Success!

Finally, a breakthough! Approaching Long Wood this morning I learned I had missed another Brambling, a single bird that had called only once and disappeared northwards. I had seen a few silent finches heading that way on my approach, but even I decided that having one of them as a Brambling was a step too far. Happily another two birds zipped through a few minutes later; I was too busy talking to actually hear them, but they were helpfully pointed out as being Brambling by a couple of the guys - nice of them. Perhaps I'll get my own tomorrow? Not that I care anymore of course, Brambling hold no interest for me now until January - unless there is a particularly showy one of course, but even then the light levels need to improve significantly. I've barely picked up a camera since Shetland, there has been almost no point.

Apart from some Great Crested Grebes at Canary Wharf that is, which coincided with some rare sunshine and my lunch break which I could actually take. Most of them I have uploaded to my other website, but here are a couple just to break the monotony of text-only posts recently. It can be pretty bad when I not only have nothing to say, but also have nothing to upload.

I have nothing else to offer. My life since returning from Shetland has involved work, more work, and family stuff. Birding has not so much taken a back seat, as been left off the bus altogether. This is a great shame, but what can you do, there is only so much time in the day. The good news is that the clocks change this weekend, which should mean that I get an additional hour on the patch in the mornings. I expect that the birds will realise this however, and wait an extra hour before showing themselves....

Lady Luck is Fairly Fickle

It had been my firm intention to go down to Cornwall this weekend. The forecast looked OK, if not quite what I would have been hoping for. Nonetheless, a chance of a few seabirds, and a supporting cast of Black Kite and a Wryneck or two. Still, it's twelve hours in a car, so a last-minute email to a local contact enquiring as to how the locals viewed the prospects seemed in order. Not good, apparently, no talk of sea-watching whatsoever. Well that settled it, frankly I was looking for excuse not to go.

Saturday was spent wandering round a dead Wanstead, and a dead Rainham with Bradders. Porthgwarra meanwhile saw 2,003 Great Shearwaters go past in the space of five hours. When I tell you that I have seen eight Great Shearwaters ever, you will perhaps understand why morale was quite low in Chateau L last night. I mean, for Christ's Sake! Two thousand Great Shears in a few hours?! That is monumental, the stuff of legend. Deeply pissed off, I went to bed dreaming of seabird passage.

This morning, plodding Wanstead Flats, once again devoid of birdlife, I checked my phone again. Perhaps it had been 2.3 Great Shearwaters and in my slightly inebriated state I had misread the message? I hadn't, there really had been over two thousand. Unbelievable. My phone bonged again: 64 Great Shearwaters past Porthgwarra by 9am. Piss. I abandoned the Flats, and in an uninteresting repeat of yesterday, went to Rainham, again with Bradders, but this time also with Nick C. Like yesterday, it was dead, although three Black Terns and a Curlew Sandpiper did their best to raise me from the doldrums. In the absence of birds we made do with Wasp Spiders and Common Lizards, and learned that the number of Great Shears past Porthgwarra was 173 by midday. Grrrr. Why hadn't I gone to Cornwall? Just how much, exactly, does Lady Luck hate me?

The trickle of terns gave some hope that further down the river, fewer obstacles in their path and a tasty outfall close at hand, that there might be some more, so we headed off to Tilbury. Kicking stones, I set off along the sea wall adjacent to Tilbury Fort. A small bird on the iron railings caught my eye, and a quick squiz through the bins revealed it to be a juvenile Red-backed Shrike. That's nice, now where's the outfall? Hang on a dang minute! Woo-hoo! A Shrike! Woo-hoo! A Red-backed Shrike! Yay! A RED-BACKED SHRIKE!

I never, ever, find any good birds. A few patch goodies perhaps, but nothing actually good. It just doesn't happen. A Glaucous Gull at Rainham, and a handful of Yellow-browed Warblers (in October, and on Scilly and Shetland) are perhaps the closest I have come. This is a Shrike, a bloody Shrike! I phoned out some really really poor directions to the pager. Overhearing these, and realising that my over-excitement was causing me to talk utter nonsense, Bradders called them back immediately with good ones. Whatever. Woo-hoo! What was I saying about Lady Luck? That she loves me!

Look, here it is again, courtesy of Nick C who had the presence of mind to get closer to it and nab some photos whilst I smiled beatifically and dribble ran out of the corner of my mouth.

So it all boils down to whether I would have preferred to have seen 2,176 Great Shearwaters, increasing by 27,000% the number I have ever seen, but for the price of twelve hours in a car, or whether I would have preferred to have gone birding locally and found my very own Red-backed Shrike on the outskirts of London. I'll let you decide. Here, have a photo.

My Day

Another June weekend goes by with not a lot happening. Today being Father's Day, I invoked my prerogative and went out. First stop Barking for the presumably returning Ruddy Shelduck. Paul guided me through the river wastelands to a good vantage point, but didn't mention the assault course that I had to negotiate to actually access the river. Thankfully both I and the camera survived and once over the sea-wall I found myself right on Barking Bay. There were 158 Common Shelduck and the one Ruddy Shelduck feeding on the Mud, viz:


I suspect I won't be able to count it for my London year-list, but you never know, and anyway they're nice birds. I remember dashing to Cliffe for one a few year back when I was really wet behind the ears (in the twitching sense). I finally found it on the Flamingo Pool, about as far from where you leave the car as you can get, and recall feeling dead chuffed I'd scored. Then I came home and did my reading. Ah. These days of course, I do my reading first.

As I made my way back to the car, the resident Oystercatchers flew overhead, circling round and calling constantly. They must have young nearby, as anything that came near got seen off. Naturally I took a few shots. About 150 in fact. Same story as yesterday, too many. Sorry.






Next stop Rainham, which was devoid of birds. I gave it some time but my heart wasn't in it, and I spent a couple of hours near the woodland trying (and failing) to get a Cetti's Warbler in the viewfinder. On the way home Mrs L called with the excellent news that my Mother in Law was coming over and would be staying the night, thus rounding off a superb day.

A Photo Essay on Failure

They say a picture tells a thousand words. Does that mean that three pictures tell three-thousand words? I am not known for word-thrift, and I reckon I could probably use up all three-thousand on quite how much this kind of behaviour annoys me. I'll spare you this time. But I took the owner to task, and the good news is that he "heard what I was saying". If ever there was a phrase which indicated utter indifference and apathy, this is it. Apparently Queen Victoria gave Wanstead Flats to the East End for the commoners to enjoy, and that is what he and his dogs were doing and were going to continue doing.

Fail.