Yellow-browed Warbler? Ring Ouzel?

The clifftop fields at Burton Bradstock, and the sun coming up over the West Dorset hills. Lovely. The fat end of Portland just visible top right.

A couple of hours at Burton Bradstock this morning. Mine was the first vehicle into the Hive Beach car park, and before I'd even made it past Billy Bragg's house I was stopped by a calling Chiffy. A couple of Goldcrests in the hedge too. Ooh, action! Was this going to be the day I find a local Yellow-browed Warbler? Something I've never managed, that. More than a decade ago I found one in a little village I was working in near Chard in Somerset, but, so far, not anywhere I could legitimately call my patch. Today then??

The grass was dripping as I bee-lined for the scrubby fringe that hangs off the inland side of the clifftop fields, just where the land drops away to a NE-facing slope. The few times I've been up here have convinced me that one day it'll hold a Ring Ouzel. Today maybe??

One or two more Chiffs and 'crests, and a Lesser Whitethroat kept me buoyant. Plus there was a steady flow of overhead goings-on. Swallows, Meadow Pipits, Skylarks, Chaffinches, alba wagtails, assorted silent bits and bobs. And of course, that constant need to have your eyes everywhere in case a Short-eared Owl or something tries to sneak through.

Coming down off the high ground brings you to a small river, and I followed it back towards the village. It is lined with bushes and trees, including some very birdy-looking sycamores. Was my Yellow-browed along here then?? Two more Lesser Whitethroats were a surprise, a couple more Chiffies and Goldcrests less so.

Too soon I was back in the car park, but managed to string things out a bit longer by having another good look at the bushes, and then a long peer out to sea, where a very distant feeding flock of Gannets had apparently not been able to attract any skuas.

So, Yellow-browed Warbler? No. Ring Ouzel? Er, no. When I make an effort to be conscious of it, I can't help smiling at the number of times I employ that little psychological device, imagining the Yellow-brow here, the Ring Ouzel there, and so on. It certainly keeps me alert, particularly when there are some birds about, like this morning. Is it just me? I doubt it...

How the Birder's Mind Works

On Twitter today I spotted a screenshot that someone had posted a few days back. It was a bit of negative bird news re a Siberian Stonechat on Unst, Shetland: 'earlier reported individual was a Whinchat', it said.

I suspect this is a prime example of what happens when birders let a natural process run away with them. What natural process? The subconscious analytical machinery that grinds into life every time a birder claps eyes on a bird. It goes something like this...

Bird hops into view, in deep shadow.
   "Hello. What's this?"
Unbeknown to the birder, his mind is already on the case, and makes him say:
   "Another poxy Robin?"
Bird hops out of view. Nothing more than a silhouette was visible.
   "Hmm. Looked a bit slim. Didn't call..."
Yes, the birder's mind is already working hard to elevate a rubbish view of nothing into something.
   "Was there just a hint of pale throat there? Eye-ring even?"
Birder's mind is now just unashamedly inventing stuff.
   "There was a Bluetail up the coast yesterday..."
And there we go, the birder has given free rein to his deceitful thought process, and the door to a very dark place is creaking open...
   "Nah. Just a Robin, surely."
Phew! Birder has regained control.
   "Let's just give it a couple of minutes though."
Safe ground still.
Nothing further happens. Birder walks on, slightly more alert, reputation still intact.

Something like this probably happens hundreds, or even thousands of times a day around the country. Mostly without mishap, I'm sure. Go somewhere like Shetland, though, and you need a firm grip on those reins. If not...

Pale, chat-thing perched on fence, in full view.
   "Hello. What's this?"
Unbeknown to the birder, his mind is already on the case, and (because it knows he's on Shetland, rather than down the local patch) makes him say:
   "Aaargh!! Got to be a Sibe Stonechat! Get in!!!!"
Reason and Logic were both left behind at home, so the birder is now at the complete mercy of his deceitful mind, which is having quite a lot of fun...

So anyway, this all became quite relevant this afternoon when I ventured out once again to East Bexington, because...

Ooh look! There's a pale chat-thing on the fence!

Admittedly, knowing that I was in coastal West Dorset, my mind had already picked 'Whinchat' from the list of options, but it still made me examine the Siberian Stonechat possibilty before I'd even raised my bins. This is healthy enough, and I was grateful to it for doing so. If it had been the latter, I like to think my mind would not have allowed me to overlook it.

Here it is, a little closer...

A nice juv. That supercilium has a life of its own.

This was the most pleasing bird I came across, though 20+ Med Gulls were also superb, as always.

However, the most intriguing event of the afternoon involved something offshore. I am scanning the choppy sea with my bins, roughly in line with Portland Bill...

A low, dark shape on the surface, gently curved, quite distant, and frequently vanishing into troughs...
   "Hello. What's this?"
Unbeknown to the birder, his mind is already on the case, and makes him say:
   "Er....????"
Yes, my mind was remarkably blank for a few seconds. It looked like a creature rather than flotsam, and then, as it heaved into view again, I could see that it had a head, visible to the right of the low, dark mound of its body.
   "Must be a seal, surely?"
My birder's mind had defaulted to the most likely candidate. Very safe, just how I like it.
   "But why is it lying horizontal on the surface like that?"
I can count on the fingers of two hands (maybe even just one) the number of times I have seen a seal in this eastern part of Lyme bay, so they're scarce as it is, but I'm pretty sure I've only ever seen them 'bottling', with their head poking out of the water, body submerged and out of sight.
   "Hmmm. Strange..."
And then my birder's mind was off! It reached deep into the realm of fanciful nonsense, and made me say:
   "Could it be a turtle? Leatherbacks can be big."
It was big, for sure. And something about it didn't look right for a seal...but it was distant, in view only intermittently, and I was being buffetted about by the strong wind. I needed a better look. I quickly walked 20 yards to a big stone and sat down, resting elbows on knees to steady my view...

It had vanished. I looked and looked, but never saw it again. I actually gave it about half an hour. My birder's mind had by now got quite excited about the 'Leatherback Turtle' possibility, and wanted me to put in some proper effort. I figured that if it was a seal I would likely see it again; I wasn't so sure about the chances of seeing a turtle again once it had dived.

So there we are. Clearly you're not getting any 'Leatherback Turtle in Lyme Bay' string from me. But if one is spotted from Portland or something, well, obviously I saw it first.

And if not, well, my birder's mind certainly had quite a bit of fun with me this afternoon...

The 'Local Patch' Thing

Many years ago I drove to my local patch, Staines Res, and found these...

Two Temminck's Stints on the drained South Basin of Staines Res. May 28th, 1985

But what exactly is a local patch?

Because, arguably, Staines Res would not have qualified. The drive there from my home in Northolt took a good 20-25 minutes; more, when the traffic was bad.

So, must your 'local patch' be the nearest bit of birdy habitat to your home? Or must it be within a certain distance? Does it have to be a discrete area confined within a specific boundary? And so on...

I've been pondering all this recently, because I am finding myself drawn to several different local spots and really don't want to be constrained by some arbitrary definition. So, rather than let it bother me I think I shall simply erase the term 'local patch' from my birding vocabulary, and just be content to go birding...

And I have been doing that a bit lately. Going birding I mean. Yesterday morning, for example, I went out early to the cliffs at Burton Bradstock, hoping for some vis-mig. It never got going up to the time I left at about 08:30, though I did have a flock of 18 Ravens fly west, which surprised me. The habitat up there looks full of potential too...

Burton Cliffs, looking west

On Wednesday afternoon I found a few pipits in the fields here, both Meadow and Rock...

Did I really call Rock Pipits 'dead-boring-dull' in my last post? Hmm, rightly so.

And a couple of posts back I wrote about venturing out beyond West Bexington. It takes me nearly 15 minutes to drive to the parking spot in West Bex, so not exactly local local. So anyway, I walked almost to the Abbotsbury beach car park this time. It was blowing a hoolie, but again, virtually no-one about. Look at this...

Fantastic...

There were quite a few small gulls knocking about in a couple of ploughed fields, including at least 6 Meds, and at one point a Merlin hammered through and put them all up. Best views of Merlin I've had for ages.

A relaxed, post-Merlin Med Gull

 
When I stop and think about it, I cannot believe how fortunate I am to live here in coastal West Dorset. It is simply lovely...

For some reason there is a certain cachet that goes with being known as a keen local-patch birder, especially if you find good birds from time to time. Adjectives that sit well in front of 'patch-worker' would include hard-working, conscientious, loyal, tireless, and so on. I'm not sure any of this is justified really. If you enjoy going birding as much as possible, happen to live in a very birdy location, and have the circumstances in life to exploit its potential, well, that's great, but hardly worthy of kudos. Envy, more like...

Red-throated Pipit

Every single year the hackneyed old Scilly vs Shetland debate surfaces online somewhere. Wearily and resignedly, I expect. But let's face it. When all the pros and cons have been weighed, the stats analysed...who actually cares? I would imagine many birders will at some time try both, and wind up gravitating towards whichever they most enjoy. I've been to both (though Shetland only once) and I prefer Scilly. That's not because I feel it is better for rarities. And it's not because I live in the south and feel it wins logistically. In fact it's not for any objective reason whatsoever. It is simply because I love the place. If I could afford the time and money, I would visit every year, several times. And Mrs NQS loves it too; win-win.

One of these days I want to write a post about my first ever visit, in October 1984, when Scilly captured my heart. But that was a full-on birding trip with a bunch of fellow birders, and a bit different to what I want to write about today. Today I am going to share an anecdote from my first family holiday there, in late May, 1985. I had been captivated by the islands the previous autumn, and was eager to introduce them to my wife under less feverish circumstances. A spring week seemed ideal.

The inspiration for this post appeared on Twitter earlier today...

Just look at that stunner...

So there we are on Scilly in May '85. I have just turned 26. We have a two-and-a-half-year-old toddler, and Mrs NQS is sporting a 7-month bump. Everywhere we go, we are wheeling a child's buggy and a massive bag full of kid-related paraphernalia - any parent reading this will know the score. Trailing that lot down the local park or high street is one thing, but on our first full day we cart it all onto an inter-island launch, spend an hour or two with the Annet Puffins and then land on St Agnes. Being lunch-time, everyone heads left for the Turk's Head. Being instinctively contrary, we head right, which takes us round past Porth Killier to the Big Pool. I forget the date, but it's something like May 19th, so migrants are few and far between. More precisely, there aren't any at all. But there are Rock Pipits, so I helpfully point out the salient ID features, like the greyish outer tail feathers, and the way the call sounds like the air being forcibly squeezed out of them: 'wheesp'...

Picture the scene, then. A young couple, with toddling child, wheeling a heavily laden (early-'80s!) buggy along the rough footpath past Porth Killier. It's late May. The birding is clearly going to be rubbish. They come to the so-called Little Pool (a marshy puddle) and yet another pipit flies past them. Except this one has white outer tail feathers, not grey, and instead of a feeble 'wheesp' it goes 'spzzzzzzzzzt' for about half a minute without drawing breath, and instead of being dead-boring-dull it is all stripey and contrasty, and has a stonking brick-red throat, face, super, the lot! Aaargh! It's a blinkin' Red-throated Pipit!

In my mind's eye I can see the whole scenario so clearly that it's making me smile as I type this. That Red-throat gave us such a great show. It crept about in the damp grass, it flew around calling, it was constantly on view. And we had it all to ourselves. But of course, we wanted to share this gorgeous jewel, so we scanned around for other birders. It was May. There were none. In the distance by the Big Pool we spotted a bloke wearing bins though, and I hurried over to tell him about the spanking rarity "just over there where my wife is..." "Oooh, that sounds nice," he said, and carried blithely on his way.

I had no idea how to get news out, but remembered from the previous autumn that there was a little shop on the island, so later that afternoon we called in to report it. I sensed mild scepticism. "Hmmm. We were down at the cricket pitch this morning and didn't see anything then..."

A few weeks earlier, David Hunt, the only Scilly resident birder I knew of, had been killed by a tiger in India, so that evening we asked our guest-house proprietor if he knew anyone we could pass the news to. And that was how I became acquainted with Will Wagstaff.

Needless to say, Scilly has a claim on me that surpasses any logical, objective consideration, and always, always wins.

The Bins Get an Outing

It's fair to say that my birding has languished in the doldrums for a while now. And so has my blogging of course. And fishing. And...well...everything. It is true that my time and energies this year have been somewhat stretched by our little home's aching need for some love, but in between zealous bouts of DIY there is no reason why I couldn't have made an effort to get out in the field a bit. Well, I'm happy to say that something has blown a bit of air into my sails, though I'm not entirely sure what.

Ironically, I suspect that a recent unsavoury bit of local birding 'hoax' nonsense has played a part. It reminded me that there is actually a good number of honest, reliable birders in East Devon and West Dorset, and they make up a very supportive and collaborative network of observers. I feel quite privileged to know many of them, and occasionally to contribute. Perhaps I ought to try and contribute a bit more often?

Another factor may well be the season. Autumn. Scilly happenings. A Twitter feed full of exciting birdy stuff. I'd have to be dead not to be stirred at least a little bit.

So anyway, this afternoon I thought I'd go exploring...

There is a stretch of coast between West Bexington and Abbotsbury that I discovered while out on a long run earlier this year. It caught my attention for a number of reasons. Firstly, access is poor; there is no convenient car park. Second, the habitat looks great: a long stretch of shingly beach backed by sloping fields and isolated stands of cover. And third, I don't recall ever hearing bird news from this area, so maybe it's not watched that much? I figured I could park up at West Bex, walk along the lane to Labour-in-Vain Farm, then down to the coast and eastwards, then maybe back along the beach. So, at 16:30 I locked the car, pulled on my boots and set to...

Heading down to the sea from Labour-in-Vain Farm

A bit of tamarisk. Looks nice doesn't it? Mind you, must remember it's, er, not quite Scilly.

By this stage I hadn't seen much. About 4 Chiffs and little else. And then I came across a bunch of gulls on the beach...

Two adult Med Gulls in there. Shouldn't be too hard to pick out.

Just inland of here was a large brown field with a tractor working it, breaking up the big lumps into little lumps (I'm sure there's a technical term) and pulling in a fair few more gulls. Although I couldn't find anything decent in the gull collection, I noticed there were lots of alba wagtails scuttling about, so I tried to see if any might be White Wagtails. I find the subtle autumn albas quite a challenge, but there was at least one on view that even I couldn't muck up...

A nice adult White Wagtail. A bit distant and fuzzy.

There may well have been others out there, but I was suddenly distracted by brown things flitting about. Brown birds on brown soil are tricky to see until they move, but I am pretty sure it added up to 2 Wheatears and 3 Whinchats...

Whinchat

Wheatear

This rather faded adult Whinchat kindly perched on a fence momentarily, whereupon I proceeded to muck up the exposure a bit.

Well, that was it bird-wise, but moments later I had a very nice close encounter with a hare. I say 'very nice', but mixed feelings on this really. It's true that I don't come across hares very often locally, but when I do I would rather they be fit and healthy and a bit shy perhaps. This poor fella was nothing of the kind, and more than a bit knackered if you ask me...

I don't think it could see very well; it let me creep quite close. I could see its nostrils working overtime trying to figure out what this stinky creature might be, and whether it was dangerous. If it had been a rabbit I'd have said it was probably infected with myxomatosis, but sadly Google tells me that recent reports suggest the disease may have passed from rabbits to hares in the UK.

A bit of context.

Finally, as the sun set I walked back along the path by the the beach until I came to the West Bexington car park, and then up the road to my car. I think I might do this again...

Walking west, this road soon peters out into a deeply rutted track and then finally vanishes. It's called the Burton Road, apparently. I challenge anyone to drive along it to Burton Bradstock!

My Happy Bird

It's January 1986, and I'm out birding on the western outskirts of the London recording area. To be honest, I'm feeling jaded. 1985 had been a bit full-on, with a serious attempt at a big London year list. I'd managed 193 species. Pleasing enough, but well short of competitor (and, thankfully, friend) Rupert Hastings' new London record of 200. True, there had been some great moments, but also quite a few not-so-great. Plus - being young still - I'd learned some sobering home truths, which is rarely a fun thing. First off, I had really struggled with motivation at times. Very disappointing. Worse still, I had finally realised what a totally selfish divot I was. Married, with a toddler, and a baby newly arrived that July, what on earth was I doing attempting a London year list in 1985?! Completely irresponsible. Mind you, I did forgo a Scilly holiday that October. And of course with hindsight that turned out to be a pretty immense sacrifice! So anyway, as I trudge around Queen Mother Reservoir, my wooly hat pulled low against the freezing wind, my wellies ploughing through fresh snow, I am not really feeling it. Winter on the London reservoirs can be quite exciting on occasion, but today I can barely be bothered to raise my bins. There is a blizzard hammering across the water, and the snow is getting deeper now that I'm on the south bank, where drifts have built in the lee of the concrete wall. Here and there, right next to the wall, tufts of grassy vegetation poke through. Suddenly, out of one of them flies a small bird. It gives a little rattly call, a soft 'chew', and dives back into the next bit of cover. I am shaken out of my gloomy state by a welcome charge of adrenaline. I think I know exactly what is about to happen. Sure enough, a careful approach rewards me with a cracking little Lapland Bunting, gleaning seeds from this small, weedy pocket in the snow...

I spent ages with that Lapland Bunting. I no longer have the notebook, but yes, I made proper notes, a ropey sketch. The bird was still present the following day, and at least one ex-London birder whom I follow on Twitter was among the successful twitchers. As you might imagine, Lapland Bunting was a very rare bird in London, especially in the west.

Over the years I have always had a soft spot for Lapland Bunting, and I very much suspect this has something to do with my happy encounter with one on that bitter winter's day more than 30 years ago, when I was feeling a bit low. That bird cheered me up then, and its descendants can still do so today. So I didn't need much prompting when one turned up at Cogden Beach a couple of weeks back. Mrs long-suffering-NQS and I walked over from Burton Bradstock and were rewarded with a total absence of other birders, and a typically confiding Lap...

In addition, there were quite a few Wheatears, including this strikingly grey-naped individual...

I know this blog has been very quiet in recent times (recent years?) but I'm glad that I still get the urge now and then. To be honest, today's post might easily have been about something very else indeed, and if you are aware of yesterday's Mugimaki Flycatcher scare you will get my drift. But in all honesty I found the whole sorry saga just desperately sad, and in many ways feel it's better left alone to fizzle out like the shrivelled balloon that it is...

Collecting Stuff

Well, hello. To any who might be visiting NQS on the off-chance of a new post: I salute your optimism. I hope it's worth it...

I haven't bothered all that much with Twitter just lately either, but a couple of recent happenings have finally inspired me to creak open the laptop again. A bird and a butterfly. Let's start with the bird....

The Brown Booby in Cornwall is su-u-u-u-ch a serious mega. I mean, come on! Thirty-something years ago I'd have been all over it myself. And what fun it would have been! No 'roll up, there it is' job, this, but all the thrill of the chase, by the sound of it. So when it perches up at close quarters on a St Ives rock, in front of a gaping crowd of happy twitchers (and their cameras), are we surprised to find multiple shots appearing on our Twitter feeds? Of course not.

And the butterfly? Well, Long-tailed Blue of course. On my own Twitter feed, almost as ubiquitous as the booby. Even I jumped on the bandwagon. Look...

Bank-holiday Blue...or something like that. Male. Axmouth, Devon.

And to be fair, this wasn't a 'roll up, there it is' type scenario either. In fact, Mrs NQS and I were there with a couple of others for a good hour before one showed. We arrived about 10:30, just as the dull, cloudy morning was beginning to show signs of brightening. Would the coming sunshine work its magic? Well, we hoped so.

Waiting...

Of course, you already know the outcome: it was a good one. And if you follow me on Twitter, well, there was my photo, cluttering up your feed. In fact, I would imagine most bird and nature-oriented UK Twitter feeds are right now heavily laden with Long-tailed Blue pics. Ditto Brown Booby. And if you read the comments - especially the birdy ones - there'll be loads of back-slapping "Nice twitching, mate!" "Well deserved!" and so on. Blah blah...

So, let me pose a question. Does all that get on your nerves a bit?

Before you answer, let me offer this for consideration...

I was born long enough ago that, as a kid I collected both birds' eggs and butterflies. While I was still at primary school my maternal uncle passed on to me a small collection of birds' eggs that he'd put together in his childhood, probably in the 1930s and 40s, and I added a few from the local hedges. Similarly, a paternal uncle (with the same name as me) was a keen butterfly collector in his young days, with several cases of specimens which filled me with awe. I don't think my own butterfly collection even reached double figures (I couldn't afford proper mounting equipment, and my mother certainly refused ever to sanction a killing jar) but it's true that, in their way, both uncles - and their collections - stimulated in me an interest in the natural world. And I would imagine that many of my contemporaries could tell a similar story.

How things have changed in 50 years! Thankfully. Or have they...?

In reality, I would suggest that collecting is still rife. Except that most collectors these days do it with a camera. Or even a pen. If you keep a list, well, isn't that just a virtual collection? I say 'most' collectors, for a reason. When Mrs NQS and I were trying to add Long-tailed Blue to our own virtual collections we were conscious that the previous day some dodgy geezer with a net had been intent on adding it to his physical one. As far as we knew, he hadn't succeeded, but as we stood there waiting... Well, we all know that birds can do the off quite easily, but it's many decades since twitchers of birds have had to worry that their quarry might have been 'collected' in the literal sense. Rare, migrant butterflies, on the other hand, are fair game, legally speaking. Well, they are if you have no conscience...

So, am I bothered when modern-day collectors have a harmless little boast on Twitter, with their multiple, almost-identical photos? When the alternative might be a glass-topped box reeking of camphor and filled with sad, crispy little pinned things...er...no.