Simple Things

Almost two weeks ago I came across a group of six Golden Plovers in a field at sea level. Two days later there were ten. No big deal, but a surprise for me because locally I associate Golden Plover with high ground unless it's really cold. This afternoon I walked out there again. To be honest I wasn't expecting any at all today. I just assumed the little group would have moved on by now, but no, it has swollen to 36 birds!

Most of the the 36 present this afternoon are in this shot

I'm at a loss to explain what they're doing here really. The location has only been on my birding itinerary for 18 months, so it might be a regular thing. However, I didn't see any here last March.

Never has a small flock of Goldies had such a careful grilling! Nothing untoward, but like me, a few looked keen to get into their summer togs...

A sunny break in the cloud

Not too long and that will be one handsome beast

The sunny breaks soon gave way to 8 oktas of cloud cover, but the rain held off until the last hour and remained light, and for the first time in three outings I went home damp rather than soaked. A strongish NW hammered straight along the coastline, but literally nothing was passing offshore. Many scans for zero return. The only obvious migrants were actually passing just inland instead...

The lovely rakish form of an adult graellsii Lesser Black-backed Gull. Gorgeous.

I counted a total of 16 heading W in ones and twos through the afternoon

It's funny, on the page of my fictional notebook the tally from this afternoon's birding would look very slim, but I really enjoyed myself. I had no illusions that I'd be tripping over Wheatears everywhere, rather I expected nothing. So the Goldies were a nice treat, and the odd passing LBBG provided a migrant buzz. I spoke to a local farming couple, exchanged a smile and greeting with two other couples I passed, and was carefully ignored by two lone walkers. Other than that it was just me, the bracing weather, and 12-thousand steps' worth of West Dorset coast...

Simple things.

A Bit Blowy...

 

What idiot is going to be plodding the beach on a day like this?

Twice in the last three days I've taken my exercise walk on - and adjacent to - the local beach. On Wednesday my birdy highlight was...let's see...oh yes, a Snipe. A single Snipe flushed from somewhere I wouldn't have expected. This afternoon's was better; it was a pair of Pintails, maybe the same pair that I saw on Monday morning. They were dead jumpy, and the moment they spotted me flew off to the far end of the Mere. I was not the slightest bit bothered by the meagre return for my shingle-slogging efforts, because conditions were dire on both occasions, and to be honest the getting out and walking was more important than the birds. On Wednesday the air was full of drizzle and spray, and busting along at about 40mph; this afternoon was equally blowy, and I got caught in a downpour. So, totally soaked both times.

This photo was taken from the same spot and just moments after the one above, but facing the other way. In both cases a bit of zoom compresses the perspective and adds a nice touch of drama.

On Wednesday I had the beach to myself. Ditto this afternoon. Completely alone. Which is how I like it. Regular readers will know already that I like a bit of solitude. However, when I got home I was reminded how fortunate I am to be able to indulge this preference whenever and wherever I like. Waiting for me on Twitter was this...

Reading Lucy McRobert's article took me back 30 years or more...

When we lived in Rickmansworth, Sandra and I used to know a couple named Tony and Kate. Like me back then, both were keen runners, especially Kate. Their home was in a built-up area several miles closer to London, and one day Kate asked if I would take her on one of my rural routes near Ricky. I had a lovely six-mile circuit based on the River Chess valley near Sarratt. It was entirely off-road, taking in the best of the local countryside - the riverside meadows, woods and hills. Getting back to our cars, Kate said, 'What a gorgeous route! But what a shame I can't just come out here and run it on my own...'

I was well aware of the lewd comments and abuse Kate occasionally got from men in passing cars when out running, but had never twigged that she might actually feel in danger. She explained that, lovely though my route was, it was simply too isolated and scary for her to contemplate running alone. The penny dropped. As a man I felt no such fear, not in the slightest, but simply being a woman turned a quiet beauty spot into a place of threat. I have never forgotten that conversation, and Lucy's article brought it all back. Some of her own and other female birders' personal experiences are described, and the resulting effects, and they are thought-provoking to say the least. Lucy's piece is entitled 'Call it Out', and on that note here is a related story...

Some years prior to my run with Kate, her future husband Tony witnessed a bunch of men hassling a young woman on a London Underground train. The details are a bit blurry to me now, but I recall that they were young office types, suited and booted. Tony sat watching, gradually becoming more and more incensed. Plucking up courage, he walked over and intervened. In Lucy's words, he called it out. Telling him to mind his own business, the ringleader turned and took a swing at Tony, punching him on the nose and putting him on the deck. The young woman immediately stood up, and in a quavering voice informed the bloke he was under arrest. She was an off-duty policewoman. I remember Tony recounting how she held out her warrant card with a trembling hand. And sure enough, the man was duly taken into custody by the Transport Police.

At the time I wondered whether I would have had the guts to do what Tony did. Thankfully, Lucy's article makes clear that nothing quite so dramatic is required. Her closing words:

We need men to stand with us and show the best side of our vibrant, warm and welcoming wildlife community, a community I love and one that I hope more women can be part of.

Yep, can do that. Happily.

Migration

Every spring, without fail, we enjoy an incoming flood of summer migrants. Millions of them. Chats, warblers, ducks, raptors, hirundines, terns...basically all sorts of birds head north to breed. Last year was the first that I really pondered the inevitability of it all. Trans-global movement for mankind had ground to a surprise halt, but not so for birds. And boy, was I grateful for that! Here we are a year later, still somewhat hobbled, but again not the birds. Migration is happening as I type.

It is pitch dark now and quite late at night, and as damp and blustery as it was yesterday. In fact Tuesday night's forecast was so grim that I almost didn't bother with the nocmig kit. But I did bother. And waders came. Curlew twice, and Oystercatcher three times, one of which sounded like multiple birds. The first little sonogram blips were made by an Oystercatcher just after 8pm, and the last by a Curlew at 03:15. Where were they off to? And where were they from? It's fascinating. All over the land, right now, birds are aloft with purpose. One or two of them might pass over my neighbourhood and obligingly make a noise loud enough for the nocmig recorder to convert into an exciting squiggle. And I am pleased to say that I do still find them exciting. I find the whole thing exciting! I'm nowhere near a renowned estuary or marsh or anything like that, and even last week's Coot will have come a few miles at least. The nocmig results of spring 2020 were a joyous revelation, and this year I'm starting more than a month earlier. Brilliant!

Birds, and the reliability of their movements, cycles and activities, are a reassuring anchor for us. Yet there is also plenty of room within that process for an annual dose of happy surprise, because so much is actually not certain. Will there be some Poms this year? A nice fall? Will I jam a rarity? The answers to such questions lie within the remit of migration, and will not be revealed in advance. Which is another reason why birding can be a bit addictive.

On Monday I went on a first-light migrant hunt along the beach and came across a pair of Pintails. I'll admit that early Wheatear was on the wish list, but the stunning drake was more than compensation...

It's 07:30, and my ability to take a photo that really does justice to these beautiful ducks is not yet awake.

A Dodgy Birder's Book - Part 4: Lessons

A very long 16 months ago I wrote a post entitled Dodgy Birders - Part 5: What to Do About Them. At the time I did rather skirt the issue: '[do] whatever you feel is appropriate' was my conclusion. In defense of such a wishy-washy verdict I should tell you that the whole 'Dodgy Birder' series was my way of processing the very real frustration that troubles me because of their antics. Having written it all down I hoped to emerge in a zen state of tranquility which no amount of dodginess could thenceforth disturb. Well, it didn't quite work.

It did help though. Reminding myself that birders - no matter how dodgy - are still people, with all the complex implications of that fact, was a good move. But I still found myself irked by them. It has taken Alan Vittery's book to finally get some much-needed perspective on the matter, and hopefully lay it to rest. Let me explain...

Alan Vittery first entered the NQS 'Dodgy Birder' narrative in part 5 because of his appearance in the British Birds Rarities Committee page of Wikipedia. As mentioned in that post, it seems the BBRC had in effect told AV they thought he was dodgy and would therefore no longer consider any single-observer submissions from him, unless supported by photos. As I typed that post I remember thinking that their approach seemed harsh, but fair. Here is what I said:

'You can argue the rights and wrongs... But if you (or a body you are part of) has similar concerns about your patch, county or regional records, isn't this the proper way to handle things? Be straight with the person?'

Well, that is no longer my view.

Sure, as an individual I might still feel at liberty to deal with any perceived dodginess in whatever way I feel is appropriate, but supposing I was part of a body, a records committee of some kind? Do I think it's okay to tell an observer: 'Sorry pal, we won't accept any descriptions from you without photos'? No, I don't. Do I think it's okay to keep silent instead, but stamp them all 'Not Proven' anyway, no matter how detailed and unequivocal? No again. I would go so far as saying that doing either without actual proof of fabrication is morally wrong. Once an individual enters a committee room I firmly believe they should leave personal prejudice at the door, and not allow it to influence their assessment of a record. If the description falls short in some way that could be communicated to the observer as a justifiable cause for non-acceptance - and I don't mean some trivial nit-pick - fair enough. But if not: accept. How could it be otherwise? Without proof, who are you or I to adversely judge another's honesty in even a pseudo-official capacity? The job is to assess descriptions, not character. To believe otherwise would be gross presumption I think. Am I wrong?

In September 1987 Mike Rogers basically told me that Alan Vittery was a dodgy birder. That was the first I knew of his reputation, but it stuck with me. Because that's what mud does. It sticks. How many others have judged him on hearsay? As I have already intimated elsewhere, Alan's book is a lot more than just a bunch of diary highlights. It has a depth, and reveals a great deal about the person, including a measure of frustration at his effective banishment. I could speculate about why he fell foul of the birding establishment, but let's just leave it that he gained the 'dodgy' label in a time long before mobile phones and digital photography. I have received one or two comments from birders who have spent time in the field with AV and it is telling that they have only praised. Obviously he will be as fallible as any of us, but had he been dealt with differently years ago, I wonder how things might have turned out...

In A Dodgy Birder's Book -Part 3 I quoted from an open letter which Alan Vittery wrote to the BBRC, as published in the January 2005 edition of Birdwatch magazine. Two months later, the March edition contained an article by Ian Wallace, entitled 'Questions that won't go away'. He wrote:

'Record committees have, in part, thankless tasks, but having suffered [and survived] increasing rejection by them over 46 years, my sympathies are stronger for the outcast observers. Currently I know of only three such unfortunates in Britain. In order of 'conviction' they are myself, John Holloway of Stronsay and now, astonishingly, Alan Vittery of Brora. Presumably there are more. So, without naming any more names, can we know how many? And the forms of their falsities? And are these deeds just alleged, or fully proven?'

DIMW goes on to pose some other 'questions that won't go away', and the article concludes with an editorial comment:

'Birdwatch asked Colin Bradshaw, chairman of the British Birds Rarities Committee, to respond to the points raised in this article. Our request was declined.'

And in the magazine's editorial, Dominic Mitchell pointedly noted:

'In a response which will not go down in history as earning maximum points for accountability or public relations, The BBRC declined to give you its views through our pages.'

Admittedly, this was all 16 years ago. I am sure the BBRC approach is less aloof today, and indeed its current constitution states that observers whose descriptions are deemed 'not proven' will be told the reason. My purpose here is not to poke old wounds, rather to illustrate an attitude that once was. Arguably one or two of the observers judged so dodgy in times past have contributed far more to this hobby than many who felt themselves qualified to make that ruling and sentence accordingly. Pretty sad if you ask me.

Anyway, food for thought I hope...

Keeping the Powder Dry

I love this time of year. So much promise. And when Sand Martins, White Wagtails and even Wheatears begin to appear on birdy social media, well...

Exciting, isn't it? However, on the basis of umpteen springs of experience please allow me to offer a word of caution: keep your powder dry. Like many fellow birders I am obliged to ration my birding time somewhat, but self-employment allows me a dangerous level of flexibility. It's all to easy to let the prospect of early migrants tempt you into overdoing things. Perhaps you've been there? Rather than expending a steady effort through the whole spring, you get all pumped up with expectation, thrash it too hard, too early, and wind up struggling with disappointment.

It's all about stamina I guess. After last year's late spring gems I have to concede that the finishing line is somewhere in June now. So. I shall aim to plod on steadily, picking up the pace only when conditions warrant. At least, that's what sensible me is saying right now...

I was looking forward to a walk this afternoon. A chilly north-easterly was mitigated at times by a pleasantly warm bit of sunshine, but I was careful to keep expectations modest. I hoped for a few nice birds, but didn't expect them. Migrant-wise, so far this week I've seen two unidentified hirundines (see last post) and 6 Chiffchaffs. Today I added another 3 Chiffs. Because they were at the back of the beach I'm sure they were new arrivals, but sometimes there is a surefire way to confirm it...

Normal Chiff. This one from a few days ago was likewise in vegetation right behind the beach. Almost guaranteed to be a new arrival, but in truth it looks just like any other Chiff that's been hanging out at the local sewage works all winter. However...

...look at this one! All that manky, blackish gank on its forehead is a clagged-up mess of feathers and pollen. Research has been carried out on such pollen-faced birds. Not just Chiffchaffs, but also Willow Warblers, Blackcaps and Garden Warblers. Some 19 pollen types have been identified, but mainly the blackish stuff is eucalyptus, picked up in the Mediterranean region. This bird is definitely a fresh-in migrant. No question.

In this shot it's just about possible to see why these encrustations are often known as 'pollen horns'.

At least three of the nine migrant Chiffs I've seen this week have been wearing pollen horns. It's such a buzz to see them here already, a breath of Mediterranean warmth in the early-March chill.

In other news this week...

Four Curlews heading purposefully east.

Redshank is dead common on the Axe, but surprisingly scarce locally.

These two Golden Plovers moulting nicely into breeding dress.

I've had the nocmig kit in action every night this month. And it has paid off already. Nothing spectacular, but a couple of new species for the garden: Wigeon (twice) and Golden Plover. Also Curlew twice (second and third garden records) and the first Coot and Barn Owl of the year. Moorhens seem especially active right now, with about six occurences a night at the moment. I assume they are local birds from somewhere along the nearby River Asker. A couple of spectrovids...

First, Wigeon and Curlew...

And last night's Golden Plover. Just a single call, but a nice clean one...

A few more photos...

Jack Snipe. It's been a long time since I last saw one of these well, so to actually get photos too was a bit special. Significant exposure fail though. Still, silhouettes are pretty cool.

Subtle beauty - this female Pintail was my first this year

'Only' a Linnet, and not even in breeding colours yet, but its cheerful singing was a joyous thing.

This has been a bit of a birdy catch-up post, and if this spring keeps going the way it has been there will be lots of these. In fact I hope so. Still in the pipeline are one or two meatier items though, but I might need a spell of rubbish birding in order to fit them in. In the meantime please accept this absolutely gorgeous Stonechat...

Twenty-two Thousand Steps

When I take a few days off work I like to do constructive things with the time.

I like to...

Still, exercise is constructive, right? According to my clever watch I've averaged 9,263 steps per day for the last seven. And I expect today's 22,764 contributed mightily to that figure. A few mid-stride snaps...

I'm pretty sure this is only the second Pochard I've seen locally. By 'locally' I mean anywhere west of the Fleet and east of the Axe patch. A surprisingly scarce bird.

Drake Pochard, looking good.

The Misses Unobtrusive. Both our local Cirl Buntings

When they're in a good mood, the West Bex Cirls are frequently the closest two birds of the bunting flock. And even if they're not together - like they briefly were this morning - there is still a chance of one of them taking pity on the bloke kneeling in the mud, trying to blend in with a fence post...

A late afternoon excursion provided me with a very frustrating moment...

Walking east along a quiet, hedge-lined lane, a hirundine suddenly appeared in front of me and flipped over the hedge and out of view before I could get the bins on it properly. There's an open field on the other side of the hedge, so if I could just find a gap or a gateway I might get a second bite... No gaps ahead, so I turned to look behind me, only to see a second hirundine do exactly the same thing! By the time I'd run to the closest viewpoint (not close) there was no sign of them. I've never seen a hirundine of any flavour earlier than about a week into March, so that was a bit annoying...

Cursing my ill luck, I then came across a surprise group of 6 Golden Plovers. Which felt like a consolation prize...

This was a common enough sight during the February freeze, but I haven't seen any Golden Plovers for a while now.

Those golden-spangled scaps are gorgeous.

Thanks to another handy fence post, the birds had absolutely no idea there was a huge person crouching nearby.

This morning I managed to miss a small flock of 6 Greylags which flew east. Greylag is quite uncommon locally, and of course they would have added another digit to the yearlist that I'm not bothering with. So it would have been nice if I'd seen them. Oh. Hello...what's this?

Well, look at that. Three Greylags heading W at considerable range, having moments earlier passed very close and laughed at my pathetic camera-extraction skills.

I saw this next lot coming a long way off, and was ready...

Unfortunately they weren't Greylags though.

The winter storms have done a pretty brutal job of reprofiling the local beaches, but this sight was an entirely new one for me...

Rough ground at low tide. I had no idea that all this clay and stone was lurking beneath the shingle in places.

Apparently I've seen off more than 3,000 calories today. So this bottle of beer is just a drop in the ocean really. Like the one I finished a few minutes ago...

Good Riddance

In Bridport, the first day of meteorological spring was about as good as it gets. Cloudless blue sky, wall-to-wall sunshine, and old blokes faffing about cluelessly in the garden. I was in my element. Last week I blitzed the work backlog and consequently have a beautifully lightweight week ahead. The only thing missing, as I carefully prepared our little raised beds for a future of nectar-rich luxuriance, was a Red Kite or two. Still, all in good time. Meanwhile...

Beefy-looking Sparrowhawk; presumably a female.

One of three noisy, high-flying Ravens.

A yaffling Green Woodpecker, a fly-over Great Spot and Bullfinch, plus plenty of twittering Goldfinches all added to the blissful vibe. Winter is over. Definitely. And good riddance to it.

I will concede that winter has its attractions, but the short days, endless rain and finger-numbing chill are less and less palatable with each passing year. I expect it's just a function of getting older, so I probably ought not to be quite so eager to see the back of three of my ever-diminishing stock of remaining months...

I briefly skimmed through recent NQS posts to see what the winter highlights looked like. Best bird was the January 1st female Cirl Bunting that I co-found at West Bexington, and seeing it quickly become two was great. Predictably, gulls played a major role in keeping me going, with a very brief Casp video-recorded on the Axe, the mahoosive Glaucous there too, and three Yellow-legged Gulls: at West Bay, West Bex and the Axe Estuary in that order. Catching up with the elusive West Bay Purple Sandpiper was nice, and then there were a few little birds: Black Redstart at West Bay, Sibe Chiff at Kilmington - the only definite tristis I saw all winter - and single Firecrest at Colyton WTW. A pleasing collection, but far from epic.

In February I began to try nocmig recording again. Seven nights in total. Oh boy it was slow. Even so, there was one significant highlight...

February 19th at 20:37 - Grey Plover. There were actually 40 seconds between the two calls.

Grey Plover is not a common bird locally, and probably even less so over Bridport. This was my second; I had one nocmig bird in May last year. Apart from this goodie, Redwing and Moorhen featured twice each, and Song Thrush once. The local Tawny Owls are getting fruity - though I've yet to hear any with my ears - and at least one Robin gets going about 03:00 each day. Compared to nocmiggers on the east coast, or much further north, it is slim pickings here. Still, I have happy memories of spring/early summer 2020, and the jaw-dropping surprises which came my way. Let's say I am optimistic...

One sunny morning last week I went for a pre-work shingly trudge, starting out at first light...

Not even fully dressed yet, but he's belting it out. He knows. Not long now...