An Evening Out

I can rarely be bothered to attend birding-related 'events', so Friday evening was rather out of character. However, the title - In Conversation with Magnus Robb and Killian Mullarney - was hard to resist. And as the venue was just down the road, at Wareham in Dorset, well...

L to R: Lucy McRobert, Magnus Robb, Mark Constantine, Killian Mullarney; in the foreground, rear views of Paul Morton and René Pop.

It was basically a showcase of some of the work carried out by the Sound Approach team, and 'in conversation' aptly describes the evening's vibe. Just in case you don't know, a brief sketch of the main protagonists...

Magnus Robb is a bird sound-recording nutter who conveys his passion with infectious enthusiasm. In 2007 he responded to an email from me about a suspected Iberian Chiffchaff discovered by Steve on Beer Head. I had attached a handful of sound clips extracted from a video that Karen Woolley made, and Magnus helpfully confirmed the ID for us, at the same time introducing me to the term 'plastic song'. He lives in Portugal, and for some reason I had always assumed he was Dutch or Scandinavian or something, so the Scottish accent was a bit of a surprise. Among other roles, he looks after the ever-growing Sound Approach library of recordings.

Killian Mullarney is one of my bird-illustrator heroes. I first encountered his work 40 years ago in a seminal BB paper about the identification of stints and 'peeps' by himself and Peter Grant. The plate of Black-tailed Godwits in the photo above (from the upcoming Sound Approach book on waders) is an example of his astonishing skill, though anyone who owns a copy of the Collins Bird Guide will already be familiar with it.

Mark Constantine is a keen Dorset birder, based in Poole. He is also a founder of Lush Cosmetics and, along with Arnoud van den Berg and René Pop (co-founders in 1979 of the Dutch Birding Association, and both present in the audience), founder of The Sound Approach. His fascination with bird sounds (along with the ability to facilitate expeditions and research) has resulted in a lot of new knowledge in this area.

I took a few photos through the evening, but they're a bit samey. Still, one or two are worth a look, if only for the screen in the background...

Magnus telling us about a close encounter with Little Curlews, or Little Whimbrels if you're stuck in the past like me.

Killian inadvertantly imitating a Little Curlew in flight, as depicted on the screen. His tale involved mucking up a golden opportunity to capture the bird's song by forgetting to switch on the recorder. I could empathise.

Those two Little Curlew stories took place in Australia and Outer Mongolia respectively, and one aspect which came through strongly during the evening was the profligate consumption of aviation fuel involved in the Sound Approach endeavours. And once again I found myself at odds with how some of the 'birding community' goes about things. Sigh...

So yes, a fascinating evening - very much so - but...

Anyway, a nice bonus was meeting David Darrell-Lambert, who plonked down next to me. Though a lot younger than me I was aware of his name from my London birding days, and more recently from Twitter. And through him I met Nick Hopper, a Wareham-based nocmig enthusiast. Again, a name I was familiar with, Nick has been at it since 2011. He has three Ortolans to his credit, one of which occurred while he was listening live. Not envious at all, I gripped him off with my Night Heron and two Stone-curlews. I thoroughly enjoyed chatting with Nick after the event. Like me, he gets pretty excited about the amazing discoveries you make through nocmig recording, and cannot understand why so many birders just don't seem to get it. I've heard the criticism a number of times: 'You don't actually hear the birds as they call; it's all done from analysing a recording the next morning, or the next week, which means you can't count them, can you? So what's the point?' Nick and I were very much in agreement on exactly what the point is. Ah well, their loss.

Mind you, it was evident that Mark Constantine isn't particularly enthusiastic about the idea of analysing nocmig recordings. Listening live, yes, that's okay, and he was clearly delighted to share the story (and play the recording) of his May 2020 Night Heron, the first record for Poole Harbour in 30 years. Mine was coincidentally a month later. Like Mark, initially I didn't know what it was (he identified his bird as Grey Heron, and Magnus put him right) but I'll bet my surprise and pleasure at discovering my bird's true identity was no less intense than his had been. Anyway, Mark's opinions in this area mean that the nocmig section of the Sound Approach website - brilliant though it is - is not so much of a priority for him and hasn't been updated for a while. And, as in any company, I guess what the boss says, goes. Which maybe gives an insight into how the level of effort made in new areas of learning and discovery could easily be subject to the whims of a few wealthy and influential individuals. Possibly.

Talking of nocmig reminds me...

Seán Ronayne is an Irish birder who got into sound recording during the first COVID-19 lockdown in April 2020, like I did. However, he has taken it to another level. Among other things, his nocmig discoveries are simply fascinating. One example involves Yellow Wagtail, a scarce migrant in the Republic of Ireland, with normally around 20-30 records a year. Seán's nocmig tally of 70-odd (crack-of-dawn birds) in an autumn was therefore something of a revelation. And did you know how much mimicry there is in a Whitethroat's song, and what that can tell you about its migratory route? No, me neither. I heartily recommend his 'Wild Mind' talk, on YouTube HERE. It's not only about nocmig, and seeing a young birder get really enthusiastic about his topic is just 100% feelgood. So what are you waiting for?

Winter Sunshine

Winter sunshine is like an early sniff of spring; it's good for the soul and stirs the blood. I wasn't expecting any today, but when it happened I was out like a shot. Cogden called, for the second time this week. The first was uneventful - and dankly grey, and windy, and thick with salt spray - but not so this morning...

I hadn't explored the inland parts of Cogden since last autumn, but gave it a try today. Very, very squidgy. The ground is sodden, and I wasn't surprised to flush a Snipe from one of the meadows. Otherwise just a few Meadow Pipits and the odd Stonechat, but overlaid with an evocative backing track of surf-on-shingle and singing Skylark. Nice.

Then I arrived at the spot where I encountered two Firecrests last October. And, what do you know? Two Firecrests...

Initial view of Firecrest #1. A very nice surprise.

The same bird. Firecrest #2 was nothing like as obliging.

I wonder if they were the same two birds I saw last year. Quite a coincidence if not. Anyway, I pressed on down towards the sea, serenaded all the way...

A rubbish pic, I know, but I can almost hear that uplifting voice.

Thanks to a helpful heads-up from Mike Morse, I was aware that Cirl Bunting was on the cards. There had been none on my previous visit, but I had left it much too late in the day. Today's timing was a lot better...

Hard to believe that this has become almost an expected happening in recent times. A male Dorset Cirl Bunting, with female tucked away top right.

Better view of the female Cirl Bunting. Bright ear covert spot and that fine dark streak curling forward over the eye aid identification. The latter feature was first brought to my attention by Devon birder/artist Mike Langman, and it seems ever so reliable.

Male and female Cirl in the stubble (on the left) plus a male Yellowhammer top right. The female bunting at top right might be a Cirl too, but I wouldn't stake my life on it.

There were at least three Cirl Buntings present (one male) and it is such a treat to have them so local. I hope they go from strength to strength.

The trudge back along the beach was quiet, bird-wise. The late-autumn storms have reprofiled the shingle quite dramatically, and I am curious to see how much the previously-abundant flora has taken a battering. All will be revealed come spring, no doubt.

This insignificant lump of concrete used to provide a nice bit of shelter for seawatching. Not this year.

Same spot, January 2016

Satisfied Customers

I don't suppose a photo has ever screamed 'Brownie Points!' but, if such a thing were possible, this one could be a contender...

The hallway of our little bungalow is finally done.

I shan't try the patience of long-suffering NQS readers by posting photos of the view to the right, featuring beautifully finished cupboards with bespoke doors, neat and functional light switches...that sort of thing...

There is only so much DIY stuff you can get away with on a birding blog, so I will leave it at this: yesterday the entrance matting arrived; I cut it to size, bunged it on the floor, and took the above photo. Next: a big sigh, a fat glass of wine, a swiftly-averted glance at the next jobs on the list. And so it was that I could set out this morning to lead the 2024 season's first Birdwatching Tram with a temporarily clean conscience.

Illness had trimmed our numbers today, but a small and enthusiastic group set out from Seaton Tram Station at 08:30, with our driver, Pete. A spring tide plus recent rain meant the valley was much more flooded than usual, and the top end was heaving with birds. It is so rewarding to show people 'new' birds, sharing small nuggets of knowledge collected over decades of mostly self-centred birding. Two couples had received their tickets as presents, so it felt especially incumbent on me to make things interesting if I could. So - obviously - I waxed lyrical on gulls. Someone asked if Mediterranean Gull was a possibility. 'Yes,' I said, 'Most definitely.' It took a while, but eventually we scraped one out at the farthest point of our journey...

Adult Med Gull. Although I couldn't see it with bins, there is a yellow colour-ring evident in the photo. Presumably a UK-ringed bird. Hampshire, or Sussex maybe?

Brent Geese are unusual on the Axe, so this adult grazing on Sheep's Marsh was a nice surprise. I'm not sure that it was 100% fit. Swivelling its head to preen, it kept overbalancing and falling over. Or maybe it is just very elderly? Old age ain't that kind to humans either...

The wobbly Brent.

Nearing the end of our trip, we stopped for a short time at the Riverside Halt. Which meant a quick scan of the Bovis estate rooftops for Black Redstart. Always a chance at this time of year, albeit slim. Far away I spied a possible candidate, but had to use the camera to confirm one way or the other. Sure enough, a male Black Redstart. At 250+ metres, it was a dot. So, having disembarked back at the tram station I popped round to the housing estate to see if there was any sign. And briefly, there was...

Male Black Redstart. Original photo, from the tram at 250+ metres. Full frame at 2000mm equivalent zoom.

Same bird, I assume. A bit closer.

A good trip. Loads of birds, with one or two nice highlights. And, more importantly, happy punters...

Some of this morning's group. A real pleasure.

That was the first of eight planned outings on the Seaton Birdwatching Tram for me this year. I genuinely look forward to them, and not just for the birding possibilities. Last year, Steve found Wryneck, Caspian Gull and Garganey on his trips (massively eclipsing my own 'find' highlights!) so there is certainly a great deal of potential on these jaunts. But I'll be honest, satisfied customers are enough for me. Birds are a bonus.

If a birdy pot of gold was at the end of that rainbow, it stayed well out of sight.

And So It Begins...

I've surprised myself by firing up the moth trap already. Though I have little sense that last year's obsession might be taking hold again, the current spell of mild weather has nevertheless inspired me. And straight away we're in 'new for garden' territory. Assuming I have the ID correct, Acleris umbrana (Nationally Scarce A) was the highlight of last night's catch. If you can call three moths a 'catch'.

Acleris umbrana may be nationally scarce (the UK Moths website labels it 'a rare and local species in Britain') but it is evidently quite regular in parts of Dorset, with 40+ records in the Bridport area alone, according to the Living Record map.

Friday night delivered a small selection of regular species. The common theme appears to be 'brown'...

A fresh Chestnut.

Common Quaker is described as a moth of March and April, so this one is a bit early.

Hebrew Character - another March/April moth, on paper anyway.

Double-striped Pug - the first of many, no doubt. The commonest pug I get, by far.

The trap is out again tonight. Unfortunately the garden table on which I used to stand it was smashed to bits by one of the late-autumn storms, so the trap is now on the ground. Whether that will make any difference to its efficacy remains to be seen.

A Precarious Existence

Back to work today, but gently, and home for a late lunch. Chilly to start, but what a lovely morning! At my first job - near Hunter's Lodge on the A35 - I could hear Song Thrush and Chaffinch singing, and the garden feeding station was busy with Siskins. The sun had some proper heat in it eventually, and spring suddenly didn't seem so far away.

I wasn't the only one feeling it, judging by the number of people out for a walk at West Bay after lunch. I had high hopes that a Black Redstart might likewise have been drawn to the seafront by the weather, and checked one of their favourite spots by the start of the West Pier. In fact there were two birds - on rocks either side of the pier...

Female type Black Redstart on the east side, beautifully lit...

...and this one on the west side, in more challenging light. The blurry spots to its left and right are flies; there were loads of them.

I spent about 15 minutes trying to get decent shots of the Black Redstarts, then checked the West Pier rocks for Purple Sands. None on show, so I loitered at the far end, just chilling out and wondering what it must be like to be a Fulmar...

Fulmars on the East Cliffs

Just look at them in that photo above, loafing about on their ledges and playing in the updraught. What a life. Here they are again, in a wider shot for context...

Roughly 400m from my vantage point on the pier. Someone on the left enjoying a picnic on the coast path.

Despite being just below a public footpath, a vertical cliff is as undisturbed as it gets, really. Well, you'd think so. The weathered nature of their ledges indicates a piece of cliff that's been around for a while, but to the right is a much smoother section. I expect you can guess why. Yes, the weathered bit has fallen off. And when that happens, this happens...

Another massive cliff-fall.

And so a big slice of Fulmar habitat bites the dust. Eventually the weather will erode the cliff face again but, meanwhile, no Fulmars will be breeding on that bit. A quick glance at the whole of the East Cliff is quite revealing...

An awful lot of unweathered cliff!

Yep, living on a sandstone cliff face is evidently a precarious existence.