Exploring

More exploration today. Between the A35 coast road and the sea at West Bay lies a broad strip of land which includes the winding River Brit and its modest flood plain. There are also grassy fields, hedges and a few intriguing little tangled areas. Again, apart from in West Bay itself, no one was about...

Looking down towards West Bay from high ground to the northwest

Judging by the little fireplace, this must once have been a dwelling of sorts. It lies next to a footpath, and right alongside the embankment of the A35 dual carriageway. A sorry relic of times long past.

Coming down the West Cliff footpath. A lively sea going on there...

To be honest I've never given any of this area a fair trial. A few times last spring I walked through some of it quite rapidly on my way to the sea, but apart from a couple of Whimbrel by the river I never really saw anything of note. But lying just inland of the south coast, surely it must have migrant potential?

Today though, like almost everywhere else I've tried locally, it mainly felt dead. However, at least a few birds were taking advantage of a wet field next to the river...

Between the birds and me lies the river itself, making this area relatively undisturbed. All the other riverside fields are dog-walked to oblivion. And 52 Lapwings constitute the largest flock I've seen locally, outside the incredible 'Beast from the East' movement three years ago.

This Lesser black-backed Gull was the pick of the bunch.

It was blowing a hoolie, so maybe a bit much to expect anything to show in the fields and hedges. Presumably any bird with sense would be keeping its head down. I shall try again on a calm day.

This female type Black Redstart was most definitely keeping its head down, nicely sheltered in the lea of some of West Bay's...er...classiest architectural gems.

I saw what was presumably the same Black Redstart on January 1st, at the top of the West Cliff footpath pictured above. She obviously gets about.

So no new birds for the year. The months of January and February basically serve two main purposes. One, to provide gulls. And two, to build suspense as March approaches. And that's it. Expect nothing more of them. I certainly shan't.

Onward and Upward

Today's weather forecast predicted a wet afternoon, so I bashed out some work this morning and then sat next to the estuary in my usual lunchtime spot. The Axe is currently hosting an Avocet, and I spotted it asleep among the far bank Black-tailed Godwits...

Avocet on the Axe

While mucking about with this photo I thought to myself, 'Hmm, it's almost monochrome. I wonder if it would look better in black and white?' So I duly processed it as such...

Avocet and Blackwits in B&W

...and realised it looks very similar! So, there's today's arty effort.

A good number of gulls, but apart from a single Med Gull I couldn't winkle out anything unusual. Eventually the rain started and I headed home. Which is possibly where I'll be for the next couple of days if the appalling forecast holds true.

So here we are in Lockdown 3, more than half-way through January, with a wet and windy spell imminent. So, probably more thinking time than birding time. Some of my fellow bloggers have been sharing plans and intentions, which is always food for thought. Some of those plans involve measuring, counting and recording, most of which I've been largely avoiding for a while now. Though I did keep a BWKM0 list in 2020. I plan to do so again this year, though I'm just going to call it a Garden List. Late this afternoon, during a break in the rain, I could hear a distant Song Thrush singing, which puts said list on a measly 22. The target to beat is 63. That total includes some real corkers, like Fulmar, Cuckoo, Greylag, and Nightjar for example, so naturally I thought it is going to be really hard to top...

On Saturday 9th January I spent some time freezing my bits off in the garden, skywatching. Among the handful of bits and bobs which flew over was an adult Common Gull. Considering how many there are on the coast right now, I wasn't in the slightest bit surprised. Still, I papped it for posterity...

Common Gull. The first of many garden dots in 2021, I hope.

...and thought no more of it.

Until now. Sitting here a few minutes ago I suddenly had a nagging thought.

Sure enough, a quick check of my 2020 list reveals a big gap where Common Gull ought to be. Hard to believe maybe, but I didn't knowingly see one from the garden last year. I didn't start the list until March 22nd, but even so...

Anyway, that's one way to extract a bright note from a dull, wet afternoon. Common Gull. Yay! Onward and upward!

Time With the Buntings

One of my favourite things about birding is the infinite learning curve. Because I've seen so few of them, the West Bex Cirl Bunting really tested me. So I've wanted to spend a bit of time with the bunting flock to try and get my eye in a bit. And that's when you really notice how variable female Yellowhammers can be, for example in the strength of their face pattern. But one thing they all seem to share is an overall yellowish cast, which the Cirl doesn't exhibit at all. I say Cirl, singular, but a few days into the new year Mike and Alan found a second bird in the flock! This weekend I bit the bullet, took a short drive and a long walk, and spent some time with the buntings...

A bit distant, and not as sharp or well-exposed as I'd like, but it is the Cirl Bunting rump shot I was hoping for. Streaky olive-grey, and totally different to the rich russet backside of a Yellowhammer.

Two female Cirl Buntings with a female Yellowhammer (middle bird)

And again. Those bright ear-covert spots are very noticeable in the field.

One of the Cirl Buntings spent a short time alongside a female Yellowhammer, and there was a brief opportunity for some nice comparison shots...

To be fair, the face pattern on this Yellowhammer (left) is quite a weak one

Very different, but subtle...

I recently learned that the nearest breeding Cirls are less than 30 miles away, so although these two are a bit out of range there is reason to be hopeful. But it does make you wonder if there might be a few more birds lurking among Yellowhammers elsewhere along the coast. Certainly the subtle, tricky females would be dead easy to overlook.

In other news, I've been spending work lunchbreaks by the Axe Estuary as usual, but seen nothing bar the odd Med Gull. And on the masochism front I've managed a run of sorts every other day. I usually aim to head out just as it's getting dark, and there aren't many people on the streets at this time. That said, there are even fewer when I walk in the countryside. Today I met a single family of two adults, three kids and a dog. I simply stepped off the track and into a field to let them pass. There may be more people about than during Lockdown 1, but around here it's still noticeably quiet.

A couple of final bunting pics...

West Bex Corn Bunting. Normally this would be the highlight.

Female Cirl Bunting, completely not caring that there's no male.

Barbel Tales

Like Carp Tales, this post is one of those self-indulgent jobs aimed at providing me with a nostalgia-rich read on future wet and dismal days. I am slowly and inexorably becoming an old man now, so stuff like this is to be expected. Sorry.

The story begins in 1974. At least I think that's the year. I also think it's late summer. However, I absolutely know that I'm sitting in the passenger seat of Ginger's VW van as it carries us west through the pre-dawn darkness. I am so keyed up! Barbel are the quarry, a fish I've never even seen before, let alone caught. And we're going to the fabled River Kennet at Thatcham, then on the London Anglers Association ticket. Barbel City. From the car park you crossed to the far bank of the river by a narrow footbridge...

Every angler stops on bridges. Always. I still do. If the bridge carries a road, chances are I'll check both sides too. Can't help myself. Below that rickety little bridge over the Kennet, invisible in the dark, mysterious water, I imagined leviathans. In the event, neither of us caught a barbel. Ginger hooked and lost one, and I got bored with watching a motionless rod tip, swapped legered luncheon meat for float-fished caster and caught a plump, pound-and-a-quarter roach.

Some two decades later I revisited that stretch of the Kennet, by then known as Rainsford Farm, as a member of Thatcham AA. From the same footbridge I watched a thick swathe of streamer weed occasionally waft aside to reveal a large, pink-finned, grey-green barbel lurking beneath, untemptable. Rob was with me, a young teenager himself now. We both caught a few modest barbel that day, on sweetcorn I recall.

The Hampshire Avon's Royalty Fishery provided my first barbel, and as I write, also my last, documented here. A week on the Avon in 1976 was enough to persuade me to do it again the next year. I dread to think what horrible little Instamatic type camera is responsible for the following, but it is one of very few photos from those times...

July 1977. The state of it! I can't help noticing that the background is pitch black. Which means we were fishing after dark - not allowed. I seem to remember somehow climbing across the famous pipe bridge to sneak out undetected. The photo shows a modest barbel from next to the railway bridge.

Like almost everything else I do, fishing has come in fits and starts. In the 1990s I made several visits to the Kennet once more, to Padworth and Rainsford Farm, and a Reading & District stretch called Upper Benyons. At Padworth one evening I fished a shallow run upstream of a weedy section, regularly catapulting small doses of hempseed across the river in an effort to tempt the fish out of their hiding place. It worked. Lobbing out a lightly-legered lump of cheese and allowing it to trundle round in the flow did the trick, and I caught an amazing 16 barbel. I never met anyone else who used cheese for barbel, but they were sometimes suckers for it. I never got close to that kind of haul on the Kennet again. I once caught 16 in a day on the River Teme though, in 1990 I think. Those were some of the hardest scrapping barbel ever. Serious arm-ache.

A Padworth 8-pounder. Not sure whether or not this was from the Amazing Night of Sixteen, but I'm pretty sure it was from the same swim

A superb mid-'90s Upper Benyons barbel. Summery loveliness...

The Kennet and I parted ways again, for about 15 years this time. And then Rob began working over that way, a good excuse to drive up from Devon and join him on the river once in a while. I don't know how many barbel I've caught over the years, but many hundreds for sure. In all that time I never managed a 'double', a ten-pound-plus fish. In my absence, the Kennet barbel had grown fewer but bigger, and a double was now a real possibility. In June 2010 I visited Rob for a couple of days on the river. The fish were reluctant to play, but eventually I caught a barbel. Just one...

Upper Benyons on 22nd June, 2010. A double at last. 10lb 4oz.

2011 was the last time I fished the Kennet. Again with Rob. We rented a little cottage for a few days in September. The fishing was dreadfully slow. The prolific days of yore were seemingly over. I think we only caught three or four barbel between us, despite systematically searching long stretches of the river. One afternoon I spent some time slowly walking a short length which lent itself to fish-spotting. Weedy and not too deep, with some nice gravel runs between the beds of streamer. Unfortunately it appeared totally fishless. Still, watching the gently swaying sheets of greenery can be a bit hypnotic, and I ended up standing there like a lemon, day-dreaming...

And then a little puff of silt. A small, insignificant mini-cloud of disturbed river bed seeped out from beneath the weed. Surely a feeding barbel? There it was again. From upstream I cast a bait over the weed, hoping it would come to rest within sniffing distance of what must surely be a fish. Ten minutes later...

12lb 2oz of muscly perfection.

That was my biggest Kennet barbel by far, also my last. The date, 12th September, 2011. I wonder if it was actually my last Kennet barbel ever? I'll be frank. I feel no urge to return. Even ten years ago it was evident that things had changed from my younger days. More anglers, chasing fewer fish. There may be monsters, but size alone hasn't been a thing for me in a long, long time. If ever, actually. Even more so today, it's all about the experience. The surroundings, the wildlife, the company. And a few bites of course. Does size really not matter? Well, fish big enough to set the pulse racing are nice, but nowadays no more than a welcome bonus.

It was Rob's desire to fish the Royalty that drew me back to the Hampshire Avon on 3rd March, 2017. And so it was, some five and a half years since that Kennet 12-pounder, that this fish ended a very wet day in Christchurch...

7lb 7oz

That barbel was caught just a few yards from the very spot where I caught my first in 1976. A few yards, but more than 40 years. And now of course I'm wondering where, when, and actually if, I'll ever catch another...

Lockdown 3

So here we are in Lockdown 3, and once again our birding (and fishing) plans have been somewhat knobbled. What to do...?

When the first national coronavirus lockdown began in March 2020, all the nearby coastal car parks closed. From West Bay to Abbotsbury Beach, including the National Trust car parks at Burton Bradstock and Cogden, all shut. For a good seven or eight weeks the coastline was empty. Fairly quickly I was able to work out some excellent walking routes which combined decent birdy potential with minimal risk of encountering anyone else. By far the 'riskiest' aspect of every walk was the bit that took me along local streets and through the greener parts of town, because that was where so many headed for their walking, running, cycling, dog-walking etc. Once out in the countryside it was dead easy to give the very few other people I saw a nice, wide berth.

In Lockdown 1 a so-called 'phased' re-opening of car parks began on May 13th, along with a relaxing of the 'stay local' government guidance. Cue mass migration to the coast. This time though, we have an interesting combination in play. The 'stay local' guidance is once again being strongly encouraged, and yet all the car parks remain open. Talk about mixed message.

It's been interesting to read some of the online discussions. How far can you walk? How far can you cycle? Is it okay to drive somewhere for exercise? If so, again, how far? Three miles? Five? Ten? How long can you be out? If you want to stop and look at a bird, how long can you stop for? Can you take photos? Can you even carry a camera? Is it okay to pour yourself a coffee from a flask, or does that turn your 'exercise' into a 'picnic', and therefore 'recreation', which is streng verboten. And so on.

For what it's worth, here's one take on it...

Right through this whole pandemic, a couple of basic principles have guided my behaviour. One, this virus is highly infectious. Two, it kills people. So I don't want to catch it, and I don't want to risk passing it to anyone else. Balanced against that is a need to earn a living, go shopping, exercise and get some birding in. So I try and do those things while absolutely minimising contact with others. Now that we're in a lockdown again I appreciate that we are being exhorted once more to adhere to some strict government guidelines, especially with regard to travel. So, as in Lockdown 1, my local birding will be restricted to what is within walking distance from home. I would like to drive to go birding, but don't feel I need to, so I won't. For now.

However, I do stop to look at birds. I scan fields and hedgerows. I carry a camera. I get it out and take photos. I don't worry about how far I go or how long I'm out. Personally I reckon my chances of catching or passing on Covid-19 would be infinitely higher if I spent ten minutes walking the length of my local high street on a quiet Sunday afternoon. And what's more, I am quite confident that my approach to birding isn't breaking any laws either. The government guidelines are just that. Guidelines. Not law. I wonder if the reason it seems so difficult to reach consensus on how to apply them to our varied individual circumstances is related to that fact? Generally speaking, with a law, you know when you're breaking it. With these guidelines though...well...see paragraph four.

Like most birders I would imagine, I want to exercise [read: go birding] in a way that I deem 'C-19 safe', that avoids interaction with others. But at the same time I don't want to fall foul of the law. It seems there are many, many ways to achieve those aims. My way is one. Others might judge me for it, but I hope not.

Anyway, as yet I haven't found any surprise birdy hotspots. I've explored quite a lot of local countryside, and so far it's been pretty dire. The farmland especially feels depressingly birdless. But maybe I'm not looking in the right places...

This stile is about ten minutes walk from home. Beyond it is open countryside for many miles...

Within a mile of home, this Stonechat felt like a minor triumph today.

I shall press on though, and hopefully find some spots to get excited about. If not, will I be overcome with the urge to drive somewhere? Possibly. Will I be judged? Probably. Someone, somewhere, who doesn't really know anything about me or my circumstances, will no doubt think (or say) 'What part of 'Stay at Home' do you not understand?!' So I'll answer the question now. No part. Does that help?

Mind you, I still think it's daft to leave the car parks open. When the relentlessly poor birding finally does my head in and I cave, at least make it difficult for me.

Not Quite Visiting Portland

The Isle of Portland is just down the road from where I live, and yet I never go there. I don't really know why not, and at some stage I'd like to rectify that. The famous Portland Bird Observatory has seen me even less - I've been through the gates just two or three times ever. And yet I visit the PBO website most days. I cannot explain this seeming paradox. It just is.

My first visit to Portland was in the summer of 1982. Sandra and I had been to Radipole to see a Squacco Heron, and followed it up with a quick look at the nearby place of legend. I think we knew there was a bird observatory at Portland Bill, but were too new to birding to have the confidence required to tread hallowed ground. Instead we sat on a nearby clifftop and watched our very first Puffin. Simple times.

The next visit was on 28th May, 1985. An easy one to remember...

A 'birder's photo' I'd like a chance to recreate one day. Black-eared Wheatear.

Film grain, dust on the negative, mirror-lens doughnuts... Retro!

The rest of the '80s and all the early '90s are a bit blurry, and I cannot recall any Portland trips, so I'll skip straight to October 1996...

I wasn't doing much birding by this stage, but had succumbed to the temptation to twitch a Northern Waterthrush. My memory of the day involves a flyover Lapland Bunting, several Firecrests and the downer of dippage.

In 2003 we had recently moved to East Devon and I was just beginning to take an interest in birding again. On the last day of August I drove to Portland with Rob. Our eldest son has zero interest in birding but is very tolerant, and was happy to tag along with the old man. My intention was for us to just have a pleasant walk, with me pausing from time to time to look at birds. Obviously I was aware that it was peak migration season and therefore hopeful of something interesting, but I was totally out of any bird-news loop that existed then. Not far from the observatory we spied a little crowd of birders, so wandered over. I asked the obvious question, and got a very unexpected answer...

'Olivaceous Warbler, mate.'

And there it was, creeping about in the bush opposite. Nice. Later we saw a juvenile Rosy Starling on a roof, and I also have a memory of a distant Ortolan Bunting, but don't fully trust it. But anyway, quite a haul for a chance visit. I thought to myself, 'Must come again soon...'

My friend Derek coaxed me to visit again in the spring of 2004. First, in April, when we were fortunate enough to witness a Wryneck in the hand. That fired me up a bit, and I took very little persuading when he suggested a dawn raid on May 3rd. And so it was that I spent the morning of my 45th birthday seawatching...

That's me on the left, with the astonishingly brown hair. Coincidentally, Steve Waite and his dad, Ian, chose that day for a visit too. Ian is in the foreground, with Steve between us.

So, did we see anything? Not many!!! Two - that's TWO - adult Long-tailed Skuas! I also remember a close dark-phase Pom, but it's the incredibly early Long-tails which stick in my mind. Obviously.

Strangely, since that day I am pretty sure I've not been birding on Portland at all. A summer visit with Sandra last year - for butterflies - was the closest I've got. As I say, that is something I plan to rectify. But in the meantime I shall content myself with a regular read of the daily PBO sightings page. Why, if I don't go there? Well, there is often bird news that has local relevance, so that's one reason. But there's another...

It so often makes me smile!

Though we have corresponded on the odd birdy matter, I've not knowingly met Martin Cade. But, boy, do I love his reporting style. Here's an example from yesterday...

That Meldrew-ish first sentence... Reading it again, I'm smiling right now.

And in the caption to the Redpoll photo, this: 'we used to think it's Fat Hen and have now forgotten what we've been told is in fact its correct identity'. I laughed out loud! That's exactly what I'm like with almost anything but birds, and especially plants. And I'm not that bothered by it either.

So, assuming that we are not all locked down again this spring, I plan to visit the home of my favourite bird news output. And judging by my Portland track record, there ought to be something notable...

#MondayMotivation

According to my clever watch, the Jan 1st birding walk covered 13.6 miles. At the moment I am also trying to go for a run on alternate days, but figured a long walk was good enough for Friday. But no skiving this afternoon. So, just as it was getting dark I headed out and covered 6 rather ploddy miles in just under an hour, though 6 minutes of that comprised 1-minute walk breaks. At my current level of 'fitness' that is a long run. Right now my calves feel like they've been beaten, and I know I've overdone it.

From long experience I also know that gently plugging away, trying not to push it too hard, will eventually reap rewards. And that's the key. Consistency, and an 'easy does it' approach. Expecting too much, too soon...well...

That way disappointment lies. And burn-out maybe.

Many endeavours benefit from this kind of approach, and birding is perhaps one of them. I was free to go birding today at around 2pm. I poked my head outside, sniffed the frigid air and thought, 'Nah.' I frittered the afternoon in idleness, which is fine preparation for a 6-mile run.

Some of that idle time was spent looking at previous January birding exploits, and I'd like to recount one of them...

Not long after moving to East Devon at the very end of 2002, my interest in birding began to return. Living by the sea was a novelty, and I decided to make some effort to discover what - if anything - flew over it past Seaton. I had no idea what to expect, but a few tentative seawatching efforts in 2004 bagged some skuas and whatnot. Anyway, come the start of 2005 I decided to try and devote one hour at the start of every day to seawatching. In January that was frequently 08:00-09:00. I'll be frank, the returns were quite modest. Let me give you some examples from that month...

• Kittiwake: 1-3 birds on ten dates, all flying W
• Unidentified auk: 1-19 on nine dates, all W until 21st, then mainly E after that. Vast majority that could be identified were Razorbills.
  

So, nothing special at all there. However, something weird happened on January 21st. My memory of that day is of a strong wind from a northerly-ish quarter, so unpleasant that I had to find a new spot to watch from - my usual vantage point was a bit blown out. Again, I did 08:00-09:00. Straight away I was seeing far more birds than usual. Auks were piling W in really good numbers, and loads of Kitts too. By the time I packed up it was all over anyway, and my scribbling revealed a total of 590 auks and 216 Kittiwakes. Wow! Over 800 birds!

Best of all, at 08:40 I picked up a very small auk trailing a group of regular ones. I zoomed up, but couldn't get anything other than its tiny size. I put it down as a Little Auk. Looking back now, I seriously wonder what it actually was. Hopefully it was a Little Auk. But having lived here a while now, I know that by far the majority of Little Auk records occur in late autumn, and as far as I'm aware are not tied in with big movements of their larger cousins. Still, that's not really the point of the story...

On 21st January, 2005 I went out to do what I'd been doing almost every day of the month, and expected to see much the same as I always saw. But no, things unfolded a different way. A very unexpected way. A very nice way.

Reminding myself of that morning has been quite encouraging, and I guess I don't need to spell out why.

And while we're talking about motivation, here is some more. Three photos. Three January days. Three years. Three birds...

2018 - January 29th

2019 - January 16th

2020 - January 7th

NQS is nothing if not predictable when it comes to certain gulls, and I shall optimistically assume that the reader's eye will by now be drawn unerringly to the correct bird in each photo. So I'm going to leave those there without further comment. Except...

Always look at gulls.