The power of Sociagull media

I've been working in Glasgow. Not twitching round Scotland, as some of you may think. Anyhow, being holed up in my plush hotel gets a little dull, so what better to liven things up than a quick look at some Gull feather tracts. Mmmmm. Whilst in Morocco, Mick had showed me some topography photos that he had recently marked up and put on the web. You can see the originals here, but it was the work of moments to do this to the first one:

Oh how I sniggered....It is a long-running joke between us that our views on Gulls are entirely opposed. I view them as scabby old shitebirds, he worships the ground they loaf on. So, utterly stealing his fine work, scribbling on it, and then whacking it up on twitter was clearly the only thing to do.

As of right now, it has been retweeted to an astonishing 44 thousand people, and that number is increasing all the time. Social media, whatever you might think about it, can be rather impressive sometimes. It proves what I have always known though, which is that it is not just me that is anti-Larid. It's a perfectly normal stance. Lesser scapulars mirrors? No thanks, it's a Seagull. There are of course different species of Seagull, but that's when it starts getting a bit complex. To further your ID knowledge, the above is a Big Seagull.

Cheek

As I mentioned earlier, my plans this past weekend worked out to perfection. The right amount of firmness, the right amount of flexibility, and I got it spot on. Now we all know that congratulating someone on successfully steering a car to a pre-ordained location is not necessarily worthy of high praise, but in this instance I perhaps deserve a small amount of credit for the logistical aspects. One of these was placing myself at Strontian for dawn, which meant a night in the car during one of the worst storms I can remember. Highly uncomfortable, very cold, and as such not a great sleep. Though at first it wasn't looking positive, I was rewarded by good views of the Black Duck after about an hour of searching. I looked at it for long enough to eliminate hybrids and properly confirm the ID. Happy, I took some dodgy phone-scoped record shots, tweeted the news out which I knew the info services would pick up on, and set off on the long drive to Campbeltown.

Imagine my surprise when during the afternoon a revised message came out "No sign Black Duck Strontian 09:15-13:45. Earlier report may have been erroneous." Erroneous my arse. WTF? I have no idea who the disillusioned twitchers who spent five hours not finding it were, but I'm not impressed. Not unimpressed that they couldn't find it, birds do sometimes annoyingly disappear (take a certain Ross's Gull for example...), but unimpressed that their presumption was that it if they didn't see it, it wasn't there at all. Sorry but that's bullshit. As somebody said to me regarding the Gull, shame you didn't get up earlier. Quite. Did you see me rubbishing the early morning sighting? You did not. So whoever you are, fuck you, and I'm glad you dipped. Next time get up earlier. FFS. I called the pager people back to set the record straight, and then ticked off American Herring Gull. Or maybe I made that up as well.

Black Duck

Mirror mirror on the wall...

Mirror mirror on the wall, which is the shittest of them all? Don't get me wrong, tick-hungry fiend that I sometimes am (and am at this very moment), I had a pretty sensational weekend, but the birds themselves were all pretty rank. An American Coot, a Black Duck, and an American Herring Gull might all be pretty damn rare, but they're also pretty damn boring. In pure numbers, the Coot is right up there when it comes to rarity value, with a mere six records in the UK. Occupying second spot is the Gull, with 27 accepted records to date. And in third place, almost a dross bird, is the Duck, with 39 UK instances. So which is the real mega? I honestly could not choose between them. All were equally shit, proving what everyboody has known for a long time - that twitching is a mug's game and birds should not be reduced to numbers as it makes a mockery of what is a great and very rewarding hobby for socially awkward people and retards.

Not falling into either of the above categories, I thought I would put the question out there to my three readers. Which is the crappiest bird of the three? And the question is literally out there, up at the top on the right, nothing like a bit of audience participation. I'd be genuinely interested to find out what other people think. Although I enjoyed my weekend immensely, gaining levels of satisfaction usually reserved only for utter losers, at times I could not help but feel that I was just going through the motions. None of the birds excited me in the slightest, they were numbers only and I don't mind admitting it. The thrills came purely from the logistics, and the successful executing of a plan. This may sound overly formal and business-like, but I defy any birder with a list to deny the truth of this. The excitement is very often in the planning and following through of that plan, rather than in the birds themselves. And never more so than in the case of this particular trio, none of which got the juices flowing very much if I'm honest. The Coot was a given, the Duck more difficult than I anticipated, and the Gull the trickiest, as I had always thought it would be. And this is where I gained the most, as connecting with it was never guaranteed, and it was the subtlest of the three. There wasn't a shadow of doubt with the first two, but the Gull was very hard work. Scanning, getting excited, discarding. Wading through cow shit to get to a vantage point. Finding White-wingers. Going through hundreds of Gulls, and finally getting on it, still doubtful. Much as I hate Gullage, it can can be very satisfying when you actually work one out.

Of course, whilst the weekend was all about the potential (and actual) tickfest, I was also in Scotland, birding my heart out. I got something like 30 year ticks, and had some memorable wildlife encounters, some of which I'll revisit. I love the place. Friday in the concrete jungle of Canary Wharf, Saturday morning lying in heather with snow-capped peaks all around. Snow Geese in massive flocks of White-fronts. Hooded Crow the default. Crested Tits and Red Grouse. A White-tailed Eagle on the Argyll coastal route, flapping lazily over the choppy sea. An Iceland Gull landing in my view finder. Flocks of chuntering Eider in the harbours and squeaking Black Guillemots. Violent weather and amazing landscapes. Inescapably Scotland, and I wish I'd had longer to do it justice and elevate it from pure twitchery. Still, 415 now, and that's what it's all about. Err....

Triple whammy

I am lying, exhausted, on a hotel bed in Glasgow. I have spent the past 36 hours relentlessly driving round the Scotland adding American things to my list, and it has been a great success. I didn't actually come for birds at all, I came for work, but decided that rather than fly up on Monday I would arrive on Saturday instead. No reason really, just felt like it.

Ahem.

So, American Coot then. The one I said that if I twitched it, to shoot me. Yes, that one. In my defence it was on the way from the airport to the Black Duck. Well, if you took a wrong turn it was. I spent a good three minutes contemplating its inner beauty, and then went south and amused myself on Speyside for the afternoon. I finished up on Cairngorm trying and failing for Ptarmigan in increasingly poor weather.

Then the long trek south-west to the Ardnarmuchan peninsula for the long-staying Black Duck at Strontian. I missed the last ferry of the day and had to go the long way around, but finally got there in foul weather for around 9pm. My hotel for the night was the luxuriously appointed "Picasso C4", which on reflection was probably a saving too far. The buffeting of the wind was incredible, and I had to turn the car on every hour simply in order to stay alive. Somehow I made it through the night, and awoke to continuing horizontal rain and stupidly strong wind. Drove the mile or so into the village to start the hunt but every time I opened the window even a fraction the car filled with water. I found three Mallard, and then another two, but it wasn't until there was a short let-up that the Black Duck appeared in the company of another Mallard, crossing the mouth of the river and then hauling itself up onto the shore where it was quite difficult to scope.

Next stop the Mull of Kintyre! When I had been planning this trip, all I had had in mind were the Coot and the Duck - a fabulous duo. Not long before I left an American Herring Gull had been found near Campbeltown, and I figured that eve though I only had a very short time, if I got the Duck either last knockings on Saturday or first thing Sunday, I had a chance at it. A long and slow drive (I did 520 miles this weekend, which took about 15 hours, much of it in the dark and in atrocious weather). I had a quick stop in Oban, and another at Tayinloan where the Snow Geese in with White-fronts were a doddle, and arrived in Campbeltown just after lunch, which in my case was a Double Decker - I would need every ounce of its magic.

It seemed to be working, as the sun came out and then I quite quickly found a field near the airport with a load of large gulls in it, including a 2w Iceland type. Nothing standing out though, so I went and tried the harbour, again without success. Back in the fields, it seemed that the Gulls could be in a depression I couldn't see into, so I abandoned the car and headed up to the Macrihanish Beacon which is a good vantage point. From here I located another/the same Iceland Gull, but more interestingly located a couple of cars on a track looking intently at a flooded field. Find the birders, find the bird... Too far away to get anything meaningful on thr birds, but managed to work out how there got where they were by trial and error, but when scanning couldn't pick it out. I went through them again and again, eliminating darker juveniles that looked the same. And suddenly there it was, the asleep one. The strong wind had been blowing the breast feathers to one side, so it looked lighter than it in fact was. Had to wait a while for it to stand up, but when it did, kerching! The Treble! Record shots only, ditto with the duck which I had to phone scope, but I think shows what it is.

So, another two tick day, and a three tick weekend filled with birds. I love it when a plan comes together! OK, so all the birds are pretty bland - essentially a Coot, a Mallard and a Herring Gull - but if you're going to see them far better to do it in one hit rather than make several lengthy journeys.

Gulls eh?

Gulls, who would have 'em? Not me it would appear. In addition to dipping the Ross's Gull at the weekend, I also managed to dip Med Gull on Wanstead Flats on Monday morning. The Ross's Gull never reappeared, but on Tuesday (when of course I didn't look!) there were two Med Gulls on the Flats. This morning? You got it.

At Anza, which is a stinking cesspit of fish guts and other choice floating things, even I couldn't fail to see Gulls. If anything there were too many of them, probably 95% Lesser Black-backed, the rest being Yellow-legged. And all of them horrible. Still, with no other real ideas, and wanting to ensure that Mick enjoyed at least some of the trip (Bald Ibis are ugly, Stonechats are boring, Serins suck, Little Owls whatever....) we stuck it out for the morning. Maybe I should have joined Richard in the car with a towel over his head?

Oh, as an aside, I find myself unable to recommend Camel. Gave me the right hump.... At our second night south of Guelmin I asked what was for dinner and was told "Tagine Dromadaire". Clearly I know what a Dromedary is, but I was hoping that this was just something along local naming lines. You know, like Welsh Rarebit, or Fisherman's Pie, neither of which contain under-cooked Welsh people or Fishermen. Unfortunately Tagine Dromadaire is exactly what it says on the tin, and it's bloody horrible. I'd chuck it at a Gull, but I wouldn't eat it again. Horrible fatty lumps, rough as you like. I forced it down, but FFS. In Morocco what I really recommend are the oranges. You basically know what you're getting with an orange, and you know you didn't just pass a bloke offering tourists rides on it.

Anyway, have a few Gulls. It doesn't happen often so be thankful. It was a fun couple of hours, but I don't think I'll be rushing back to Anza any time soon. The desert on the other hand, now there's a place I could spend a little more time.

Er mywn fuck

Flush with success from yesterday, I have perhaps pushed the envelope too far. A big dip. This does not happen often and I am smarting. Left London at 5.30am, Port Talbot at 9am. Unfortunately the Ross's Gull does not know this, and departs the beach some fifteen minutes before we get there, not to be seen again for the rest of the day. I hate dipping, and I hate dipping even more when the bird has actually been present. What a bummer, 400 miles there and back, for a total of over 1000 for the weekend. You have to love twitching. I blame Shaun. Nick and I never dip, the only change to the usual routine is the only explanation for our failure. Arse.

We had a nice day stood around in the sunshine, half hoping that the bird would suddenly reappear. We imagined half-overheard conversations between locals, complete with dod-gy Welsh accents....

"Gareth, it's Dai! I've got it! It's on the beach with its foot stuck under a rock, it can't move!"

"Gethyn! Just spoken to Glynn, he's watching it now! Yes, down by the breakwater. He says there's something wrong with its wings! No, no, it's not going anywhere."

"Iestyn, have you heard?! The Ross's Gull is flapping feebly on the beach near the car park. Yes, the car park two minutes from where you're standing!" 

Needless to say none of these conversations happened, there was no happy ending, and gradually people drifted away. We did too after five fruitless hours, although various Little and Med Gulls were nice diversions. Gutting that it didn't follow the pattern of yesterday, when it was present all afternoon. That was my original plan actually, Glamorgan yesterday, Durham today. If only. Didn't fancy the weather and decided to reverse the order. Shit happens. Still, any weekend where I've seen a Yellow-rumped Warbler can scarcely be described a a failure can it?

Today wasn't a total failure anyway, as we stopped in Gloucestershire on the way back for Nick. Normally we drive right past all the dross birds that he needs, but this was a Red-flanked Bluetail, and even though it pained me to do so, we decided to stop and have a look. The bird showed brilliantly, would that we had been there all day rather than staring dejectedly at a welsh beach. My fourth Bluetail, and they're such quality birds. No photos as we got there rather late, and the only reason we saw the bird is that I cracked open a Double Decker, as just like the Gull it had flown off just before we got there. Perhaps I should have tried that at Port Talbot?

So, a rare dip, but I guess that overall I do pretty well. So let's all try and forget this little blemish and move on. Bet it'll be there tomorrow....

Back on the tick trail

So far this year I've either been at work, in Morocco, or glued to Photoshop. Any thoughts of filthy twitchery have been very far away indeed, and compared to the back end of last year when they came at a rate of knots and I was quite happy to follow them round cleaning up, this year I've not felt remotely inclined to go anywhere other than Gatwick's north terminal. Take, for example, the American Coot all the way up in Inverness. Many people filthier than me have of course already been up for it, but I have resisted superbly. Similarly a pet Heron at Hythe, that bastion of Kentish Ardeidae fence-hopping, has held no interest for me either. No, I have been content with the simple life, supping Champagne in airport lounges, and scouring the warm Moroccan deserts for Wheatears and Larks.

Today all that changed at the instigation of proud new father Bradders, whose daughter insisted that he drive to Durham to add Yellow-rumped Warbler to his list. Though only three weeks old, she could not bear the shame of American Coot showing up as his most recent tick on his blog. He needed a map-reader of course, so I was only too happy to help out sleep in the back seat whilst James L and Crofty plotted our course. We stopped at the truck stop of dreams at Scotch Corner for the largest baps known to humanity, and found ourselves in a housing estate outside Durham for roughly half nine. Apparently over a thousand slackers birders had already passed through during the busy working week, so although this was the first Saturday of this Yank mega there weren't very many people there at all, and certainly none of the idiotic stampeding panic that can sometimes overtake these events.

Got some great views of this american dirt bird through the scope, but it never really paraded it, and in any event the light was shocking. Morocco it certainly wasn't, but a tick is a tick, and no complaints especially as I got the equivalent of a full night's sleep on the way up there and back. Cheers for the driving Bradders! So I'm back on the tick trail, and the next one may come sooner than I expect, as I have to do some work in my Glasgow office. American Coot?!! Where?!! Where?!!

A small number of well-adjusted people....