Waxwing Lyrical about Garden Viz-migging

Well well, only a couple of days ago I was bleating on here about having missed a patch Waxwing due to not actually being on the patch. Again. I surprised myself by being fairly relaxed about it, thinking that there were loads about and no doubt I would get one soon. Well, soon turned out to be very soon. This morning in fact. And best of all? From the garden - get in!

I'd been having a fairly good morning. No ticks, but some quality garden sightings. A juv Mute Swan had gone over (second garden record in six years), as well as two Skylarks, and the sky was filled with Fieldfare and Redwing. Starlings had been much in evidence, and when another small group appeared I didn't really look at them. Until they started trilling, that is. Oh. My. God.

Waxwings!! I could scarcely believe it, but they had trilled hadn't they? I quickly swung the camera up and predictably it hunted for focus. When it eventually snapped in the birds were a little way past, but peering at the screen it was clear I was right. Waxwing on the garden list! And indeed the Wanstead list, superb! Somewhere between six and eight birds - this from counting blurry blobs across several different photographs.


Perhaps not my best photograph ever, but certainly one of the most pleasing, and allowed me to rule out Cedar Waxwing as well. Phew. Shame that they were only a fly-over, but who knows, perhaps there will be more, it seems the invasion has only just started?

Flush with success, I carried on. Heaps of finches, many frustratingly silent. Those that didn't call I attempted to photograph, but looking at these tiny monochrome blobs on my screen I am none the wiser and tomorrow won't bother. Counted over eighty Chaffinches and at least thirty Greenfinches, but it took until about 9:30 before I heard a lone Brambling call. I scanned the sky but couldn't see any birds at all, I guess sometimes you manage to look all around a bird. This was another patch and garden tick. Winter, you can't beat it.

A few more big flocks of Fieldfare went over, peaking at about 65, as well as a lone Mistle Thrush. I've just come back in as the rain has become more persistent, but my mornings work has netted 28 species and two patch ticks. The record, if you have been paying attention, is only 32 species, so I may make another cup of tea and get out there again. Still need Jay, Long-tailed Tit, Dunnock and all the Woodpeckers. But it will mean getting wet, and I am more than satisfied with what I already have, so I doubt I'll bother. But if I do, you'll hear about it here. Lucky, lucky you.

The Onset of Winter Birding

There has been a lot of net chat about the death of autumn and the early onset of winter, as demonstrated by the early invasion of Waxwings and northerly winds. Generally people seem upset, but I am not one of them. I've been looking forward to a change of scene for some time. Of course, come February I'll be moaning about the everlasting winter and getting excited about my first Wheatear, but right now, the change in the weather strikes me as just about perfect.

In terms of the patch, I reckon I've seen just about all I'm likely to see in terms of autumn specialities. As each week passes, that Yellow-browed Warbler or Red-breasted Flycatcher becomes increasingly unlikely, and my thoughts start turning to interesting Ducks and rare Finches. That said, since Shetland it's been difficult to get out there and do it justice. My early morning jaunts are no longer possible due to it being dark, and weekends have been spent birding on the coast - my choice. I've managed a couple of mornings on the Flats, and a few viz-mig sessions from the garden, which whilst relatively productive, have lacked anything new.

This week is half-term, so no serious birding is planned. Today, for example, has mostly been spent playing Snakes and Ladders, building Lego, and shopping. Live the dream. In between these activities I looked at the sky for about half an hour. This short stint produced only the second Skylark to actually enter garden airspace, and yet another Pied Wagtail, the fifth garden record. The wonders of listing. If Nick's reports from the Flats are anything to go by, Pied Wags are everywhere at the moment, which would explain why I've had three in the last fortnight.  Pretty exciting I can tell you, though you probably needed to be here....



Slightly further afield, my London list has stalled, mainly due to my apathy at continuing to press forward with it. I've added Lapland Bunting and Penduline Tit to reach the dizzy heights of 202. Whoopee. I passed up on a couple of Great Grey Shrikes due to not wanting to drive anywhere, and I missed yet another Spoonbill and Hen Harrier this weekend, which had I been camped out on the sea-wall at Rainham....

Nevermind, it's not important. I've very much enjoyed birding the capital this year, I've discovered several new sites, and added a pile of species to my London list, which is important. Very. And anyway, the year isn't over yet, though a couple of days ago I caught myself thinking about January 1st 2011, and was forced to give myself a very severe dressing down....

Filth

After a disappointing morning in Wanstead yesterday, the opportunity to get closer to the magic* number proved too strong to resist, so I went to Suffolk with a few of the boys. Little did I know this would cost me a Waxwing on the patch, Long Wood coming up trumps again, but nevermind. I am fairly sanguine about it actually, whereas I thought I would be spitting. Much as I love the patch, the experience of birding on the coast at this time of year is hard to beat, and combined with the inevitable banter, we had a rather fun day.


First up we gave DB another chance at the oh-so-dull Red-flanked Bluetail in Lowestoft, which we duly bagged not too long after arriving. I remember my first one a couple of years ago, and the elation of connecting with this cryptic mega. Even then it was rapidly declining in rarity status, but to get one at the first attempt, on Muckleburgh hill in Norfolk, well, wow. Yet another bird I thought I would never see, and although this year seems to have broken all records, the day I tire of Bluetails will be the day I sell my binoculars.

ISO 2000. Awesome.

After a long stake out for distant views of a Rough-legged Buzzard near Reydon, we then decided that the best thing to do would be to walk several miles on horrible shingle for an incredibly rare American vagrant. Errr, did I say American and vagrant? I meant Shore and Lark. Leaving it late to get a Shore Lark, I felt I had to go. Last year, Shore Lark was bird #310, this year it's #297. This is not an interesting fact (no, really), but shows fairly clearly that they're not easy birds to connect with. Although ten had been reported, I could only find three - two more than I needed, but they're smart birds and I'm happy to see lots of them.

This coming week is half term, so I'm at home with the kids. As such you should expect many more photos of them rather than of birds. Although I will attempt to avoid it, cleaning may also feature. The house is horribly dirty, as most domestic jobs simply got ignored during the excitement of October, and I need to forget birds for a while and just knuckle down to it. I started this evening on the shower, and to my horror, the Pink Brush of Unhappiness appears top be on the way out. Disaster!

Overuse.....

Shaun and Paul think they can hide behind a car and thus escape my trigger finger.

Kiddos

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


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

Penduline Tits, Rainham Marshes

Apologies for the pithy title, it is designed to appeal to search engines, not blog readers....

Anyhow, as you may have gathered, guess what turned up at Rainham today? No idea? Oh, well I'll tell you then - Penduline Tits. They're basically annual here now, and this is a good Reed Mace year - there are heads everywhere. Whilst dipping the Bluethroat last weekend I commented that we were bound to get Pendulines again this winter, and it is nice to have my faith repaid.

Typically they had flown off just before I got there, and after half an hour I started to think of my experience last year, when I missed them by minutes four times before finally connecting. Above the noise of the wind and gassing birders though, came a thin reedy call that no-one else heard. I made this known, which got people concentrating again, and this time we all heard it. And suddenly, there they were, a pair, contact calling constantly, windborne reed-fluff everywhere.

Superb little birds, we are truly lucky to get them. Hopefully they will be around all winter, and will attract more in. I think that a few years ago there were six. I expect the weekend will be fairly busy. For those that don't know, the Dragonfly Pool (so named because there is a sculpture of a dragonfly in it) is along the boardwalk clockwise from the visitor centre, just underneath the Targets (1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 on brickwork), in the extreme south-west of the reserve.

Smash and Grab

Another rather manic day in the pursuit of birds, but timed to perfection. After a morning of sorting a few non-birding bits out, 11am was perhaps a little late to start thinking about the Lesser Yellowlegs in Oxford. I went for it anyway, and although I didn't know where I was going, found it easily enough on a superb bit of flooded meadowland near the Thames. Waders galore, including a Ruff, some Lapwing, a couple of Dunlin, and a large flock of Golden Plover, and all only a few hundred metres from the dreamy spires. Oxford may seem a long way to drive for something relatively common like a Lesserlegs, and no doubt one will turn up closer, but I am an idiot as previously proven, and the sooner I get 300, the sooner I can stop being an idiot. Or something like that. Actually I'm willing to bet I can get 300 and still be an idiot. Not sure what I'm trying to get at here, let's move on.

Anyway, Yellowlegs tick and run (#294), time to head back to London. Did I have time for the Lapland Bunting at Staines Reservoirs on the way back? Unlikely, by this time the school pick up was only two and a half hours away, and the Bunting was at the far eastern end of the causeway. I could probably get to the Reservoir, but not walk all the way across the causeway and back. So despite it being a new London bird, I decided I couldn't risk it, and resolved to go straight home.

Somewhere near High Wycombe, genius struck. If the bird was at the eastern end, rather than park at the western end and walk across, why not park at the eastern end and be right next to the bird? Eureka! The only slight flaw in my plan was that I wasn't sure if you could do that? Surely the causeway must lead somewhere, right? I called mission control aka DB, who not only confirmed that the causeway did lead somewhere, but where exactly that somewhere was and how to get to it. Game on.

With an hour and a half to the school pick-up, and half the M25 to negotiate, I slung the car close to the start (or finish?) of the causeway and legged it up there. In the distance, perhaps halfway across, I could see other birders scoping my way. I scoped back, but couldn't see anything between me and them. Hmmm. I picked up my scope and continued on, and then a small brown bird with a pinky beak and familiar head pattern flew from the side of the fence and right into the middle of the path. Hurrah! Tick and run. It started to rain quite heavily so I nabbed a glorious portrait of the Lap, shown below, and beat a hasty retreat back to the car.

 

I advise squinting

Back to the M25, praying fervently for a clear run, and got it. Made it to the school with eight whole minutes to spare! Slightly fraught, but nowhere near as bad as some previous escapades. There was potential for abject failure I'll admit, but it all worked out fine. Tomorrow, bar something unprecedented occuring, I'm staying local. My youngest has already indicated a desire for play-dough, so I guess I'm staying very very local indeed. And after the last two days, I'm very happy with that.

Childhood Memories

Last week one of my uncles died. People dying is always sad, but this was particularly so as he was simply the nicest man imaginable. But cancer is not picky. Cancer doesn't care. I saw him for the last time at his son's - my cousin's - wedding, a little over a month ago. He had aged beyond his years, and looked frail, but chatting to him he was the same man I knew and looked up to. The wedding was simply fantastic, and to see him there, beating his initial prognosis by a considerable margin in order to be there, made it even more special.

My Grandparents lived in Sussex, in a small village near Seaford. That was where my sister and I and my eight cousins and their families generally spent Christmas and other holidays. Many of my clearest childhood memories come from those rolling chalk hills and flint cottages. When I heard that he had finally lost his long battle with cancer, I had an immediate yearning to go back there before the funeral. He was the fun uncle, the one who took us on long walks up steep tracks and over high stiles. I can still easily picture the landscape with him in it, a walking stick and a cap, and a gaggle of children slogging it up a large hill and then down again. We did big walks, once all the way up and over to Jevington, and small walks just down the snicket in Litlington, over the white bridge where we played pooh-sticks, and on up towards the youth hostel at Alfriston, perhaps completing a circuit through the village and then back over the other bridge near the church.

I went back today to see if it was how I remembered it. Although I've been back several times in recent years, I've only been to look at the house and go up to the churchyard. Today I went back to be somehow recall the good times, to walk as if with my uncle down some of those same tracks and narrow paths. I didn't have the time to go to Jevington, that had taken all day, so instead I went through the valley, starting close to the house in the village. The garden went all the way to the river, and usually we just went straight down and over the gate. Today I couldn't do that, so instead took the path that leads from the street down to the Cuckmere and up to the Alfriston road. As I walked down it, every house brought back memories. I can no longer recall the names of some of the people who lived in these cottages, but I have clear memories of old people leaning over stone walls, inviting me into their gardens, having a chat with Grandma and remarking how much I'd grown. The old folk are long gone of course, but I nonetheless paused by nearly every gate, parcels of images forming in my mind, a fragment here, a fragment there. One garden brought back strong images of dogs, another of vegetables and sweet-peas. Nothing concrete, more intriguing than interesting, but I realised that I was going back most likely over twenty years.

My Grandpa died in 1988, my Grandma in 2000, having moved out of the village a few years earlier. In those final years I was at university, and had then started work, grown up, or so I thought. I had my own house, and no longer went every holiday. The few visits at the new house in a different place were not the same. When she moved, a period in my life ended, and it is a period that I still wish had not. That was my childhood. Looking at my Grandparent’s cottage, I know it will be the same for my children one day. Their Litlington is up in Fife, and they love it there, in the same way that I loved, and still love, Sussex. One day they too may be making similar pilgrimages to places steeped in childhood memory.

When I was small, the track I was walking down seemed incredibly long. I’d not walked it for years, and actually it’s barely half a mile, though the bit at the end is perhaps steeper than my childhood legs remember it to be. It starts off fairly wide as it passes between neat cottages, and then as it nears the Cuckmere the trees start to lean in. A sharp turn and you’re on the riverbank and up onto the bridge. Then you plunge into cover again, a cave of branches, and then you’re walking down a much narrower path with hawthorn and bramble hedge on either side and a small overgrown ditch. It was exactly as I remembered it, though today it was filled with the calls of birds that had no place in my memories. Robins ticked, Blackbirds chacked, a Pied Wagtail flew overhead and somewhere a pair of Goldcrests piped. These are new images to add to the old. I pressed on and then the climb began. It seemed to go on for ever, was it always like this? At the end I remember a yard, a rough parking lot, and then the road. Something has changed, the open space as you emerge from the path is nowhere near as big as I remember it. It doesn’t look like it has been built on, the flint walls look like they’ve been there for years. I suspect that the answer is that I’m bigger, and hence the yard is smaller. I paused for breath and looked down the valley. The day that had started with rain during the school run was now warm and sunny. It felt right.

 
I walked briskly back the way I had come, pausing only for blackberries and a soo-weeing Chiffchaff. Over the bridge again I had a quick peek over my grandparent’s back gate and up to the house. Very little has changed, the Yew tree is still a perfect egg shape, and there is a much lawn as there ever was. Twenty years ago, as the eldest grandchild most trusted with a petrol-driven mower, I got to mow it, up and down, up and down. It took hours, but I didn’t mind. When it was done I got to survey my neat lines from the terrace with a mug of ribena and a home-made brownie.

On my way out of the village I paused at the churchyard and did a spot of gardening. Someone else’s mower has been over the horizontal stone; one of the 0s from my Grandma’s 2000 is missing, and the 8s in Grandpa’s 1988 are badly scratched. I recognised many of the names on the other stones. I can’t put faces to them, but it’s possible that these are some of the inhabitants of those cottages that I was taken to all those years ago. Ellis. Jones. Guthrie.

Life goes so quickly. It seems like only yesterday that the whole family gathered in Litlington in the aftermath of the great storm in 1987. Many of you reading will remember it from finding Sabine’s Gulls on your local ponds and Gannets on your roof, but I remember it for the huge trees that fell horizontally across my Grandparent’s garden. We all went down to help with the clean up. It was exactly twenty-three years ago. I was twelve, and my job was to cut smaller twigs and branches off the fallen trees, and drag them clear, and to strip ivy from the trunks. With all of us swarming around, it only took a day or so, and bar the gaps, the new sections of wooden fence, and enormous new firewood store, you could hardly tell it had happened.

I’m thirty-five now, Litlington seems a world and a lifetime away, but as I’m sure I’ve mentioned before, perhaps in the context of birds, perhaps not, visual imagery is immensely powerful. Seeing the house and garden today, and walking that track, I was transported back to my childhood, back to my Grandparents, and to my uncle as I truly remember him, leading an excited bunch of children along narrow paths, over small bridges, and up hills to viewpoints none of us then appreciated.

Neither, I suspect, did I appreciate that my Grandparents lived next door to a pub