Speedos. Get the look.

The last time I wore Speedos in anger was in 1997. Then, as now, I was in France. I had just purchased a ten-swim pass for the swimming pool in Montpellier in another vain attempt to become lithe and fit. Proudly recalling my 2000m swimming certificate from yesteryear, I was looking forward to burning a few calories. I can't jog, I certainly can't run, I detest gyms, but swimming I don't mind. Popped the old swimshorts on, walked through the shower, then through the freezing little pool of foot detergent, and was about to lower myself into the pool when a shout of "Ah non, monsieur! called me back. "Oui?" I replied to the lifeguard/style policeman.

To cut a long story short, or perhaps to cut a shorts story shorter (and tighter), my trusty swimshorts were interdit. If I wanted to swim, I had to be wearing Speedos. I looked around. Everyone, well, the men anyway, were all wearing miniscule Speedos. I was doomed. Now I have no qualms about being slightly fat, nor exposing my wobbly tummy in public. Luminous beings are we, not this crude matter, as someone once said. No, a body is merely a shell. On the outside I might be pale and flabby, but on the inside I glow. Warmth positively emanates. But wearing Speedos is different. I am British, and British people do not strut about displaying their packages in extremely small and tight-fitting swimming trunks. Or at least, not sensible ones. But at that particular moment I wanted to go swimming, so some minute Speedos were duly purchased at the front desk, where they kept a supply specially for naive tourists.

My swim-pass ran out with nine unused sessions.

I forgot all about this disturbing incident, and that pair of Speedos have been consigned to dustbin of history. In fact I probably threw them out that same day, knowing I would never wear them again. So packing for France, I threw my trusty swimshorts in the suitcase, and thought nothing of it. Mrs L, supposedly the better of the two us at packing, forgot to pack her bikini, so as our visit to the pool at Narbonne approached, we reaslised we needed to go and buy one for her. An Intersport shop was spotted close-by, but we thought that before splashing out, so to speak, we should check that the pool was at least open. Mrs L popped in, and came back with good news and bad news.

The good news; the swimming pool was open. The kids were immediately cheered. The bad news (delivered with a smirk I might add); we were both going shopping....swim-shorts were "interdit!" Gah! It all came flooding back to me. But we had to go swimming, the kids were desperate, and this pool had slides and everything. I spent the drive to Intersport cursing France and everything French.

The choice of Speedos was astonishing, there is clearly a large market. I bet that if you went to a sports shop here though, you would be hard-pressed to find even a single pair. I chose the cheapest ones, still eight euros, and conservatively went for "L" in the vain hope that it might preserve some of my anglo-saxon modesty. Fat chance. To give you an idea of quite how little material is used in these things, here they are in an espresso cup.



The kids had a wonderful time, however for reasons I cannot fathom, I did not enjoy it. The lady at the desk told me that swim-shorts were interdit because they couldn't be sure that people hadn't been wearing them outdoors, and so to preserve hygiene standards (and this coming from a nation that still has holes in the ground instead of toilets) they insist that people wear Speedos, which obviously people would never be seen dead in outdoors. A cunning strategy, except that French men probably wear Speedos at all possible opportunities. Dominique Strauss-Khan was almost certainly wearing Speedos in New York recently, but I digress. We were at the swimming pool for about an hour, and although I didn't get any comments, I knew it was not a good look. Nonetheless, in all good conscience I cannot conclude this post without a photograph of me modelling them.

You are invited to look away now, however, for the more curious amongst you, scroll down.....





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Choices, choices....

News of a mega-Robin in Hartlepool has twitchers all of a ....., er, all of a ..... god, really need a decent word to go in here. I know, all of a quiver, that works, doesn't it? No doubt loads of them will be ......, er, will be ....., ah-hah, converging, that's it, yes converging on Hartlepool Headland in the hope of seeing it.

It holds no interest for me. It is too far. And I can't go anyway. Or something. But good luck to all who go of course, it would be uncharitable to deny them their raison d'etre. I have to admit it does make me mildly twitchy, and I can happily imagine it nestling on my list close to Black Redstart and Red-flanked Bluetail, but these days I can take it or leave it without much angst. I've just driven to the South of France and back, my desire to sit in a car for any distance longer than the first impending school run tomorrow is non-existent. The desire of my three children to spend any more time in a car is equally non-existent. They were superstars on the journey down, an 800 mile marathon starting at 3am and ending at 7pm. Hartlepool is 250 miles and four hours away. And the same back. Although in french terms that's nothing, and although today was free with school not starting until tomorrow, I couldn't face it. It's just a bird, just a tick. I can imagine however that if you've seen over 500 birds, and new ones are few and far between, the significance of a tick is that much greater.

For me though, low-lister supreme, there are twitching thrills far closer to home, and so that is what the kids and I did today. The venue: our very own Alexandra Lake, and an extreme rarity. For reasons that will become obvious, we're suppressing it, so it's unlikely that you will have heard about it. It first appeared, entirely predictably, the day we left for France. Gutted, absolutely gutted. Birds on Alex tend not to linger, but I am happy to report that this one did the decent thing, somehow overcoming the constant disturbance until I returned.

Can you see it?!

And what a corker it was! The kids and I rushed straight there this morning once we had got up, about eleven I think it was, and after a wait of approximately zero seconds the bird showed itself. Indeed, I'd go so far as to say it showed extremely well. Fully winged, unringed, and happily mingling with that classic carrier species, Canada Goose. Using the kind of fieldcraft that can only be gained from serving a long birding apprenticeship, I was able to approach to within ten feet. Red-breasted Goose, a local mega, and a superb and unexpected patch tick! And to think I've not even seen a Brent here....

Les Vacances de Monsieur L

 

J'etais en France! Bof! Sorry I didn't mention it. I never publicise my travels, least of all online, lest the legions of burglars who follow this blog decide to pay me a visit in the hope that Mrs L was last out of the house and charged with locking up. Even if I'm not going away anywhere, occasionally I just stop blogging for a few days - my doozra if you like. Combine that with sometimes not opening the curtains for days on end, and frankly it becomes a lottery if you're shadily inclined. Please don't be offended, I'm not singling out my blog readership for special treatment, I hardly tell anyone. Generally the only people who know are the ones who come in to feed the four Guard Crocodiles with really small, really moreish meals.

Anyway, I'm back, and Chateau L is intact, so back to the daily grind. The first order of business is to say that I am now enormous. More enormous. Why France is not full of obese people is beyond me. Au contraire it is mainly full of very thin people, a ratio which has increased now that I have left. The food is amazing, I could eat it all day. In fact that is largely what I did, as it rained for pretty much the entire time whilst blowing a gale. With birding out of the equation, that left eating. Oh, and drinking. Lucky then that I was staying at a mineral water plant, and not a vineyard where you could just keep a tab and help yourself to bottles....

Oh, wait.

The Evian grows in small bunches on minature trees which are planted in rows

Holidays are about having fun, and although I had dutifully prepared a list of target birds, places to go for family walks with no other motives whatsoever, in the end we barely went anywhere, content to stay in our wonderful gite and chomp our way through prodigious quantities of cheese, salami, ham, tartes, pains au chocolats and so forth, all washed down with lashings of mineral water.

Famille L doing what it does best

We were in the south-west, within spitting distance of the Pyrennees, staying at a place in Minervois country (and there was I thinking Evian was Swiss, who knew?). We stayed in a converted mill surrounded by vineyards, and drank only the locally-produced water. Despite the crappy weather, it was superb. We didn't get up in the mornings, and we went to bed early - some proper and well-deserved battery recharging. Other than eating, we honestly didn't do a great deal. We explored the property and terrorised its insect residents, we played a lot of cricket, we did a lot of drawing, and listened to a lot of music. Oh, and we ate a lot, did I mention that? A quick visit to a local swimming pool one day (where they demanded I wear Speedos, not an experience I am keen to repeat; neither, I suspect, are the residents of Narbonne keen), an afternoon trip to Carcassonne another. We set our barrier low, and this turned out to be the perfect height.

In the few moments that we were able to sit outside, a number of birds were observed. Some were even photographed. Top billing went to a Short-toed Eagle that cruised almost directly overhead one day, followed closely by a Honey Buzzard. Hoopoes were seen daily, as were a resident pair of Woodchat Shrikes - the local mineral water is organically produced, which no doubt suits them just fine. Rock Sparrows, a pair of Black Redstarts, and numerous Swifts nested in the various buildings, Nightingales were everywhere, at least six highly vocal birds in a small area, but all predictably invisible. We never saw the Cuckoos either, but they were belting it out from all around, and on the occasional calmer night, a Nightjar churred from the opposite hillside. I saw a Sardinian Warbler once, whilst sat drinking Rosé, er I mean water, but it was one of the target birds, so very chuffed.






The insect life was where it was at this holiday though. Some superb moths and butterflies, including quite a few Hummingbird Hawkmoths, immense bush crickets, gigantic wasps and hornets, and vast armies of black ants moving in trails across the lawn and patio. The kids were enthralled, which is how it should be. I remember similar family holidays where at a similar age I was quite content to just observe these ants all day long. And poke sticks into their nests obviously.

We came back via Chablis, another area noted for mineral water production, and to say that the car sat snugly on the road on the way back to the coast is a vast understatement. I have been happily unloading bottles for almost the whole day. Indeed one has already been emptied.....Anyhow, normal service will shortly be resumed. That means Brown birds, brown butterflies, small unidentifiable brown moths.

PS I am kidding about the birds. It's June.

Dipping

On the way back home from an eight-hour Great Snipe dip over three sessions the other day, the topic of conversation turned to dipping. This is the art of not seeing a bird that you have travelled to see - twitched, if you like. There are many types of dipping, and though you can put a brave face on it, nobody likes any of them. Sometimes the bird has gone, nothing you can do about it, they have wings. But with diesel the price it is, many people prefer to wait on news, but this then allows for the possibility of the worst kind of dip, which is when the bird IS actually there, but you don't manage to see it. This was the case with the Great Snipe - it was there the whole time, and then as soon as we got home, felt able to parade around again in full view. Arse.

Anyhow, at the start of the conversation, I maintained that I hadn't dipped very many times, and that my picky twitching nature meant that more often than not I saw the bird. As the conversation progressed however, I started recalling more and more failures, and felt it might be cathartic to talk about them. I don't actually get too wound up about it now, it's just a bird, it comes with the territory, but back then it was terrible, and I am sure it must still eat some people up. Presumably, it is the long-distance ones that are the worst. Imagine driving from London to Scotland for a White-tailed Plover that wasn't there when you arrived - ouch! Imagine getting a flight to Shetland for a Yellow-billed Cuckoo that died in the night. Or a long boat journey for an absent Albatross. All of these have happened, but not to me. For a start, I am not about to start twitching Scotland. The first rule of twitching is to realise that eventually there will be one closer, and you can dip that instead.

So what dips stick in my memory particularly, and why?

Wryneck, Wanstead, 2010
After thrashing Wanstead the previous few days, I decided I would instead head to Rainham as I was pursuing a year-list there as well. Did the school run, and went straight there. As I approached the slip-road off the A13, Nick phoned from approximately 500 yards away from my house. "Wryneck!" Bum. I exited the A13, went round the roundabout, and headed back the way I had come. I was unbelievably lucky with the traffic, and met Nick on the Flats about twenty minutes later. No sign, and not a sniff for the next three hours. I was despondent. Patch dips hurt way more than any other kind. The story had a happy ending though, as on the school run the following day he refound the bird, and this time it stayed put.




Marsh Sandpiper, Maldon, Essex, 2008
This is memorable not just for the dip, but for the whole goddamed day. On offer in a small cluster in eastern Essex were not only the Marsh Sandpiper, but also a Red-necked Phalarope and a Wryneck. Marsh Sandpiper and Wryneck would have been lifers, and I'd only seen one Red-necked Phalarope before. I spent the day in the car and dipped the lot.

Black-winged Praticole, Reculver, Kent, 2009
A lovely day with some old school friends and their kids was ruined by news of this mega from Kent. This is why twitching is ridiculous, and one of the reasons why I've gradually calmed down to the point where I can easily let a bird go with a shrug. Can't see 'em all. I was agitated the whole day, to the point of rudeness, and scooted home as soon as I could. Straight back in the car, picked up Vince, and down to Reculver. No sign, though we were greeted by several smiling faces that we knew. Vince immediately gave up, and I mean immediately. I suggested having a look at Grove Ferry just down the road, but he wasn't interested. We went anyway, and I had a quick scan from the viewing mound whilst he had a kip in the car. Back to London to an angry wife, always good. The story doesn't end there. I went back to Grove Ferry NNR the next day, and spent that dipping as well. Almost unbelievably, and a clear sign of my growing stupidity at that time, I set off for Kent the following morning as well. This time I got it, but I still remember it for all the wrong reasons.

Zitting Cisticola, Swalecliff, Kent, 2008
This is my worst dip EVER. Famille Lethbridge had a nice day out planned. Somehow I had swung going to Rainham for lunch (when you didn't need to be a multi-millionaire), so I was pretty happy. On the way to Rainham, the pager bleeped. Fan-tailed Warbler, Swalecliff. To universal disapproval, I drove past Rainham, over the bridge, and onwards to Swalecliff. A fuming Mrs L insisted that I drop the family off for lunch somewhere first. The closest place to the bird was an absolute hole of a pub, really really horrible. The menu was pure grease, I could not have found anywhere worse. I installed them on a quiet corner table, and before I left, took a child to the toilet, it only took a minute. Jumped in the car and off I went. Loads of cars, loads of birders. As I approached the crowd, a man shouted "Who hasn't seen it yet?" - I scurried over. "It's flying!". He vainly tried to get me on what was presumably a dot, but it was gone, never to be seen again. Thirty seconds earlier and I would have seen it - I prefer to dip by several hours. I returned to the pub in a filthy mood, to find the family penned the corner, a Premiership football match blaring out from every screen in the place, including from an overhead projector onto a screen right next to their table. The journey home passed in silence. I've seen one since, but I still smart at quite how badly I behaved that day.

Past Twitching Glories

I'm not sure if you should dwell too much on past successes, and certainly it is rare that you find me doing so on this blog, but every now and again I think a bit of reminiscing is good. And anyway, it's not like I've been birding lately and have any Wanstead news.

Anyhow, a few of my personal favourites. It is worth noting that all of these are eclipsed by some of the amazing mornings on Wanstead Flats. Good birds in a local context are far, far better, far more rewarding, but I reckon I've enthused more than enough about some of those, so the following tales will - mostly - be ones that you have not heard before. If there is one positive thing about twitching, you remember with absolute clarity the entire day. Where you were, what you did, who was with you, the weather, the location. I can transport myself back to any one of these as if it were yesterday.

Hume's Leaf Warbler, Beachy Head, Sussex, January 2008
At this point I wasn't really a twitcher, but at the start of the New Year I felt I needed a day out. I had read about this bird, didn't know anything about it, yet decided to go and have a look anyway as there were a couple of other things I could do down in Sussex at the same time. I did my research on the call, and arrived early in the morning to find I had the place entirely to myself, which is exactly how I like it. I could hear the bird calling from the car, so insistent was it, and soon located it flitting about low down in the small plantation. I lost it fairly frequently, but kept refinding it due to the call. I had it to myself for at least an hour before a single other birder turned up, and this form of twitching has appealed to me ever since. Only two days later, at Cley, I was one of perhaps 300 for the White-crowned Sparrow, and the two experiences could not have been more different. Give me the warbler any day.




Pallid Harrier, Haddenham, Cambs, September 2009
Just a great bird, probably my favourite from the whole of 2009. It was a monday, but I don't think I went up particularly early. Certainly I would have done the school run first, perhaps even returned home for a while. I was experiencing a quite amazing purple patch of scoring, everything I touched turned to twitching gold, so I fully expected to see the bird no matter what time I left. The fens are pretty bleak, but the power of prior research ensured I found the correct rutted road, some drove or other, with a familiar line of cars bunched up at one end. I had Pudding with me, poor thing, and we left the hardcore twitchers to scanning whilst we played near the car. After three hours, with all snack food consumed, and more importantly, all nappies used, there was still no sign. On the point of considering my options, the bird appeared, ghost-like, floating across the fens. It tried to catch a passerine, not sure if it did or not, and landed in a field out of view, but that minute or so whilst it cruised slowly by will remain with me for a long time. An adult male, or near enough as to make no difference, and absolutely mesmerising. So mesmerising I totally forgot I was holding a camera until the bird was miles away. Still...

Swainson's Thrush, Shetland Mainland, October 2010

My first trip and so far only trip to Shetland was pretty special. Before going I had learned that a fellow blogger, a Mr. John Hague aka the Drunkbirder, would be on the islands at the same time we were. I am happy to plug his blog here. We swapped phone numbers, just in case one or other group found something decent. I'd been on the islands about three hours and were driving south from a place called Channerwick when he called with news of a Swainson's Thrush he had just found in the quarry at Levenwick. Where were we, he asked? I didn't really know, nor did I know where Levenwick was. As I was trying to work this out, we passed a sign saying "Levenwick". Astonishing good fortune. The Monkey executed a power turn, and within about two minutes we were standing with John, Andy and Dave looking for the bird, which had temporarily done a runner. Not for long though, and I soon got some superb views of this very pretty bird in a nearby garden. That week on Shetland was fantastic, and as a result we were unfortunately too busy twitching things to be able to return the favour. I'll be back though, and possibly soon.

 
Sorry, no photo. Here is a different quarry.

Fea's Petrel, Porthgwarra, Cornwall, August 2009
No gloating twitching post would be complete without this quite amazing story of pure jaminess. I'd been to Porthgwarra only once before, the previous weekend. Then, I'd seen a decent number of Sooty Shearwaters, but that was about as good as it had got. My enthusiasm for this bizarre pasttime called seawatching undimmed, I had returned the following weekend with the Monkey and Stuart. We arrived at about 1am, the Monkey fired-up after drinking Stellas since about Exeter. Somehow we were on the cliff at 6am, and at around 11am, a guy called Martin, seen here on the left of the photo, picked up what he initially thought was a Great Shearwater to the left of the Runnelstone. I won't go through it all again, you can read about it here, but honestly, how jammy am I? The bird itself was excellent, and we had good views for three minutes as it passed slowly across the horizon, but my takeaway is the jam part. My second ever seawatching session in the southwest - the Monkey's first! - and one of the biggest pelagic prizes of all. I could spend a week down there every year for ten years and not see another one. Monumentally lucky, and whilst not a twitch, a trip I remember with nothing but broad grins (I have one now!) every time I think about it. More importantly than that though, it has ensured that I go down at least once a year on a really good forecast, just in case....



Tomorrow, my best dips. Far more entertaining.

A Bonus Post!

I like to think that my blog appeals to a wide cross-section of society, but let's face it, it's probably mostly birders that read it, and that means men. If at this point you feel like writing in and asking if I've ever heard of political correctness, don't bother. I wasn't impressed then, and I won't be impressed now. The fact is I am right - most birders are men, you know it, and that's final.

Insects in fridges are likely to appeal to men, and make women go "eewwwww". The following however is likely to have the opposite effect. It will make women readers involuntarily go "awwwww". In fact, they are so cute that I defy any person, male or female, not to go "awwwwww" when looking at these Mandarin ducklings, especially the last one, where the expression is simply delightful.

"awwwwww!!"

More things to do in June: Moths

If you thought you were crap at small brown birds, wait until you try Moths. Really, most small brown birds in this country are do-able if you give it enough time. Dunnock or Sparrow, you'll get there. Linnet or Redpoll, there are a couple of differences. And really you only have a few hundred to learn. With Moths, a few hundred of them look identical, and there are thousands. About 800 or so are big ones, Macro Moths, that you at least stand a chance with, and then there are another couple of thousand tiny ones, Micros, that you stand almost no chance with. The average garden will likely have several hundred species present at different times of the year - do you like listing? And there you were thinking that there was just one really persistent one buzzing around your patio light.


For a modest outlay, in my case £65 I think, you can purchase a moth trap. Or you can make your own if you're feeling clever. A moth trap is essentially a light on top of a box. There are different types of light, and different types of boxes, but they all do essentially the same thing. The light draws the moths in, and they flutter into the box, get stuck in the labyrinth of egg-boxes you have put in there to baffle them, and then go to sleep until you potter along the following morning, stick them in little pots, and then cut their willies off to look at under a microscope. You don't have to do the last part. I never have, in fact it disturbs me a little. For the ones where supposedly you have to, I have come up with a brilliant solution. Just call it whichever one you have not seen before, and you thus get a tick out of it, and the moth can be released without harm. Win win.


I started mothing about a year ago now, and with the aid of a cheap little book have so far managed to identify a whopping 178 species. There are about 30 more that I have long since given up on. It is actually pretty straightforward. My trap has a long lead, and runs off mains electricity. It is on a timer, and so comes on and turns off without me needing to do anything other than adjust the timer now and again. I have a morning routine whereby I go and decant the trap into small pots, and then make a cup of tea and ponder over them. Many, it must be said, are brown. A few however make your heart leap.


Check out these stunners.

Respectively, Barred Yellow, Blotched Emerald, and the superb (and yet to be bettered) Scarce Silver Lines.

It is addictive, just like birding, except there is potential for something new and exciting in June. Or May. You can actually trap year-round, there are different moths all through the winter. Pickings are slim though, so I tend to start in April and give up by about October. You don't have to go anywhere, so no time in the car, and no outrageous fuel bill, it really is ideal. The only trouble is that as dusk gets later, and dawn earlier, sleep gets squeezed by mothing at one end and birding at the other, but if you can cope with that, this could be another feather to your all-round naturalists bow. And you can get the kids involved too - mine are fascinated by it. Sometimes I come down in the morning to find that Muffin has been out, emptied the trap and ID'd half of what is in there before I've really woken up, and put the rest in the fridge for me.

Yes, the moths go in the fridge for the day. It does them no harm, makes them dopey and thus easier to photograph, and means they remain calm until it is time to release them safely the following evening when the birds won't be around to pick them off. It also has the possibilty of pleasing your loved ones a great deal, especially those with a proprietal interest in the fridge.

So, mothing, an ideal summer activity for all the family. Ticks all the boxes - natural history, listing, photography, learning, child-entertaining, wife-pleasing. What are you waiting for?