Counting the Roost

Many times I've seen the West Bay gulls arrive to roost offshore and have never felt any inclination to count them. But this evening I had a reason to: the BTO Winter Gull Survey. It isn't something I've signed up for exactly, but Mike Morse has, and asked if I would cover West Bay for him. Happily, said I. The idea is to find yourself a nice vantage point at least two hours before dark, then count gulls from it. Mike couldn't manage the key date (January 21st) so we agreed on 30th instead.

My sorry carcass has been hosting a virus party this last week and I have been seriously below par, shuffling about and coughing like an old man. But it felt good to expose the blighters to a bit of sea air this afternoon; hopefully not a few died of shock.

Conditions were almost perfect. Very nice light, a gentle NW breeze and soft swell. Sunset was just before 5pm, so I figured it would be pretty dark half an hour after that and arrived at 3:15. The count? 1254 Herring Gulls, 171 Black-headed Gulls, 12 Med Gulls, 5 Common Gulls, 2 Lesser Black-backs. The small gulls were almost all out there within the first 30 minutes, and the big ones dribbled in right up to sunset, with only 35 HGs after that. Most were counted individually. The only time I had to do some proper estimating was when a massive, twin-prop military chopper hammered past about six inches above the prom, prompting a mass exodus of 500+ HGs that had otherwise planned on a bit of casual loafing around the harbour before bedtime.

A local Peg. Also not keen on cliff-skimming helicopters.

Standing at the end of the West Bay prom with a scope on a tripod is a surefire way to pull in the curious, even on a mid-week January afternoon.

'What are you hoping to see?'

'Gulls. I'm hoping to see gulls.'

'Oh...right.' 

One bloke's initial question was: 'Are you expecting to see anything other than gulls?' Which was different, and hinted at birderishness. Sure enough, a member of the RSPB and pretty vexed that gulls were so hard, with all their tricky plumages and whatnot. My answer to his question had been 'No.'

I wasn't quite as brusque as that, and did explain that I was taking part in a BTO Winter Gull Survey and counting the birds coming in to roost. Yes indeed, counting them all. That didn't stop one couple trying to engage in a bit of chat, and I did feel slightly churlish going '71, 72, 73, 74...75' out loud, while staring at the sky and pointing at each bird.

It's much easier to be 'hail fellow well met' when engaged in the relaxed, unfocused, take-what-comes kind of birding I enjoy most. Unless I've just stumbled across a possible Caspian Gull of course.

Still, it was nice to do a bit of birding with a purpose behind it for a change, though I shan't be taking on any other worthy endeavours this year - too much else going on right now. The Winter Gull Project is set to run next winter as well, so hopefully I'll be able to contribute again in 12 months. Between then and now I can guarantee all my birding will be 100% selfish.

Sunset at West Bay. Gull roost well and truly counted.

Wot? No Waxwings?

West Dorset out of season is like a different place. Cogden Beach at sunrise last Tuesday...

Sunrise, but not much sun.

More than a mile away, at West Bexington, I could see a lone angler. And that was it. Perfect. I had an hour and a half. Forty-five minutes brought me level with the West Bex Mere, so I had a quick look before heading back along the beach. One Ringed Plover, about eight Red-throated Divers, plus a Med Gull in a passing flock of Black-headed Gulls was roughly what I expected, so no surprises there.

These two Red-throated Divers were a long way out. Max zoom + huge crop.

Still a lot of berries in the car park scrub. A few Redwings were well aware.

Right now we are 'enjoying' one of those crisp, sunny spells beloved of many who don't have to work outdoors. One day that'll be me. Meanwhile, an afternoon skive to West Bay with Sandra to look for Black Redstarts will have to do. We couldn't find any, but there were compensations...

One of two Purple Sandpipers on the West Pier rocks. My first this year.

This Gannet was worryingly close to the shore, and had what looked like a bloodstain on its left wing. So we were pleased when eventually it flew strongly out to sea.

And that about sums up birding efforts since the previous post.

My BirdGuides subscription expired in mid-December, at which point I lost track of the Waxwing insurgency. The only bird news I see nowadays comes via the local WhatsApp group or the Dorset Bird News blog, and Waxwing has barely featured so far. Still, the species is very much on my audio radar, and any time outdoors is equally divided between listening for Waxwing and saving my fingers from frostbite. I'm not optimistic about either, but you have to try...

The Best-Laid Plans...

Monday, January 1st had long been earmarked for the Big Walk. Stepping off your doorstep at first light, straight into the crisp and shiny new year with just bins and a camera, feels such a virtuous way to get the birding ball rolling. However, in 2024 it didn't happen. First off, the weather forecast was awful. Wet and windy from late morning. Great. Secondly, the previous afternoon we had waved goodbye to a friend heading back to London from Axminster Station, following a fortnight of high living, laughter and late nights. We are old now, and were therefore knackered. So the Big Walk became the Little Walk, and was preceded by the Short Drive. A Chiffchaff in West Bay was my January 1st prize.

But that was a week ago. And of course there has been plenty of time since then to get the year list up and running. Except there is no year list. No targets, no goals. In fact there is nothing to galvanise me into action other than a simple desire to get out there and see some birds. And right now I cannot be bothered.

The writing was on the wall more than a month ago. Prior to our friend coming to stay, I just needed to finish off one or two long-neglected DIY tasks to tidy the place up a bit. One thing led to another and, before I knew it, my 'one or two' tasks had morphed into 'lots and lots'. A made-to-measure composite front door is due to arrive tomorrow. At some point in the very near future I'll need to fit it, then treat the hallway with self-levelling compound before laying some flooring, and so on, and so on...

Our little bungalow is 50 years old now, and in many places ripe (desperate?) for renovation. Our neighbour had her ridge tiles rebedded a while back, and I can see that the mortar on ours has pretty much had it. So I've been researching the modern dry-ridge system with a view to having a go later this year. I've tried my hand at all sorts over the years and am pretty confident in most things DIY. Apart from moving the boiler from kitchen to loft (mains gas - definitely one for the professionals!) I installed our current central heating system without mishap, and actually enjoy such projects when they go well. I have an annoying perfectionist streak which balks at the idea of paying other people to do stuff which I could maybe have done better. Plus, mostly I couldn't afford to anyway!

So, yes, I have a lot going on. And I know the birding is going to suffer. Probably this blog too - no-one wants to read a load of DIY content in a birding blog. Birding will happen though, of that I am confident. Once again I am privileged to be a guide on the Seaton Birdwatching Tram, and will be leading our first outing of the year on February 10th. So I had better get some practice in beforehand!

A Chiffchaff at West Bay on Jan 1st is bird of the year so far. (Disclaimer: image may not depict actual bird on actual date in actual place. It is a Chiffchaff though.)

Three Days

2023 birding has been great, but in three days it will all be over. Birders love January 1st. A fresh start, new plans, gym membership. But always there is first a little look back...

By sticking mainly to a pair of very local patches this year I did learn a lot of useful, birdy things about the Bridport and West Bay area, and had a few nice surprises, but by early autumn was more than ready for a change of scenery. My first visit to Cogden in August was like a lungful of fresh air. Oh, the easy solitude - despite West Dorset's swarming summer-season masses. The calm pleasure of it all was almost a spiritual thing, and I knew that my 2023 dabble at patch-working was over. In the end, Cogden produced some of my most memorable moments of the year...

One of maybe six Grey Phalaropes, including three in one visit.

After two in 2020, this was my third Cogden Wryneck, and the best performer.

A little influx of Ring Ouzels along the south coast on October 9th included these three at Cogden in the afternoon, following four in the morning.

West Bay did try very hard though, and will still be my seawatching venue of choice. How could it not be? At least four Leach's Petrels, my first Lyme Bay Sooty Shearwater for yonks, two Pom Skuas, 35+ Arctic Skuas, and the ludicrously extravagant gift of a close-in Great Shearwater...

If I were forced to chose a Bird of the Year, this is it. Great Shearwater, West Bay, September 20th.

Along with that singleton, there was also the incredible sight of some 30 large shearwaters - of which three were definitely Great - passing distantly offshore on October 13th. A sign of the times, perhaps?

One of West Bay's other attractions lies just inland of the harbour. The tiny Brit estuary can hardly be described as a bird magnet, and typically might give you little more than a handful of Mallards and Herring Gulls, but ju-u-u-st occasionally does better...

It took a while, but this August Garganey was probably my first decent find of the year.

My first West Bay Caspian Gull. Very, very welcome.

Waders are always at a premium locally, especially on the deck. I've certainly never put so much effort into papping a Redshank!

I already knew that vis-migging at West Bay's West Cliff can be very rewarding, and not just in terms of birds passing overhead, but was still a bit surprised to see a Cirl Bunting there. Nicely picked up by Tom Brereton...

West Dorset Cirl Bunting records are certainly on the up right now. Good news for a change.

I am normally pretty good at passing on bird news, and have rarely needed to keep anything hush-hush, but when word reached me of a Grey Phalarope at a slightly awkward site, I had no qualms about being rather selfish for once. As a consequence I enjoyed one of the best hour's birding ever. I just sat there and soaked it up...

October 8th - Grey Phalarope in late-afternoon sunshine.

2024 will be the same, but different. The same local focus, but no listing, and absolutely no boundaries. My aim will be simply to enjoy whatever comes along. The last few years have shown me just how exciting the birding can be in this joyously underwatched corner of Dorset, so I am quietly confident of a few thrills. But such moments are rare, and I look forward once again to finding ways to glean interest and fascination from the more everyday birds, to getting distracted by plants and insects, and to smiling a lot.

Thanks to all NQS readers, and I wish you too a smiley 2024.

Looking Back, Looking Forward

So, the moth trap has been out. I'm pretty sure it hasn't previously seen any action in December, but a vague Met Office mention of incoming air from 'the Tropics' tempted me. Friday night: zero moths; Saturday night: five moths...

Angle Shades is always welcome. Migrant? I really don't know.

A furry little December Moth, enjoying its NQS debut. There were two of these.

The other two moths were Epiphyas postvittana, or Light Brown Apple Moth; a familiar, everyday micro.

No longer having a Twitter account means I am completely out of the loop, moth news-wise, and have no idea whether migrants have been dropping in from warm parts afar. Nevertheless, I'll put the trap out again tonight. I guess there might be a chance.

I'm currently deep into some very overdue DIY at home, and a recent garage deck-clearing operation to make some work space saw me stow all my mothy paraphernalia until next season. It hadn't seen any use for several weeks, so I've surprised myself somewhat by getting it out again. And doing so has got me thinking about how my second - but first full - year of mothing went. Pretty well, I reckon. Not the migrant-fest of 2022, but still some cracking moths, including a few Dorset scarcities (rarities?) like Tissue and Royal Mantle, as well as my first Clifden Nonpareils, Lime Hawk-moth, etc. I suppose any normal blog would do a mothy review of the year, but I don't think that will happen here. There was a time when I kept a careful tally of the number of species recorded, how many were new for the garden and/or year...but, well, I kind of let it slip.

Looking forward to next year, hopefully there will still be lots of trap deployment, but maybe a more cherry-picking approach to its contents. I foresee a lot less counting.

Bird-wise, yesterday's postal delivery gave me good reason to do a bit of 'looking back'...

256 enormous pages.

Back in the day, the arrival of a shiny new county bird report was a big deal for me. At that time it would have been the London Bird Report. Obviously I would check for entries with the initials GMH attached - in the early years there were quite a few of those - and review any sections I had written. Then I would pretty much devour it from cover to cover. Forty years on, everything is a bit more low-key. Don't get me wrong - the 2022 Dorset Bird Report is an amazing publication. Clearly, a load of hard work went into the production of this tome, but none of it was mine. My name appears occasionally (Barred Warbler and Leach's Petrel records for example) but my contribution was otherwise minimal. I think even my 2022 records were automatically picked up from eBird entries.

Impressed as I am with this fine volume, I shan't be sitting down to read it from cover to cover. I shall browse and dabble, no doubt raising a surprised eyebrow from time to time or sighing at some depressing statistic of loss. Unlike my younger self, I no longer feel involved in the county-level birding scene, but more an outsider looking in. Interested, but not invested.

Looking forward, birding in 2024 will undoubtedly revert to a boundary-free approach. It will be 99% local, but no 'patch' as such, or at least nothing I could in good conscience call a patch.

Casting an eye over what I've written here, I realise some of it reads a bit like something from a 'review of the year' post. That's not intentional, but I wonder if I'm subconsciously wishing the calendar forward two weeks!

Losing It

'Take a seat, Mr Haig.'

I sat.

Next, a number of questions, which I answered as honestly and helpfully as I could.

Then, leaning forward: 'Okay, before we can carry out the test I just need to take a look...'

A few seconds later: 'Well...' and a sigh of disappointment.

Apparently my right eardrum was invisible, completely hidden by a wall of wax. The left side was partially blocked too. No hearing test today. I promised to get them sorted out asap, and rebooked.

A week's dosing with the excellently named Earol was followed by a short but satisfying micro-suction session at a back-alley clinic in town. The chirpy earwax removal chap took great delight in showing me the whopping nuggets of gloop thus extracted.

A few days later: 'Take a seat, Mr Haig.'

A much happier audiologist positively gushed at the sight of my straight, wide, apparently healthy - and now empty - ear canals.

'Wonderful! Wonderful! What a pair of beauties!'

The hearing test was straightforward enough. You wear headphones and listen for sounds, pressing the button on a hand-held pad whenever you hear one. I was occasionally fooled by the faint throb of a drill in a neighbouring property under renovation, but I doubt it made a lot of difference to the result. The result? Hmmm, yes. The result...

My audiogram - explanation below

In the chart above, the black lines represent my hearing thresholds for both ears at various frequencies, where O = right ear and X = left. The blue and red lines are nicked from a 2021 paper in The Lancet medical journal, and represent mean thresholds for Japanese men tested in a massive study involving thousands of participants. Blue = men in the age bracket 30-39; red = age 65-69.

According to the audiologist I saw my hearing is fairly typical of someone my age, and nothing to worry about. He reckoned that hearing aids were unnecessary. Back home I did a bit of googling and came across the Lancet paper. I am not quite in the 65-69 bracket yet, but already I seem to be slightly more deaf than a lot of Japanese blokes older than me. The good news is that I can hear speech okay, most of which registers in the lower frequencies. However, for me the higher frequencies are fading all too rapidly. The audiogram has frequency (in Hz) along the bottom axis and decibels up the side. A lot of birds - like Redwing and Firecrest, say - register at around 7-8000 Hz, which is pretty inconsiderate of them. But there is even worse news...

The decibel scale is not linear; it is logarithmic. As I understand it, what this means in practice is that an increase of ten decibels basically doubles the loudness of a sound. In other words, the ear perceives 30 decibels as twice the loudness of 20 decibels, and 40 decibels as twice the loudness of 30, and so on. Which means - looking at the audiogram above - that the faint 10-decibel Redwing call which the average 35 year-old Japanese birder can just about hear needs to be roughly THIRTY-TWO times as loud before my left ear can detect it.

Strewth!

It would be easy to see this in a very negative light, but I am grimly hanging on to my 'late middle-age' status while I still can. After moaning about one or more of the joyous delights that come with decrepitude, an elderly friend is fond of shaking his head and saying, 'Don't get old, Gavin.' To be honest though, I'll happily take that over the alternative.

This and That...

I seem to have embraced the sentiments of the previous post's title a bit too zealously, and have done virtually no birding in the fortnight since. Even so, there is a ton of stuff to blog about. Here is some of it...

First, a nice bit of good news. Almost three years ago I was fortunate enough to get this photo...

Female Cirl Bunting (foreground) and Yellowhammer, West Bexington, January 2021.

Several weeks back I had an email from Ed Stubbs at Birdwatch magazine, asking if they might use the image in an upcoming article. And if you turn to page 38 of the December edition, there it is, in an inspirational piece about winter bunting flocks. As well as the obvious fame bestowed by such exposure, there was fortune too, and I am fifteen quid to the good.

In an earlier edition of the same magazine (November? October?) was a thought-provoking opinion piece by Matt Phelps, in which he bemoaned the negative tone that pervades much of birdy Twitter. I've recycled the relevant Birdwatch mag but my memory tells me this was the gist of it: Matt suggested that the depressing tendency of 'older' birders to dwell on the glory days of yore - when Tree Sparrow flocks were a driving hazard and every suburban garden was carpeted in Turtle Doves - is essentially a discouragement to younger folk taking up the conservation cause, and that we should focus more on the success stories.

I cannot help wondering if Matt has underestimated the ability of youthful enthusiasm to triumph over adversity. I am sure that most twenty-somethings regard the doom-mongering utterances of grumpy has-beens as exactly that. And rightly so. I mean, what do they know? Okay, so there might well have been Redstarts and Wood Warblers bursting from every leafy glade fifty years ago, but there were virtually no breeding Peregrines in the whole of southern England. But look at them now! So put that in your wrinkly old pipe and smoke it, Mr Fart.

That latter fact was brought home to me by some other recent reading material...

Cover image nicked from web, but I do have the book and have just finished reading it.

Although the name rang a bell, I think Kenneth Allsop was just before my time. His star rose principally in the '60s, as a journalist and TV presenter mainly of current affairs, but his first book (Adventure Lit Their Star - published 1949) was about Britain's first breeding Little Ringed Plovers. Kenneth Allsop was a birder. For the last three years of his life he resided at West Milton Mill, just down the road from where I live, and was a vigorous environmental campaigner. Prior to reading this book I had no idea he was largely responsible for the preservation of Powerstock Common's oak woodland. The Forestry Commission were already in the process of felling it for conifer planting when Kenneth Allsop and a couple of friends intervened. The book cover features nearby Eggardon Hill, an area which in the early '70s was being prospected for oil and gas. I find it hard to believe that 120ft drilling rigs were blotting the landscape of the lovely West Dorset AONB (Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty) back then, but apparently so, and KA was instrumental in galvanising local opposition.

The book is about those final years, and how he used his various public platforms (including the BBC and Sunday Times) to turn a spotlight on individuals, companies and organisations wreaking - or allowing - environmental havoc. It is also about the resistance and opposition he faced, and about the almost inevitable emasculation of his influential voice. Kenneth Allsop took his own life in May 1973. He was more than ten years younger than I am now. He was not a saint, but I know two people who worked for him at that time, and both have only fond memories and kind words.

The book is both inspiring and depressing. Plenty that KA railed against is as much an issue today as it was then, but there have also been many environmental battles fought and won in the last fifty years. I don't think Matt Phelps need worry too much. Clearly there are always willing combatants, and the grumpy old moaners aren't going to change that.