13th May

More dumb ignorant shit again this week, this time by Simon Jenkins in the Guardian:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2008/may/09/wildlife.conservation

But it's not all bad, at least stereotypical Australian men are still alive and well:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2008/may/13/australia

And now for another day from Spain... yawn...

***

25th March

Day 4? ... err... can't remember now

Belen plains

After checking out of the Hotel Victoria in Trujillo we went for breakfast at a place next door which served breakfast on tables with chairs tucked under the table that you had to pull out from under the table in order to sit down at the table and eat your breakfast - these crazy Spaniards! As it was our last morning staying in Trujillo we had an extra big breakfast (4 litres of jam, 76 slices of toast, 14 cups of coffee) and then set off to the Belen Plains to be sick.

After negotiating the tight squeeze through Belen village we were out onto yet another crappy featureless barren flat load of shitty old farmland. Calandra and Crested Larks were frighteningly common, even more frightening than that film about that girl who can turn her head around 360 degrees, throws up on priests and inserts religious shaped objects inside herself. What's it called? Flashdance, that's the one. Terrifying. A Little Owl calling from some farm buildings wasn't very frightening, obviously, and neither was a Southern Grey Shrike nor the huge numbers of Spotless Starlings.

Further away from the village it was time to regularly stop and scan. Griffon Vultures, Red and Black Kites were abundant to say the least, 3 Buzzards drifted over, there was plenty of nesting White Storks and a big Cattle Egret colony, but soon the superstar bird of the day (of any day) took a wander across the plains, a fantastic male Great Bustard:

Brilliant birds, in fact every bird should aspire to be a Great Bustard, then the whole world would be amazing and there'd be no wars or suffering or Madonna. Further along the road (there's only one road) there were yet more amazing bustards shimmering in the haze:

Some of which were clearly painted by a mad French Absinthe drinking impressionist:

Arty Bustards (not to be confused with gangsta rappa Party Arty, or else he'll pop a cap in yo ass, beeatch)

Only one Little Bustard was a bit disappointing, but there was still plenty of other birdy treats on either side of the road and up in the sky, treats such as quite a few Spanish Sparrows, Short-toed Eagle, Black Vulture and definitely not forgetting this:

adult Great Spotted Cuckoo

Plenty of Griffon Vultures seemed to be taking an unusual interest in us, perhaps we had a smell of death upon us (birds can't smell though can they? or is that dogs?), perhaps it was my Sun-singed flesh, or perhaps I hadn't washed my nuts that morning? Anyhow, it reminded me of a bit from a brilliant travel book I read - Inca Kola by Matthew Parris (the one-time Tory MP in Thatcher's 80s - shameful!). He's in Peru hiking in the central Andes when a couple of enormous Andean Condors come cruising past, and his mate suggests that he should fall to his knees and fake his own death to bring the Condors in closer. Amazingly it works, only Parris then decides that they're coming far too close for comfort and gives it up before the beasts rip his eyes out. Well I had to give it a try myself:

It didn't work. Are you surprised? Neither was I. It turned out that the vultures had found a dead sheep nearby:

So that was the Belen plains, and I've not even once mentioned that Belen sounds a bit similar to bellend, until now.

After a light lunch (just 3 kilos of cheese, 4 pigs of ham and only 7 litres of coffee) we took another drive out to the plains near to Santa Marta de Magasca, this time with one simple objective: Sandgrouse. We didn't see any, or hear any, or even sense any. Shame. Not that we didn't have a good time though, oh no, not at all, indeed, if you know. How can you not have a good time when there's Northern Wheatear...

...and a gorgeous male western Black-eared Wheatear:

Also on the plains were 13 Little Bustards and 19 Great Bustards, an immature Golden Eagle, a wicky-wicky-wah-wah-yo-yo-bang-bang Peregrine sat on a rock, 2 Short-toed Eagles, 5 Montagu's Harriers and a further 7 raptors making a grand total of 11. Plus Southern Grey Shrike, 2 Black-winged Stilts, Crag Martins, 3 Golden Plovers, Green Sandpiper, Calandra, Crested and Thekla Larks in their trillions, and - best of all - a Little Grebe. Not a bad selection in just over an hour, though no fucking bastard Sandgrouse.

And thus from there we did go thus to the Finca Santa Marta, a thus distinctly middle-class place set thus in some fantastic olive groves. A quick wander before dusk knocked out 3 calling Scops Owls, Booted Eagle, 4 Short-toed Treecreepers and impressive numbers of roosting Azure-winged Magpies. And that's that. Be sure to come back soon for the next day (day 5? no idea) when I'll be showing you how you can make your very own pet dog out of two empty tubes of toothpaste, some carrot shavings and a dead pig.

9th-11th May

The Northeast

A weekend of luck and jam. Jamming in on some quality birds which obviously requires a degree of luck, hence my opening statement "a weekend of luck and jam", just in case there was any confusion. The first luck came in no more humbler place than a McDonald's car park near Sheffield - but have no fear oh dear and faithful readers, I haven't suddenly become all Max Power on you, I haven't started tucking my tracksuit bottoms into my socks and driving fast over speed bumps to see if it will knacker my suspension. No, just because I was in a McDonald's car park doesn't necessarily mean that I'm now wearing an electronic tag, have five children from five different mothers and drink nothing but either Skol or blue pop from Aldi. It's not only the sub-strata of society that visit McDonald's you know, all sorts of people go there - lawyers, farmers, GPs, MPs, grocers, prostitutes, fish mongers. McDonald's is a veritable melting pot of society. Pity about all of the filthy council house dole-dossing scratchcard-buying illiterate scum in there though. That's why we chose to sit in the car and listen to Radio 4, some programme about Romanian lesbian art presented by Melvyn Bragg. What? No I don't know what I'm talking about either. I'd say a new paragraph is long overdue...

So we were sat in the car with the windows down, and what should drop in just by us - a Whitethroat, first of the year. Basically it's just taken all of that shit above to tell you nothing more than we saw a Whitethroat by a McDonald's car park. Good eh? No, not good at all.

Jump to the next day... and we're in Newcastle. The weather is great, and I'm on my way to Druridge Pools for carefree birdspotting and singing Shakin' Stevens songs to myself. First stop Cresswell Pond, and a quick check of my birdspotting pager says:

NORTHUMBERLAND LESSER YELLOWLEGS DRURIDGE POOLS FROM SOUTH FACING HIDE TILL 9.35AM THEN FLEW SOUTH WITH WOOD SAND

Eh? It was 9.45am and I was just south of Druridge Pools. Well fucking shit me! Only there were no waders on Cresswell Pond. A car pulled up and the driver asked me whether I'd checked Bell's Pond - I'd never even heard of Bell's Pond, so I followed him, and after driving 1/4 mile north to Bell's Pond I was suddenly watching a Lesser Yellowlegs with a few other local birders. Nice! After a few seconds it flew off north back to Druridge Pools, at which point two Yellow Wagtails popped up and whacked themselves onto the 2008 monster year list (I'm going for the big one this year!). A quick drive to Druridge Pools and the Lesser Yellowlegs was again showing from the south facing hide:

There were two Cuckoos fighting, and the Meadow Pipits were going mental over them. Sedge Warbler was another year tick and this close Kestrel was luvverly:

Cut to Sunday... we're still in Newcastle and panicking about whether to drive all the way down to Suffolk for a Spectacled Warbler, sadly the little beauty has gone, though at least we don't have to drive 7,000 miles to stand around on a heath with a load of moronic arsehole clueless twitchers, if you follow me. A drive to St.Mary's Island was pointless in the murky sea mist, with only a few Sand Martins, Swallows and a pied Crow for company. But the long drive south was broken up by a spectacular 1st-summer female Red-footed Falcon at Pugneys Country Park showing amazingly well feeding just overhead. My mega photos are below, but even more mega photos can be found at Green Withens and Pies and Birds. Obviously my photographs are more professional looking. Prints available for £16.50.

So there you go. Jam. Jam on. We jammin'.

8th May

Shire Hill and Ashop Moor

Wooooooooooooooooaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh... just when you thought it was safe to go back into the water... a Tree Pipit was displaying in the summit clearing on Shire Hill. As you all know, Tree and Meadow Pipits can only be identified by what they land on after their display flight: if it lands in a tree it's a Tree Pipit, if it lands on anything else (such as the ground, a wall, a car, the one-armed drummer from Def Leppard) then it's a Meadow Pipit. There are no exceptions to this rule.

The male Pied Flycatcher from yesterday was in the exact same place but somewhat concerned by the people camping below his tree, and when I say "camping" I don't mean sleeping in a tent and cooking off a Trangia stove... err... actually I do mean exactly that. The Wood Warbler was also in the same place - hooray! Oh thank you Jesus!

Another Pied Flycatcher was singing from within the private plantation under the heronry, but that bird is going to have to remain invisible due to the mad landowner often wandering around in jean cut-offs with the buttocks cut out - I aint fooling around with no man with his buttocks out, definitely not since that last time!

After lunch (two eggs with cheese and jam, and a Kipling's apple and mustard slice) we took a walk upon mighty Ashop Moor, first having to rescue someone stranded on the Snake Pass. He was on his way to Sheffield when his car broke down - there's no phone reception up there and apparently he'd been trying to hitch a lift for over an hour before we heroically came to the rescue and drove him to an area with phone signal. "Why didn't you just walk to where there was some reception?" I asked, but he gave me a strange look that suggested I should keep quiet from now on, and then he rummaged about in a Farmfoods carrier bag, at which point I assumed he was going to kill us and probably violate our still warm corpses. He didn't kill us. He did look a bit like Robert Maxwell though. The moor was pretty quiet, with only a Wheatear and a single Golden Plover to partially compensate for both of us having almost certainly developed malignant tumours from the bastard Sun (not the same Sun as the one with breasts on page 3).

7th May

Shire Hill and the misty magical moors

Only an egg in the fridge. One egg. Just one single egg. But breakfast is supposedly the most important meal of the day, so I had just an egg. Washed it down with water, tap water, non sparkling. I managed (somehow) to count thirty-three nests in the Rookery in Old Glossop, but I don't think that figure is very accurate as loads of them are hidden behind the leaves. Still, at least I tried.

In the wood things got off to a great start with a Spotted Flycatcher followed by a singing male Pied Flycatcher. Then my first two Swifts of the year cruised past before another two Spotted Flycatchers had a big fight with each other, and then a Wood Warbler crowned what a truly magnificent trip to Shire Hill. Ten House Martins, another three Swifts and a few Swallows made me frantic with nervous energy, and so the moors beckoned.

No sooner had I walked eleven miles in the murderous May heat, than a giant rabbit with big white ears leapt from out of a ditch - Mountain Hare. I followed it and eventually found it trying to hide in another ditch, and it would have remained completely invisible if it wasn't for its big ears poking over the top. After leaving the hare in peace I flushed a Ring Ouzel on the way back home before passing a small quarry with two Little Owls up to no good. Later that night I watched The Apprentice. It was very good. I especially liked the bit in the boardroom with the two people who got sacked for not being very good at doing business.

3rd May

Somewhere Back In Time

Can't say exactly where these were today as one's a Class-A narcotic rare breeder, but the moors this morning knocked out a pair of Ring Ouzels, 16 billion Curlew, Wheatear, Little Owl and a pair of Canada Geese breeding in the middle of the moor - a new stupidity record. Also two evil lambs, one wearing protective knee pads:

27th April

Shire Hill

***MEGA ALERT***

It's true, despite the rumours and discussion on Birdforum, there really is white dog shit currently resident in north west Derbyshire. I swear this isn't some sick joke, I wouldn't do that to you. I'd heard the rumours for ages, and after tapping into the county grapevine, and listening in on the Derbyshire jungle drums, I discovered just enough to go out and find the nest of dog eggs for myself - and at Shire Hill as well!

I sent the picture to Alstrom, Forsman, Garner, Millington, Mullarney, Shirihai, Svensson, MC Malone, Rickets, Wagon, Neville, Mrs Predannack and Schoolmaster Wolstenholme, all of whom agreed that this was pure white dog shit, and that the intermediate morph dog shit in the top left corner has no bearing on the identification of the pure white dog shit in the centre of the photograph.

White dog shit was reportedly extirpated from the British Isles in the early 1990s when dogs were no longer being fed on tripe. Vitamin rich dog foods had effectively brought white dog to the brink of extinction, but obviously not completely! Look out for an exclusive paper in Birding World soon.

25th April

Shit me, check this:

http://www.birdlifemalta.org/view.aspx?id=92

24th April

Torside and Woodhead Reservoirs

Now this is more like it. Nice weather at last. Let's hope it never ever changes. Ever. There were 7+ Lapwings in the flooded fields near Windy Harbour farm, a pair of Oystercatchers looked to be settling down by Torside sailing club where a Common Sand was also whizzing about, a further three Common Sands on Woodhead Resvervoir, 18 singing Willow Warblers between Torside car park and Woodhead, a pair of Tufted Duck on Woodhead, a Swallow (only one, but that's still one more than none), a Curlew (again only one, but that, again, is still one more than none), 9 Lesser Redpolls, and best of all a (one [1]) Black-headed Gull - (Michael) winner! And now for something fractionally more interesting from Spain, but still not very interesting at all.

***

24th March

The day before the fourth day

Monfrague

Let's NOT go to Monfrague on Easter Monday. That was my suggestion. It was also my suggestion to go to Monfrague on Easter Monday - honestly, I'm like Dr Shipman and Mr Hyde at times! Didn't really matter though, even with the entire population of Extremadura out there were still plenty of birdies.

First stop was at the Arroyo de la Vid where a Woodlark sang a tune of melancholy and the infinite sadness, a tune which was soon shattered by the constant background racket of bloodcurdling Serins, Azure-winged Magpies, Hoopoes, nesting Crag Martins and House Sparrows, only some of the sparrows were those weird ones with big black splodges all down their front... err... oh yeah, Spanish Sparrows and five of them to boot. What does that mean, "to boot"? I don't know. Or care. Unfortunately the wind was still blowing a howling gale and I feared that raptoring could be a total waste of time, about which time 55,000 Griffon Vultures came over.

Arroyo de la Vid

The castle would have been great if you didn't have to walk up to it (have these Spaniards not heard of escalators?), but for close views of inquisitive drive-by Griffon Vultures it's probably unparalleled throughout all of the universe and beyond. The walk up to the castle was windy, very windy, but there was still Black Redstart, a few hundred thousand Short-toed Treecreepers, a massive fall of about eight billion Blackcaps, Red-rumped Swallows and the odd Black Vulture passing over. You can't forget the immense number of Serins all over the place either, but with counselling it might be possible.

Griffon Vultures on Pena Falcon

The famous (ish) Pena Falcon rock face is also known as Salto de Gitano, translated The Gypsy's Leap. Honestly, that's true. But did you also know that Iron Maiden were originally called Gypsies Kiss? Iron Maiden rule, and so did Salto de Gitano. Despite the crowds there was still loads of birdspotting adventures to be had both above (loooooooads of Vultures, all three species) and below:

Blue Rock Thrush "Helloooooooooooo"

When you've been watching so many White Storks you're kind of shocked when something similar but not all that similar suddenly comes into view, namely Black Stork. Black Storks are brilliant, best birds ever, without question (other than a few others), so when one swooped in from the skies above and flew about over the reservoir below, it was just too much to handle and I had to kick myself in the nuts, kind of as a reality check. But when it did some more swooping and then went to visit its special friend sat on a nest, well, more kicks in the nuts were certainly required.

Black Stork on its nest - self explanatory really

There was also another Black Redstart, which by now were bordering on irritating:

Just past the Punte de Cardenal we pulled in and hoped with all our hope that we might get Bonelli's Eagle. I'd only ever seen Bonelli's Eagle before in India, and I was so ill at the time that after having shit myself inside out eleven times in a row, the enjoyment was kind of tainted by having to push my innards back inside my rectum, if you follow me. Sadly there were no Bonelli's Eagle, I blame the wind. But there was a nice singing male Subalpine Warbler, the first Short-toed Eagle of the trip, and a great big boomerang of an Alpine Swift making a fool of the feeble House Martins which were nesting in their trillions on the side of the bridge.

Spanish Imperial Eagle used to breed at the Mirador de la Bascula, not this year though, but it was worth a stop for the good views of Black Vulture, Azure-winged Magpies, and then... something singing... can it be?... I'm sure that's a... Spectacled Warbler. Sweet, and a decent looking male as well, the only one we had all trip.

Last stop was at the Portilla de Tietar, supposedly the best place in the world for Spanish Imperial Eagle, or at least it was when they bred just to the right of the cliff. They don't breed there anymore. Still, this seems to be the hang out point for everyone in Spain wanting to try out that hilarious echo thing, you know, when you shout hello as loud as possible, only the Spanish shout something different:

HOLA...       HOLA...       hola...       hola...       hola...

It's a really brilliant way of getting rid of any birds in the area. Nesting Griffon Vultures didn't seem to mind though:

I did mind, however, and so we marched off away from the crowds and watched another Blue Rock Thrush and another Black Stork. I'd been told exactly where Eagle Owls were breeding on the cliff face and picked out what I assumed was the nest, but there was no action, and so it seemed that today we would miss out on both Imperial Eagle and Eagle Owl. Oh well, there's always another time. And then this came over just above us:

Aguila Imperial Iberica!

Nice, the most endangered bird in the world, Spanish Imperial Eagle. And so, despite the immense crowds, it was a pretty good day, but things were to get a lot better, and I mean a lot better, when we pulled into a motorway service station and had a cheese and ham bocadillo - now we mean business. I was also extremely impressed with the amount of litter in here, with some customers choosing to throw most of their food on the floor as well. I threw my camera on the floor again, again not on purpose. After throwing up on the floor (nothing to do with the food, just thought I'd try and fit in) it was time to move on, this time to Embalse de Arroyocampo to see some watery birds. This Crested Lark (one of approximately 98 billion in the area) was sat just by the car:

A quick scan of the tops of the reeds notched up no less than 4 singing Savi's Warblers (ie more than 4, but not much more, let's say 5, no fuck it, let's say 7. 10? No that's just stupid), a Purple Heron dropped in never to be seen again and Fan-tailed Warblers were... you know... I was watching a Marsh Harrier flying along the back of the reeds when Miss Cole announced: "I've got a Great White Egret flying." Yeah right! "No you haven't," said I. "Yes I have," said she. "No you haven't, you don't get them here, it'll be a Cattle Egret," said I. "It's huge," said she. "Yeah, that'll just be the light," said I. "Fair enough," said she. At which point a Great White Egret flew past the Marsh Harrier I watching, and so that pretty much pissed on my chips. I later found out that there were 4 Great White Egrets in the area. A Little Bittern shot up (I mean it was flushed, not pathetically copying Pete Doherty) and quickly vanished from a gap in the trees just by the roadside, and strange, strange sounds emanating from deep within could only mean one thing:

Purple Gallinule (blue swamp chicken)

A drive back via Puerto de la Miravete in the hope of Black Wheatear was in vain, though a mental Crested Tit was so aggressive around us that we decided to get out quick before it smashed the car up and set us on fire. They're real bastards for that kind of thing.

23rd April

Another vote in the Times of Malta:

http://www.timesofmalta.com/

Scroll down and click "no" and then "vote" in the column on the right (EDIT: this is no longer applicable - suck on my balls). And if they don't listen then it's time to mobilise your people and let's invade Malta! And now here's a bit more from Spain.

***

23rd March

The Second Day (ie the day after the day we arrived)

Southern Grey Shrike

Easter Sunday, traditionally the biggest piss up in the Christian calendar. Us Brits eat chocolate eggs and dispose of five tons of wasted packaging per household, the Austrians roll decorated boiled eggs down a slanting plank of wood, and the Spanish dress up as Ku Klux Klansmen, get slaughtered on ale, throw a donkey off a church and trash everywhere. We're all mad. But what better thing is there to do to commemorate the holiest of holy days than to go out birding on the plains around the village of Santa Marta de Magasca? None, and even if there was, fuck it.

It was a super early start (about 10am - we were on holiday and had to eat lots of breakfast, I had eight litres of jam) for a big mega full dawn till dusk manic day's birding. Pulled off the main road and began to bird the plains along the minor road to the village of Santa Marta de Magasca - good shit! Stopped in some dehesa (I'm still not sure what that is, I think it's small trees or something) and the fest began - bang, bang, bang! Raptors were everywhere - even hiding in the car - and after only a few minutes we'd notched up all three vultures (Griffon, Black and Egyptian), Red and Black Kite, a single Merlin whizzed over and there were Booted Eagles aplenty. The first Woodchat Shrike was sat in a tree not doing much, and the first Hoopoe flew under a tree and landed and then didn't do much either - neither of them ever seem to do very much. Every scan of the horizon produced swirling groups of White Storks, and the numbers of Black Kites and Griffon Vultures was quite simply stupid. There were also tons of Woodpigeons, always a highlight for me.

Moving further on towards the plains, Spotless Starlings became shit common, and plenty of Azure-winged Magpies were trying to sell us property on the Algarve - "be gone!" I shouted at them. The plains were just as I expected - flat and plain, with some sky above and grassy stuff below. Here's a picture to illustrate what I mean:

What you don't get from the picture above is how cold it was. I'm talking like freezing cold. And it was all the fault of the wind, the cold wind, which made it cold, the wind, cold, blowing cold wind. You get the idea. After only a short while the first target bird was picked up - el Bustardo Grande (trans: Great Bustard). There were three immense males, but they were a bit distant and the haze had already kicked in - must try harder. The first Southern Grey Shrike popped up and then there was a sudden mad screaming cackle from the nearby trees - Great Spotted Cuckoo. Couldn't see it though, shame, real shame. A bit further along and a huge beast of a Great Bustard flew parallel with the car, before 27 Little Bustards came whizzing over and did a little circuit overhead just to show off. Calandra Larks were genuinely shit common, but many of them were irritatingly mimicking Black-bellied Sandgrouse, of which there were none, unless there were Sandgrouse calling but I thought it was the Calandra Larks? Fucking bastard birds.

Dropping into a wooded valley we notched up the first Sardinian Warbler, and were again taunted by a screaming Great Spotted Cuckoo - not getting away this time though, and after being battered by a Magpie a nice juvenile bird flew past and landed briefly... wait for it... in a tree. Thekla Larks started popping up and then there was this:

This is a Black Kite, yeah? Is it? When we were watching it we never thought anything otherwise, but Holy Jesus it looks pretty reddish. Plenty of black on the bill though, so it is a Black Kite, yeah? Hmmm... Anyway, this is definitely a Thekla Lark (fuck off anyone who disagrees!):

More plains and more plainy birds, and then a sudden change of "habo" (cool birding slang for habitat, I'm one of the in-crowd you see, I've even got a woollen hat saying Cream-coloured Courser 2004 on it [I haven't really]) as we dropped down to a bridge. A Black Redstart dived for covered as I made as much noise as possible getting out of the car (I always do, it helps clear all the birds off), an invisible Kingfisher was down by the riverside and a Woodlark sang a beautiful tune that reminded me of drinking Ribena. But vandals, probably bloody kids with their fucking skateboards, iPods and much easier exams at school than we took, had been throwing mud at the bridge - kids today eh! - but some clever Crag Martins had capitalised on this wanton act of destruction and learnt to call the bridge home:

That was enough river for one day, bastard fresh water, we hadn't come all the way to Spain to sit by a fucking river! Back onto the plains and 6 more strutting Great Bustards were this time showing well, but 6 Little Bustards weren't showing very well, and so I cried. Montagu's Harriers were showing well, all six of them. We found a nest and egged it, even though there were no eggs in:

It was now about 3pm and something was starting to annoy me. I couldn't put my finger on it, but I just felt a bit wrong, and then I realised I'd been burnt, fucking Sun! I was as burnt as that time Michael Jackson blew himself up filming the Pepsi advert - ha, served him right for being a slave to the capitalist machine! Light refreshment was needed, and so was sun cream, though it was far too late for that now. Back in Trujillo all manner of mad shit had broken loose:

Everyone was standing around celebrating the Holy Day of our Lord (Jesus, not that fat cunt Lloyd Webber) by holding aloft pink horse-shaped helium balloons, as has been traditional for over 2,000 years. Up on the top of the castle you could see plenty of Lesser Kestrels over the town, and a Pallid Swift took a quick look down below at the square and then pissed off in disgust. Disgust? Yes, disgust. What did I tell you about litter?

Truly disgraceful. I shall write to my MP and my MEP, even though I haven't got one because I'm an anarchist. The day was finished eating raw garlic and drinking wine. God I love Spain!

22nd April

Bottoms Reservoir

Not bad really. Not bad at all. Really. Considering. The wind. And the cold. Not too bad. 12 singing Willow Warblers around the full circumference of the reservoir was worth getting up at 5am for alone. Possibly. But add to this a Common Sandpiper, 6 Chiffchaffs, a Swallow, 4 Siskins, 3 Grey Wagtails, 3 Cormorants and a female Reed Bunting and now we're talking big money. And I haven't even used one single swear word yet. Fu... no, I'm going to resist.

And now for the main event. I'm in the process of writing up a proper trip report that is set to revolutionarise the birding world's view of Extremadura, but these things take time, and with me they tend to take years. So here's a day by day synopsis of the highs and lows of our eleven days in Spain. Suck. My. Balls.

***

22nd March

Day one (the first day in Spain [ie the day that we arrived])

Trujillo - donde esta el burro de la mantequilla?

Hi everyone, my name's Tom, and along with my spouse (whose name isn't Tom, it's Sarah) I went to Spain on holiday to spot birds and eat prawns (you have to eat prawns on holiday, apparently there's some law about it, other than in Cuba, it's different there - best to check your holiday details before you go). To get to Spain we had to fly to Madrid, and to get to Madrid we had to go to Liverpool airport. At Liverpool airport there's a bronze statue of that bone idle hippy lay-about John Lennon (the airport's even named after him - named after a pacifist coward!), and I made my usual hilarious comment that I always make whenever I go to Liverpool airport (which was once before): "Wasn't he really big," I said (the statue is quite big you see). Apparently saying it three times is legitimate grounds for divorce.

At Madrid airport I had my first chance to try out my near fluent Spanish (GCSE grade B thirteen years ago), and soon managed to find my way to the Chaplain's office, even though I was looking for the car rental offices. Still, I was on holiday, the sun was shining (not), the skies were clear blue as far as the eye could see (dull grey) and never ever forget: faint heart ne'er won fair maid! And so four hours later, we were on the road cruising down the highway heading straight for Trujillo. But this is the best bit, I had somehow misplaced my driving licence before going away, and so Miss Cole had to do all of the driving for the whole holiday - talk about shitting yourself inside-out!

Once we were out of Madrid and onto the open plains, we soon began to realise why Spain is considered the birding Mecca of south-west Mediterranean Europe excluding France and Portgual, because there were Woodpigeons absolutely everywhere. In fact, I'd never ever seen so many Woodpigeons before, ever (other than in Lincolnshire a few years back, oh and Glossop a few months back). I was also relieved to see the grand golden arches of McDonald's: "at least we shall not starve, oh wife of mine!" said I.

Driving into Extremadura the roadside birds soon began to get all dead good and everything. White Storks were all over the place, Black Kites as well, not forgetting Black-winged Stilts, Cattle Egrets, Crested Larks... you know the score. And then as we passed signs for the Parque Natural de Monfrague Griffon Vultures were just hanging about floating on the thermals waiting for something to die, like they do, the rotten swines.

It took just over two hours to get to Trujillo, and then the fun began - we had to find somewhere to park. It wasn't much fun. Amazingly the car wasn't written off, and after dumping our luggage in the Hotel Victoria we were off out to see Trujillo, albeit in separate directions (neither of us were speaking after an argument over where to park - I suggested that the car should be stopped immediately so that we wouldn't die, and Miss Cole's response was something along the lines of: "I swear to God I'll rip your nuts off if you criticise my driving one more fucking time!").

Trujillo is excellent. I shall elaborate: it's excellent in a really excellent way. That's enough elaboration. Here's a pair of White Storks up to no good on the top of a building:

That was more than enough sightseeing for one day, it was time for a drink. There were plenty of really nice bars and cafes in the main square, but there was also a gloomy shit hole of a bar at the bottom of the town filled with old drunks, so that's where we went. After only a short period of time I was reacquainted with that most quintessential Spanish tradition, littering. You can't call yourself a true Spaniard unless you throw as much rubbish onto the floor as possible. Tissues, olive pips, nut shells, bottles, in fact anything and everything must all be thrown onto the floor. If you don't throw things on the floor then you'll stick out like a cat with a sore thumb amongst the pigeons. I threw my camera on the floor, but that wasn't on purpose. I think it's broken now.

The day was concluded eating a big meal of bread, chips (fries), meat and ice cream, but not all on the same plate, though I suppose I could have asked for it all on the same plate. The waitress would have no doubt put my unusual request down to a cultural difference, and then got the chef to come out from the kitchen and beat me to death with a soup ladle. But I didn't ask for it all on the same plate. So I'll stop talking about it. In bed I fell asleep very quickly and dreamt about being chased by a big dog, but thankfully it just turned out to be a pig, and not a very big pig at that.

Be sure to come back soon to read about day two. There'll be more incredible adventures as we head out to spot birds on the plains of Santa Marta de Magasca and soon realise (the hard way) that we haven't brought along any sun cream - wow!

20th April

Shire Hill, Lytham St.Anne's and Warton Bank

Ross's Gull - now we're talking!

An early start at Shire Hill again, and this time bingo (ie success). A juicy fat Wood Warbler singing away and eating cake. I reported it to the birdspotting information services in the morning, but it was later reported again at 4pm, so you know what that means - somebody else has been birdspotting in Glossop. Jesus H.Ratzinger, I'm not alone!

Got to say though, I'm getting sick to my tits of all this wind and rain. Wind and rain. Not good. Bad. Real bad. Makes me sad. Surely there must be a tonic or potion to soothe my April melancholy? You'd think so, but I've tried it all: alcohol, religion, crack, being a hippy, listening to Radiohead, drinking my own piss, auto-erotic asphyxiation, enemas... you name it, I've done it... other than, well, you know what, even I'm not that bad. No, there exists no cure known to Man or beast. Oh God of Earth and altar bow down and hear my cry!

And then a cure, a cure to end this gloom and despair. A high Arctic vagrant of diminutive but nonetheless immense proportions, and I know that makes absolutely no sense whatsoever but I just... don't... ca... re.

adult Ross's Gull - completely tits (trans: excellent)

What a shame this magical snow pixy from the far northern lands of ice and cheese had to be at Lytham St.Anne's, you wouldn't wish that on anyone, not even mad Heather Mills. And damn and blast to this cursed inclement weather - confound it to Hell! Fucking hell. Plenty of birds around here though, with good numbers of Knot on the estuary, many of them getting all red and stuff, a Peregrine zoomed through and put the shits up everything, and four summery Black-tailed Godwits were a year tick, which for such a fanatical list-junky obsessed crazed twitching maniac like me is a major event in my life, even bigger than the incident with the shower nozzle, next doors Great Dane and the pack of fig rolls... I've probably said too much already.

Remember last year when I went to Warton Bank to see the Glossy Ibis with that girl who I married (can't remember her name at the moment)? Remember? I do. Well I went again today and saw it again in exactly the same place. That girl I married wasn't with me though, she had to work today, and on a Sunday as well - ha! There was a female Marsh Harrier today. Anyone still reading? Didn't think so.

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Two new links in the column on the left. Idiocy Birding and Bluebirder, and both of them should be bookmarked and added to your favourites immediately, because remember, if you're not featured in my super mega links column on the left it means you're fucking shit and have sex with animals and dead people... and even dead animals, you sick perverts, how can you live with yourselves?

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Coming soon... that Spain trip report I'm supposed to write up... soon... ish

19th April

Shire Hill

Eighteen days without an update. Sorry about that. But this blogging thing gets really hard after a while. I don't know how big league bird bloggers like Charlie at 10,000 Birds manage it. Charlie's always got something interesting to write about, yet I've never had anything even remotely interesting to write about in nearly three years of doing this dross week in week out. That certainly hasn't stopped me though - you can't keep a good man down, and you can't keep a complete cunt like me down either.

Twas windy in the vale of Glossop this morning, and not a creature did stir in Shire Hill's wood, save for the 4 Willow Warblers, Chiffchaff, drumming Woodpeckers, bubbling Curlew and billions of Coal Tits (3). Tits were the highlight (aren't they always, wink wink, nudge nudge... hahahahahahaha, that's soooooooooooooooo funny, wanker), with many of them doing that pathetic display thing where they hold out their wings slightly and then just violently vibrate in an attempt to impress other tits in the area. I reckon you could get £150 from You've Been Framed if you sent in some footage of vibrating tits. "Vibrating tits" - excellent! Do you remember the Vibrating Bum-Faced Goats in Viz? I do. Just thought I'd share that with you. You'll thank me one day.

11th March

Happy birthday to me (Tom [McKinney, The])

I've just noticed that the background colour has turned into a strange girly sky blue. How did I do that? Did I do that? No idea. Still, I think it's a bit better than the depressing Welsh slate grey it used to be. So yes, it's my birthday. Hooray, etc... I've got some great things planned, like watching top BBC medical drama Holby City and then sellotaping a carrier bag over my head. Should be fun.

Sorry (not) that I haven't updated for a while, but I was away in Suffolk with potentially the best birds from a British building window I could have imagined: 2 full summer Med Gulls, 2 Little Egrets, 58 Avocets, Barn Owl, Marsh Harrier, Bearded Tits... Suffolk rocks. Locally things are hotting up, with the moors and plantations starting to fill with extreme rare breeders; I can't say anything else, but let's just say that the rumours of Gyrfalcon being suppressed in north-west Derbyshire may not be entirely without substance. As for these constant rumours about me secretly being American saxophone star Kenny fucking G writing behind a pseudonym, well, I'll leave to you to decide.

Mega recent bird news has been the rediscovery of Beck's Petrel. Like anyone cares, though why anyone would name a bird after that gloomy fucker is beyond me... "she's alone in the new polluuuuution, ooooh I'm a twat." Of course the really, really big news recently is Fidel Castro, whose stepping down has probably terminated popular Marxism, because let's face it, Kim Jong-il is never going to be the new Che (to be immortalised on five quid t-shirts from Primark) if he keeps insisting on wearing those starched cardboard trousers. Long live the Communist struggle! Only without all of the genocide and the war atrocity bits, it's best just to brush those minor glitches under the carpet. Oh well, that's life. Some of the most iconic imagery of our time has come about through the revolution in Latin America, but let's not forget that in Britain we also have our own great cult figures:

Vive le revolucion!