Spry, like a mountain goat

I have just spent some time in nice rocky and sandy environments trying to see and photography various birds. I like deserts – they are in their own way very beautiful. I am no Wilfred Thesiger, as I will recount shortly, but they are definitely to be appreciated, and I would urge anyone who has not been to these regions to go. For the landscape as much as the wildlife.

I was in the UAE. You might think that ths is a bit of a pretend desert, criss-crossed by eight lane highways and carpeted in luxury hotels and crazy skyscrapers. Whilst that’s true, you don’t actually have to go that far to get that feeling of isolation; away from Dubai and Sharjah in the north, it’s still all rather primitive and undeveloped. And then anything south-west of Abu Dhabi and Al Ain are simply a blank canvas, miles upon miles of nothing until you’re well into Saudi Arabia.

This is where I was. I flew to Dubai but it holds nothing for me. Malls and glitz, no thanks. In the same way that I always turn my back on Marrakech and head south, I turned my back on Dubai and headed towards the Omani border. This is where mountain goat skills are best employed.

So it was that at 6.30am I found myself in a stony wadi picking my way slowly up a mountain and surrounded by birds. Green Bee-eaters were amongst the first birds I saw, followed quickly by Orphean Warblers and a bonus Sand Partridge. Much further along the wadi, by which time it had narrowed significantly, I could see a small bird flitting around some foliage halfway up a cliff. Too far up to identify, I carefully picked my way up a scree slope. Plain Leaf Warbler, fantastic! A world lifer no less. It was joined by a couple of Purple Sunbirds and a gaggle of White-eared Bulbul. All very nice, and as gradually this feeding party moved off.

It was then I realised I was quite far up really quite a steep slope, and as everyone ought to know - especially those approaching early middle age - going down is a lot harder than coming up. And as this is 2016, the year of medical and other traumas, needless to say I totally arsed it up. I slipped, fell, bashed my camera on a rock and twisted my ankle all in one graceful movement. I wondered if I had broken it? My ankle, not the camera - this merely now has another crack in it, these 1 series machines can withstand almost anything. But I couldn't really feel my foot, very very tingly. Gradually sensation returned, and with it agonising pain. Excellent. I still had a good way to descend, and my car was at least a mile away. I made it back down and limped very slowly back to where I had parked. Clearly nothing was broken or I'd be being digested inside Lappet-faced Vultures instead of typing this, but nonetheless this could change the rest of the trip.

Needless to say I pushed on, go hard or go home, and in fact took some of my better photos over the next two days whilst essentially balancing on one leg - no mean feat with a very large telephoto lens. Arriving back in the UK early morning on Tuesday I went straight to work and called up the health insurance people. 

"Oh hi Jono" said a familiar voice on the phone, testament to the number of times I've had to call them this year already. "We were wondering when we would hear from you again. What have you done this time?" I explained the sorry tale and was duly booked to see a physio later that morning who confirmed I had a bad sprain and could look forward to 8 weeks of rehab. I declined the crutches.

I am beginning to tire of this year. My eyes have got crap in them, my hand has a lump in it, my little finger a permanent kink, and let's not even talk about my sigmoid whatever it is and the continued nonsense on that front. I would just like for a few months to pass without anything bad happening to me, is that going to be possible? I do not know how this happens, though I have an idea. I suspect it because I still attempt to charge around the place like I am 20 whereas reality says otherwise. Aged 20 I probably would have skipped down that slope and carried on up the wadi. Over double that and skipping doesn't wash any more. Falling over and snapping things is now much more my style, followed by people poking at me and cc-ing me on large bills on posh paper. Anyhow, what I would like to know from my ageing readership is whether this in fact normal and if this is simply a tipping point. If you will forgive the pun, am I now on a slippery slope?

Not bad for a bloke with one leg, one hand, nine fingers, and failing eyes.

The stuff dreams are made of

I threatened a while back, on Twitter, to blog about a bizarre dream I had. It was weird enough that I wrote it down in bullet-point form so I wouldn't forget it, but since then I've been a little busy taking photos of Gulls and whatnot. Anyhow, yesterday I had another dream, completely different to the first, and I wrote that down too. I'd be fascinated to know what they can me about my current state of mind. None of the below is made up. None of it is true of course, what I mean by that is that there is no poetic licence, no artistic liberties taken.

The first dream is about Fat Paul Scholes and his calendar. Fat Paul Scholes is not a retired footballer, but actually Mark L, a patch-worker in Aberdeen who is obsessed by Canada Geese and once made me a bacon sarnie whilst not warning me about the naked man in the dunes. That part sadly wasn't a dream, even though it sounds like it might be. And it goes like this.

Mark was in his kitchen or living room filling out his wall calendar for the whole year in one hit. Basically he knew exactly what was on the agenda for the next 365 of his life. Clearly a dream. Anyway, as he was writing what it is was coming up, I could see him writing it on another calendar that was posted to my wall next to my bed. The text literally appeared on my wall, just like that. Magic in other words, some incredible connection. Although they were crystal clear in the dream, the crucial elements of what he was writing on his calendar are now sadly missing. He used a blue pen, but I can't recall what type of calendar it was. It's not important anyway.

I watched the writing appear, not really knowing what was going on. I remember that at one point, in the summer, he wrote the same thing on three consecutive days, but you'd have to ask him what that was. And so I decided to text him to ask why he was doing such and such, and really freaked him out. And then when he wrote the next bit, I texted him again. And again. Until he was a wreck.

And then the Rosefinch hopped onto my hand. Or it might have been a Lesser Antillean Bullfinch. In fact it changed quite a lot because when I stuffed it into the really small wicker cage and took it to the Dentist it was an Australian Magpie. The at-this-stage Rosefinch was poorly and shivering, it had those horrible ticks, and quite a lot of maggots. Somehow I reached outside through the cat-flap (?) and persuaded it to sit on my hand, and it appreciated the warmth and snuggled in. I was mildly appalled by the maggots falling off it, but I realised it needed help, so I shoved into the handy but tiny cage and went off to the vets.

Though the mode of travel is unknown, I arrived instead at the local Dentist Surgery, and there found somebody willing to help the bird, who took it into the operating theatre. Do dentists have operating theatres? I have no idea. I have no idea who was there either, but I don't think it was my dentist. In any event, the bird was cured, and by this time was a small Finch again with immaculate plumage. It flew to the top of a tall white wardrobe in the corner of the room, and in the top of the wardrobe was a hot air vent, like a New York subway, and so its feathers started to all fluff up and it began to sing.

And then I woke up and started my day. So this dream, I assume, came during the early morning when I was kind of awake but not, rather than in the deepest part of the night's sleep. None of this is made up. I need a psychoanalyst. Quickly.

My second dream is actually from this morning. I am in a small village somewhere. I think it is Cornwall, but I cannot be sure. It is at the end of long and really thin peninsula, but that is all I know. Mrs L and I are standing looking into a old but immaculate walled garden, on the side nearest the village. We are birding. Together. This is how I know it is a dream. I hear a lot of birds going a bit mental on the other side, so we walk three sides of the garden until we get to a gate. I can now see the birds. In the corner of the lawn are a number of birds, and one is a Woodchat Shrike. Wow, an amazing find! I climb over the gate, and beckon Mrs L to follow. As I am nearly over, I bash my camera on the gate, and then see a flash of turquoise - a different bird. It walks through a gap in the hedge and disappears onto the road. Oh my God!

At this stage my dreaming self does not know what it is, other than that turquoise birds are nearly always good. Is it a Roller? I climb back over the gate the way I came, and we run up and around onto the road. And lo and behold an Azure-winged Magpie is there. I cannot be sure that this is the same bird I just saw on the lawn, but I don't care. The bird calmly hops up onto a stone wall, and I take its photo. I am lost for words. Mrs L cannot understand what I am talking about. No change there then - reality, dreams, all the same.

Back at the car which is parked next to the small village shop that appears to sell only marbles, the proprietor, an elderly lady, says she can no longer look after our suitcases in the shop and would I please put them in my car. It's not my car though, it's a lot older, and is maroon, but I'm busy leafing through the Collins that would normally be in the door of my real car - all a bit confusing. It's clearly an Azure-winged Magpie, and I assume it is likely massively rare in the UK. As the bird is in the road, I decide to broadcast the news, but first retrieve the suitcases from the increasingly insistent old lady and put them back in the boot, buying a large pale green marble to thank her for her troubles. Mrs L and I agree that our youngest daughter will like this marble.

I decide to type the news out. I don't know if this is on the web or by text, but what happens is that because I am so excited I fluff the predictive text and gobbledegook comes out instead. Talking to a local who appears suddenly out of thin air, I ask where we are. I can't remember this bit, but it might have been Cornwall or perhaps Ireland. There follows something about where to park, but I am already parked there, obviously.

Cut to a whole pile of twitchers turning up on foot, even though I don't know where I am, and therefore none of them could either. I can still see the bird away down the road, so none of them pay me the slightest attention, all going straight past me, Mrs L, and the maroon car with our suitcases in it. Then they all come back having seen it and disappear again. I recognise none of them, though I may have done in the dream. A few stragglers are left, and I show one of them the photo on my camera, and how I, Jonathan Lethbridge, found the bird, and disseminated the news. He nods, and then phones his mate - apparently another rare bird has been found somewhere else and they're all going to see that now. In other words a big 'whatever'. I have no idea, in the dream or reality, if the Magpie is a first for the UK or not, but either way I am staggered by the ambivalence shown. I tell the final guy that there is a Woodchat Shrike in the garden too, but he just walks away, not bothered. I am crushed. The dream ends with a group of people satellite tagging the bird, which now is bright turquoise again and has a beak like a parrot. The satellite tag is on the middle of its back, and is stuck on with black gaffer tape with white edges which means the bird can't fold its wings back in. The bird struts off looking annoyed, and then I woke up.

Any thoughts do let me know. I consumed no alcohol last night whatsoever. Maybe this is the problem.....

Shetland trials

First of all, let me say that it's great to be back - I love it up here. It's a wonderful place to be, and there is practically nobody around. The birding, as is fairly normal, has been hard work. So far all interesting-looking birds have turned out to be Blackcaps and Chiffchaffs, but that's the name of the game up here. One minute you can be looking at Blackcap on a dry stone wall, the next bird that flits through your bins could be a sensation. Each morning starts with great excitement, and then you gradually get worn down throughout the day, such that on quiet days you can hardly bear to lift your bins again, knowing exactly what you won't be seeing. But when it's good......

Today was a quiet day for the most part. Little Bunting was the best of it until a I opened my first double decker of the holiday, whereupon an Isabelline Shrike and Citrine Wagtail appeared instantaneously. Three of our team needed the Wagtail, so the decision was easy, and off to Boddam we trotted. Like many rarities on Shetland, it showed superbly, and all five of us ended the day on a high. You will note that we are now five; we have acquired Marco from West Ham. Unbeknownst to all of us he was up on Orkney, gallivanting, and in the middle of the night boarded the ferry that Bradders, Nick and Matt were on. Apparently they were quite surprised to find him wandering around the MV Hrossey as it steamed into Lerwick, and I guess he was quite surprised to see them too.

The guys were kind enough not to find the big one whilst I was still sat at work in London, and so on Wednesday afternoon I set off the vast distance to City Airport for what I hoped would be a straightforward trip to Sumburgh. How wrong I was. I have yet to have a non-traumatic flight to Shetland - this time a huge delay on the London leg put the Shetland leg almost beyond reach, and so for a time I was looking at spending the night in Aberdeen. As it turned out, the Shetland flight was delayed too, and so I made it, but with minutes to spare. My suitcase, alas, did not, and as I type this on my second evening here, it is still in transit somewhere, though allegedly getting closer all the time. Extremely annoying, as it contains many things that I would like to have. Like pants.

Happily I was sensible enough to keep my bins on my person, as well as my camera, so birding has continued uninterrupted. So here are a few of the Wagtail. I wonder what tomorrow will bring?

 

 

 

The early bird doesn't catch the worm

I have a problem, and it is called work. Work starts far too early. There is a second problem though, which is that migrant birds are very very lazy. They only get up at about the same time as I have to leave. Take this morning as an example - I had my alarm set for 5.15am, and was out of the house about 20 minutes later. Did any Wheatears and Redstarts have their alarms set that early? They most certainly did not. I trudged around the Flats for the best part of two hours and saw nothing. Not a sausage. I think a Fieldfare was the best bird, and I may have spent some time photographing a Mallard - it was that interesting out there. At around 7.30 I turned for home, secure in the knowledge I had completely and utterly wasted my time; time that could profitably have been spent in bed sleeping.

Just before I left I met Barry - the Barry that usually goes round with Harry and Larry (Stuart). I told him it was dead, wished him luck, and pottered off. Some five minutes later he texted me with news of six Wheatears on one of the logs. Huh? I dithered. Should I stay or should I go? I went. I mean went over there, i.e. I stayed. By the time I got there Nick had appeared, having enjoyed a long and pleasant night in bed, including having been asleep for much of the time I had been trudging round wondering what I was doing. The Wheatear count was now EIGHT. FFS. I had a quick look, found five of them, and then really did go home. Meanwhile Nick refound the male Redstart five minutes after arriving on the patch, and a little later had his now annual flyover Rock Pipit. What exactly am I doing wrong?

The answer is easy. Working. Or rather, working too early. I've known this for a long time, but many migrants tend to arrive after dawn rather than at or before dawn. Whilst dawn might be good for a wader or two, or a real patch mega (Osprey was very early morning for instance), it's simply too early for many of our commoner migrants. The same thing happened yesterday with Tree Pipit, and last year with our first Wheatears - I had concluded the patch was dead and gone to work in a huff, and only a short while later some poachers turned up and scored four exactly where I had been looking. Infuriating I can tell you. But what choice do I have? My job starts when it starts. The school run is when the school run is. Either I go out before those two events, or I don't go at all. So I go. Sometimes I get lucky, most of the time I bomb out.

This Fox was out early doors, but mostly stuff was asleep.

Tomorrow however is the weekend, and the weather is looking lovely. If I don't get a Red Kite over I'll be amazed, as I intend to spend the whole day on the Flats playing with Wheatears with half an eye on the sky. The Wheatears so far this year have been very uncooperative (particularly in their arrival time). I managed to get a little closer today, but still not close enough. Part of the problem is that there are too many of them, and I never thought I'd say that. If there's just one, I'm much more likely to be able to stalk it successfully, but whenever there is a group, one inevitably goes when I'm a long way out still, causing the rest to follow suit. The answer is that I need a bigger lens. Or perhaps one of those superzooms....

More Blue Tit action from my window