fellow volunteers), but there are some times when you go there and it just seems to typify everything that is wrong with watching wildlife in this country, which I suppose is largely that the people who watch it are mostly idiots out for a nice walk. Well meaning I don't doubt, and it's great so many people are at least a bit interested, but for the love of God please please please just SIT STILL and above all, SHUT UP!!!

La Gloire de mon père

As I remarked to the French Ambassador yesterday evening, name-dropping rarely gets you anywhere, and anyway, where was he hiding the Ferrero Rocher? All in perfect French of course. He had the good grace not to throw me out, but the pyramids of flunky-borne chocolates never materialised, a searing disappointment on what was otherwise an exemplary and very enjoyable evening in West London. There were some fab chocolatey mini desserts, and whilst it was tempting to utter the odd under-my-breath "echellente" [sic], their non-pyramidal presentation was a real block to what would have been a hilarious joke. Hilarious only for me obviously. You can probably tell I don't get invited to Ambassadors' parties very often..... Or any parties in fact.

You may or may not know that I am a huge francophile. I lived there as a child, I worked there as a teenager, I "studied" there as a young adult (believe me, the inverted commas are sooooo necessary), and now as a middle-aged adult with kids I go to Disneyland there, which is essentially the pinnacle of french culture. I also like to stuff myself with cheese that is made there, and 95% of the wine I drink is made there. As, of course, is 100% of the Champagne that I bathe in. So it was a pleasure to receive an invitation from Son Excellence l'Ambassadeur de France au Royaume Uni de Grande Bretagne et d'Irlande du Nord (Bernard to his mates) to an investiture ceremony for services to the expansion of French culture. Despite the amount of wine I drink, that only contributes to the expansion of my waist, thus I was not the one getting invested.

Non. It was in fact mon Père, to whom (and Maman) I owe my love of France. He was being promoted from a rank and file Chevalier de l'Ordre des Palmes Académiques to a full Commandeur. With a medal and everything. Children rarely know what Daddy does. When I leave the house in the morning, for many years now I have always said I'm going out to earn money for toys (lenses count as toys....). and this mantra is now chanted at me as I leave every day. But of course they have no idea what I actually do, though they do see camera lenses littered around the house and presumably put two and two together. Yes, that's right, I am a fluorite machinist for Canon. Anyhow, like many children I confess to actually knowing very little about what my father does. I mean, I know where he works at the moment, and I could probably tell you most places he has worked in the past. But what he has actually done? Aucune idée. Well, as of yesterday, all that changed. Monsieur l'Ambassadeur, perhaps as an alternative to really spoiling us, gave a run down of my dad's career from about 1968 onwards. It was like something out of This is Your Life, except at the end he got a purple medal rather than a red book. I have to admit I was impressed, filial pride welled up inside me. I thought he just waffled on about French Art and Literature (which to be fair, he probably does), but it seems he has done a great deal more. I discovered this morning that just like Lady Gaga he even has a Wikipedia entry. Who knew? Although after last night it is now out of date. Chevalier, pah!

The actual moment of investiture. Note the Gendarme behind, employed for his expert cushion-holding and knot-tying. Note also the air of gravitas and decorum that my mother is lending to the whole affair. To be fair, you had to have been there in the five seconds preceding this photograph. I have no idea if she is now Madame Commandeur - we can only hope, and I may call her that anyway!

I doubt very much whether I will ever have a Wikipedia entry. A recurring theme last night, faced with various Cambridge people who hadn't seen me for years, including one who could only remember me in a pushchair in 1975, was what did I do? Stacked up against what my father has done, I have very little to say. I guess it is rare that the children of academics follow in their parents' footsteps - my sister is in finance too. So I told people I worked in a bank, including the Ambassador. Being rather well-connected, he happened to know two of my "colleagues". One was the Vice-chairman, the other the global head of Investment Banking. I guess we mix in different circles, his somewhat loftier than mine, although he has promised come birding in Wanstead, followed by attending the next birders drinks at the pub in Hornchuch that poisons people.

Not really.

I guess it's lucky this event coincided with my return to full-time employment; although in my mind perfectly valid, had I replied that I was a house husband and domestic Goddess it may have caused even the highly-polished Ambassador to stumble, if only momentarily. As it was, amongst all these high-fliers, leaders in their fields, I was able to talk eloquently about my role in the wonderful and mercenary world of international finance. A CBE though, or whatever the equivalent is, is going to be a long time coming.

The Résidence de France is in that posh cordoned-off street that runs between Kensington and Notting Hill, and is rather fabulous. It most closely ressembles stepping into a museum, but without all the velvet ropes surrounding the furniture, and with impeccably smart French people everywhere. My first act upon entering this high-class establishment was to spill my dad's cousin's tomato juice all over the floor whilst he attempted to kiss Mrs L and I attempted to kiss his wife. This gave the highly-decorated and shiny Gendarme who was stood in the corner something to do, which was fetch a flunky with a sponge who made light work of it. Very slick. After that, it remained only to accept any and all Champagne that was offered, make polite conversation, and listen to my father's life history and his acceptance speech, both in French naturally, and containing references that caused vague recollections of books studied in yesteryear to mysteriously surface. Groupe de Médan anyone?

We left clutching a book about the French Residence in London, showcasing the various rooms and all the priceless artwork in them, discovering on the tube that we had been in the Salon Jaune, a very lovely room as you can see in the photo above. This has led to the immediate renaming of the "Middle Room" in Chateau L to the "Salon Orange avec dirty handprints". It is an excellent book, and I have already found two gems within it. The first is a photo of the library, where on the desk is a framed photo of the Résidence burning to the ground in 1990. A splendid touch! The second is found in a description of the Dining Room, which is "dominated by a large full-length, three-quarter portrait of Louis XIV displaying a nicely-turned calf". It is indeed pure perfection, and all I can say is that the art of turning one's shapely calf has gone well and truly downhill since the 1700s.

So, that was my evening. Compared to sitting around correcting whites in photoshop and then blogging about it, it made a very pleasant change. And free Champagne is always to be welcomed. I must do it more often.

Birders Drinks and the birders who drink them

It was Christmas drinks recently. Well, pre-Christmas drinks really, as Christmas has yet to come, and if the Mayans have anything to say, never will. In the unlikely event we all make it through the night, I felt blog readers might enjoy an exclusive view into the world of birding on the East (and Buff-bellied Pipit not withstanding, best) side of London. Fortunately a camera was on hand to record the event, and especially fortunately for Shaun, it also takes video.

Every month I travel several hundred miles out to Hornchurch for an event known as Birders Drinks. Hornchurch is the chosen location as the pub is about two nanoseconds from Shaun's house, ten from the Mo's, and no more than a minute for practically everyone else apart from myself and Bradders. I am very fortunate that Mrs B enjoys coming out to Hornchurch to drive me back to Wanstead each month, with the happy consequence for Bradders that he also gets a lift home. In December, the usual monthly drinks are replaced with drinks and a Christmas meal. The cuisine at the Railway in Hornchurch is not to be over-estimated, but we keep going back - it's convenient for Shaun and Mo.

So, to the attendees (some of whom are lucky enough to get a blog link over to the right somewhere, though with my various blog width/resolution tribulations, I accept it's entirely possible you have never heard of any of them). Anyhow, in alphabetical order...

Baconboy
Steve B has been twitching for longer than he cares to remember, and his list is about to hit the magic 500. Mind you if you take away dodgy ducks he's only on about 380. He is a chemist, so plastic is indeed fantastic. There is nothing he has not twitched, but he swears he is going to stop twitching very soon. Just as soon as birds he needs stop arriving.
Patch: Fairlop

Bradders
Seen here (on the right) deep in conversation with a slim and handsome birder who lives miles away from Hornchurch, Bradders likes nothing better than to jump in the car for a brief drive to South Shields. Via Exeter. Known for not yearlisting every year, for being extremely uncompetitive when it comes to lists of things, and for waiting at least three minutes after news breaks before setting off on a twitch.
Patch: The UK.

Blowmonkey
Another local patchworker of renown, Monkey is seen here departing to another social engagement. To be honest, we're lucky we see him at all such is his popularity. Known principally for preparing for twitches in the minutest detail, and for dipping repeatedly. A staunch teetotaler, Monkey nonetheless would prefer to be driven to rares so he can 'stay up late'. Or something.
Patch: Errr.....

Dave the Beard
Nobody knows how old Dave really is, but he is happy to live it up with all us young people as beer has no effect on him. Dave was the organisational brains behind this year's Christmas Bash, though the Ann Summers Party that he promised would be sharing the dining suite with us never turned up. Dave only goes birding three times a day, as the rest of the time he is abroad.
Patch: The Ingrebourne Valley.

Dick
Dick has been birding everyone else's patch in London well before they ever did. Pretends to be Irish. In his mid-seventies now, Dick prides himself on being much fitter than people 1/3rd his age. Like me. Works only one day a week, and so by the time the weekend comes has already seen all the birds the rest of us still need.
Patch: Yours.

Hawky
Very shy and retiring, Hawky likes a quiet night in, and the thought of an all-night rave makes him physically sick. Magnetically attracted to rare birds, but likes to think of them as common. Has been birding since he was eight months old. It would be fair to say he likes a drink.
Patch: Barking Bay, The Mighty Masey.

 Gay Birders Club Shaun (L), Hawky (R)

Lee
A new recruit to the hallowed pumps (and kitchen) of the Railway, Lee has yet to take the dark path known as twitching. So far we have kept him away from Bradders, so he still thinks Rainham is the where all the good birds are. It won't last forever, but for now Lee remains as pure as the driven snow. 
Patch: The Ingrebourne Valley, Rainham.

Mo
Semi-retired, the Mo does not need sleep and can most often be found phoning and texting you in the middle of the night. Peregrine fan extraordinaire, there are no lengths to which Mo will not go in order to get as high as he possibly can up London's skyline. A keen photographer, Mo has an unparalled understanding of exposure theory, and of exactly how many pixels a bird must cover in a photo (twelve). Only snores when asleep.
Patch: Barking Bay, The Ingrebourne Valley, any man-made structure >30m above sea level.

Redsy
Redsy works eight days a week, so doesn't really have much time for birding. That said, he usually only takes jobs that are right next door to rare birds, and so keeps his list ticking along nicely. Updates his blog at least twice a year.
Patch: North Weald.

Rob
Like Lee, Rob is a relatively new addition to Birders Drinks, but most welcome as he owns a taxi that can seat all of us. Has been birding a long time, but still needs Robin. Known for staying awake all the time, and definitely not falling asleep at all. Hates football, especially small local teams that he says are a complete waste of time.
Patch: The M25, Gatwick North Terminal.

Russ
Quietly-spoken Russ has never been absent from Birders Drinks, and his favourite tipple is whatever bitter is on tap. Most often found in the company of Dave the Beard, Russ's mission in life is to obliterate the shutters of as many DSLRs as possible while he can still move his index finger. So far he is doing very well, and the Nikon Corporation of Japan owes him it's continued existence.
Patch: The Ingrebourne Valley.

Shaun
Yes. No. Yes. Maybe. No. The most decisive birder I know, Shaun rarely misses an opportunity to go on a twitch as he hates staying at home and being a good boy. Married to the lovely Jo, to whom he has given all his trousers. Known for being extremely messy, taking very good care of his binoculars, and never redecorating his house.
Patch: The Ingrebounre Valley.

Steve S
Another mammoth twitcher, Steve never misses a bird. Steve's body is a temple, and rare is it that any non-organic substance passes his lips. Fags don't count. And neither do kebabs. Best known for needing invasive surgery to remove pencil rubbers from his ear canal.
Patch: The Ingrebourne Valley.

Everyone
And finally, everyone. Apart from me thankfully, one of the fringe benefits of always being behind the camera.

4,054,458,047

That’s me that is. On this glorious planet on which we blog, tweet and snipe on Birdforum, I am the 4 billionth, 54 millionth, four-hundred and fifty-eight thousandth and forty-seventh person to have been born. Whoa. How s about that for mind-boggling thought eh? Hope you were sitting down. How do I know this? It was on the BBC website, so it must be true. You can play too:

What's Your Number

The reason that this little gem of a stat exists is that the population of planet earth recently passed the seven billion mark. That is a serious number of people, imagine the queue at the post office, it would go on for ever and ever. I mean when I get up in the morning and catch the tube, I think that’s a lot of people, but seven billion! They wouldn’t even fit in an extra-long train!  Seven billion is like, loads. The other interesting stat is that, in the history of the universe and space, there have been 78,404,690,760 sentient human beings. And then add some birders. With seven billion alive (if not all well, necessarily) that means a lot of dead people. 71 billion to be imprecise. Where did they all go? Jeez. I’m alive though, one of the seven billion, and able to blog, tweet, and post inanities on Birdforum. Talking of which, I’m actually having a little love-in with Lee Evans on there at the moment, or rather he is, as for some reason he believes me to be on his side. I’m not on his side, nor am I on the opposing Lee-bashing side, but it didn’t prevent him declaring his adoring and eternal gratitude for something he perceived me to have done. Had there been a “hugs” emoticon thing, I would have used it in reply. Except emoticons are a load of crap, and I refuse to use them; they are a poor substitute for intelligent writing, and only exist so that stupid people can grasp simple sentences and get a vague understanding of their likely meaning. I didn’t reply, I couldn’t think of anything both cutting, witty, and genuinely inoffensive.

This bird is largely responsible for global warning. I hope it goes south via Malta.

Er, where was I? Oh yes, over-population. Not quite as important as which UK twitchers have seen the most birds and which grown men hate which other grown men, but worthy of mention nonetheless.  I read somewhere that by 2050 – this could be wrong, I refuse to actually conduct research - we will need two earths to feed the population, which by that time will be ten billion people. The trouble is we don’t have two earths, we only have one. Better hope somebody thinks of something, and fast. The good news is that by 2050 I’ll be on the way out, so won’t have to worry too much about, except perhaps over where to get buried alongside 71 billion other people, but it will be a genuine problem for my kids and my kid’s kids. I mean, what if they have to knock down Waitrose and grow turmips there instead? Where will they buy their imported green beans in December, or their Malaysian jumbo king tiger prawns? Like I said, genuine problems. Forget about where they might live, that’s blindingly obvious. They’re all going to be living with me and Mrs L until their early forties, possibly beyond. We will make weekly attempts to throw them out of course, but ultimately with starter houses by then costing a million quid, and starter salaries remaining exactly as they are today, and perhaps even less, what choice are they really going to have? I'm already resigned to it, but I suppose it will be nice to be looked after in my old age.

Seriously worrying statistics though, the cost of the weekly shop is only going in one direction. That said, it is a very clear case of SEP (someone else's problem), and I don't expect anyone reading the BBC website to do a damn thing except moan about the increasing cost of bread. In case you were wondering my preferred loaf has risen from £1.65 to £2.09. Yet another interesting stat. I am sure I can find more. Sorry this hasn't been about birds. I was going to go on the patch at the weekend and get the blog back on track, but instead I'm going to be planting spuds in the front garden and stocking up on canned food.

Moving on up

Whilst it would have been difficult to beat the Small Elephant Hawkmoth, the reality of steady rain and cold, windy nights has meant that the comedown has been quicker than expected. Last night, a solitary Heart and Dart and a bunch of soggy egg-boxes were all we could manage. As I type, it is still raining, so unless you are very unlucky, tomorrow's post will not be about moths.

So what's the news? From Wanstead, well, nothing really. I am sad to have to report that the second pair of Great Crested Grebes have also failed. Hero to zero. As far as I can remember, this is the first year that Great Crested Grebes have attempted nesting. We had high hopes, especially for the particularly enthusiatic first pair, and then couldn't believe our luck when a second pair constructed a nest on the same pond. To have both fail within a week of each other is rather gutting. Still, it will allow Mrs Grebe to get on with what she enjoys most.

On the other hand, and on a different pond, last year's solitary male Reed Warbler this year attracted a mate, and baby Reed Warblers are the happy result. When I arrived here, a mere glimpse of a Reed Warbler was an event that only took place in my dreams, so to have successful breeding is a massive result.

I have to more 'results' to share with you, ones I am quite excited about. The first is that I am finally getting paid to wander about and watch birds. I suppose I knew that there was always a possibility, but to have it actually happen is rather amazing, not least to me. It's only a small bit of survey work, but to get paid real money for knowing what Wrens and Blackbirds sound like is extremely gratifying, even if it does mean getting up at 3am. Now if only somebody would pay me for going round Wanstead at first light in June....

The second 'result' is even more unbelievable than the first. Somehow, as a result of this very blog and my column in Birdwatch Magazine, I have been invited to the Wetland Centre to make some kind of film with Simon King and a few other people. I really have very little idea of what it entails, other than that it's about birding, but I am not fussy. I think I would like to be Simon King. In fact I think many people would. And whilst I don't go to the birdfair at Rutland every year with the specific aim of stalking him like some people do, to get to meet him will be a real privilege. A certain Norfolk-based blogess would be well jealous I suspect. He's a proper wildlife guy, the whole shebang. Great on camera, but also great behind a camera - he has all bases covered. Should I offer to carry all his camera gear for him wherever he goes, or would that be too fawning? What do you reckon? I'm just kidding of course, I have the school run to do, but it will make for an interesting day, that's for sure. Who knew that writing a bit of nonsense in weboland could open such doors?

Which reminds me, and I may have forgotten to mention it last year, but I met Bill Oddie. No, really. And the head of the RSPB. These are now the circles I mix in, ahem. Yup, me, Bill and Mike, we're running the show. Well maybe not Bill, but definitely me and Mike. Or maybe that's just Mike, and not me at all, in any way, shape, or form. Anyway, it doesn't matter. What matters is that I've got Lee Evans' phone number, and he's got mine. Oh, wait....