Belgium Minibreak

As if I have not travelled enough recently, on Sunday I made a last minute decision to visit Belgium. The reason? Heroism, pure and simple. Heroism comes naturally to me. As naturally, say, as wishing to have a large stock of excess Brownie Points available for twitching far-flung Hebridean islands. So it was a pretty easy decision to for me, on finding that Mrs L and two thirds of my descendants were stranded in Belgium, to mount an immediate rescue mission. The problem? Mrs L, handbag connoisseur and noted security expert, had had her car key stolen in Brussels. To be absolutely clear, it had not fallen out, unnoticed, from her massively-overstuffed handbag that does not close properly. Never in a million years could that ever have occurred, and I most definitely have never mentioned this ridiculously obscure possibility to her. No, stolen. Stolen by a heinous criminal gang who had used incredible guile and agility to somehow gain entry to her handbag - amazing that they weren't suffocated by Tesco receipts in the process.

After an afternoon of faffing about with the Belgian RAC, after which it was determined that they could not start the car, nor now lock it back up again, the obvious solution began to dawn on me. The quickest way to regain access to the car and thus return the family to Chateau L and domestic bliss would be for me, Superfatherhusband, to personally and immediately travel to Brussels with the second car key. The second car key is my car key. It lives in my pocket, which I pat approximately once every twenty seconds to ensure its continuing presence. I am not paranoid at all. I gave my pocket another reassuring pat. Yup, one car key, all present and correct. Amazing, and so the plan sprung into action. My brilliant neighbours could take Muffin overnight, so he packed a small bag. Meanwhile I retrieved my passport from its ultrasafe secret hiding place, checked that my wallet – on a CHAIN attached to my belt was still attached – and that the remaining Euros from Spain were still in it. Check. Ipod zipped up in jacket pocket? Check. House Keys in case Mrs L had lost them too had them stolen too? Check.

With the Eurostar website down, I had no choice but to go to St Pancras and chance it. Chance is a fine thing, and so I got a seat on a train leaving 20 minutes later. Not long after that I was in my fourth European country in a week, and under cover of darkness I infiltrated Belgium, my fifth. The location of the car was pre-set on the sat-nav on my phone – attached to me via ANOTHER CHAIN (OK, so I am perhaps a touch paranoid; then again, have I ever lost my phone or wallet?) and so also still present (for the avoidance of doubt that means that it hadn't fallen in a puddle, or down the toilet.... ) but in the event it proved unneccesary as Mrs L's good friend and object of Brussels visit, Jo, was there to meet me, probably in disbelief that I would be on the train and needing to check it out just to be certain. A taxi to the car, and we were reunited! Rejoice! And then Mrs L and the girls came down the stairs - more rejoicing!

The moment of truth. Did I still have my car key, or had the Brussels phenomenon struck twice! Hah! Of course I had it, one simple click and the car was ours again. Family in, seat adjusted, mirrors set, and we were off. Warp speed through northern France as, already approaching midnight we needed to catch the last shuttle before a serious gap in the schedule. We made it with quite a bit of time to spare. A scary moment when the car wouldn't start when we arrived in Kent; not because it  wouldn't start at all, but because in order to start it I had to entrust Mrs L with my key whilst I fiddled with the battery. Luckily she managed to keep hold of it for five seconds and we were off again, once again with me selflessly taking the wheel and guiding us safely to Wanstead. A great success, up there with the best of twitches!

I was in bed by 3am, and in work on time the next morning, though the coffee consumption was excessive by anyone's standards. So, a lovely little trip - I've never been to Brussels before, and I have to say that during my lengthy stay it looked pretty nice. Of note were the taxi driver not having the faintest clue where he was going yet driving at about 100kph through suburban streets, and a Nespresso shop where on another day I might have sourced some decaf, of which I have run out. Next time I have to rescue Mrs L from a foreign city I'll be sure to research the retail options before leaving.

In addition to the above heroic tale, I have three other pieces of news. The first is that I almost accurately predicted that Sunday would be a great day for Buzzards and Red Kites on the patch. Before I was called upon to don my cape and mask, I had scored three of the former, but the Red Kite came through the following day when I was at work earning money for Eurostar tickets.

The second is that also on Sunday, I had a first winter Gull go over the Flats with a very clear black "W" starting on the leading edge of the upper wing. Distant, I could not pick it up with the camera for an ID-clinching shot, and in my excitement I didn't think through the options very clearly and am thus forced to concede that I cannot assign it safely to either Kittiwake or Little Gull, even though it was undoubtedly one or the other, and I need both for the patch. Upon reflection, the flight mode was that of a Gull and not a Tern, though this is hardly a concrete ID feature. So, elation tinged with bitter regret on that front.

The third piece of news is that during a short break from saving the world, I have managed to find time to put together a post of gratuitous photos of Lesser Kestrel from my second-most recent European trip. You can find it here, meanwhile I am off to check on the progress of the Telephone Box being installed outside the house.

 

More Gallivanting: Extramadura

I am knackered, it is just non-stop at the moment. I've just returned from a whirlwind tour of Extramadura, with a day in Doñana tagged on at the end. Booked for ages, the purpose was father son bonding, with a teensy bit of birding and and even more miniscule amount of photography. Happily this all went according to plan, and he and I are now back, complete with 2000 RAW files each, and a lot of new Western Palearctic ticks bonding under our belts. I now have no trips for nearly two months, I am not sure how I will cope. Whilst I organise my thoughts, do a stack of washing, and finally change my pants (a victim of poor packing, the less said about this the better), here are a few shots straight off the memory card. In due course I'll bung a few meaningful words down about quite how wonderful Extramadura is, both for birds and opportunities to point cameras at them, but for now, I hope you enjoy these.

Oh, and before I forget, the final morning of the Harlequin twitch allowed just enough time for a spot of Black Guillemot pappage. Given quite how much I intend to spam you all with Extramadura photographs in the next few days, I thought I'd better quietly place these somewhere else....

Lesser Kestrel, Trujillo

Corn Bunting, approx one per metre in Extramadura

Great Bustards. The ultimate Turducken.

White Stork. Brilliant. Why don't we have them?

Red-rumped Swallow. Ditto.

Rock Bunting. I got quite close.....

Egyptian Vulture. Better than Egyptian Goose.

Grifffon Vulture. Stonking.

 

Black-eared Wheatear. Oh boy! Likely the subject of a blog post all of its own. Possibly two.

Garden ornaments.

Azure-winged Magpie. Kerching.

More from the Hebrides

With the Harlequin and Cackling Canada Goose under the belt, Saturday was basically a free day until our ferry back to Oban mid-afternoon. After the morning viewgasm from the hostel, we packed up, and following a hearty breakfast of strong coffee and multiple cereal bars, we headed for the west beach at Berneray, there to see what we could see. Up first on the Machair was a mixed flock of Twite with a few Snow Bunting thrown in. This wasn't strictly a photographic mission, so time was limited, but I managed a few out of the car window. More of the Twite here.

We walked the short distance to the beach, four miles of white sand. If I do bring the family here, this beach will feature heavily - it was superb. And completely empty. I suppose it could be busier in summer, but with four miles to choose from, would you really notice? Out on the sea were upwards of 20 Great Northern Divers, four spectacular Summer-plumaged Slavonian Grebes, with a supporting cast of Auks and Long-tailed Ducks.

I rarely feature on this blog, as I'm always behind the camera, however here I passed it over to Bradders, making sure, of course, to carefully conceal my chins. Anyway, here I am complete with camo hat, hat hair, and a lightweight camera. Any grey visible is purely photographic artifact, excess sharpening, errr.... And no, I have no idea what Nick is up to behind me.

Bradders points out where a Snowy Owl might decide to summer......

Onwards to a spot of different habitat, a road over some higher ground where we had seen Short-eared Owl briefly the previous evening. We hadn't gone up this road more than about half a mile before Nick called a Harrier to our right. One soon became three, including a displaying male bird - incredible. Being from down south we naturally had to resist the urge to shoot them out of the sky, but up here it seems that they are under no pressure. The lack of expensive, elitist Grouse shoots and sly old gamekeepers is of course purely coincidental. We had a cup of coffee and yet more museli bars whilst enjoying the spectacle.

A quick spin around Balranald to dip the Snow Goose again, and we crossed back to Benbecula and over to South Uist where we dipped an American Wigeon but enjoyed a very smart male Merlin and another male Hen Harrier. A spot more birding in various locations added Greenland Whitefronts, a diminutive White-tailed Eagle on the deck, juv Kumlien's Gull and our first Robin, Dunnock and Chaffinches of the trip - exciting!! It was soon time to go though, and the ferry was perfectly on time - Calmac runs a great service. Perhaps forty people on the boat, but it goes anyway. Speaking to a member of the crew they run it empty if needs be as the boats need to be where the boats need to be - truly the lifeline of the communities out west, and ideal for birders. Bruichladdich was on special....

Harlequin Twitch

Twitching is easy provided you see the bird. Despite my recent record of seemingly going for everything, I'm actually a very cautious twitcher, and let's not forget that it's winter, not much turns up, and those that do tend to stick. I think I waited over two weeks or more before going up for the Pine Grosbeak, and I waited even longer for the Harlequin. In fact I was in Scotland on the way back from the Grozzer when news of the duck broke, and carried on south. Over five weeks later and the Harlequin was still there, so the trip was on - again a four day break. I'm just not up for chartering up there and doing in it a day - that isn't birding. I guess it also means that if you dip you can come back with your head held high and pretend to your mates that it was still a great trip well worth doing....

We didn't dip. One day I will come a cropper for certain, but for now I am maintaining what I consider an enviable record, and seeing some great birds in some great locations - and on my own terms. Once again Bradders was the filthy catalyst, Nick was happy to come along for the ride, and the fourth member of the Uist team was made up by Bob, local birder and one-time lapsed twitcher. Clearly North Uist is not easy to get to, and as Monkey pointed out to me, 40 hours between leaving and seeing the bird is pretty extreme, but nonetheless I'd still say it was pretty easy. As with the Grozzer, the tactic was to leave in the early evening and get to Carlisle and our favourite Travelodge, and last known location of a tube of Colgate.....

Next morning and all we had to do was to reach Oban for 3pm, so naturally we called in at a few bits and pieces on the way up, namely my fourth Blue-winged Teal (Dumfries) and my fifth Lesser Scaup (Clyde). Ditching the car at Oban in the free carpark, we boarded the MV Lord of the Isles for our five hour crossing to South Uist in glorious sunshine. Manx Shearwaters and a few beers shortened the crossing considerably and at 9pm we docked at Loch Boisedale and picked up our hire car with minimal (read none) paperwork, and were shacked up in a bunkhouse a short while later for the princely sum of £10 a night. It was probably worth no more than £7.50........

Next morning (Good Friday) and we awoke to Greenshanks and Oycs, Twite on wires, vocal Starlings, and simply magnificent scenery. To think that I'd been in Canary Wharf only a couple of days ago was just bonkers, but there you go - easy. We didn't hang about, the Uists are long and thin - we were at the Southern end, the bird was, we hoped, at the Northern end. It was. Disappointingly there were five twitchers already on site - that said, for an absolute mega this is minimal - imagine something similar down south. There's an argument right there for only twitching remote islands..... The Harlequin was bobbing about on a sparkling Atlantic Ocean, and stood on white sands we soaked it all in. Many of you will have read Mark Cocker's excellent Twitchers: Tales of a Tribe. In it he describes seeing the long-staying Steller's Eider on South Uist. Although back in those days it was clearly a much bigger deal to get to the Outer Hebrides, especially if poverty-stricken and hitching, it felt much the same. Wonderful. Gradually the tide receded and I was able to close the distance by inching out along a rocky peninsula, until the Harlequin was only 30 or so metres away, with St. Kilda visible in the distance. Brilliant, simply brilliant.

 

 

Harlequin "crowd"

We probably spent most of the morning at Balranald, most of it with this very special duck. Dragging ourselves away, we began birding properly. Ring-necked Duck fell quite quickly, my fourth of those and also the fourth yank duck of the trip. Eagles soared in the distance, and wild Barnacles and Greylag were everywhere, with the constant backdrop of singing Skylarks and displaying Lapwings. The next main target was the Richardons's Canada Goose, basically a tiny little Canada that has definitely come from across the pond. I am pleased to say that my knowledge of CG taxonomy has moved on a great deal since last week, and so when we finally found it in amongst a thousand Barnies I had no doubt at all what I was looking at. Ahem. It's a strange thing, but could you describe a Canada Goose? I mean really describe? What is the face pattern? Where does the black end? Neck collar or not? What colour are the flanks? And yet I see Canadas every day - they are omnipresent and invisible. I don't mind admitting that after picking through Barnacle Geese for an hour I basically couldn't describe a Canada Goose to you. Eventually we found it, and of course it was obvious, but it was an interesting lesson. I can't tick it yet, but the hope is that the BOU or whatever committee it is add it onto the British list very soon, at which point the other committee, whoever they are, can then start going through all the records and accepting them. Since getting home I've had a quick look at Sibley and it's definitely a Richardson's, and the location and carrier suggests wild origin. I'm going to be good though, and not count it until it's accepted - this is inordinately hard as it would be bird # 399 for me. Yes, the same 399 that is very close to 400. I realise that this small fry in the great British listing scene, but I'm not a twitcher, so I'm doing really well.

Corn Bunting out of the window

We enjoyed a great day birding the top of North Uist, picking up an adult Glaucous Gull and a host of other good birds. To be honest, seeing roadside Lapwing, Oystercatcher and Redshank almost constantly is pretty awesome. Birding a local patch in London (sometimes!), to get good close views of any of these is practically unknown. The treat of the day however was to be the hostel at Bernaray. Bradders and Mrs Bradders had been here many years ago, for a night that turned into a fortnight, and I can see why. Here are a few photos of dawn the next morning - many apologies for these possibly outnumbering photos of birds, but that's simply a measure of quite how much I enjoyed this place. I'm actually thinking of taking the family back for a summer holiday next year - top marks from this birder.

 

Nick presumably points out a Coot

Post-cootial relaxation

No twitch would be complete without Snuffi....

 

Bob, Nick, DB and I celebrated our latest megatick with a slap-up meal at a local restaurant. Hand-dived Scallops were so excellent that I forgot temporarily that I didn't like Scallops, and the very understanding staff agreed that it was for the best that they sent us on our way with two more bottles of house wine. These we consumed in the communal area of the hostel, a thatched building with a real fire, good company, and a sense of deep satisfaction.

Harlequin Duck, North Uist

Another day, another twitch. I seem to be making a bit of a habit of this, but I'm sure it's just a phase I'm going though. When I get to 400, just a short step away, I will no doubt relax, put my feet up, and only twitch as far as Cornwall or South Shields, both of which seem increasingly close..... Anyway, to cut a long story short, the team scored yet another biggie on a remote island, and had a great time doing it with a frankly brilliant supporting cast of both rarities and other superb birds. I have days of blog material - had I stayed in London it sounds like I would have had none. So, to start the grippage, here are few of "the boy", with many more to come. North Uist and its accompanying islands are glorious, we had almost wall-to-wall sunshine, and we visited many beautiful places. I've only just got back, and have a to-do list many reams deep, so this is all for now. More - much more - later on.

Close Encounters of the Bird Kind

I've been processing a few more Golden Plover shots, and as I was doing so it occured to me how magical it had been. Yes, it was cold. Yes, it was muddy. Yes, I was lying in the cold mud, but wasn't it special? Me and three birds, part-way through a long journey and resting up on Wanstead Flats of all places. I was probably less than ten metres away, they could see me clearly and yet were not concerned. Nevermind that I've never had the opportunity to photograph this species properly before, nevermind that they're one of the commonest waders. They and I were sharing the same moment, they wondering what I was doing, me struggling with exposure settings and hoping they didn't fly off.

Patch Gold

The best wildlife moments, the ones that are relived, the ones that still bring back a smile as the memory of the magic returns, are those where birds are close. I'm not going to go all anthropomorphic or whatever, but being so close to something that normally would go out of its way to avoid you, those are the brilliant moments. I can probably count these occasions on the fingers of both hands and not run out, but this is another reason why they're so special. Hornemann's Redpolls hopping around my feet on Shetland, the Magallenic Woodpecker in Argentina coming around the trunk I was standing behind, the Robin in my car in Norfolk, hand-feeding a Jackdaw in Suffolk, the Steppe Grey Shrike on my scope in Lincolnshire, and the Jack Snipe walking over my hand in Shetland. Here are the last three:

These moments were all because the birds were crazily tolerant of people, but what I'm beginning to find is that in addition to the odd bird exhibiting bizarre behaviour, I can make those moments happen, as with the Goldies. I can get myself into situations where I can enjoy birds at really close quarters, and that comes not from my birding, but from my photography - though if there were any doubt after this weekend that I had forsaken the former for the latter, hopefully that question has been answered. And will I diminish the power of these encounters by having more of them, such that they're expected and not a treat. I doubt it, where birds are concerned you can never have too much of a good thing.

Plover Porn

I'm looking forward this being a popular post with search engines, but in truth only the first part is accurate. Well, mostly - the second is partially accurate I suppose. Remember those Golden Plover I blogged about yesterday? Well they were still there this morning, and in fact had been joined by a third bird overnight. Amazing when you think about it. Yesterday I had felt they were fairly approachable, but selflessly wanting to give others a chance I didn't push it. This morning, knowing their likely reaction, and with the light much better and nobody around that hadn't seen them already, I approached a lot closer.

As you know, my real job is working in a bank. I enjoy it very much, but I also enjoy other things, and at this time of year I'm able to lead a double life. Before I even get to work I'll have spent a couple hours on the patch, and usually I'll take a camera. So it was that at around 8am, fully suited-up underneath my waterproofs, I found myself flat on my stomach on the largely frozen mud of Police Scrape, slowly shuffling forward towards three small waders, with a large lens resting on my bag as support in front of me. It was filthy. I tend to get to work before a lot of the team, so largely have the opportunity to get undressed in peace, thus transforming myself from a muddy wreck and into the consumate professional that I undoubtedly am. A few of them know of course, but I explain that everybody needs a passion in life, and that mine is just a bit stupider than most peoples and involves freezing my butt off for two hours before they have even got up.

Anyhow, my Plover approach worked like a dream - my camo red hat was probably the deciding factor in my success - and I was able to get some shots that I'm pretty pleased with all things considered. After I'd finished, which was mostly dictated by my approaching bus, I backed off the way I had come, dragging my kit with me. At a suitable distance I crouched up and stood in a deep puddle I hadn't previously noticed, going through the ice and filling my right ankle with some nice cold water. The Plovers cared not for my plight and continued to sit around doing nothing, so I packed up, skirted round them and proceeded to the bus, where the people waiting gave me the sort of looks usually reserved for errant creatures from the deep. I casually flicked some mud off my elbows and fished out my Oystercard. It had been a good morning.