Not Really About Local Patch Birding, Exactly...

A few days ago I wrote about patch birding, mostly to examine the question 'how local must 'local' be?' and things like that. But I was a bit glib, and did miss some important points, as outlined by Mike Morse here in his comment:

...birding a defined area day after day and year after year you build up a history. We have records, stats and annual reports going back decades. It adds a bit of 'purpose' to the general enjoyment of birding. There is also the habitat improvement and management plans we get involved in and that sit well with permissions gained (from earned trust) to wander pretty much where we want within the recording [area]. Add to that history the anecdotes, shared experiences and excitement of a good find then I reckon it's hard to beat.

The validity of Mike's view of what it means to be a local patch birder is borne out at West Bexington and Cogden. And I take my hat off to birders who have achieved similar results at long-term local patches up and down the country. But I wonder how many such folk there are, and what percentage of the birding population they comprise? My guess is that they are fewer than we might think.

All I know for sure is that I am not one of them. I totally get the idea of such commitment adding 'purpose' to the general enjoyment of birding, but personally my ability (and, to be honest, desire) to put my nose to the grindstone to that degree is simply not there. I cannot do it. Even stuff like breeding bird surveys and WeBS counts, etc, leaves me cold; I know from experience that I would just find them a chore.

So, it seems I am something of a lightweight when it comes to local patch birding, and unwilling to 'contribute' very much. I can imagine the grafters among us having a pretty dim view of an attitude like that...

Well, what can I say in my defense? In my almost 40 years of sporadically keen birding I've thought of a few places as my 'patch', including Staines Res, Stockers Lake, the Axe estuary and marshes, Beer Head. At some or all of them I have, with varying degrees of intensity, kept and submitted records, written reports, and generally made an effort to be an information sharer. And that's about it really. Nowadays I am happiest where there are wide-open skies and few people. Sometimes I record what I see, sometimes not so much. I suspect there are countless part-timers like me out there!

And before anyone comments that I have every right to engage in my hobby in whatever way I want to and shouldn't apologise for it... well, thanks, but I know that. And the fact that someone might feel the need to say that (or think it) kind of illustrates my point, which is this:

There is, in birding as in all the hobbies I have ever tasted, a perceived hierarchy of worthiness. Which I find slightly irritating. And which I find quite daft too, because each of us can only be happy in our pastime when giving it the amount of time, and the type and level of effort, that our circumstances and personality make-up allow, and neither of those things make us more or less worthy than anyone else. Well, that's my view...

Or am I just making excuses for being a lazy birder?

Questions and Answers

Four questions I've asked myself today:

1. Ooh! Is that a Yellow-browed?
2. Was that a Woodlark?
3. Was that a Brambling?
4. What was that?..a Snow Bunting??

I almost always bird alone, but my memory tells me that questions like these are just as often heard from birding companions too. Though unless you know one another well, it's more likely to be a simple "What was that call?" or "Hello, what's this in the bush?" without the possible indictment of your birding skills that might result if you keep putting a name to stuff and getting it wrong. To illustrate, the answers to today's four questions were:

1. I very much doubt it. I found a little group of fast-moving Goldcrests and Chiffs and briefly glimpsed something that made me ask the question. It was almost certainly a badly-seen bit of fast-moving Goldcrest or Chiff!
2. Probably not. A small party of Skylarks was among the birds going overhead. I only heard the sound once, briefly; it was most likely a badly-heard bit of Skylark. And wishful thinking.
3. Possibly. A pretty good wheezy call out from the vis-mig birds but, as I was virtually on the beach at the time, the sound of the waves drowned it out somewhat, and I couldn't be sure.
4. Definitely not. This one illustrates how dreadfully rusty I am. Again, a call heard from some overflying migrants, which in this case looked like a party of finches. The bird called two or three times, and it reminded me of the rippling part of a Snow Bunting's call. But as I haven't heard that in many years I had to check it out on the computer when I got home. Er, it wasn't a Snow Bunting! And I have no idea what it actually was.

As you can tell, I've been out birding again. More than once actually. At West Bexington earlier this week I jammed a male Ring Ouzel sitting in full view in a bush about a quarter-mile away, and had fabulous views of a female Merlin hunting the coastal fields in very leisurely fashion for a change. And today I've been out twice...

This morning I went to Burton Bradstock, but only had until 09:00. To be honest I didn't see much, though I did manage to inject some excitement by means of the first three questions above! The vis mig was getting going quite nicely by the time I was leaving, and prior to going out again at 15:00 I noticed from our WhatsApp 'Patch Birding' group that it was still in progress to some extent. As I drove to West Bexington a couple of sizeable flocks of Stock Doves flew across the road in front of me, heading inland. Parking up, it was obvious that small parties of birds of all kinds were still dribbling through across a pretty wide front, mostly heading somewhere between W and NW. If anyone had been keeping a vis-mig tally all day long I can imagine the totals being pretty amazing. At 15:30 I was standing in Labour In Vain Lane, scanning the distant bushes where I had the Ring Ouzel a few days ago, when I picked up the unmistakeable (this time!) call of a Woodlark somewhere overhead. It was following the line of the lane towards me, and went over quite low and away W, calling constantly. Brilliant! No Ring Ouzels today though...

Down to the sea and eastwards. I must write a post about Med Gulls some time soon, because today they were so ridiculously abundant that they did themselves a disservice really. Yes. It was terrible. Today they almost became... and that 'almost' is important, because I feared this might one day happen and I never, never want it to and am therefore resisting the idea... they almost became... (whisper it)... dross.

So anyway, enough of that heretical talk. Let me tell you about my optics. Today I was using Mrs NQS's bins...

On loan from Mrs NQS: the diddy little Nikon 8x30

Using these little beauties today confirmed for me just how overdue were my Zeiss for a proper refurb. These are crystal clear, sharp and contrasty. My poor old Dialyt 10x40 BGAT are not. Four years ago I thought they still compared quite favourably with my buddy Paul's modern Leicas. But recent times have seen them get all misted up inside. Knackered. When I bought them in 1987 I had high hopes that they might see me out, and if the Sussex-based optical wizard to whom I've sent them is able to work the necessary magic, they may yet...

I will let you know.

Also today, the first outing for my new bridge camera (more of which in another post), which meant it got pointed at all sorts of stuff...

22 Stock Doves W at 16:13. How many through the day I wonder??

17 more Stock Doves W at 16:26

I'll finish off with these two Stonechat pics. Normally I wouldn't have bothered even making the effort, because the light was very dim (it was almost 17:30 and overcast) and they weren't even close, but I was curious to see what the camera could do. I don't have any proper settings sussed yet, so these are simply on aperture-priority, ISO 100-400 auto, with the aperture opened up as wide as possible. Well, at a 35mm equivalent focal length of 1800mm (!!) that isn't very wide - f6.3 in fact. These are also hand-held shots, relying 100% on the camera's image-stabilising software. The shutter speed is a pathetic 1/30 sec. Frankly I am staggered. Those Stonechats are about 40m away (the female a bit further I think) and both images are uncropped...

The Scilly Log

Until reminded of it yesterday I had forgotten about this vintage NQS post. It dates from 2008, and my first October trip to Scilly since 1991 I think. My excuse for resurrecting it is of course its topicality...



What is 'The Log'?? If you've never been to Scilly in October, and never stayed at a Bird Observatory, you may well have no idea. It is basically this: first, the birders assemble; next, someone runs through the systematic list out loud, species by species (or group of species eg. divers, Hippolais warblers, etc) - this is known as 'calling the log' - and the assembled mob pipe up with their sightings. For example....

"Yellow-browed Warbler on St Mary's?" goes the call. The responses:
"One at the Dump Clump"
"One, Carn Friars"
"Two, Holy Vale"
And so on.

This ritual serves at least two purposes. One, it allows the recorder to collect bird records nice and easily, and two, it is a source of gen for the assembled birders - if they are just recently arrived they will quickly find out what's around.

Actually, the log also provides you with opportunities to display your birding prowess, and shine among your peers. Like this...

Trumping
You've been out all day, with very little to show for your efforts, but you did spend three hours by the weedy field at Telegraph, carefully counting its inhabitants. Tucked away in your notebook are 8 Whinchats, 180 Starlings and 222 Linnets. Being experienced in the log-calling game you know to keep yourself well reigned-in. Hold back that winning count until the other players have revealed their hands.......then hammer them with your hefty score. This is how it goes:
"Whinchat, St Mary's. Whinchat?"
"Three at Telegraph," squeaks an over-eager young thruster. "Pah!" you think.
"Five, Telegraph," intones an earnest, but kindly voice, trying not to crush the youth.
"Six, Telegraph." Ah, that must be the bloke you saw hanging about by the gate for a good half hour. You crane to check, and it is. It looks like the glory is yours for the taking.
"EIGHT, Telegraph," you announce, with careful emphasis and enunciation - there must be no mistaking the number. A hush descends, and admiring eyes glance your way. You swell with pride.
Right then, Starling soon. You relax and sip your pint.
"Starling?" goes the call. "Any counts?"
Steady. Wait for someone else to call first.
"About two hundred at Telegraph," chirps an accursed estimator.
"Pox!" you think.
You still have those Linnets up your sleeve though, and wait patiently for your moment.
"Linnet? Any groups over 50?"
You hold back.
"About two hundred at Telegraph." The very same bloke.
"Hah!" you think, "Gotcha!" and draw sufficient breath to give extra force to your delivery.
"TWO HUNDRED AND TWENTY-TWO at Telegraph!"
But, just as the heads are once more swivelling in admiration....
"EIGHT HUNDRED AND FORTY-FIVE at the north end, from Telegraph to Watermill." A pause. "TWO HUNDRED AND TWENTY-SEVEN of those at Telegraph"
Defeated, your shoulders slump.
A ring of worshippers forms around the new Counting Hero.

Actually, watching the trumpers in action is even more fun than doing it!

On my previous October visits the log was always downstairs at the Porthcressa, and was PACKED with sweating birders, ten deep at the bar. Nowadays it is upstairs at the Scillonian Club, and in the first few days of our holiday was attended by just 60-80 birders at the most. The numbers swelled noticeably towards the end of the week, and I took these photos on Saturday 11th.

Will Wagstaff is a long-serving resident IOS birder, wildlife tour leader and thoroughly nice bloke. Here he is, 'calling the log':

Judging by the expressions, we must have been on Starling, or Woodpigeon or something equally riveting

Swinging the camera right a tad gives a view over a fair proportion of the bar's populace, though there were still a load further right and behind me. The first Saturday of the peak week. From counts made at the Sociable Plover twitch on Sunday evening it was estimated that around 500 birders were on the isles. This is apparently par for recent years, but compares to something like double that (at least) in the mid-80s/early 90s. Anyway, here they are:

A Scilly first-timer has just called 2 Nuthatches, a Treecreeper and 6 Magpies. No one quite knows what to do with themselves....

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.