Cirl Bunting Revisited

This afternoon I was dead keen to go and have another look at (or, more appropriately, look for) the female Cirl Bunting which Alan, Mike and I discovered at West Bexington yesterday. Particularly I was after some decent scope views - ideally including the rump - and some photos if possible. In the event things panned out well. Despited its tendency to play hide-and-seek among the Yellowhammers, and to sit motionless inside the hedge for ages, I got terrific scope views, including the streaky, olive-greyish rump. The range and the rather feeble light mean my photos aren't great, but here you go anyway...

Quite similar to yesterday's photo, but nicely shows the streaky crown, with no pale centre.

On the deck it shows almost no yellowish tones at all, and a surprisingly striking face pattern.

It didn't move from this spot for 15 minutes. At least it was visible though. Frequently it wasn't.

That evenly-streaked crown again. And is that a tiny sliver of rump on view between the wings...?

Eventually the gloom deepened and rain began to fall, so I'll have to try another time for those rump shots. Still, it was a very entertaining couple of hours. Educational too, because I so rarely see Cirl Buntings and have never made the effort to get to grips with the finer points of identifying females. Watching this subtle beastie among its common congeners, in a context where it is actually a very scarce bird, forces you to up your game a bit. All good.

While out and about I also had great views of a hunting male Sparrowhawk, saw 2 Canada Geese fly past and a Kestrel on the beach, and heard a short burst of Cetti's Warbler. These four species take my 2021 total to 68. The only reason I know that is because yesterday I kept a tally as I saw (or heard) each new species. I did that purely out of curiosity, not because I intend to keep a year-list. And yet here I am today, keeping count still...

Lots of birders do keep a year-list, and many of them will actively look to add to it, perhaps aiming to beat the number they got last year, or in some previous year of plenty. I've done this myself, several times. However, while some birders clearly find listing a source of personal encouragement and motivation, that's not necessarily been the case for me.

In recent years I have learned something about myself. When it comes to birding, sometimes I get a little bee in my bonnet, get slightly obsessed with some random, niche aspect of this hobby, and just have to focus on it until I no longer want to. Listing interferes with stuff like that. For example, I can think of many times when I've found myself birding uninspiring habitat in search of some species I 'need' for the list, and resenting every minute of it. The only reason I'm there is because the list demands it, not because I want to be. For similar reasons, rigidly defined patch boundaries don't work for me either. Don't get me wrong, I'm not criticising year-listing or patching. I know that many birders absolutely thrive on chasing year-lists or concentrating on a much-loved patch. If that's you, great.

In the past I've erroneously believed that ought to be me too. And ignoring the warning signs that were telling me otherwise has contributed to some serious phasing.

It's taken me many years - too many - to shape a kind of birding that fits comfortably with how I'm wired. If you are relatively new to it all, be warned! Seriously though, just keep checking that you're enjoying it still. If in doubt, re-evaluate and maybe change tack.

So, in the shiny new year that is 2021 I shall keep counting until I don't want to any more. If that makes sense...?

A Twist in the Tale

It's been a long time since I was able to get out of bed on January 1st and just go birding all day...

The River Brit near West Bay. Looking inland at 08:56. Cris-s-s-s-sp!

At this point my birdy highlight was probably a Little Grebe on the river, and all four common tits. Nothing dramatic, just a nice selection of regular local birds. And that was my aim today. Just step out of the back door and see what happens. I had no numerical target, my route plan was sketchy and my expectations modest. But I was quietly confident that a day spent walking the Dorset coast and countryside would have some highlights worth recounting. And it did.

I kept a tally of the species I saw, and until earlier this evening I would have told you that it was 63. But something rather excellent has happened since, and now it's 64. But first...

Species number 30 was Lapwing, which I spied in a frosty field below Bridport Golf Course, and fairly soon after that I was peering out from Burton Bradstock beach at a distant flock of 4 Red-throated Divers...

4 Red-throated Divers. The photos get better, I promise.

One advantage of the calm weather and very light breeze was a flat sea, and I was really pleased to spot a Harbour Porpoise off Cogden Beach. They are quite scarce locally, so I made some effort to get a photo...

Harbour Porpoise

There was obviously a decent supply of fish out there, and the Red-throated Diver count quickly grew. By the time I got to Abbotsbury I'd seen at least 33, and 13 Great Crested Grebes.

Great Crested Grebe close to the beach

A few other birdy bits and bobs...

There was a single Corn Bunting (on the right) at West Bexington, plus 30-something Yellowhammers

Two Chiffs were in the beach-side vegetation of the West Bex Mere. I wasn't expecting to see any today, so they were a nice surprise.

I waited until this Razorbill dived, then ran down the beach to where I hoped it would surface. Bingo!

Shelduck over East Bexington. Another species I didn't anticipate seeing.

The West Bex Mere held a nice collection of gulls, but I couldn't wangle anything special. The walk from there to the Abbotsbury Beach car park took me the rest of the afternoon, and was largely uneventful. Mind you, one thing worth mentioning is the group of 5 Gadwall on the sea off East Bexington. Or more specifically, how I managed to work out what they were. Too distant for bins, I could tell they were ducks, and something about the way they were behaving suggested they weren't Common Scoter, but I couldn't ID them. So I got the camera out and took some photos on full zoom. Here's one...

Don't laugh.

From dots to Gadwall in 2000mm of full zoom and some serious cropping.

I've used the camera for this purpose a few times now. It's amazing how effective it can be. And the following tale kind of reinforces its value even more...

While I was watching the bunting flock at West Bex, it wasn't only the Corn Bunting that caught my eye.

The flock is basically Yellowhammers - well over 30 - plus Chaffinches. They are constantly on the go. Up in the hedge, down in the field, up in the hedge again, and so on. It can be quite hard to track individual birds. Also, they are a bit too distant for comfortable binocular views. It's okay-ish, and you can easily pick out the Corn Bunting for example, but for anything more subtle...

And there was a subtle bird. Right there in the hedge, facing me. It looked drab and plain, but with quite a strong face pattern. And I couldn't see any obvious yellow at all. But it was just too far away. I expect you can guess that I was thinking female Cirl Bunting. This is a Dorset rarity, and not a species to claim lightly. Especially a female! So I pointed the camera at it, but got just one shot before the bird dropped into the field. To be honest, I held out no hope at all that anything would come of my straw-clutching...

Fast-forward to this evening, and I have the photo in front of me, and I'm studying it and thinking 'Hmmmmm...' At that very moment, a message from Mike Morse includes the following: '...a possible female/1st-winter Cirl [in the bunting flock]...' I replied that I was right that second looking at just such a bird on my laptop screen! We exchanged photos. Same bird!

I have little experience and even less confidence with this tricky species pair, so sought advice from someone who has plenty of both. And I am very grateful to Mike Langman for confirming the ID for us...

Female Cirl Bunting at West Bexington. This is my photo...

...and this is Mike's proper one.

So, the day's tally unexpectedly climbs to 64. And I get a really nice local tick.

And yet again the P900 proves its worth. I am highly delighted that such a coincidental set of happenings should occur on the very first day of the new birding year, and I sincerely hope it's a pattern of things to come...

And Finally...

It is a still, blue, crisp morning, and there is almost 1cm of ice on the garden pond. At least the year 2020 is closing prettily. This post is intended to wrap up twelve months-worth of NQS output, and right here in the third sentence I'm not yet sure how it will pan out. A bit random I suspect...

My final bit of 2020 birding has been entertaining, if unspectacular. Yesterday I spent a fair bit of time in the field adjacent to Colyton WTW, staring at a muck heap. Periodically the steaming pile would fill with Chiffchaffs, until they reached a bursting-point of jittery unease which sent them whizzing back to the safety of cover in a hedge. Obviously I was hoping to find a Siberian Chiffchaff among them. It didn't happen though. Well, not really...

The closest I got to tristis was the bird on the left. Very brief, rather distant views, and just this single photo. It caught my eye, and looks quite promising in the pic, but I'll reserve judgement. With all the to-ing and fro-ing I was sure I'd see it again eventually. Unfortunately not.

Still, I got a nice shot of a standard collybita Chiff...

I love that we have a few of these to look at through the winter months.

At one point I noticed a high-flying raptor heading over, and thought it looked a bit harrier-ish. Sure enough, it was...

Significantly enlarged from the original, and definitely a Marsh Harrier.

So that was a nice surprise.

The last three or four days have also produced...

Green Sandpiper at Water Lane Fish Farm, near Burton Bradstock

Portuguese Man-of War on West Bexington beach

Avocet on Black Hole Marsh, Seaton Wetlands

So, a nice selection of locally notable birds to wind up the year. What next then?

Well, tomorrow I plan to walk a long way, starting at my back door. I have no preconceptions, no targets, and only a sketchy route plan, but there will definitely be a lot of coast. If there is one thing I have come to appreciate even more during these strange times, it is the local coastline. When you spend the first forty-odd years of your life living well inland, moving to the coast is initially odd. You constantly have to remind yourself that no, you're not on holiday, you actually live here. I'm well past that stage now, but still the coast is a wonderful delight for which I am truly grateful...

Reed Bunting in Thrift, with the blurred sea as a backdrop. West Dorset at its finest.

West Bay, my nearest bit of coast. So many seaside places have that weird mix of beauty and ghastliness, and West Bay is one of them. It's growing on me, but I have to be in the mood. This photo was taken in early June, before the hordes descended.

I first used this photo in NQS to illustrate the differences between juv Yellow-legged Gull and Herring Gull (foreground) but this is the uncropped version, illustrating a different aspect of coastal life. Thankfully not a year-round scenario.

An October view from East Bexington. Stunning...

2020 was not all about the birds. Some tentative forays into the lepidopteral world were a lot of fun. And even a few plants featured. One small triumph was nailing Essex Skipper for the first time. Oh, and a classy moth too...

A local male Essex Skipper, with diagnostic short, straight scent mark highlighted bottom left. Our Essex Skippers are currently among the most westerly in England.

Jammy encounter, jammy photo. Sandra first spotted this Lunar Hornet Moth during a country walk in June. A species which until recently was impervious to all known pheremone lures, and really tricky to see.

That'll do, I think. I'll wind up the final post of 2020 with a thank-you to all NQS readers for your continued support and assorted comments. I'm confident that 2021 will produce plenty of bloggable moments, with hopefully some terrific surprises among them. So whether your interest is birds, plants, fish, inverts, or whatever, I hope your 2021 will be memorable for all the right reasons...

Hello...What's This?

The title of this post is a reference to what frequently comes out of mouth when I stumble upon a good bird. Jammy jam is a feature of 2020 that I've been trying to find a way to write about without sounding all boastful, because I firmly believe that tales of good fortune can be a genuine source of inspiration for others. Well, they have that affect me. So this is such a post, and my apologies if it sounds big-headed in any way - that is certainly not my intention. Mind you, anyone who follows this blog will know that my 2020 finds do not involve a glut of megas. But in the context of coastal West Dorset and East Devon the list is not too shabby, and much better than I normally manage!

Always looking at gulls has its rewards, and 2020 was generous...

Five Caspian Gulls. From top left, clockwise to centre:
Jan 7th, Axe Estuary
Jan 26th, West Bexington Mere (2nd-winter)
Jan 28th, Axe Estuary
Oct 5th, East Bexington
Dec 17th, Axe Estuary

Five Casps is easily my best tally in one calendar year. I'm really chuffed to have images of each one, something I've so far managed with every single Casp I've seen. The 2nd-winter West Bex bird is the only non-1st-winter I've found, and along with the December bird on the Axe was recorded using my camera's video function, an invaluable facility. I'm especially pleased that two of my Casps were just down the road from where I live, and therefore Dorset birds, at East and West Bexington.

To be honest I now have a level of expectation with Caspian Gull. These days I would be disappointed not to find one in the course of a year. But they are still very scarce down here, and a super prize for anyone picking through the local gull flocks. And as I've repeated to the point of tedium: If I can find them, anyone can.

To be fair I spend a lot of my birding time actively searching for Caspian Gulls, so to some degree it's an effort-equals-reward kind of bird. Another bird which fits that category lately is Siberian Chiffchaff...

One of my favourite Sibe Chiff pics of 2020. Kilmington WTW on Jan 15th

Kilmington again, Jan 8th. A rather more prosaic habitat view, with filter bed backdrop

In 2020 I found five Sibe Chiffs I think. Again, way more than ever before. Though I've never made so much effort before either.

Other good finds have been far more a case of being jammy. The Golden Oriole which flew across my path at West Bexington on May 28th is a case in point. And my favourite find this year, the jammiest of all, was this...

Belter! Male Red-backed Shrike at Cogden Beach on June 8th.

That total fluke was the culmination of a very strange but productive spring. Summer gave way to autumn without too many fireworks - unless you count juv Yellow-legged Gulls - and it wasn't until September 11th that things got pretty exciting again...

A Wryneck poses cooperatively at Cogden Beach

And then, on October 1st, again at Cogden Beach, and again a Wryneck...

The distant product of some careful and regular scanning. Slow birding.

That's it really. Caspian Gull x5, Siberian Chiffchaff x5, Wryneck x2, Golden Oriole and Red-backed Shrike. I rarely find much, so for me that's a mega-haul. Technically I could maybe add a fly-by Pink-footed Goose at East Bexington and a Glaucous Gull on the Axe, but both birds had been seen before, though admittedly the goose not locally. Personally I don't count stuff like that as a pukka 'find', but both events were still great fun for different reasons. And of course I came across many 'lesser' birds, which still provided a good buzz even if they weren't quite in the same league as some of the above.

A couple of other species which I would like to list among my best 2020 finds involve two birds which I never saw...

Nocmig Stone-curlew, April 22nd

Nocmig Night Heron, June 4th

Of course these weren't finds at all in the accepted sense, but both were almost as thrilling as if I'd come across them in the field, and testament to the worth of nocmig recording.

The biggest downer this year was the fact that hardly any of my good finds were seen by anyone else, just one (I think) Casp and a couple of Sibe Chiffs. Especially frustrating were the oriole, shrike and Wrynecks, because they were on someone else's patch! On the other hand though, I did get photos of everything bar the Golden O, so I think people still believe me when I claim stuff...

On Twitter earlier today, a birder I follow posted a photo-collage and list of his best finds of the year. It was a jaw-dropping tally. Admittedly, many were the result of holidays on Shetland and Scilly, but a good number were not. Rather, they were the result of on-spec birding in locations which have the dual assets of good potential and low birder density. To a great extent my local coast meets those criteria. I know how fortunate I am to have that on my doorstep, and cannot emphasise enough how exciting it can be. Striding out in the early morning, or even late in the day, knowing that probably no other birders at all have trodden this way for hours, perhaps days. Why so many birders neglect such places and instead choose locations that get thrashed incessantly really puzzles me. I can't help thinking they are missing out...

Not that I'm complaining.

The Bringer of Joy

As we approach the end of this singular year I've been trying to work out how to review it without actually writing a review of the year, and this is the first of possibly a few posts intended to do just that. Mainly, but not entirely, this one is about Wheatears...

As winter draws to a close and the first buds of spring burst, peppering our hawthorn hedges with optimistic little sprinkles of green, birders begin to lust after the first Wheatear. Well, this one does anyway. There are other birdy harbingers of spring which may come earlier, but for me the first Wheatear is the only one that counts, the only one that stirs something akin to joy in my cynical old heart. And so it was, in early March, with the looming spectre of a deadly virus just off-stage, that I and many others began to search with realistic hope for the bouncing white bum of a flushed Wheatear. Personally I had to wait until 18th, and an early-morning arrival at East Bexington. The next day several more were closer to home, at West Bay...

March 19th, West Bay. Perfection-on-a-stick.

 

And then there was Lockdown. The first couple of weeks were tricky, but soon enough I got into a routine of coastal walks, usually starting at first light. It was utter bliss. Empty.

It's 08:50 on April 11th. This is the car-less car park at Hive Beach, Burton Bradstock.

Wheatears were a constant companion on these walks. Almost without fail there would be one or two, or several. Oblivious of their power to cheer, they hopped up on to fence posts and walls, and sometimes posed for portraits. They made me very happy.

This one was on the wall pictured above, on the same morning

Another wall, another April male

One April morning as I walked east, someone else was doing likewise, more or less parallel to my route. I could see him in the distance and wondered if he was a birder too, though he seemed to have a rucksack but no bins. Due to my dawdling pace he was soon ahead and out of view. Some time later I saw him again, close to my path. He was toting a camera and appeared to be creeping up on something in the vegetation. Intrigued, I called out a greeting and asked if he was photographing insects. Slightly startled, he looked across at me and said, bluntly, "No." Naturally I had paused briefly, but as he was so unforthcoming I thought it prudent to simply carry on, with a slightly lame "Er...okay then..." However, I had carefully noted the location...

I don't know what I was expecting exactly, but certainly not this...

A stunning pair of Adders.

As the spring rolled on, Wheatears continued to be a regular distraction and source of joy. I met them on the empty beach, the empty car park, the empty camp site, the empty golf course...

I occasionally encountered a greenkeeper cutting the grass, but never any golfers. The course was closed, so I don't know what this slightly soiled Srixon no 4 was up to exactly.

And then it was May, and the end of lockdown imminent...

I took this in Bridport on May 12th, unsure when we would ever see the like again...

One of my favourite May Wheatear shots. Looking at it, I am transported straight back there...

Of course, Wheatear passage begins to dry up quite badly as May draws to a close. A late May Wheatear is always a bit special, and very welcome, but all too soon it is June, and you assume that's that. No more Wheatears for a few weeks...

And then out of the blue, on June 8th, a spanking male pops up in front of you at the back of Freshwater Beach...

Oof! What a cracker!

You'd almost forgotten what a spring Wheatear looks like, and yet here's one performing just for you on a gorgeous June evening...

I was so chuffed to come across this beaut, and it put such a smile on my face. I was still savouring it half an hour later, when I was stopped in my blithe, carefree tracks by a super-stonking male Red-backed Shrike! But that's another story.

And so it ends. The northward surge is done.

I'll be frank. Autumn Wheatears are not the same. For me, the Wheatear is synonymous with spring, with the fresh greens of new foliage. The returning birds are still lovely, but carry less import somehow. Nevertheless, seeing the first birds in late July is a nice reminder that other, scarcer autumn migrants will soon be here. And lets face it, migrants are migrants, and all are welcome...

Cogden Beach, July 30th

Much of July and early August was spent scouring the gulls for juv Yellow-legged, so there were plenty of Wheatear encounters on the beach at this time. But one of my favourites was on my old stamping ground, Beer Head, where a smart male was quite confiding. However, I prefer this 'birder's photo' depiction...

Beer Head, August 26th

And so, September comes. For me it's a month which always promises great things but rarely delivers. Mind you, two days before this next bird I'd found a Wryneck at Cogden, so no complaints here...

East Bexington, September 13th. Look at the fringes on that bird! Mmmmm! That blue stuff in the background is wet sea. I am so fortunate having the coast as my birding playground.

Finally then, October. As the month goes on it becomes progressively more difficult to get a decent Wheatear fix. Not for want of trying though. This year there was a lot of October birding. Not without reward either. Literally ten minutes after this next bird I found another Wryneck at Cogden!

It's 07:48 on October 1st, and that light is your actual, genuine, early-morning-sunshine warmth

In the past I have seen Wheatears in November, but not this year. The latest 2020 bird I photographed was on October 17th at West Bexington. I may have seen one on a later date, but I suspect not. So that's it, the 2020 Wheatear journey is at an end. And here I am, tapping away at this keyboard on December 27th, conscious that the annual epic that is Wheatear migration will begin again really quite soon. Right this second, within tiny balls of flesh and feather currently domiciled in distant parts of Africa, the nascent urge to travel rapidly to Pembrokeshire, or the west coast of Scotland, or Iceland, or Greenland, will soon take hold.

And once again they will come. And once again they will bring joy.

Not Blanking

Early this morning I packed the bins and camera into a rucksack and took them east to a nice spot on the River Frome. I took some other stuff too...

...like the wellington boot visible in this pic.

I snapped that photo just after casting out at 08:04, and immediately WhatsApp'd it to Rob in Switzerland. Three years ago to the day, we were supposed to be doing exactly this but got badly rained off. It was a beautiful, crisp, winter's morning, and I wanted to share it with Rob, knowing he was with me in spirit. However, I certainly wouldn't have predicted that I'd be sending him another photo exactly three minutes later...

This is possibly the smallest Grayling in Dorset

Yes, it might be tiny but it is a Grayling, and it meant I wasn't going to blank. Result.

The last couple of times I fished the Frome I caught nothing, and talking to other anglers at the time it seemed I wasn't the only one struggling that winter. I didn't go at all last season and have no idea what the fishing was like, but judging on today's return, this winter looks promising. I ended up with 7 Grayling and a little Trout. None were much bigger than half a pound or so, but it didn't matter. It was just good to get some bites...

Grayling are beautifully marked.

This pic shows the odd, snouty head shape

No other anglers to compare notes with today. The riverbank was empty. Perfect.

I spent all day with my bins around my neck and the camera within reach. No decent photo opportunities came my way, but there were a few birds to look at. A Cetti's Warbler in riverside reeds was nice, and a totally appropriate Kingfisher dashed across the flooded meadow. Flyovers included a Green Sandpiper heading upstream and two Egyptian Geese downstream.

And finally...

Instant feedback from the excellent Med Gull man, Camille Duponcheel, on yesterday's colour-ringed adult at West Bexington. Turns out it is an 11 year-old bird...

Just 4 sightings in 11 years. White 35ET has kept itself under the radar*.

Hopefully the angling urge will occur again before the winter is out. Mind you, gulls can be a bit distracting...

*Ah...I've just worked out why. It didn't get a colour-ring until May this year!