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24th April,
Chorlton Water Park
I woke up early. Something was on my mind. I sat up abruptly
in bed and wiped the sweat from my brow. I was troubled. “What’s
wrong?” asked Miss Cole. “Is it the same thing as usual?” she
asked again.
“Yes, it is,” I answered.
“Tom, you need help, you should go and see someone,” she
advised me.
“God damn it, Miss Cole,” I shouted, “don’t you understand?
It’s always the same, day in day out, and I just can’t get over
it.”
“You’ve got to try… you’ve got to be brave,” she begged me.
“I… I… I just can’t anymore,” I sobbed, “I just can’t be
brave anymore. I just don’t understand how Iron Maiden and AC/DC
can be so amazing... and it’s killing me! What am I going to
do?”
I got up and decided that the only way to come to terms with
how amazing Iron Maiden and AC/DC are was to put on AC/DC live
at Donington, get out my Gibson SG and play Thunderstruck
with Angus Young; and then after that to put on Iron Maiden Live
after Death from Long Beach and play Revelations with
Dave and Adrian. After that I felt a whole lot better and I was
ready to face some birdspotting.
I got all the necessary equipment together that I would need:
field-glasses, notebook and pencil, camouflage jacket and
trousers, machete, snare, compass, distress flare, whistle and,
most importantly, my two lucky AC/DC badges - Back in Black and
High Voltage - to stick on my camouflage jacket. As Abraham
Lincoln once said: “Failure to prepare is to prepare for
failure,” although the twat was shot dead, so he couldn’t have
been all that prepared, could he? But I had to be ready for any
eventuality, because today I decided to find the answer to the
age old ornithological conundrum that has stumped bird-boffs
since the dawn of civilization: do birds like AC/DC and Iron
Maiden?
My first test case was a Long-tailed Tit. Over the years I’ve
had considerable success pishing Long-tailed Tits, but I wanted
to see what would happen when I sang Revelations by Iron
Maiden. And so I began:
Oh God of Earth and altar,
Bow down and hear our cry.
Our Earthly rulers falter…
The bird began to approach closer. I skipped that verse and
then began to sing the excellent guitar part before “Just a
babe in a black abyss.” The Long-tailed Tit went wild. I
shouted, “Scream for me Chorlton,” and the Tit just fell out of
the tree and dropped dead on the floor. “My God,” I said “Maiden
fucking rule!”
Next was a Blackcap. These masters of song are one of my
favourite birds, but how would a Blackcap cope with a bit of
AC/DC?
I'm a rolling thunder, a pouring rain.
I'm comin’ on like a hurricane.
The Blackcap immediately switched into a rarely heard
sub-song, mentioned in BWP VI, that sounds just like the
opening of AC/DC’s Hells Bells. And so I continued:
My lightning’s flashing across the sky,
You’re only young but you're gonna die.
The Blackcap freaked and starting twatting its head against
the branch, eventually impaling its own head on a large thorn.
Blood dribbled off the branch.
If you want blood, you got it!
I sang, as the remaining avifauna joined me in a giant chorus
of the AC/DC classic, and then massacred themselves in a giant
rock n’roll suicide. I looked at my watch, it was two minutes
to midday (!), I decided to leave alone because my mind
was blank and I needed time to think to get the memories
from my mind. So I ran to the hills, well actually
Barlow Tip, and scored my first Whitethroat of the year, and
then another. I felt almost thunderstruck by the
experience. But then I noticed a small brown bird just skimming
the water. “That’s a strange looking Sand Martin,” I thought to
myself, then realising that my identification skills had been
shot down in flames, it was a great revelation to
discover that it was actually a Common Sandpiper - another Chorlton year tick.
Maiden rule. And so do AC/DC.
Go forth and rock…
PS No sign of any Tree Pipits today
PPS I don’t care if you don’t give a shit that there
were no Tree Pipits today. It means something to me.
PPPS Fuck off.
21st April,
Chorlton Water Park
A pair of Shoveler on the with lake 4 Mute Swans (which I
think is a record count for me) and 4+ Sand Martins, but the
lake is generally pretty dead now. I think there are 3 pairs of
Great Crested Grebes, but I can only find one nest, although the
others are probably well hidden under the willows. Up on Barlow
Tip I heard a distant Redpoll calling, so I went over to check
it out only to discover 20+. Awesome! Then just as I was turning
to go back home I flushed a Pipit off the ground that refused to
call but suspiciously landed high up in a tree. I went over to
investigate, flushed it again, and to my absolute joy this time
it called and was a Tree Pipit. Winner! And then as I was
wandering back to the main track I noticed another Pipit in a
tree - another Tree Pipit. Wow! Infact there were actually up to
five. Top notch stuff, etc…
17th April,
Marbury Country Park,
Cheshire
The wind was too strong, so no good for Lesser Peckers, but I
did learn more about nature today. A Nuthatch was freaking out
about Miss Cole’s and my own presence, so we worked out that it
might be nesting. “Let’s wait and see where it goes, and then
egg the bastard,” I suggested. Only kidding. Eggers are worse
than paedophiles. We retreated to a sensible distance to observe
the wonders of nature, and sure enough the Nuthatch soon began
to relax and then ran up the trunk to a hole.
But this was no ordinary hole. This hole was like the
entrance to Bilbo Baggins’s Hobbit house when Frodo visits him in
The Lord of the Rings. It was too perfectly circular and neat to
have been natural, or to have been smashed out by a Woodpecker,
so I wondered if the Nuthatch was house proud and had decorated
it nicely to make the other Nuthatches in the area jealous. Back
home I consulted the Birdspotter’s Handbook, and sure enough
there it was - an essay on Nuthatches coating the outside of
their nest holes with mud to reduce the size. How many
Nuthatches have I seen over the years? Billions? Trillions? And
I never knew that.
Paul Newman’s Oscillating Pocket Dolphin
Devon: Seaton ,
Budleigh Salterton ,
Aylesbeare Common ,
Bowling
Green Marsh , Exminster Marshes
12th April 2006
* 11pm: bored.
* 12am: bored.
* 1am: bored.
* 2am: knackered.
* 3am: even more knackered.
* 4.20am: time to drive to somewhere near Uttoxeter and pick up
Dan and Stephen - bollocks!
*
5.40am: Dan and Stephen stood on
roadside looking dodgy; wonder whether to pick them up, or
should I just tell them to fuck off and then go back home to
bed?
Decide to let them in the car anyway. Dan is clearly
suffering from some strange leg disorder which induces voluntary
spasms. He claims that there is no room for his 11 metre long
legs. I suspect he is lying.
“Why am I doing this to myself?” I think. I could be soundly
asleep in bed, have a lie in, then have a wa… a walk and a
leisurely day at home watching Bargain Hunt and Doctors.
We arrive near to Seaton, in Devon, some time between 9.30am
and 2pm; not having slept for seven months has twatted my body
clock, and I’m not even sure what day it is. Two birders are
stood by the roadside looking bored; there is no sign of the 3
Alpine Swifts that have been present for the last eighteen
years, and they have clearly fled in anticipation of our
arrival, or, “the fucking bastards have fucked off elsewhere,”
as someone in possession of a more coarse form of prose might
say. I suggest we bollocks it and go home so I can sleep, but
the youthful enthusiasm of my cohorts means we have to stay in
Devon so they can try the Lower Bruckland Farm Ponds just up the
road.
“Goodness gracious me,” said Stephen, “I’ve got one of them,”
and soon we are watching a very distant Alpine Swift in bright
sunshine. The other two Swifts soon joined it, and Stephen was
duly congratulated for his skills-bills bird-spotting abilities.
A ham, cheese and some weird-shit-sauce thing sandwich went down
very nicely as the Swifts came closer and gave us some great
views, but - being greedy - the two teenage turps-nudgers
decided they wanted to get even closer so they could do some
new-fangled thing called didgey-scoping, which is
apparently all the rage amongst amongst the kidz (along
with snorting ecstasy, happy-slapping and some weird shit where
you have to hit each other if you see a yellow car???). I didn’t
quite work out what dijee-scoping was, because after we
got to where the three Swifts were showing really well all three
just decided to piss off elsewhere, thus rendering their
didgie-scopes redundant.
Slaves to the bird information services, the two teenage
trout-farmers were reluctant to try for a long staying Glaucous
Gull at Budleigh Salterton because it hadn’t been reported for
the last fifteen minutes, but I was driving so they could fuck
off and do as I said. After working out where the majority of
the gulls were loafing, the Glonk was soon found (by me,
although I can’t recall any congratulations for my own
skills-bills bird-spotting abilities) and we moved in for the
kill, so that the two teenage turd-burglars could “rape” the
poor creature with their didgy-scope equipment; I don’t
know, these kids today with their digital cameras and didgey-scoping
slang! After they “raped” it good, Dan demonstrated his expert
skills in picture editing, and advanced Coolpix handling, by
deleting Stephen’s best picture. Good skills!
With the day’s best target birds in the bag, it was time to
mop up some year ticks for the two teenage tesco-shoppers with a
trip to Aylesbeare Common RSPB. After eventually finding the
reserve, the two teenage trouser-salesmen went bounding off with
the joys of youth and buoyant bird-spotting anticipation, whilst
I stayed behind to ponder just exactly how Dan had managed to
consume three times his own body weight in sandwiches, cake and
Doritos, and - even more spectacularly - how he had managed to
get more Doritos on the back seat of my car than he had managed
to get in his mouth.
After valeting the car I went off to check elsewhere. Using
my extra years of bird-spotting experience, I took into
consideration the lie of the land in relation to the wind
direction and searched for what appeared to be the most pristine
habitat to find a Dartford Warbler. Recalling previous
encounters with this Sylvia warbler, I located a site
which I felt would offer the best chances of finding our target
bird and then went back to find the two teenage tree-surgeons.
After explaining to them how I managed to find this location, I
finally came clean and admitted that I had actually just waited
by the car until a local birder walked by and told me exactly
where the best place to see them was. And he was right as well!
We had reasonable views (no thanks to me, again, who found it)
of a bird carrying something to a nest site, but like most
Darties the views were brief and a bit awkward.
Bowling Green Marsh RSPB next, where I assured the two
teenage tunnel-painters that a Spoonbill would be residing.
“I’ve never been to Bowling Green Marsh and not seen one,” I
informed them: oh well, you can’t be right all the time. I got
an Avocet for the year, but it did have a limp, the poor
creature, and the two teenage tortoise-throwers thought this was
absolutely hilarious; kids today are so cruel. I reprimanded
them for their ornithological faux-pas, and informed them
that the Avocet is the emblem of the RSPB - the epitome of all
that is worthy and wondrous about conservation - and that
mocking a limping Avocet simply mocks the RSPB, and - seeing as
all three of us are RSPB members - all they are doing by mocking
the RSPB is simply mocking themselves.
Time for a drive around a hill in search of Cirl Buntings,
but we couldn’t find them, so it was a stop off at Exminster
Marshes RSPB, which is where I now assured the two teenage
turtle-scrapers that the Spoonbill would be. Oh well, wrong
again. But we were able utilise the expertise of a local birder
to ascertain the exact location of the Cirl Buntings, although
we were warned that they hadn’t been seen there for some time,
because some bastards decided to build a new housing estate
right next to where this rare British bird once bred. Sure
enough, there was not even a sniff of a Cirl Bunting, and,
judging by the close proximity of the new houses to where we
imagined they once may have been, it don’t look like they’ll be
coming back.
So it was a final trip back to Bowling Green Marsh RSPB,
where I now absolutely guaranteed the two teenage
titchfield-haven-NNRs that the Spoonbill would be. Dan scored us
a Greenshank for our year lists and finally did the goods by
finding the Spoonbill on the Exe estuary. Great stuff, but I’m
not too sure that I was overly impressed by a tabby cat in the
hide that decided to dribble all over my jeans.
The drive home was smooth and quick, with Dan yet again
suffering from this weird leg spasm and consuming a further
quantity of sandwiches and Doritos, which - if they were all
laid out side by side - would probably amount to the area in
square metres of a small south Pacific island. The two teenage turd-burglars were dropped off in Stoke and I drove back to
Manchester and collapsed, a quivering wreck,
deprived of sleep and clearly coming down with a cold.
Bollocks!
Viv Richards’s Sticky
Wicket
Pennington Flash, Greater Manchester & Western Subalpine
Warbler in
Christchurch, Dorset
10th April 2006
It’s a funny old game this bird-spottering thing, aint it?
One second you’re sat with a bird-spotting pager in your hands
waiting for news of a Killdeer in Norfolk, the next you’re sat
in a hide in north Manchester shouting obscenities at a sleeping
duck, and then all of sudden you’re just outside Bournemouth…
The alarm went off 7am. I got up, got dressed and got all my
stuff together; I was ready for action. There was a Killdeer in
Norfolk, it had been found on Friday, today was Monday; there
was nothing in the weather patterns to suggest that the Killdeer
would have have any inclination to move elsewhere; all other
rare birds in the country were still present. This was going to
be an easy day.
Having dipped Killdeer before, I was reluctant to go all the
way to Norfolk without knowing that it was still there, so -
along with my potential travel companions Malcolm and Phill - I
decided to wait on news before meeting up with them both and
going to Norfolk.
It eventually took until 10am for news to come out, and
negative news at that! Now here’s me complaining that there was
no news until 10am, but what I really should have done is gone
to Norfolk and helped join in with the search. But why bother
doing that when you can be a lazy bastard and let some other
sucker, err… I mean proper birder, traipse around Blakeney fresh
marsh for no reward?
Well bollocks to that then. Yet again the stripey wader hath
eludeth me, but I was not to be outdone or have my spirits
dampened, so I vowed to find it for myself - in Greater
Manchester.
I looked at the cold, hard facts: American birds come from
America and Killdeer is an American bird, so one can sensibly
assume that Killdeer come from America. Follow me? Good. So with
the confirmed knowledge that a Killdeer comes from America, it
is also safe to assume that a lost Killdeer in Norfolk will
probably want to get back to America to see his/her mates, and
also to escape such a shit-hole like England. Now, as the
Killdeer is not a flightless bird one may also assume that the
Killdeer would fly back to America. So, looking at a map, one
can see that to get back to America from Norfolk, the Killdeer
would simply have to fly over Pennington Flash country park.
Agreed? Good. Therefore I set off to Pennington, armed with the
necessary knowledge to nail the fucker.
As compensation, I knew that if, for some strange reason, I
failed to relocate the Killdeer at Pennington I would always
have a Laughing Gull to fall back on. Again, let’s look at the
cold hard facts: last night there was an adult Laughing Gull at
Marton Mere near to Blackpool, just before dusk it flew off
south. And what is south of Blackpool? Exactly: Pennington Flash
country park.
Therefore, I estimated that with there being potentially two
rare birds at Pennington there was a 50% chance of me finding
one of them, and with each bird having a 50% chance that would
equal a 100% chance of finding either a Killdeer or a Laughing
Gull at Pennington Flash country park. You see where I’m coming
from? Excellent.
Another reason for going to Pennington was to see the gypsies
that had recently set up camp on the car park and had stopped
the bastard traffic wardens from coming to check if you had
paid-and-fucking-displayed. Bastards. So you see, gypsies aren’t
necessarily always a bad thing - they can sometimes get you free
parking. Now imagine my horror when I arrived to find no gypsies
at all on the car park and I had to pay £1 for the privilege of
parking. Nads!
I was more than ready to find either, or even both, of my
accurately predicted vagrants, and I set off with excitement to
Horrock’s Hide and a Killdeer, or possibly a Laughing Gull, or
possibly (probably) even both.
“Nipple bricks!” That’s what I said. You heard me right the
first time, folks. “Nipple bricks!” No fucking sign of either
predicted bird from Horrock’s Hide, although there was a very
smart summer plumage Black-tailed Godwit, 2 Oystercatchers, 2
Redshanks and a few Sand Martins. Not bad really, and all that
it meant was that the Killdeer and the Laughing Gull were just
in another hide. I wandered around to New Hide, and stumbled
upon my first singing Blackcap of the year, a cracking male soon
joined by its coital partner, which, if you’re interested, was a
female (don’t laugh, it’s true, some birds have been
scientifically proven to be practicing homosexuals). Blackcaps
rule. They’re top-drawer birds.
Not much from the hide, although at one stage I did actually
see two Killdeer, but these turned out to be of the British race
‘Little Ringed Plover’ and as the BOU have not yet
split them, and the BBRC don’t assess them, I can’t yet
tick them. But at least I now have British Killdeer as an
insurance tick for when they do inevitably split them. The
BOURC and the BBRC, or the BBC as they are
known by their merged slang name, are very busy at the moment with various taxonomic
amendments, and with the switch over to digital on the horizon,
you can’t really blame them for being tardy with some decisions
(what an absolutely fucking shit joke).
One roosting Aythya caught my attention. It had a
vermiculated back, so it had to be one of the Scaups, but...
Wooah, wooah, now just stop there a minute. Vermiculated
? VERMICULATED ??? What the fuck does vermiculated
mean? What a fucking pile of shit. Does anyone even know what
these fucking words actually mean? Think about it: diffuse
streaking on the under-tail coverts? variegated
upper-parts? As my grandfather, the late great Gerald Mulroy
would have said “Load of ” as in “Load of… shit!”
Anyway…
…so this Scaup sp. was sat on one of the islands fast asleep
with its head tucked in. I swear this is no exaggeration, but I
sat staring at this Scaup sp. for seventeen whole hours, waiting
for it to lift up its head. And did it? No, not once for
seventeen whole hours. I shouted “Oi” out of the window
and all the ducks, bar one, looked over at me. Guess which one
didn’t look up? Correct, the Scaup sp. “Oi” I
shouted even louder, but still no response. “Oi,
dick-head, look the fuck over here” but all that did
was bring a Long-tailed Tit to the side of the hide. “Oi,
fucking knob-‘ead,” I screamed, “look at me,
you fucking twat.” Still no acknowledgment.
Just as I was thinking up further imaginative things to
shout, my phone started vibrating, and it was a text from Malcolm asking
if I wanted to go for the
Western Subalpine Warbler in Dorset. Strangley, although it was
a long way and I have no inclination to year list (because I’m
bigger and better than that), I did want to go. It was a lovely
warm day, there was fack all at Pennington, this Scaup sp. was
bound to lift its head up eventually and just be a Greater Scaup
or, knowing my luck, a hybrid, and I fancied a trip to the
seaside. So I left Pennington and met up with Malcolm on the M6.
Ninety hours later we were stood on Crouch Hill watching a
marvellous Western Subalpine Warbler in glorious technicolour.
Brilliant. I also saw 2 Sandwich Terns and the sea (well I saw a
harbour, which contains sea, so I guess I sort of saw the sea),
so it was a decent afternoon all in all.
And remember kids: work hard at school and don’t smoke pot,
because if you do you might not grow up to have the skills to
pay the bills, skills-bills. Peace out!
5th April,
Chorlton Water Park
Dear Diary, over the last few days I have been suffering from
shooting pains running down the left hand side of my neck and
into my left arm. I fear poor diet and lack of strenuous
exercise may be to blame. I hope I’m not about to have a stroke
(‘stroke’ as in loss of mobility down one side of the body, and
not the revolting thing that adolescent young gentlemen get up
to). Thus, today, I resolved to go for a jog at Chorlton Water
Park to increase my life expectancy beyond the age of
twenty-nine.
Well, dearest Diary, what can I say? I was absolutely fucking
useless. That’s one thing I could say; I could also say I’m
currently wearing a pair of black jeans and a shirt, but that
wouldn’t be very relevant, so instead I’ll just stick to saying
that I was absolutely fucking useless at jogging. I couldn’t
even do one single lap without stopping. I finally managed two
laps, total distance c0.75 mile, and then decided to die in the
car park. At least I saw two redhead Goosander on the river, but
I fear that high water levels may have fucked up a Grey Wagtail
nest, which the stupid twats built way too close to the water.
3rd April,
Chorlton Water Park
I find the wonders of migration endlessly fascinating, and
Chorlton Water Park is one of the World’s best places to observe
this spectacular phenomenon. Situated on a major migration
fly-way, birds use the burnt-out cars and dog shit bins as
navigation tools, as well as the M60, to help them find their
breeding sites. With conditions being ideal for viz-mig (visible
migration, for those dick heads that don’t know their
bird-spotting slang), I prepared myself for a staggering count
of tired north-bound migrants; and I certainly wasn’t
disappointed with the 5+ Sand Martin, 4+ Chiffchaff and a
singing Willow Warbler that I somehow managed to log in my viz-mig
bird-spotting jotter.
Still two Redpoll and a few Siskin knocking about as well.
30th March,
Newcastle-upon-Tyne Quayside
One of the many joys of bird-spotting is that you
never know where marvellous birds are going to turn up. And so
it is that the keen bird-spotter will be found sporting field
glasses on all occasions, just in case of the spotting of an
interesting type of bird. And here is a lesson in why the
interested spotter of birds should adhere to the above advice:
The final week of March saw me in Newcastle-upon-Tyne, busy
at work with the Northern Sinfonia chamber orchestra at
The Sage arts centre. The days were filled with joyous
music making and the evenings filled with joyous alcohol
consumption in some of Newcastle’s many exciting public houses.
During a break in daytime rehearsals, I deciced to
pay a visit to The Baltic contemporary art gallery on the
magnificent quayside, near to the Millenium Bridge. After
spending an hour being baffled as I wandered lost within a maze
of breeze-block walls (it was actually one of the exhibits -
these wacky modern artists!), I left to stand on the bridge and
gaze down the mighty Tyne river.
“euuurgfgvdsmi - euuurgfgvdsmi”
I heard. And then:
“euuurgfgvdsmi - euuurgfgvdsmi”
I heard again. That sounded mighty familiar, indeed it
sounded almost like a Kittiwake. Is that what those white,
Gull-like things are up there on the side of the buildings? I
rushed back to the car and got my field-glasses to confirm that
they were indeed Kittiwakes, and they were actually nesting on
the sides of the buildings. I later found out that this is the
most inland breeding Kittiwake colony in the whole Universe.
17th March,
Chorlton Water Park
3 pairs of Great Crested Grebe - cor blimey. Let’s hope they
all nest and don’t get fucked-over by Magpies. Still moderate
duck numbers: 60+ Pochard, 21 Tufties, 12 Goldeneye (with a
couple of displaying males) and a redhead Goosander. One Siskin
flew over, and that was that.
13th March,
Chorlton Water Park
What happened there? One minute it was Saturday night, and I
was jumping around to David Bowie and The Cult in Fab Café,
and the next thing you know it’s Monday morning. Happy fucking
birthday to me!
As a treat I decided to celebrate the 3rd day of
my birthday week (tip: milk every opportunity you can to get
people to buy you drinks and presents by having a birthday
week - great idea, eh?) by going to Chorlton Water Park. And
what a treat it was! Three Chorlton year-ticks in one morning:
Pheasant (one heard on Barlow Tip - bollocks to that
don’t-see-can’t-tick rule, fuck off), Collared Dove (seen
often on the approach road, but must be strictly within CWP
boundaries to be ticked off on my CWP bird-spotting list) and a
Treecreeper. Also of note was the return of the Scaup and a
staggering passage of 3 Meadow Pipits which flew over east.
10th March,
Chorlton Water Park
Barely having recovered from the excitement of the last
visit, I descended the bank, passing the stupid fucking Canada
Geese, and entered the unkown. What on Earth would I see today?
Not much. Only the one pair of Teal remained, but there was a
decent flock of over 20 Goldfinch with 2 Redpoll and 10+ Siskin.
Highlight was a singing male Bullfinch - surely the most
pathetic and laughably poor song for such a decent looking bird?
At least it’s my birthday tomorrow…
6th March,
Chorlton Water Park
I can’t believe it. I actually almost enjoyed this morning’s
visit to CWP. I’m serious. Very serious. You know me (well
that’s a lie, you probably don’t; unless you do know me, in
which case I’m wrong; but you get the idea) and I’m always
serious. I never fuck around. So yes, I really did almost enjoy
this morning. Read on…
First bird of the morning was a Coal Tit in the car park,
which was weird, because only last night I was thinking to
myself, “hmmm, I haven’t seen a Coal Tit for a while at
Chorlton.” Next time I’ll think bigger before going to CWP,
something like a Two-barred Greenish Warbler, or a big fuck off
Albatross or something, and see if I can find that in the car
park. The recent thaw and bright sunshine has given all the
songbirds the horn, so the blokes were all darting around,
singing and trying to get a shag off the bird birds. Even the
Goldcrests were frisky. Looking down the river two female
Goldeneye flew over and landed on the water with another six,
but something was amiss. “Hang on,” I said to myself, “Goldeneye
aren’t supposed to look like Teal, are they?” WOW! The two
female Goldeneye had landed amongst 3 pairs of Teal.
Fuck the Bishop! (and you probably would, the Bishop of
Manchester is a piece of alright - take a look
HERE.)
Six Teal: MEGA BIRDING!
Filled with optimism, I knew there had to be another real
mega lurking somewhere around, so I dedicated the next hour to
finding it; but it only took a minute. “Oh my God,” I
said out loud, “a drake Shoveler.” Could it
really be? Two mega ducks in one morning’s birding? They say
inland birding isn’t as good as coastal birding (they actually
say that inland birding is akin to a prolonged hailstorm of
frozen piss), but how big a difference can there really be
between the thrill of an east coast fall in autumn compared to
finding 6 Teal and a Shoveler at the edge of a council estate in
Greater Manchester? I know what I prefer!
Today was just amazing, but it got even better. For those of
you reading this who are struggling to believe that the events I
have described above could possibly be bettered, I tell you to
fuck off, because I don’t tell lies. Okay!?! Well, other than
the time I told Miss Kitching at primary school that I
accidentally slipped on a banana skin and accidentally managed
to allow my trousers to fall down and accidentally inserted my
genitalia into the hamster cage at the back of the classroom.
Phew, got away with that one! Anyway, read on…
So, after the Teal and the Shoveler, even I didn’t think that
things could get better, so I adopted a rather nonchalant
approach as I climbed up to the old tip . Thankfully my
nonchalant approach was not too nonchalant for me not to notice
a Kestrel, then two (yes TWO) Lesser Redpoll (one more than last
time) and then a flyover Snipe. I took a very good look at the
two Redpolls at close range, one of which showed some characters
of Mealy (very pure, striking white tramlines down the back and
quite a frosty head), but the greater covert bar was shit, it
was too scrawny and it seemed too dark overall. The sun was
actually quite warm, and for a second I forgot that I was
squatting in damp grass at the edge of a council estate by the
M60 motorway; but suddenly I was awoken from my thoughts as a
roaring call of the jungle dragged me back into reality: “What
the flying fuck was that?” But holy shit, it was. It really
was. It really really was. It really really really was. (I could
go on, but I won’t.) It was a Green Woodpecker. Go back
and read that last sentence. Done it? No? Well do it now. Okay?
Excellent. A Green Woodpecker. Wow!
Green Woodpecker, 6 Teal and a Shoveler. I perfectly
understand if you think that I’m a stringing bastard; after all,
how many people can claim to have found three birds like that
within an hour? Not many! The final stretch of the circular path
was spent trying to come to terms with the stunning birds I’d
just seen, so I decided to count the Tufted Duck to try and calm
my excitement - there's nothing better than counting ducks to
annihilate your enthusiasm. Under the willows on the island
there was a very chestnutty Aythya. It was big as well, and with
a white arse. Please be a Ferruginous, please be a
Ferruginous I thought to myself, but it was asleep and
difficult to see. I asked a Coot to go under the trees and make
that really irritating fucking sound they make in order to flush
the interesting duck out into the open - nothing can tolerate a
Coot at close range, the noisy irritating little bastards. The
Coot did as it was told and steamed across to the island,
pissing off all the roosting ducks and forcing them all out into
the open. It was looking good for Fudge, until it lifted its
head up: “Kimberley!” I shouted to Kimberley the Duck,
a hybrid something or other that looks half female Pochard and
half female Tufted Duck (probably a product of lesbian
hybridisation), and who I hadn’t seen for ages. Proof enough
that Chorlton Water Park is the best place in the world...
...for hybrid Aythya.
Yo dudes!
I am a complete fucking idiot. That's right. I
know it's come as a great shock to you, but I am. I'm a complete
fucking idiot. Know why? No, of course you don't. Do you know
why you don't know why I am a complete fucking idiot? No. Well
I'll tell you: you don't know why I am a complete fucking
idiot because of the television. You believe all that
propaganda shit about MTV and Big Brother. You're
all brainwashed; the lot of you.
What the fuck am I talking about? No idea. Where
was I... err... fuck knows. Who's “fuck”? I hear you cry. Well
I've no idea who “fuck” is, but he allegedly knows. That's if he
really is a he! Ha! You can't trust anyone these days. And do
you know why? No? Well I'll tell you: you can't trust anyone
these days because they are all bastards. That's right, you
heard it hear first. People of the world, we need to start a
revolution. Join hands and speak the truth: everyone is
a complete bastard. Anyway, back to where I was
before I went somewhere else...
I am a complete fucking idiot. I'm just going to
tell you why I am a complete fucking idiot this time and not
fuck about with questions and politics and crucial sociological
issues and propaganda and MTV and why everyone is a
total bastard. What the fuck am I talking about???
Okay, last try...
I am a complete fucking idiot because I don't
know how to use a computer properly, and I don't have the first
idea about websites and the internet and all that mound of
fucking shit. Okay? Right, so this is why...
Now, I imagine some of you are thinking to
yourselves, “Tom, how can someone that produces such a
hi-tech, swanky, flashy, sophisticated website like this not
have the first idea about computers and the internet and all
that bollocks?” Well, this is why...
For a month I've not been able to update this
hi-tech, swanky, flashy, sophisticated website because I am a
complete fucking idiot. What I did, right, was blocked myself
from using the ftp (which stands for fucking tit
piss) by thinking I was some Bill Gates motherfucker and
fucking about with my firewall. What the fuck is a
firewall? No idea, but I still managed to fuck about with
it. So, after a month, I'm finally back in cyberspace, and here
is a very succinct summary of what I did birdwise up until
yesterday...
3rd March,
Chorlton Water Park
Fantastic Mr Fox came out to play in the sunshine. I told him
that there were magical chickens under a shed at the edge of the
golf course so he diligently left me to stalk them. I stood upon
the old tip and gazed towards Stretford, and in particular at
the large building that often catches my eye, where I chanced
upon three interesting birds in short succession: a Lesser
Redpoll, two Lapwings and a Snipe. Wow! “Where are all the
Aythya this winter?” I did plead.
Chorlton Water Park throughout the month…
…was simply amazing. A drake Wigeon on the 10th of
February was spiffing. The female or 1st winter
female (who cares?) Scaup was also knocking about throughout the
month. But most interesting was a warbler glimpsed by seven
observers that was almost certainly an Eastern Crowned Leaf
Warbler.
Some time in late February (can’t be bothered to
check my birdspotting jotter), Derwent Valley and Strines
Very nice chicken goujons bought from the deli counter at
Tescos in Glossop and a fantastic spicy sausage. Very fucking
cold. Miss Cole died of hypothermia. I had to wire her up to the
car battery and electric shock her back to life. We saw some
birds as well.
Some other time in late February, County Durham
and Northumberland
Rain, rain, rain. Green-winged Teal, Jack Snipe. Rain, rain,
rain. Sunshine. Rare Siberian Warbler on an estate in Whitley
Bay, hanging around along a very dodgy alleyway looking into
peoples’ gardens. Whitley Bay and St.Mary’s Island for chips &
gravy.
1st February, Scunthorpe
area, Lincolnshire
and
Blacktoft Sands RSPB,
East Yorkshire
Brrrrrrrr, it’s blinkin’ flip cold at the moment, so
hopefully good for some quality winter birding around
Scunthorpe? Hmmmm…. There were very few gulls in the fields
around
Winterton
landfill site and just two Dunlin on the lake.
Golden Plover in the fields around
Reads Island, as well as deer
on the island which always freaks me out. There’s a small house
on Reads Island and I reckon it could be turned into an
observatory; there has to be the reward of finding something
like a Turnstone for the dedicated observer willing to put in
the time and cope with the travel discomfort of the 35 second
boat journey from South Ferriby. There were two Merlins, a
ringtail Hen Harrier and a Buzzard at
Worlaby Carrs as well as
a big mixed flock of Finch, but no Short-eared Owls. And still no
Short-eared Owls at Blacktoft Sands at dusk, and except for
three Marsh Harriers and two redhead Smew there were in fact hardly
any birds at all at this normally brilliant reserve. A pretty
quiet day proving that it’s clearly far too cold for birding at
the moment.
31st January,
Chorlton Water Park,
Manchester and
Gouthwaite Reservoir, North Yorskshire
Fog again. You could only just about see from one end of the
lake to the other, but thankfully the redhead Smew was sat out
in the middle until it left with a female Goldeneye for the
River Mersey. The female Scaup is back again and elusive under
the willows on the island, but the Aythya numbers on the whole
are still unusually low this winter. Plenty of Redwing and
Siskin around but no Fieldfare or Redpoll.
The drive up to Gouthwaite Reservoir near to Pateley Bridge
was so cold that it froze up the windscreen wash! Therefore we
were so excited about the prospect of standing at the edge of an
exposed reservoir waiting for dusk in the freezing cold to
possibly glimpse a White-tailed Eagle and an Eagle Owl that had
both been showing recently. Upon arrival at the raptor
watch-point it was clear that this was doomed to failure. The
fog was rolling off the hills and shrouding the very areas we
were trying to view. A fogging disaster yet again. If that
wasn’t bad enough there were a group of wankers shooting
Pheasants and Grouse, and probably anything else that moved,
next to the very valley the Eagle Owl was allegedly roosting in.
Thankfully the cunts doing the shooting were shit and missed
most of birds flying straight over their heads, probably because
they were tanked up on gin, but it does piss you off when you
get a flying Red Grouse in your bins only to see it suddenly
plummet to the ground. Needless to say, we didn’t see either bird
we’d come for. Wankers.
22nd January,
Avonmouth, Somerset and
Slimbridge WWT, Gloucestershire
Disaster! Totally fogging useless. We just about managed to
pick out the Ring-necked Duck at Avonmouth sewage works,
occasionally emerging from out of the thick fog, but attempting
to see the Black Redstart at
Sharpness Docks was a total
non-starter with visibility being less than 10 metres. Managing
to dip on White-fronted Geese at Slimbridge WWT surely puts me
amongst a very select group of people, this a result of the
visibility being 20 metres at the very most. Basically almost a
total waste of time, and I say almost because I did buy a cuddly
toy Belted Kingfisher with realistic sounds...
18th January, North Norfolk -
Wolferton,
Stiffkey,
Holkham
Just before we set off on an overnight drive to Norfolk I
had to phone my parents to congratulate them on reaching their
golden wedding anniversary. I must confess that this left my
mother somewhat perplexed; after all, it’s not their wedding
anniversary for another eight months, and indeed their golden
wedding anniversary for another 24 years and eight months. But I
always forget these things, so I thought I’d congratulate them
now whilst it was on my mind, thus avoiding embarrassment 24
years from now. With that great weight lifted off my shoulders
like a lead Albatross, we were able to set off to Norfolk: land
of birds and crab sticks.
“Barn Owl!” I shouted as we drove down the A17 towards
Sleaford. It was actually a Mallard. “Barn Owl!” I shouted
again. This time a fox. “Barn Owl!” For the third time. Third
time lucky. “Speed camera just flashed!” First time unlucky.
Arrived Kings Lynn in a record 3 hours and thirteen minutes -
wow! It’s no wonder that people speed. After a few terrible
hours of quasi-sleep we awoke to a cold and misty Norfolk
morning.
“Fucking hell it’s cold,” said I.
"Indeed, I do acquiesce,” said Miss Cole.
We drove around the magical Wolferton Triangle, shrouded in
dawn mist and mystery, looking for Golden Pheasants of the
dark-throated variety (that don’t exist in any published
literature). There’s one. Wow! A really, well, amazing bird with
feathers and legs and teeth and everything. It’s called the
Wolferton Triangle because so many people have gone in there and
never been found again, a bit like the Bermuda Triangle, or even
the Huddersfield ring road. Thankfully we managed to get out
alive.
A cold pre-boiled boiled egg for breakfast and a flask of tea
are what makes Norfolk so great, but dipping on a Rough-legged
Buzzard near to Wells in the freezing cold is what makes Norfolk
so shit. Bread and cheese and more tea from a flask is what also
makes Norfolk so great, but a gathering of twats talking loudly
and comparing how many grapefruits they can insert into their
dog's arse whilst you are unsuccessfully
trying to find a Little Bunting is what makes Norfolk so fucking
shit.
I once went to Norfolk with a friend called James. He wasn’t
a birder. He still isn’t a birder. But he did take me to Burnham
Market for a game of Granny Waving, the rules of which
are rather simple: you drive through a small village (it has to
be a small village because everyone knows everyone in a small
village, and most of them end up wed to their cousin, who lives
next door, and produce children of indeterminate species), and
when you see an unsuspecting pedestrian on the pavement you peep
your horn and then wave enthusiastically at them. If they wave
back pretending to recognise you you score a point. Simple. It
doesn’t have to be a Granny, but exhaustive trial and
error revealed this section of society to be the most productive
in accumulating points.
Anyway, we had to go to Burnham Market today to get some cash
for the National Trust twat in his white box at Lady Ann’s
Drive; as if Lord Holkham needs my hard earned money, the tight
old aristocratic cunt. I don’t mind giving money to this place
though, because it’s so good. Holkham Gap and marshes is what
makes Norfolk so great. A sudden epic roar from 60,000 Pinkfeet
taking flight, Black Brants to pick out amongst the Brents,
flocks of Snow Buntings in the dunes, big flocks of Scoter and
Eider offshore, an enormous roost of Gulls on the beach, Barn
Owls, buggery and so much more. There’s no better place in the
world than Holkham at dusk, except perhaps Charlize Theron’s
underwear drawer.
14th January, The Wirral
“That’s strange,” I thought to myself, “I don’t remember
masturbating over my ‘scope.” Because I’m certain I’d remember
doing something like that. But, thank God, it was just salad
cream smeared all over my stay-on case and not a more spurious
fluid. Where it had come from no one will ever know; I certainly
couldn’t find any traces elsewhere. And so on to the birding… At
high tide
Wallasey coastguard station
is the most reliable place
in the whole World for Purple Sandpipers, or Purple Sands
as we in the in-crowd call them. I’ve never ever been to
Wallasey coastguard station and not seen Purps (as we in
the it-crowd call them). Ever. Never. EVER. Other than today,
when there wasn’t a single one. There were some Turnstones
though (or Sand Rats as we of the chosen few call them),
but that wasn’t really much in the way of compensation. A check
through lots of roadside flocks of BHGs (Black-headed
Gulls) on the way to Hoylake revealed that they were all indeed
BHGs and not a single Med was to be found.
Red Rocks salt marsh
had been holding a Richard’s Pipit for
quite some time, but it hadn’t been pager’d for a while so I had
no idea where it was. It’s quite a big bit of habitat for just
the one Pipit. Preparing for a couple of hours of patient
wandering and listening, I set off only to immediately bump into
a local birder who kindly informed me exactly where it was down
to which clump of grass I would flush it from. And he was
absolutely correct! I flushed the Dicky’s P (which
strangely never called once for over an hour) and then enjoyed
the best views I’ve ever had of one. What a great little birdy,
well relatively large birdy actually, because it was a mean
mother-effer and no mistake.
[Crap stuff coming up so feel free to skip this paragraph]
Views were so good that through the scope I could make out the
tiniest of primary projection past the longest tertial, and I
was able to observe moult-in-action in the median and lesser
coverts. There were two different colour fringes on the median
and lesser covert feathers, a clean white fringe to some and a
buffy-brown fringe to others, but also chunks of feathers
missing altogether. The greater coverts seemed not to be in
moult with the tips forming a thin, neat, white wing-bar. So, if
I’ve read Alstrom and Mild correctly, retained juvenile coverts
(the white fringed ones) and fresh adult-type coverts (the buffy-brown
fringed ones) would imply it is a first winter? I think. No idea
whether it should be in moult in January, but I’ve got a
headache and can’t quite get motivated to read the section on
moult; reading about ageing was hard enough with a tumour
forming in my head.
Whilst at Red Rocks I also scored Barwit (Bar-tailed
Godwit), Grape (Grey Plover), Sling (Sanderling)
and tens of thousands of The Result Of Twisting Rope Or
String Together To Form A Tightly Entwined Lock (Knot) for
my year-list. In such high spirits, and with the weather being
so fantastic, I decided to try for the Purple Sandpipers again
back at Wallasey, but whilst sat at traffic lights I checked my
pager and the first message I read was of a Ring-billed Gull at
Leasowe Lighthouse, and there I was sat right by the entrance
track! Not that it was there when I arrived some 30 seconds
later, and there was no further sign for the rest of the day. I
did see lots and lots of dog shit though, infact it was
absolutely horrific. People of the Wirral - sort the shit out,
it’s real bad.
A big Friends Reunited style get together occurred in the car
park with the arrival of some of the Comberbach Casuals and The
Wirral Boot Boys Collective, and I was in such a good mood that
I bought some chips and then went off to
Parkgate to watch a
ringtail Hen Harrier. Only the one, but marvellous anyway.
(The chips were a pound and excellent)
12th January 2006,
Fletcher Moss, River
Mersey
Very little to write about. Literally.
9th January,
Chorlton Water Park
Ducks, ducks, ducks, ducks, ducks… Lots of Aythya: 180
Pochard and 130 Tufted. Also 53 Mallard, 8 Goldeneye and a
single redhead Goosander. Lots of small parties of Siskin, but
the only substantial flock consisting of 30. Still very few
Redwing, and no Fieldfare. Meadow Pipit was a year tick (!), but
it didn’t hang around long after a very small male Sparrowhawk
sped just over the hedge line. At last some CWP Goldcrest, with
a staggering flock of 3 near Mugger’s Alley and later a single
bird by Smackhead’s Ditch. Also my first CWP Reed Buntings of
2006 in Corpse Reedbed. The two burnt out cars in
Discardedcondom Lane (that I forgot to mention last time) have
now been removed.
Getting desperate for ticks, so I might consider promoting
the exceptionally dubious Barnacle Goose, that’s getting frisky
with the big, fucking, white, mongrel goose thing, to category A.
6th January,
Chorlton Water Park
Cold, dull and drizzly. Bad news to start, as one of the
Mersey Valley wardens told me I missed a Lesser Pecker just
before new year. Just to rub it in he then showed me a photo of
it. Cheers! The lake wasn’t frozen so there were plenty more
duck in today, including a whopping 21 Goldeneye, with 8 drakes
splashing water, giving themselves whiplash and making that
weird sound like one of those guiros that everyone wanted to
play in music lessons at school - ‘displaying’ I think it’s
called. Also 120 Pochard, 2 Cormorant, 2 Goosander and a
staggeringly low 20 Coot - yes, I really did count the Coot.
30ish Siskin, a single Jay (year tick), but still no Goldcrest.
5th January, North Wales -
Llanbedr-y-Cennin,
Conwy RSPB,
Little Orme,
Llanfairfechan,
Porthmadog
“And so tomorrow it’s going to rain all day, with some
interval of heavy rain, but mostly torrential. If I were you I
wouldn’t go out all day, especially to North Wales.” I knew that
crazy freak Sian from ITV weather was full of shit. No rain when
we got up, and no rain all day - so bollocks to you Sian.
First stop Lanbedr-y-Cennin. BANG! House Sparrow. KAPOW!
Jackdaw. PEEYAYOW! Goldcrest. Could this get any better? Yes - 2
HAWFINCH near the bench outside the churchyard, and without the
usual seven hour wait as well. Great start. Next Conwy RSPB for
Water Pipit, but not before 2 (yes two) Common Sandpiper at
Tal-y-Cafn bridge. Getting cold now, so a dudey cup of tea from
a flask (£4.77 from Tesco, now that’s value) and then a wander
around the excellent visitor centre/shop waiting for someone to
find the Water Pipit, whilst I browsed the books and set off all
those RSPB cuddly toy birds that make realistic sounds, because
I just know that the staff love it when people do that. Soon the
Pipit was found, just after I set off the Avocet, and excellent
‘scope views were had just outside the window.
I eat too much cheese. Good way to start a new paragraph, eh?
Well it’s true. I do eat too much cheese, and this makes me have
vivid dreams about wintering Black Redstarts on the Little Orme.
Not in a pervy way, but in a, ‘I’m sure I read somewhere that
the male Black Redstart is wintering in the quarry on the Little
Orme again after a year‘s absence,’ kind of way. Anyway, it
wasn’t there today, and everyone I asked later in the day (both
of them) told me that I eat too much cheese. So after a
fruitless walk and wander around the quarry on the Little Orme,
I mentioned that the last time I came here I fell arse over tits
down this very bank we were walking down. Hilarious. And guess
what? Yes, that’s right, I suddenly fell arse over tits down the
bank and got covered in shit. Hilarious.
Llanfairfechan next (not as good a start to a paragraph as
the last one, I’m sure you’ll agree), and a happy new year to
Phil Woollen who had the Black Scoter in his ‘scope as I met him
- cheers Phil! But goddamn it was cold. Great Northern and
Red-throated Divers were distant but still nice, and a small
Grebe that showed for a billionth of a second before diving,
never to be seen again, was more than likely a Slavonian, but
who knows… I’m sure there used to be more Divers and Scoter from
Llanfairfechan than there are now. Must be global warming. Or
cheese.
After Phil gave us some bread (Warburton’s seeded batch, just
for any curious bread fans out there), we headed off to
Porthmadog to throw bread at the Gulls in hope of feeding the
adult Laughing Gull. But goddamn it was seriously cold now, and
this was no laughing matter (crap joke). For a whole hour
we stood by the river at west end of Llyn Bach waiting for it to
come to bread on the car park. But did it? No. Instead it turned
up on the river; at least the Jackdaws ate well today. But
during the hour I did get chance to observe a Herring Gull with
yellow legs, a Jackdaw with partial albinism and a seriously
messed up Wigeon. I blame global warming. Or cheese.
3rd January 2006,
Pennington Flash, Manchester
Birding for me is all about targets, figures and numerical
achievements. I’m a big hitter, fanatically chasing birding
goals. I just can't enjoy the simple pleasures of birding and
immersing myself in nature. Many tell me that my goals are
unrealistic, but I say tits to that. This month I’ve already
started setting these ridiculous goals. Today I decided that I
wanted to get my year list up to a bewilderingly high 50. That’s
right, you haven’t just read a typo (whatever they are), I did
just write 50. And just to prove that I didn’t typo again (is
that grammatically correct?) here it is written out in full:
fifty.
Close your mouths (which I assume are open in awe at what
you’ve just read) and read on…
There was only one place in the whole of Britain that could
yield me such a high total, and that was Pennington Flash
Country Park. What you’re about to read is the fanatical lengths
I will go to to reach my targets.
Leaping out of the car into an SAS roll, I immediately heard
a Hume’s Yellow-browed Warbler calling in the trees behind -
good start, but upon locating it it was clearly a very aberrant
looking individual that was the spitting image of a Pied Wagtail
- not even a year tick! “Phwooar what’s that?” said Miss Cole. A
Cormorant. Year tick number 32. A walk to the Bunting Hide and
we were ticking thick and fast with Redwing, Mistle Thrush and
Song Thrush, whilst the hide itself produced mega year ticks in
the shape of Water Rail, Willow Tit, Pheasant, Green, Chaf and Bullfinches, Reed Bunting and then KAPOW!!! a fantastic
female Brambling. Mega birding!
New waterfowl in the shape of Shoveler, Teal and Gadwall,
along with a majestic Grey Heron, and my list was swelling to
almost bursting point. Dangerous! “Let’s climb that bank and get
covered in shit,” I announced to Miss Cole (first name Sarah,
just incase your wondering/bothered), and climb the bank and get
covered in shit we did. But my carelessly fanatical tactics paid
dividends as the increased altitude and 360 degree panorama
scored us a Kestrel.
“Hark, the mighty Redpoll,” said I, as my
fanatically acute hearing picked up a small
flock of Lesser Redpoll before fanatically sifting through them
to make sure there were no rarer siblings amongst them. There
weren’t. “What the fuck was that?” we both shouted as some
alien creature alighted before us from ‘neath the undergrowth.
Another Water Rail and a new bird for my Birds Almost Stood
On list. The ticks were now drying up, but Lapwing, Snipe
and Golden Plover were all I needed to comfortably surpass the
insane target of 50 birds in two days birding. 4 Herring Gulls
finished a fanatical morning’s birding.
Rock on!
2nd January 2006,
Chorlton Water Park,
Manchester
There’s nothing like starting off a new birding year in
style. And this was certainly nothing like starting off a new
birding year in style: a trip to my delightful local patch of
Chorlton Water Park. Last year I refrained from boring you, but
this year I’m going to tell you about every single visit and
every single fucking Goldcrest I see or hear - and believe me,
there’s lots of Goldcrest!
My first official bird of 2006 was a Nuthatch which I heard
in bed on New Years Day. Next was a Grey Wagtail. And then a
Great Spotted Woodpecker. Bored yet? No? Well believe me when I
say that you soon will be. The first bird I spotted at Chorlton
was a Canada Goose. This isn’t surprising as Canada Geese are
everywhere at CWP (which I will now call Chorlton Water Park
because it saves time, though I could just copy+paste like this:
Chorlton Water Park Chorlton Water Park Chorlton Water Park
Chorlton Water Park ad finitum…), but seeing one today was extra
special as it was my first of the year. Next? A glorious Black-headed
Gull in its regal costume of pure snow white, black, grey and
red - what a truly gorgeous bird. I especially love this
Laridae’s black spot behind its eye. For those unable to
detect literary subtlety, I now inform you that the previous
sentences spurt from a rich vein of sarcasm.
It was effing freezing, the lake was frozen solid and the
duck numbers were very low: about 60 Pochard, 23 Tufted Duck, 4
Goldeneye, 4 Goosander and no sign of the Scaup. Are you
bothered? Yes? Well read on… A rainbow-esque Kingfisher
(guaranteed to brighten any birdspotters time in the field)
whistled and squealed and flew
about and stuff, but the best thing this morning was a big flock
of Siskin, I’d guess about 75, and then a few more smaller
parties elsewhere makes me reckon that there were in excess of
90 birds.
And at the end of the day my year list stands at 31. But no
Goldcrest.
If, for some bizarre reason, you
want to contact me, email me at:
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