Singing a Song

I don't waste no time at all
Don't hear the "cheese" but I do hear the call
It comes to me as to us all
I'm no longer waiting
For the Yellowhammer to fall

You may recognise the song, or you may not, but I believe these are the original lyrics that Brian May, a keen patch-birder, had in mind before the rest of the band convinced him to change them to the version that appeared on the album. I prefer the original version, and this morning I find myself singing it happily, for I have just had a patch tick, and as you know, that is one of the best things that can ever happen.

Overcoming a mild hangover, I was slightly later out onto the Flats than I would have liked, but no matter, it was a glorious morning. Woodpigeon passage was fairly strong, and in the hour and a half that I had out there I counted 364 going over, all south. But that's not what I'm here to talk about. Woodpigeons are dull.

Yellowhammers are not dull, and I'm here to talk about one that now resides happily on my Wanstead list. I've been unable to get out early mornings for some time now, and have been well and truly gripped by the almost constant reports for Yellowhammer from the area we call the broom fields. I came close the other day on a rare early visit when a Bunting-shaped bird flew over and gave a very suspicious and clipped "tsit", but disappeared high to the north without making any more noise. Bummer, as they say. Not quite good enough, and I moved on, weeping.

This morning, stood in exactly the same place, and at almost exactly the same time, it happened again. A Bunting came from behind and low to my right, gaining height, and flew in almost the same arc as the last one, but fortunately gave not only a number of "tsits", but also some slightly more drawn out "tseets". It was paler underneath, and with only a hint of yellow, so I am assuming an immature bird. Anyway, I am now convinced beyond doubt that there is a Yellowhammer on Wanstead Flats, though what it is doing here, and where it disappears off to in the mornings I cannot say. If all the reports refer to the same bird, as is likely, then it has been here quite some time, and my hope is that it will stay longer, and that like Tim and Nick, one day I will have it land in a tree near my head.

Not a Yellowhammer, but very nice nonetheless.

A Departure

Rather than more nonsense about birds, a little photographic experimentation. A small narcissistic exercise led me to a number or hitherto unknown websites that have found this one before I found them. As you might expect, many were fellow bird bloggers, some however were not. One of them was this. The photography caught my eye, particularly the vintage feel of many of the images. I very much enjoy creating bright and crisp images of birds, but my camera is capable of so much more. I was inspired to try something different. Location, Garden. Model, Pudding. Lens, 85mm. A lot of fun. As the opportunities for bird photography dry up over the coming months, expect more experiments. Provided I can still walk.

Hurting Myself

My toe you know about. It is mostly better, though about half-way through the healing process I stubbed it again on a chair and went back to square one. I don't expect I mentioned it though, I am not the complaining type.

Well, I've done it again. Not my toe, this time both knees. I am hobbling severely. About three weeks ago, or whenever it was that I was dipping the Bluethroat at Rainham, I tripped and smacked my right knee on the edge of the board-walk. Ouch. I could walk fine, but when I stretched the knee a certain way, by golly it hurt. Today, three weeks later, it's still hurting, the action which most aggravates it is picking things up off the floor. Lucky therefore that I don't have to spend my entire day picking up after children. I get a sharp, shooting pain, and if I poke the affected area it really hurts. I don't do that very often obviously, just every now and again to see if it still hurts. Which it does, a lot. I wonder what I have done such that three weeks on it is still so noticeable?

Anyhow, not content with continuing sharp pain from the right knee, yesterday I did the other one. En route from the conservatory to the bottom of the garden, there to dispose of some rapidly decomposing pumpkins, I walked straight into the edge of the door. Bang. Agony. By the school run I had a slight limp, and by the evening, a proper hobble. Getting up the stairs, in and out of the car, and particularly tying my shoe-laces are all a right royal pain. In the knee.

This morning, I've done something to the end of my middle finger, on my left hand since you ask. I was cleaning out the powder tray on the washing machine, slipped, and well, I've done something to it. I don't know what. No swelling, no bruise, just yet another area of me that now hurts.



I am clearly falling to pieces, and I want to know why. Please don't tell me that this is the ageing process. I'm 35 for God's sake, does it really start so soon? I'm noticing two things. The first is that I am definitely less spritely than I was before. My carefree bounding lollops go wrong, as per the toe, and my prior nimbleness that allowed me to safely negotiate tricky areas like doorways is letting me down. Are these signs of deteriorating coordination? Or is it just, er, the increased effects of gravity, which I hear has been getting stronger lately?

Secondly, when I do smack into something, the results seem a lot worse. I'd like to think that a few years ago when I bashed into a sharp corner, well it would hurt, but that I'd shake it off pretty quickly and get on with it. And certainly not blog about it ad infinitum. But I can't help noticing that these minor injuries are dragging, are taking much longer to disappear. Of course I am manly and tough, and just get on with it, no whining here, move on, but secretly it is beginning to niggle. What if I need to run for a patch tick? Would I make it? Time will no doubt tell.

Back to Basics

Well, after all the nonsense on the net about the goings on at American Bittern twitches, and then the expected response to the fabulously even-handed twitching documentary, I think it's high time to get back to basics. And it doesn't get much more basic than me birding in my garden.

The ritual is as follows. Get up, dress, stumble downstairs, make tea, source bins, hit terrace. Once there, I'm in a different place. I can hear the dull rumble of the A12, all those poor sods heading into the City. I can hear the odd clacking of a Central Line tube train going over points. Every now and again I can hear a plane taking off from City Airport. But I can also hear birds, and that's what I'm here for. The bins are in fact largely redundant, it's my ears that are all important.

After the ridiculousness of the weekend, twitching Cornwall (I mean, where will it end? Is nowhere too far?), this was where I wanted to be. One minute I'm seeing the first American Bittern since the early 1990s, the next, my heart's desire is one of our commonest finches. Siskin was the target, a long overdue garden tick. It's good to have a multi-faceted approach to birding. Patch-working exclusively could grind me down. I love it, but I need some variety. So I go off-patch too, be it a day on the coast, or a week on some islands. How else can I gain any familiarity with birds I just won't see in Wanstead? When a Yellow-browed Warbler eventually deigns to grace us with it's presence, I'll recognise it immediately. If I never left Wanstead, I wouldn't have a hope.

The morning was slow to get going. For the first twenty minutes very little happened. Perhaps I was too early? At seven-ish, somebody flicked a switch, and the sky came alive. Birds, heading north-west.

Groups of Fieldfares and Redwings, not earth-shattering numbers, but enough to later be able to say it was a good morning. Bouncing flocks of finches, some resolutely silent, others revealing their identity with chips and chimes. Surely there must be a Siskin about the place somewhere? First bird to get me excited was a Brambling, the wheezy call registering quickly, though just as the other day, I never saw it. A hundred and fifty Starlings went over in one group. No trillers. And then, there it was, that giveaway flutey squeak, and a small fork-tailed bird bombed over, never pausing, but enough to say that my garden, my tiny garden, has had a Siskin in it. Over it. On its list. A common bird, but a most welcome one. Cheered, I continued my vigil. Birding at its best. Basic, but satisfying.

Hypocrisy

You knew I would go to Cornwall didn't you? It was a tough decision, and I had my fingers crossed for the American Bittern to depart overnight. Unfortunately, it didn't happen, and a nice morning on Wanstead Flats was brought to a premature close by news of its continued presence on Saturday.


It had to be done. Actually that's a lie. It didn't have to be done at all. I could have just stayed at home, like Shaun and Paul did, and had a nice weekend. But no, even though it felt foolish, by about ten thirty me, Dick, Bradders and Nick were in the car and on the M25, 360 miles of mind-numbing boredom and a likely dip ahead of us.


We arrived, and dipped. Oh what a surprise. We dipped with style though. We arrived in pouring rain to learn that the bird had been seen only once since we had left London, and that flying strongly away north and over a large hill. Rather than retreat immediately to the pub, we decided we would search for it in the valley (down a marked footpath, since you ask). We found a Goldcrest, and got soaked. In my case, to the skin. My waterproofs are apparently not what they once were, and the rain penetrated all four layers of clothing. To cap this fine afternoon off I stepped in a stream over my boots and got my socks wet as well. Brilliant.



Later at the pub, where we should have been all along, we made plans to return at first light. Zennor Mermaid is superb, by the way, lifted my dampened spirits very quickly.

We were up before the sun, and in the dark found a spot for the car well away from the bird and walked the remaining distance. Many lazy-ass birders decided to drive the entire way and park immediately adjacent to the pool. I don't know what resting Bitterns pick up on and what they don't, but headlights, reversing noises, slamming doors and flashing indicators and beeps as people lock their cars strikes me as none too subtle. If I were a Bittern I would be thinking very strongly about hunkering down and staying hidden rather than popping out to see what was going on. That said, over a hundred people stood just over a fence looking directly at your pool probably also isn't going to encourage you either, and that was inevitable. Parking issues aside, the initial behaviour at the twitch was exemplary. Over a hundred birders stood mostly silently in a long line on the road, the furthest away spot you could wait without encroaching on the moor, and waited patiently for the bird to show.

Which it didn't. Three hours passed, and nothing happened. As you would expect, people became a little restless, more conversation took over, but contrary to internet hub-bub there was no mass hysteria. I wasn't there Friday, and from what I had read, it seemed that people were crawling all over the moor and through the sedge, booting the bird from pillar to post. Actually, though it remains true that the bird was indeed flushed, it appears that the behaviour of birders on site was in no way what internet forums would have you believe, inconsiderate birders running amok, lighting fires to smoke the bird out. But I wasn't there, so who knows.

 
I saw nothing bad on Saturday, and on Sunday, though the bird was indeed flushed, if it was going to happen, as may well be inevitable in situations like this, it happened in the best possible circumstances. It could have been terrible. After three hours of nothing, many were convinced that the bird wasn't present, having been attacked by a Peregrine the previous day had probably been enough for it. A very brave birder walked the entire line of people, asking if any objected to him getting closer, and walking alongside the pools for a look from a different angle. I heard no objections - none - although I understood later that there had been a few from further down the line. I have no idea how this is supposed to work. Some may argue that one objector should be enough, others may say that no matter how many he heard, that birder was going to go closer regardless. Yet others may say he should not even have suggested it. As I say, I don't know, but it appears that the overwhelming majority of people were perfectly happy for this guy to go and have a look, mainly as that meant that they didn't have to, even though they probably really really wanted to. Nobody wants to be first; this applies to many things in life.

By this stage cows were encroaching on the pool, and nothing had happened. The guy hopped over a gate and into a field adjacent to the pool, ie he didn't even "go in". Nothing happened. He walked along the fenceline, peering in, and still nothing happened. I wasn't really looking, by now convinced that the bird wasn't there. All of a sudden a shout went up from the crowd, and the Bittern flew up from somewhere invisible that wasn't even particularly close to the guy, did a showy loop to the assembled crowd, and flew off to some pines nearby. I got excellent scope views. People applauded the bird (I assume), and for some reason the guy took a bow. Now clearly this is not ideal. Ideally everyone would have waited and waited, and had we been lucky, perhaps the bird would have plucked up the courage to feed in the open somewhere where it could be seen, as had happened when it had been found. I don't think that was ever going to happen. The first few days, with just the farmer, the finder and a few locals having a look, the Bittern was apparently extremely visible and pleasing on the eye. With 100+ birders streched in a long line only a few metres away, plus wacky races in the dark, any bird with a modicum of self-preservation was either going to bugger off, or if it chose to stay, adapt its behaviour accordingly.

I wasn't twitching in the halycon days reverently recalled by so many armchair critics, when all birders were stuffed so full of fieldcraft they could barely move, and when evil pagers (and the internet) didn't exist. Outrageously, these days any Johnny-come-lately can now find out where a rare bird is and drive there on a motorway. Pah! Modern twitching being what it is, that people waited even three hours strikes me as miraculous. Tick cravings are rarely kept in check for that long! No, people will be napalming any thick cover after about fifteen minutes in order to get their fix. So, adding a healthy dose of realism, if you take the line that there was simply no way on God's earth that in the year 2010 100+ rabid twitchers were going to patiently wait around all day and quite possibly go home without seeing it, then what transpired is essentially common sense. One guy sought the opinion of everyone else present, went with the overwhelming majority, and then very carefully walked nowhere near the bird, but where he might be able to see if it was still present or not. Unfortunately he was still too close, and the bird spooked. Is that really so bad? Does it harm the bird? Well, it's clearly not as good for the bird as leaving it alone, so in that respect, yes, it must, but charges of animal cruelty? Please. Does it really deserve pages of vitriol, mainly from people who weren't there? I'm not so sure. Had a bunch of people unrestrainedly hopped over the grassy bank and converged on the pool, kicking at clumps of sedge and bracken, I would have been livid. Had people gone looking with torches in the dark, that would have been selfish, and stupid. But it wasn't like that. I did not object, so am I a hypocrite? Yes, a bit. But then again I'm a hypocrite for even going. Am I trying to justify my tick? Not really. I'd be writing this if exactly the same behaviour had occured but the bird hadn't been seen. Having been sucked-in yet again into commenting on the net a couple of days ago, I felt I had to put the record straight as to what actually happened.

Personally I was on the point of leaving. I hate standing around, I was cold, and I was hungry. American Whatever, at that stage I was far more interested in breakfast. I would have walked away. As it was, all present (apart from the objectors who presumably closed their eyes) got excellent views as the bird flew off about 100m away. Nobody else then felt the need to trample anywhere, most people were happy, and many left the site (the quicker to get back home and bitch on the internet about bad behaviour at twitches...) hopefully allowing the bird to get back to doing whatever it was doing. Cowering in thick cover...

We couldn't see ourselves seeing the bird any better, so did not even attempt to refind it in the pines. Instead we went to Penzance for breakfast, and to find an internet cafe....

Green Heron, Heligan. It would have been rude not to.

All Done!

All done. 300th bird in the bag yesterday. All done, no more hooning it round the country, I'm staying local from now on. American Bittern?! Where, where!!?

I've been resisting the Glossy Ibis at Welney all week, as yesterday I had plans to go to Cambridge with the kids anyway, there to leave them with Grandma for the afternoon. As it happened, by 10am there was no news on the Ibis, just my luck that it appeared to have gone. However there was news on two Grey Phalaropes and an American Golden Plover at Cley. Both filthy year ticks. I felt I probably had the time.....

Predictably as soon as I was committed to the North Norfolk coast route, positive news on the Ibis came out......Not to worry, get it on the way back, I was sure I'd still have the time. I'd MAKE the time!

Got to Cley with no fuss, payed my subs (in case you were wondering), and started looking for the Plover. Loads of European Goldies, but I could not pick out the AGP. Being strong of will and sound of mind, I gave up and trekked out to north hide for the Phalaropes. The first thing I saw when I entered the hide was a West Ham hat. The hat turned round, and it was Marco, a familiar site from Wanstead Flats. What were the chances? Had I known.... Anyway, we had a bit of a chat whilst I looked at the Phals (#298) - the two feeding together in the same scope view - and then I went off for a second crack at the Plover.

I gave it another hour or so, possibly not even that long, at which point the entire flock got up and flew west. If the past few days were anything to go by, they were off to feed on the freshly-exposed mud in Blakeney harbour, so naturally I followed them. I was about to sling the car in the harbour carpark when I noticed that a man wanted £3 from me. To park my car in a puddle. I found alternate (yet considerate) parking.

Tell you what, if you did a days birding on the North Norfolk coast and birded all the traditional sites, and paid for parking everywhere you went, you'd end up with very little change out of a twenty. Cley Coastguards, Blakeney, Lady Anne's Drive, and worst of all, Wells Woods - rip-off merchants the bloody lot of them. I hate paying for parking. I'd pay 50p, or perhaps even £1, but when every single place wants £3 or more, well they can take a collective hike. Thieves.




Pleased with my success at avoiding funding whoever owns the carpark, I trotted out along the beach path. I soon found the flock of Goldies, stretched out in a long line along the mud, and started scanning from one end. Fifth bird in I found it. I kid you not, it took perhaps thirty seconds. I wasn't entirely sure, my experience of this species being one adult in Kent a couple of years ago, so I kept on it and compared other nearby Plovers, Grey and Golden. Continued grilling convinced me I had struck gold, so to speak, but once some other birders turned up I still sought a second opinion. Happily I was right. Better than looking like a muppet I always think, of which I have extensive experience. #299.

Next stop Welney. Not a lot to say really. I had looked up the spot on the satellite view, so stopped by the exact field and there it was. Bins not even needed. Twitching isn't really overly skillful is it? I know that diminishes my achievement - if indeed you can call it that - of seeing 300 birds in a year, but I'm afraid it's true. Twitching is basically being able to read a map, and drive somewhere.



Whilst I was getting my fill of Ibis, a man in a truck pulled up and cast his critical eye over the field. At first I though he was an interested passer-by, but when he said "I'm here to pick up that dead cow." I realised that probably wasn't the case. "What dead cow?" I replied? "That black and white one!" he indicated. I had been bird-watching rather than cow-watching, but he did have a point, it wasn't looking too great. How exciting, a dead cow! We could watch, morbidly fascinated, as he somehow winched it into his truck! Gosh, isn't twitching fun! Where, I wondered, would he attach the rope? I scoped up the cow, looking for holes, hooks etc.

It was breathing.

Dead cows don't normally breathe do they? No, thought not. Much as it would have been hugely funny to watch the man drive his truck up to a perfectly alive cow, attempt to winch it into a truck, and then jump back in considerable surprise as it sprung up and attempted to gore him or something, I felt it was best to tell him.

"Er, it's not dead."
"Eh?"
"That cow, it's not dead, it's breathing."
"No, it's dead."

I invited him to look in my scope, at which point it raised its head and had a bit of a look about.

"Ah, so it is. Must have the wrong field."

So he got into his truck and drove off, the cow went back to sleep, and we continued looking at the Ibis. Anyway, any Ibis twitchers that saw the bird today have me to thank, as I prevented it being flushed by a man in a truck driving round the field and molesting sleeping cows until he chanced upon one a dead one.

So, #300. Hurrah! No more twitching for me! See you in Cornwall! Er, I mean, have a nice time in Cornwall, losers!!

Damp Squib

On Viz-migging

I literally skipped down the stairs this morning. Giddy with excitement I made cup of tea. Coat on, hat on, bins round neck, camera over shoulder. I was ready! The time was 07:32. Let it begin!!

A blank sky.

Not to worry, it will all kick off any minute.

07:53. The first Wren wakes up. In turn, it wakes up a Blue Tit. Hmm, this is not going exactly to plan. 8am comes and goes, and I have seen literally nothing in the sky. Nothing at all. Predictably though I have heard Goldcrest and Green Woodpecker, and seen a Great Spotted Woodpecker and a Jay, all four of which eluded me throughout yesterday and would have beaten the day record. Natch.

08:02. A Chaffinch!!! A single bird, moving from tree to tree in the gardens. Vizzed, but probably not migging. I conclude that something is wrong.

I heard a Redwing a few minutes later, but the sky remained resolutely blank. I glanced down at the enormous dollop of cat-shit on the terrace and realised it probably wasn't going to be my day. Shortly after that the first child appeared, looking hungry, and viz-migging was over.


************************************

I've been saving this one for a rainy day

On Writing

I realised whilst writing this that I composed most of it whilst looking at the sky this morning. Do any other bloggers do this? Whilst I've not written down exactly what I mentally went through outside, it is fairly close, and indeed some sentences are word for word. Is this normal? A sign perhaps that I am taking blogging too seriously?

I actually stand there, typing it in my head during quiet moments, of which a patch worker has many. Ideally there would be some kind of neural link to the PC, and I would return indoors to find it ready to go, but I don't think we're quite there yet. Are you listening Bill? I could use a dictaphone, but it's a bit 1980s, and would be truly a sign of over-exaggeration of blog-importance. I also don't have a dictaphone. This is probably a good thing. A secretary perhaps......a scribe......

Nonetheless, as I stand there constructing paragraphs, I wonder what on earth I am doing. I mean, why bother? Perhaps in need of mental stimulation beyond that offered by loads of washing, pouring cereal, and watching Pixar films?

It's the same with my Birdwatch articles; they're mostly written before I even sit down in front of the computer. Sometimes I'll have noted a few themes down, points I want to make, examples I might forget, but mostly when I actually start typing it just flows out. Unfortunately the same thing happens on BirdForum.....