JANUARY

31st January

***

Stressful? I'll say. Imagine for one second that it was the last day of January and your Manchester yearlist is sat firmly on 99. Then imagine that you have an easy bird to get you up to the magical 100, that bird being Red Grouse. Right, so let's start with that premise. Well Red Grouse should have been really easy, and indeed it was really easy; I drove up to Smithills Moor, got out of the car, walked around a bit, saw a Stonechat, saw 2 Ravens and then saw a Red Grouse - easy! And I celebrated my 100th Mancunian January bird by falling in a bog and getting covered in shit. Hooray! So what was so stressful about that? Well, back at the car I checked my pager and saw that there were 30 Waxwings in Bolton - a very valuable year tick - so I checked my map to work out the quickest way there and then realised that I'd done something very, very, very stupid. I hadn't actually spent the last 2 hours on Smithills Moor seeing a Mancunian Red Grouse, but instead walked in the completely opposite direction onto Rivington Pike and crossed the boundary into Lancashire - pig fuckers!!!

So now I was back down to 99, but the day was still young, and thinking about it I realised that Waxwings would be a much more fitting 100th bird than Red Grouse and headed off to Morrisons in Bolton town centre - only there weren't any Waxwings. Now I began to panic. With Smithills Moor only a short drive away I headed back, determined at the very least to get the right fucking place this time. I followed my OS map carefully, ensuring that I was well within the Greater Manchester boundary, because this time there was no margin for error.

Arriving on Smithills Moor I got out of the car, split my skull open on the road as I smashed my face into it 6 times, threw my bins under a lorry, killed a sheep with my bare hands and took a shit in a cattle grid. And why? Why? Well I'll tell you why, it was because the mist had set in so badly that visibility was about 3 metres - pig's arseholes!!! Ian Woosey joined me and together we took an utterly pointless walk along the moor, presuming that to tick Red Grouse we would actually have to practically stand on one to even see it. So at 2.30pm I was still stuck on 99, and things were looking bleak.

Then at the very last minute a miraculous text message had me racing round to Bredbury to watch a Peregrine sat on Pear Mill chimney from Rob Adderley's kitchen window - 100 at last!

***

I'm on the run, I'll kill to eat,
Starving now, feeling dead on my feet.
Going all the way, I'm nature's beast,
Do what I want, I do as I please.

Run, you've gotta fight, to breathe, it's tough.
Now you see me, now you don't.
Break the walls, I'm coming out.

I'm not a number, I'm a FREE MAN,
I'll live my life how I want to.
You'd better scratch me from your black book,
'Cause I'll run rings around you.

30th January, Farnham GPs, North Yorkshire

A Pacific Diver. Well I never. I bet that looks really exotic. I mean think about it, the Pacific is miles away, like right across the other side of the world somewhere near China and Mexico. I went to the Pacific last year in Peru - that was millions of miles away! So surely a bird from such a far off and exotic location like the Pacific must look pretty flipping effing exciting? I bet it's a rainbow concoction of all sorts of astonishing colours and mesmerising hues to salivate over. No, to masturbate over.

I'll tell you something, just between the two of us, I wouldn't mind betting that the Pacific Diver, a creature of such spellbinding beauty, was the source of inspiration for many of the legends in the primitive folkloric tales of ancient cultures - the Griffin, the Phoenix, the mythical Romanian Pasarea Maïastra famously sculpted by Brancusi, Chinese Dragon tales, Mongolian shit-eating bell-end Vampires and Arkansas Ivory-billed Woodpeckers. Indeed, did not Daedalus himself escape with his son Icarus upon winged transportation so inspired by the majesty and grace of the Pacific Diver?

Oh hang on... err... oh... oh now I see. It's one of those shit brown things again. Oh right, now I get it. Oh, and what's that? It's on some soulless gravel pits, you say? And some bastard Thatcherite is charging £10 to even let you see it? Oh wonderful. Wonderbra! Vunderschlicht!

Another British first. How many more are there going to be? There's only like 700 birds in the world aren't there?

29th January, Chat Moss, Astley Moss & Ashworth Moor Reservoir

Things are bad. And I mean bad. Not bad like "Yo, I'm really bad. I'm like a real bad-ass dude and you'd best be giving me no beef or I be like beating down on you and your woman. You follow? I'm real bad." No not bad like that at all. I mean bad in a totally different way. Bad like this: this morning the exciting news of a Pacific Diver only 90 minutes drive away should have had me belting off up the M62 for twitching fun and games. But it didn't. 'And why not?' I hear you cry from afar. Well I didn't because instead I decided to stay in Manchester for the following: 13 Corn Buntings on Chat Moss, 2 Red-legged Partridges on Astley Moss and finally a 2 hour vigil at Ashworth Moor Reservoir for a Short-eared Owl that didn't even have the decency to show up. As I said, things be bad. They be real bad.

28th January, Stalybridge

A poem shall suffice:

We went to Stalybridge,
Perchance to find rare bird.
Yet nought did grace our vision,
'Twas 'nough to spoil one's mission.

The bird was known as Redpoll,
His homeland far up north.
Arctic was his moniker,
No other word rhymes with moniker.

Except perhaps Veronica.
Or Monica.
But that would just be cheating.

26th January, Fletcher Moss

What should have been a routine and mundane check of the parkland near me turned out to be a veritable urban ornithological extravaganza, with 2 Little Grebes, 4 Goosanders, a Green Woodpecker and an amazing wander about on the flooded fields where I kicked up 7 Snipe. Or do I mean Snipes?

25th January, Bingley, West Yorkshire

Weren't American Robins mega rarities at one time? I seem to remember all manner of shit breaking loose when that bird was found on Bardsey Island in 2003, and further free flying turds when a month later one was found in Cornwall, and then a free-for-all turdfest when on New Year's Eve another was found in Grimsby. Now they're just part and parcel of the start to every year. How lame. They're still great birds though and an excellent excuse to get out of Manchester for the day (thanks for the lift Pete).

Pale tips to both the median and greater coverts forming 2 narrow wing-bars age it as an expected 1st-winter, but any attempt to sex the beast based on the intensity of its red breast is pretty much guesswork, at least it is according to the totally unimaginatively titled Thrushes by Clement and Hathway. What a total lack of imagination; where's the wow-factor? They should have called it something more raunchy like Killer Sharks of the Oceans: a full-colour pictorial guide with loads of gruesome photos of Australian surfers missing legs and showing massive bite scars on their chests. I bet they'd have sold more copies then, after all this is the 20th century and sex sells.

24th January, Wigan Flashes

Today was make or break; if I dipped this bastard Red-crested Pochard for the 3rd time in as many weeks then it would most certainly be my final time, because should I have failed today then I intended to stab myself in both eyes with kebab skewers that I bought in ASDA - no of course I didn't need a set of kebab skewers but there was a big sticker saying ***1/3 off usual price***, so obviously I had to buy them. Today the kebab skewers very very nearly had their first use.

There was no sign on its previously favoured haunt of Westwood Flash, and the adjacent Pearson's Flash began to scream kebabing time at me. Just as I began to wince at the now very real prospect of kebab skewer piercing retina, I took a look through my binos (bins [binoculars {field-glasses}]) and there before me was the greatest thing I've ever seen:

Yes it's leucistic (the posh word for... err... I don't actually know) but so what? This female Red-crested Pochard is as wild as any other bird I've ever seen. Ever. Without exception.

After throwing the kebab skewers over the other side of the canal (accidentally killing a family of Otters) I headed with a fresh spring in my step onto Ince Moss Landfill Site for reasons which I have forgotten. Oh I remember now, there have been a few Mealy Redpolls seen this winter - but it's such a big area that I went simply for the fun of it rather than any realistic expectation of seeing any. So did I see any? Is there going to be an exciting twist in the tale?...

...no. There you go. No happy ending here... or was there?...

...no there wasn't. But it did provide me with a reminder of just how valuable my urban upbringing has been in sharpening my understanding of the natural world. I'll elaborate: what do you see in the photo below?

Most people will see nothing of any great interest, some might even tut at seeing a piece of discarded litter, but there are a those of us who grew up foraging about under bushes in municipal parks and gardens who know that such "litter" (as some people inelegantly choose call it) warrants further attention. Indeed, my sensual awareness was now heightened threefold as I searched for further tracks and signs of interest. Tell me what you see now:

More litter under a tree? Is that really all you see? How many of you would have just walked on by, cursing such low-life vermin for trashing a delicately balanced ecosystem? Well now look at what you would have missed had you walked on by without close inspection:

That's right, a rain sodden collection of soft-core pornography, most probably either dumped there by a shamed husband whose wife demanded all such secretly stashed material (that she recently discovered in the garage behind his Black & Decker Workmate) be removed from their home immediately, or by a group of adolescent boys who had just stolen it from a nearby newsagent and then couldn't decide who got to keep it so they just tore it up.

23rd January, Astley Moss & Pennington Flash CP

A brilliant day out on the mosses in blinding sunlight and a proper icy January breeze with Manchester's biggest lister Pete Berry. 2 Woodcocks, loads of Yellowhammers, Tree Sparrows and 2 Stonechats were much sought after year ticks, Jack Snipe and Buzzard a tasty side dish - not to mention all of them thoroughly well deserved after risking life and limb leaping over 4ft deep ditches filled with freezing water.

***

The roof of Horrock's hide at Pennington is currently 6ft away from Horrock's hide itself, ripped off during last week's gales. Not to worry, as there was nothing to see anyway. 2 Sheld Duck were a yearlist addition, a Willow Tit came close enough to the feeding station hide for full biometric analysis by eye alone, and 30 GBB Gulls were enough to persuade me to stay until dark just in case anything interesting decided to join the gull roost. Nothing interesting decided to join the gull roost.

22nd January, Chorlton Water Park, Carrington Moss & Audenshaw Reservoir

I've found the perfect song for travelling between my house and Chorlton: Maiden's Back in the Village. Providing there's no traffic, the song lasts the exact same amount of time (5' 20'') as it takes from turning out at the end of my street to going over the little speed bump into CWP car park. There you go, I lasted a whole 22 days without mentioning Maiden. The only thing of note was a vicious bit of sadistic rape going on under the willows between 2 Mute Swans, referred to in polite company as copulating.

***

A Rook at last! And then 6 more!! So 7 Rooks!!! Brilliant!!!! And then a Little Owl!!!!! Carrington Moss rules!!!!!!

***

Absolutely brass monkeys at Audenshaw tonight, which apparently translates as very cold, although I don't know why it does. Both Divers are still rocking out on reservoir 2, and presumed argentatus Herring Gull numbers appear to be building with each visit. The snow covered Pennines were aesthetically most pleasing upon one's eye, and the deep red sunset even more so.

20th January, Chorlton Water Park & Heaton Park Reservoir

The wind's still kicking shit up left, right and centre, making the high count of 450 Black-headed Gulls a lot harder than it really should have been. The Scaup is still wooing the crowds and Redpolls are everywhere, although that may be a slight exaggeration.

***

Two Iceland Gulls in the Heaton Park roost tonight, but still no sign of the eagerly anticipated Glaucous. But it will. Mark my words. It will. Obviously it won't. And remember, this is a strictly permit access only site, so unless you want to be hit really hard with a stick I suggest you keep well away.

19th January, Akzo Pond, Light Hazzles Reservoir & Audenshaw Reservoir

Akzo Pond should really be better known than it is, seeing as it's one of the only regular wintering sites for Greenland White-fronted Geese/Goose in England. It seems the problem with Akzo was that for years the Whitefronts used to turn up and hang about with the bread loving Canada Geese, behaviour which sort of tainted any chance of them being wild. But then in 1998 a bird turned up with a neck collar which had previously been seen on Islay, at Wexford Slobs in Eire and in southern Iceland, so amazingly the birds are actually wild. You can read all about them here. After all of that I didn't even see one, actually there hasn't been one seen since late last year. But there were 3 Pinkfeet (which are also presumably wild), and it's quite unusual to see them grounded in Manchester. Note how the front one is blind in one eye and appears to have lost its piratic eye patch:

***

With the wind still being pretty strong I thought the best thing would be to have a walk along the Pennine Way on the high moors to Light Hazzles Reservoir, and to the Twite feeding station. Was it a stupid idea? Well let me put it this way: does the Pope shit in the woods? Exactly; yes, it was a very stupid idea. The wind was like a dental anaesthetisation (is that really a proper word? Spellcheck has okayed it), numbing the left hand side of my face so that I didn't even notice a trickle of saliva dribbling out of the side of my mouth. Eventually, after a 7 mile walk battling against the elements, I arrived at Light Hazzles, and there were no Twite. What with the wind, I really should have seen this coming, but considering there have been counts of over 70 birds I at least expected one! And it's really fucking bleak up there as well:

After ducking down out of the wind and eating a Twix to soothe my disappointment, I decided to have a wander about and see if there was anything else around. There wasn't. Not a single bird. I sacked it off and started to head back when I noticed something moving in the rocks on the sheltered side of the reservoir, and upon twin-monocular inspection managed not 1 but 2 Twite - holy flip! Probably the single worst count of Twite up there by any living birder at any time in history, although few people have probably ever bothered to go there in that kind of crap weather. And here is one of them:

The BTO Migration Atlas shows that nearly all ringing recoveries of Twite in Britain stem from the colour-ringed birds of the Pennines. Here's some more about the project.

***

Back in the lowlands I was subjected to further wind assault at Audenshaw, but it was definitely worth sticking out as an adult Little Gull put in a nice fly-by appearance, a bird I really wasn't expecting until spring. Both divers still (the juvenile now looks as though it's got a hook sticking out of the right of its head!) and an adult Yellow-legged Gull.

18th January, Chorlton Water Park

Surf's up, dude! Big waves down at the water park this morning, as gale force westerlies of over 6,000mph are causing all sorts of mayhem. Unfortunately it hasn't brought anything particularly noteworthy into the county, yet. But it will. Possibly. Maybe not. My plan for today was to have a quick stroll around Chorlton and then head up to Bickershaw for a spot of Jack Snipe harassing, before finding a storm blown mega at Pennington Flash, perhaps something overly ambitious like a Dunlin. The first fly in the ointment actually wasn't all that unpleasant, in fact it was a winner, seeing as I flushed a Jack Snipe off Barlow Tip which saved me the trip to Bickershaw - sweet, maybe even schweet. But the second ointment fly was particularly unpleasant, really wank I'd say, and involved monster chaos on the M60, so much so that I had to turn back as all traffic trying to get over the ship canal bridge was being diverted into further chaos. Near to home I hit another bit of traffic insanity when a tree decided, somewhat inconsiderately, to fall in front of a bus. Amazingly the drivers involved managed to swerve in time, and thankfully only a group of 17 elderly pedestrians were massacred.

17th January, Audenshaw Reservoir

Bad news. The juvenile Diver has got something tight wrapped around its neck. It looks to be fishing line, however, it seems as though it's a loop, or even a hanging noose of some description; perhaps the poor sod has finally lost the will to live after spending over a month in east Manchester.

It's hard to work out how tight it's wrapped around the  neck, because whilst you can see it digging into the feathers it may not actually be constricting the neck itself. Nonetheless the Diver is getting seriously pissed off with it. When it was first noticed by another birder on Sunday, it seemed as though something was going into its mouth and that it was having trouble fully closing its bill, but last night it was definitely able to fully shut its bill and it didn't seem like anything was obstructing it - one possibility is that it has perhaps managed to dislodge a fishing hook but now ended up getting itself all tangled up? Nothing else of any great interest, other than a huge, great, big, ugly, dark backed fucker of a presumed argentatus Herring Gull.

16th January, Chorlton Water Park & Ludworth Moor

There was a definite undercurrent of friskiness at Chorlton this morning. 4 drake Goosanders were running about on the water's surface (but not like Jesus - because such comparisons between diving duck and the saviour of mankind would clearly be blasphemous) and fighting for entry into 2 of the females, Goldeneye were throwing their heads back and going crrrrrrr, and 1 remaining drake Wigeon from yesterday's 3 was clearly distressed at missing out on some white hot Anas action with penelope, as he was just swimming about in circles giving his loud whistling glissando note as Collins describes it.

***

Seeing as there are storms a brewing (forecast says gale force westerlies on Thursday) I thought I'd better get some high altitude birding in before it all goes mad. Ludworth Moor (250m - high altitiude!) got me the target Raven, and over an hour I also managed to scribble 250 Common Gulls, 50 Lapwing, 10 Fieldfare, 11 Collared Doves and a whopping 850 Jackdaws into my birdspotting jotter. I didn't see any of them, I just managed to scribble them into my birdspotting jotter.

On the way home I had a totally unexpected surprise when a boy decided to walk off the pavement (without following his green-cross-code) and proceeded to bounce off my car bonnet. You shouldn't laugh, and I really didn't. I shit myself. Thankfully I drive a Toyota Yaris, which has a top speed of 17mph, and he was okay. I really could do without anymore totally unexpected surprises like that.

15th January, Chorlton Water Park, Hope Carr, Astley Peat Pools & Chat Moss

3 Wigeon (2 drakes) were new in at Chorlton this morning, but other than that it was business as usual: 12 Goosander, 12 Goldeneye, 9 Mute Swans and Fantastic Mr Scaup.

***

Surfbirds had a thread going recently about sewage farms, with some people almost lamenting there loss of importance to birders. Well obviously, because peering over a fence to look at shit sat in giant vats at Hope Carr is just fucking brilliant. Even more brilliant when there are only Pied Wagtails to look at. Still, 2 skeins of Pinkfeet heading northwest were a welcome Manc year trick.

***

No sign of the Bufflehead from 2004 at Astley Peat Pools today, but it was worth a try. No it wasn't.

***

Little to write home about on the mosses, and yet again the big farmland 3 (Tree Sparrow, Yellowhammer and Corn Bunting) are playing me for a fool.

14th January, North Cymru

Miss Cole's birthday today, and as her present I took a day off Manchester yearlisting. Ma and Pa McKinney were also drafted in for further celebrations, and classic old school yearlisting in North Wales was the order of the day, beginning deep in the Conwy valley at Llanbedr-y-cennin, where 4 Hawfinch showed fantastically well in glorious technicolour.

Next up was the traditional brief stop at Tal-y-cafn bridge for Common Sandpipers, 2 today, with 6 Goosanders and 2 Ravens putting in a birthday appearance. Conwy RSPB was the chosen venue to regroup and consider the afternoon's assault, the reserve's fantastic new cafeteria providing hot beverages and light snacks. The vow not to twitch today was soon overruled (by everyone) when the 1st-winter Long-billed Dowitcher on Anglesey became distinctly more appealing than a blustery seawatch at Llanfairfechan. Four Mile Bridge did the trick and excellent views of the Dowitcher were enjoyed all round. Digi-blasting produced this...

... but on walking back to the crowd (6 people) my efforts were soon shamed by the pin-sharp frame-fillers of a certain Mr P.Hackett - hopefully you'll be able to enjoy his blinders in next month's magazines. Beddmanarch Bay seemed futile as the tide was far out, yet it provided us with 2 Great Northern Divers, Slav Grebe, Tystie and 65 hrota Brent Geese. Not having dipped all day we now felt invincible, and over-confidence forced us into the grim wastelands of Rhos-on-Sea for Purple Sandpipers. Light was fading fast and the race was on to score with Purp and then conclude with Short-eared Owls. At the 11th hour the prize was ours, and with Purple Sandpiper on the day list it was a mad dash to the Mercury Enterprise Park at Kinmel Bay to watch 2 Short-eared Owls sparring in the near dark.

12th January, Wigan Flashes

I'll make this quick: the Red-crested Pochard was seen at Wigan Flashes again this morning. Miss Cole and I got there at 1.30pm. We couldn't find it on either Westwood Flash or the adjacent Pearson's Flash in 2 hours of birdspotting. Oh dear.

11th January, Chorlton Water Park & Chat Moss

19 Goosander at Chorlton is a personal record count, as was the count of 9 Mute Swans. Not a great deal else in gale force westerly winds, other than the Scaup, 10 Goldeneye, Skylark on Barlow Tip, 69 (tee-hee) Pochard and 58 Tufted Duck.

***

All plant life in Greater Manchester is currently adopting a horizontal posture due to the insanely strong winds, but as you all know only too well...

...faint heart ne'er won fair maid...

...so I decided to try and look for some 2007 target tick-fest birds on the moss lands, regardless of the weather. What a really stupid idea that was. Still got a few Manc ticks though: 20 Stock Doves at Olive Mount Farm, 4 Linnets and 10 Grey Partridges at Roadside Farm. And it's the partridges that got me thinking about how little I know about stuff, especially birds, and even more especially (especiallissimo?) about partridges. Well they're just partridges, aren't they? They sit in fields, have the occasional fly about, get shot and apparently taste nice. And that's that. Isn't it? Well to add some meaning and depth to this pointless year listing thing, I've decided to learn all about the stuff I'm going to see, including partridges, thus making me all brainy and stuff. So when I got home I looked up Grey Partridge in some of my books and papery things, thus beginning the long winding journey towards braininess. And here are some interesting and not very interesting things about the humble Grey Partridge, all of them 100% true and taken from books written by clever middle-class people with degrees and posh names:

*According to the Witherby Handbook the Grey Partridge, or Common Partridge as it was known back in ye olden days, has been seen by sportsmen to jug. Jugging (or jouking) is when a covey of Grey Partridges form a circle and each individual member of the covey faces outwards. Then each member of the covey throws his car keys into the middle and ends up shagging someone else's wife.

*Birds Britannica has an interesting note about how the Grey Partridge has long been savoured for its most wondrous taste. A delightful little bit of poetry from this tome may illustrate further:

If the partridge had the woodcock's thigh
'Twould be the best bird that ever did fly.
If the woodcock had the partridge's breast
'Twould be the best bird that ever was dress'd.

Weren't people back in the olden days really wank? Thank God for TV and quality entertainment like Big Brother, otherwise we'd all be sat at home writing crap poems and dying of the plague.

*Birds Britannica also reveals the event of St. Partridge's Day, the date in September on which the partridge shoot did commenceth. Hang on, just stop there a minute: St. Partridge's Day? Are you shitting me here? So who was Saint Partridge then? The patron saint of partridges? Well he was hardly St. Francis of Assisi was he, seeing as they used St. Partridge's big day as an excuse to go out and massacre thousands of the poor little fuckers. Maybe they should start a St. Ruddy Duck Day? St. Partridge? Bollocks!

10th January, Etherow CP & Audenshaw Reservoir

How the other half live! Doing this Manchester year list can be a bit of an eye-opener at times, especially when it takes you through places like Romiley and Compstall. I thought where I lived in Didsbury was posh, middle-class Heaven (I didn't really), but driving to Etherow gave me a whole new perspective on the disgraceful class divide that persists, like a festering abscess, in our so called land of the free (whoever told you that is your enemy!). This would never have happened if Thatcher had stayed in power.

After handing out some British Communist Party pamphlets to the Compstall locals, I journeyed into Etherow CP to indulge what has to be the the most tragically lame bit of ticking I've ever shamed myself with. For there were 3 target birds today: Dipper (okay, so that's cool), Mandarin (see what I mean - lame) and Egyptian Goose (shame shame shame). The Egyptian Goose was cruising the duck pond in all its glory, and a walk up the river to the weir got me 8 Mandarins behind the brick hut. Two Buzzards were a Mancunian 2007 tick, but as my parking ticket almost expired I nearly left without Dipper, and then even worse I could hear one singing but couldn't find it anywhere; and you can't tick heard-only - aarrgghh! Finally the super-specs came to the rescue and I found it swimming in the river looking all sooper dooper cool. Dippers rule supreme.

***

Another thing about doing this list is that I have to dig out specific birds which usually through the course of a normal year's birdspottering and twitchering in the UK I would at some point just come across. Jack Snipe being one of them. But now I have to like go out of my way just for one bird - so I did, and systematically criss-crossed the entirety of the flooded fields on the other side of the motorway at Audenshaw. My reward? A Skylark (just the one) and a Meadow Pipit (just the one). No Jack Snipe, which means I'm going to have to do it again at some point - can't wait.

9th January, Hollingworth & Audenshaw Reservoir

Isn't that a lovely photo. It's the kind of place where The Famous Five or The Secret Seven would have hung about with Timmy the dog whilst spending the school summer hols at their aunt Megan's old thatched cottage, and solved innocent crimes like The search for the stolen horse shoe. I love that Monty Python sketch with Eric Idle reading the children's book, you know, the one that starts:

Once upon a time, down at Dingly Dell, Mrs Otter was in bed with Roger the badger, when suddenly the door flung open and Mr Otter marched in, fresh from the Ye Olde Dingly Dell Tavern and sauced-up to fuck on Stella. Mrs Otter was in quite a state and fainted from the shock, so Mr Otter brought her round with a testosterone-fuelled smack to her face and then smashed Roger the badger's teeth out with a hammer. Old Jenny Rabbit from next door popped her head around the corner to see what on earth all the screaming was about, and Mr Otter smashed her in the fucking head with the hammer. Eventually Mr Otter was forced to the ground by Roger the badger and three of Dingly Dell's finest members of the constabulary...

... or something like that. The photo is of Cow Lane just outside Hollingworth, right on the Manchester / Derbyshire border. Isn't it beautiful - in a masculine kind of way, of course. The reason for my visit here (not that I needed a reason, even though I did need a reason, if you follow me) was to see these:

It's a Chaffinch. Or possibly even a Brambling. Well whatever it is there were over 50 of them. Other niceness at Dingly Dell included 30 Fieldfare, 10 Redwing, 3 Nuthatch and a couple of Treecreepers.

***

After such a nice place I decided to ruin it by finishing up at Audenshaw. The waterlogged grass cutting through reservoirs 1+3 has now turned into a Turkish mud bath, so I walked the long way around the outside of reservoir 3; it was even worse. It was like two Turkish mud baths on top of each other with added Turkish mud bath. 100+ Golden Plovers were new for the year, and there was the supporting cast of both Divers, adult Yellow-legged Gull, Antonio Banderas and Richard E.Grant.

8th January, Chorlton Water Park & Heaton Park Reservoir

9 Goosanders this morning and a record (for me) 4 Cormorants. Great Spotted Woodpecker and Coal Tit in the car park were 2007 additions. The Scaup is still loafing on the south side by the jetty and looking better by the hour.

***

Never been to Heaton Park before. Glad I have now though, seeing as it got me an Iceland Gull. Kapow! Note that this site is STRICTLY PERMIT ACCESS ONLY and anyone found without a permit will be castrated. It sounds harsh, but these are troubled times.

6th January, Audenshaw Reservoir

Two target birds for this evening: Yellow-legged Gull and Med(eaterayniern) Gull. The former I thought would be a stroll in the park, the latter a kick in the nuts from someone wearing a really pointy pair of shoes. But easy pickings did prevail, as both were triumphantly added to the list before the end of the first week of 2007.

5th January, Chorlton Water Park

"Good morning Chorlton! Happy New Year!" I shouted in the car park. Someone threw a brick at me, so I stopped shouting. The 1st-winter drake Scaup actually looks like a Scaup now - fantastico! The magnificent beast of a Green Woodpecker put in a nice fly by on Barlow Tip, where a Meadow Pipit was also flushed from 'neath the undergrowth. Pochard almost tipped the count into treble figures and 5 Goosanders did provide much joy alongside the 8 Goldeneyes.

Before I go I think you should see some videos posted on YouTube. I was searching for Chorlton Water Park and found these absolute gems. Follow me with this one, you just have to watch them. It starts with like some fucking hippy festival pot smoking music party on the banks of the lake at 5am. Well as I was watching it I began to wonder how one of the fuckers was able to afford a laptop, seeing as he's supposed to be a non-materialistic hippy yoga lentil-eating bastard; but as the anger within me began to seep from every pore on my skin, my dreams came true. So watch a bit of the first clip just to get some idea of what's happening, then go to the 2nd clip and scroll forward to 2:10 and just brace yourself for what happens at 2:18, and especially from 2:53. Trust me, this is just the greatest thing ever captured on film. You really shouldn't laugh, but here you shall observe chav scum at its finest!

Chorltonstock

Disaster at Chorltonstock

2nd-4th January, Islay

Let's face it, everyone loves geese. Other than the Italians. And everyone loves Scotland. Other than the Greeks. And everyone loves whisky. That one's without exception. So where better to go in order to combine your tri-partite interests of geese, Scotland and whisky than the isle of Islay? Nowhere. Except perhaps Burton-on-Trent.

Islay is pronounced eye-ler, as in Isla Fisher who used to play Shannon in Home and Away and is now engaged to Sasha Baron Cohen. Try telling anyone that you're going to Islay without them thinking that you said you're going to Ireland. It's impossible. You see Islay sounds like Ireland, and that's because Ireland is pronounced eye-lernd. Ireland is where Guinness is made. Islay is where whisky is made. Isn't this really boring?

Our main objective for the trip was to see some wild vagrant Lesser Canada Geese. There's lots about that at the end. It's really interesting. Have a look if you dare. But ultimately the geese were just an excuse to go to a place I've dreamed about visiting for such a long time, in fact it was ever since I read Ian Wallace's Discover Birds, which was about two months ago when I bought it on eBay for £1.99. Note that the Black Grouse which DIMW mentions as being all over the place have vanished and become all extinct and stuff. And that's just within 18 years. Bad skills!

And so with the passing of 2006 into 2007 we did venture forth by Toyota powered transportation to the wondrous land of the Hebrides, the place of inspiration for many great creative geniuses such as George Orwell, Felix Mendelssohn, Ben Affleck and the Cheeky Girls.

Not having driven through Scotland overnight for some time I forgot just how hard going it can be at times. Miss Cole suggested doing an hour each to prevent falling asleep at the wheel, although falling asleep is the least of your worries, it's the hallucinating that you really have to worry about. At night after you pass Carlisle the traffic just stops, it's as if Scotland has a traffic curfew after 9pm. No actually I forgot, everyone's in the pubs getting hammered.

Past Glasgow by Loch Lomond is where the hallucinating starts. Looking ahead you become absolutely convinced that you can see what appears to be a seven-legged turtle crossing the road which actually turns out to be a carrier bag. But whilst wondering about the carrier bag you suddenly hit someone staggering home from the boozer and kill them. Then, just to make things even worse, a few bastard deer decide to jump out onto the road and scare the shit out of you. There are also owls and fish, and let's not forget the giant talking Otter (who claims to come from the Isle of Wickholme and says he owns a pet jar of desiccated coconut which he keeps in a syrup-coated cage and feeds with shredded tarpaulin) to make your drive even more horrific.

We arrived at Kennacraig ferry terminal at 4am, so we had 2 hours kip. The wind and rain was awful, but the worst thing was hearing how rough the sea was. We were doomed. Amazingly the crossing was okay, and so we arrived on Islay, and things started to rock. In a good way.

Up there it never really gets fully light during the winter, so the land is cast with a savage silvery lighting that makes all things appear to be sharper and more vicious than they really are. It does force one to take a deep look inside the soul; it does darken the rocky bays; it does make them look all scary and ominous and stuff. That doesn't make any sense, in fact it was just my little attempt at being a romantic writer in the Lord Byron or Percy Shelley kind of tradition, only without the opium and big collars. I'll stop. Here's a nice photo:

Target 1: Lesser Canada Goose. Game on. The plan was to just drive about and locate as many flocks of geese as possible to maximise our chances; there are quite a lot of geese on Islay, apparently 45,000 Barnacles, and this year just six runt Canadas amongst them. The first Barnacle flock was just by the airport on the roadside, about 500 of them, but no runts. There was a nice ringtail Hen Harrier though. Next was Loch Indaal, a huge place to cover and quite a bit of it difficult to work. Still no runts here amongst the Barnies, but there were 25 Pale-bellied Brent Geese and 3 Whooper Swans.

Past Loch Indaal the enormity of things became apparent: there were fucking geese just everywhere. You couldn't go 50 metres down the road without stopping to check another 500 strong flock of Barnies with 50 Greenland Whitefronts thrown in for good measure. Luckily there are lots of safe places to pull in and scan from the car, but failing that there are also plenty of unsafe places.

Chasing sheep also provides constant amusement:

The approach road to Loch Gruinart RSPB goes via Gruinart Flats, which had catrillions of geese but still no runts, though we did muster up a pure, wild Rock Dove. At the RSPB visitor centre we were overjoyed to find hot drink making facilities with a collection tin for a suggested £1 donation, so we popped in £2 only to find out the machine didn't work - bastards! First they start massacring Ruddy Ducks and then they con people out of their hard earned cash with false promises of hot beverages. Has it finally come to this? What's going on with the world?

This is the best photo I've ever taken. The Samsung NV3 rules:

Scanning from the platform we finally screamed bingo as a small Canada Goose emerged from amongst the Barnacles. You can read all about this exciting bird at the end. Something for you to really look forward to. Daylight proceedings were concluded at Neriby Farm where we were again looking at... go on, take a wild guess. Correct. This area had the biggest Greenland Whitefront flock of the day, about 130, with 2 Pinkfeet amongst them. Have you ever watched a goose from behind walking up a hill? Very unflattering.

Evensong events were conducted in the Taj Mahal Indian restaurant in Bowmore (very good) and then the White Hart Hotel boozer in Port Ellen.

Day two's target was even more geese, with maybe some other stuff thrown in simply for the wild and carefree heck of it. Only the weather didn't seem to be following the same plan as us and decided to blow a fucking gale and piss it down all day. Not to worry. First stop was Machir Bay in the north west corner of the island. Nice place. Shame about the weather:

Since I've started wearing spectacles I've noticed that being out in the rain is a real twat; I keep seeing petrels that turn out to be specks of rain on the glass. But at least the spectacles kept the stinging sand out of my eyes. Realising that this weather was set in for eternity it was time to concede defeat and head back to the car for more red hot goose action. We were not to be disappointed.

Just north east of Machir Bay we stumbled upon another small Canada Goose; again this bird is discussed in outrageously complicated detail at the end. Hares were all over the place; Hare we kept on shouting each time we saw one. And then Hare again, followed by another Hare. Finally it wore thin, so we changed it to shouting Hairy Pie which I'm sure you'll agree is funnier. I couldn't get a picture of a Hairy Pie, but here's a big cow:

All around was darkness and gloom, but still we fought the good fight and searched for more geese. It's not all that hard to find geese on Islay. I hate to think what someone would do up here if the had a phobia of geese. Hang themselves probably; or pour petrol over themselves and set themselves on fire; or hit themselves really hard on the knee with a bottle; or fall off a roof. No doubt something like that.

Tysties at Loch Indaal were a nice year tick, but 2 Great Northern Divers weren't, at least for me anyway. Still, they were both nice. Why am I telling you this? I don't know. A single drake Scaup ventured close to shore and there was a massive flock of them out in the middle, apparently there is the occasional peak count of 1,500. Daylight proceedings were again concluded at Neriby Farm, where the wind and rain finally decided to call it quits just as the sun went down. Tits.

The thing I love most of all about Scotland are the pubs. Real shit holes. The Scots do loads of things really well, but interior design of public houses is not one of them. Why are they all such shit holes? It's great! Not a wine bar or leather sofa in sight. Fantastic! And the booze is pretty cheap as well, even if it is that Tennents shite. Of course being on Islay we had to knock back some whisky, so we chose a 16 year Lagavulin - rock on!

The next morning we were served a dram of 10 year old Ardbeg with our breakfast (I fucking love Scotland!), and I made a new year resolution to start every day like that from now on.

Probably due to the weather we still hadn't seen a Chough, and decided that we had to otherwise we'd be publicly shamed and flogged. Ardnave Dunes were supposedly a good place for them, so that's where we went. But on the way we passed Port Ellen Bay and a tiny gull flew right past the car. "Stop the fucking car. It's a Ross's Gull," I shouted. It was actually an adult Little Gull, but you have to don't you. Beautiful bird.

Not having quite a full day we had to zoom past the cazillion billions of geese to get straight up to Ardnave, which is right at the top north west corner of the island. The weather rocked today. Some piccies should hopefully illustrate just how beautiful this place was:

Bird wise we stumbled upon a male Hen Harrier terrifying all the wildfowl on Ardnave Loch, 25 Twite in the dunes, the only Red-throated Diver of the trip which I thought was a bit weird, and at last some Chough - 16 of them. Winner. What an amazing end to a brilliant few days.

But there's a final twist in the tale. Oooh, exciting. Back down at Port Ellen we had a quick stop in the bay to look for the Little Gull. No sooner did I get out of the car than a striking white gull floated past us, which upon binocularised inspection  showed itself to be a 2nd-winter Iceland Gull. Magnificola! The Little Gull also put in another showing to finish things off nicely.

Heeeeeey Macarena!

***

Here's the really boring bit about how we conclusively identified the Canada Geese with 100% certainty. I've tried to spice it up with some swearing but it's still pretty boring. If anyone has any opinions on Canada Goose identification (preferably opinions that don't make any sense) then please email me as I wish to sup from the learned fonts of those greater than myself. The standard references are the two great Birding World articles by Batty, Hackett and Lowe, and these were our goose Bibles throughout. However, Canada Goose ssp ID is supposedly fraught with dilemma, desperation and mania, as well as heartache, cancer and syphilis, so much so that there isn't even a single accepted British Lesser Canada Goose yet. I think. Though I could well be wrong. I usually am. Here we go...

There was a Lesser Canada Goose at Loch Gruinart reported to the birdspotting information services in early December; but (because of confusing as fuck makes no goddam sense whatsoever naming of the runt subspecies) who knows whether that means it was a real Lesser Canada Goose such as hutchinsii or taverneri, or a parvipes Greater Canada Goose which is also often called Lesser Canada Goose, even though it's actually a Greater Canada Goose and not a Lesser Canada Goose or a Cackling Canada Goose. Confused? Yes? Good, cuz so am I. The RSPB staff presumably think it is a Richardson's (hutchinsii), at least that's what was written in the sightings book in the visitor centre. Let's go...

Okay, so if we assume that the early December report, the RSPB reports and our own bird are referring to the same runt, then it certainly is smaller than the accompanying Barnacles, indeed I'd go so far as to make a rough estimate that this bird is approximately 93.479% the size of a typical Barnacle Goose. The neck is short, but it's also quite thin; you get the feeling that you could snap the fucker's neck with a mere flick of the wrist and have it plucked and ready for service on a carvery within an hour for luncheon. Seat belts fastened...

We had good views of the underside of its chin which was pure white and didn't have even the slightest hint of a black stripe; the black chin stripe was, I think, once thought to be good for Taverner's (taverneri), but if you follow Sibley then he reckons that the black chin stripe can be shown by all/some/none of the various runt subspecies. It was quite short bodied which gave it a dumpy appearance, and the bill was also short but not necessarily overly short. A rather striking feature was the thin white collar at the base of the black neck; Sibley has little positive to say about this and reckons 50% of adults of both hutchinsii and parvipes can show this. Pointless, or as Sibley says, "nearly worthless." Great!

The upperparts were not particularly silvery, especially compared to the different bird we found the next day (see below), and the head didn't appear to be all that chunky, although to be fair, the greedy bastard could barely tear itself away from gorging itself to death on grass for even a second for us to get a proper view. So there you go. What was it? Does anyone care? Is anyone still reading? Now brace yourselves...

Well based on size and body plumpness it seems that hutchinsii / taverneri is the best match, thus making it a genuine boner fide wild vagrant Lesser Canada Goose, unlike those shitty things at Caerlaverock (did you see what I did there? boner is rude and means erect penis). But how in the name of Satan's fettered foreskin, would you realistically kick out a small  parvipes? According to Oceanwanderers taverneri & parvipes are sometimes even impossible to seperate in the hand, or hands as it should actually be, seeing as you'd have to have a pretty big mutant hand to hold it with just the one. Also, if it was a taverneri then looking at their natural range (the Moon) the likelihood of one turning up wild in Britain is about as realistic as a Brown Flycatcher or a Red-headed Bunting getting here. So therefore based on a personal desire for list increase, this bird is undoubtedly a wild Richardson's Lesser Canada Goose, and all evidence to the contrary is irrelevant, pointless and, quite frankly, fucking piss flaps. Anyhow, it doesn't matter because...

... the next day we found another different bird and this was an absolute A1, first class (with honours) hutchinsii, or Richardson's Lesser Canada Goose, or is it Richardson's Cackling Canada Goose? Now this bird had everything going for it: it was a diddy little thing with a short, fat neck, chunky headed with a steep forehead slope, two eyes, three legs, a really really silvery back, a stubby little bill, carnivorous tendencies and even answered to the name of Lord Tylmin of Tadcaster. It also had a MA in classical studies, its dissertation being based on the Europe-wide expansion of ancient forms of wicker basket making in the time of Emperor Clyde the 4th, during the so-called Pidgin Greek period of wicker basket making. In conclusion: based on size, head, neck and bill proportions, upperpart colouration, aristocratic upbringing and postgraduate education this bird was without a doubt a goose, possibly even a Lesser Canadian hutchinsii, but more than likely a malnourished Mancunian one that followed us up from Chorlton Water Park.

Lesson over. Class dismissed. Go and have a crafty fag behind the sports annex. See you back here in 15 minutes for advanced bread candle manufacture.

1st January, Wigan Flashes & Audenshaw Reservoir

And so it came to pass that 2006 ended and 2007 started. Start as you mean to go on, that's good advice that is. I intended to start by getting up at 7.30am and going to Wigan Flashes, where I would score the longish staying Red-crested Pochard for my Manchester year list (I'm aiming to get a rather tepid 160 for the year), then on to Audenshaw for the Great Northern Divers and hopefully even Chorlton for the Scaup. The only problem was that at 1am this photo was taken of me:

Clearly the 7.30am drive to Wigan was going to be a bit ambitious, and also illegal. It turned out that I eventually, not to mention reluctantly, managed to get out of bed at about 10.30 and set off in a fucking foul mood to Wigan for a leucistic Red-crested Pochard. There was no sign of the Pochard. What a really really great start. However, and may I say flippin' heck, news filtered through that there was a redhead Smew at Horrock's Flash, not all that far if-you-know-what-I mean-you-probably-don't away from where I was standing. So I went there. And saw it. And it was better than the Pochard. Not that I'd know. And it was a great year tick to be gotten so easily and so early on. Other niceities included a couple of Kingfishers, 6 Redpolls and 2 heard-only Willow Tits (on my list).

After that I cheered up. And then went to Audenshaw. Where it decided to rain. But still. You know. Best foot forward. The 2 Great Northern Divers were added to the year list, which was at an epic 38 by the close of day.

The Red-crested Pochard by Rob Adderley

Happy New Year!

As you can see, the website has been completely revamped - isn’t it brilliant? So much time, work and effort has gone into it, and I think you’ll agree that the amazing result speaks for itself. I spent literally seconds designing the flashy banners, and I think they look pretty much like the work of someone who has spent literally minutes doing them, maybe even half an hour. You can read all about the fascinating evolution of this site in my exciting new webpage called About.

On your right you can see the current Moon lunar phase thing. No, I don’t know why it’s there either, but the colour scheme kind of matches so it’s staying put. And besides, you’ll thank me when you check this site, see it’s a full moon and then decide to stay in, thus avoiding death by lycanthropic misadventure.

On your left you can see my amazing new links column. Don’t you think it looks just like the template you write in at blogger.com, only not as professional? Thinking about it, why don’t I just start a blog at blogger.com? Well, I’ve thought it through and decided that I don’t want you fuckwits writing comments about what a twat I am.

So a big thanks to everyone who visited the site in 2006 and contributed to the 68,789,465 hits that I received on average per month. Thanks! I’d particularly like to thank Steve Harris from Iron Maiden and Malcolm Young from AC/DC for forming their bands and giving me so much shit to write about when the birding has been dire. (new year resolution - no more writing about classic rock and metal, after all this is supposed to be a fucking birding diary)

As for 2007? Well there’s going to be loads and loads more garbage this year, including plenty of poorly thought out ideas (usually devised whilst staggering home from the Red Lion on a Thursday night) that seem really great at the time but then end up just being a ball ache… Kate Humble’s Weekly Bird News Round Up being a fine example… So check back regularly and tell all your friends that if they really really want to know what’s going on in the birding world then they should avoid this completely pointless birding diary like a Mr O. B. Laden should avoid walking into a bar mitzvah.

But for now, Miss Cole and myself are off to Islay for a few days to look for runt Canada Geese. So if you’re wondering why your pager and SMS messages are carrying the caveat of “wholly unconfirmed report” for anything coming out of Argyll, now you know. Think very carefully, because if your mega-alert kicks in with a Spectacled Eider in Port Ellen harbour, just make sure you find out first if it was me that reported it before you set off.

Rock!