A day at the races

Back in 'the acre' for a day of watching other people strain sinew, pull muscles and bugger knees. As far as I could tell, 'adventure racing' is basically an excuse for the wearing of lycra by people who should really know better, that, and outright masochism.

 

Pre-race, a suspiciously shiny bike.

  

It's Lance Armstrong! Maybe.

 

Witnessed all manner of arse-over-tit action on this slope, crumpled heaps make for crap photos mind, so here's a terribly proficient chap. He's so good, he takes a blurred background wherever he might go to ensure an impression of speediness - the sign of a true professional.

PS. Three Crossbills, and a few Redwing and Siskin overhead were the upshot of the bird action.

On yer bike

Didn't do 'owt today. Carried out a bit of carbon free birding yesterday though. Tredegar Park produced v little bordering on f little; the old Tredegar Park golf course, despite looking good for a Lesser Pecker or two, just turned up a pair of Dipper (with another at Pye Corner); the glorious Ynys-y-fro Reservoir held 2 Gadwall and 14 Pochard; and totting up the Mallards on the canal between Fourteen Locks and Cwmcarn resulted in a large, though still uninspiring, count of 170.

Does he need a dictionary?

Inquiry [ɪnˈkwaɪəri, ˈɪnkwəri] noun, plural -quir⋅ies.
1. a seeking or request for truth, information, or knowledge.
2. an investigation, as into an incident.
3. the act of inquiring or of seeking information by questioning; interrogation.
4. a question; query.

Look what I found...

Another day of pottering up and down a sea-wall somewhere in deepest Gloucestcestcestershire (well Oldbury actually but anyhoo...). Whilst counting the Teal couldn't help but notice the vertical-striped little fella pictured below. Presumably this is the same bird that frequented Slimbridge in early December, you'd have thought it might have been seen elsewhere in the interim mind; perhaps it had arrived overnight on a monstrous westerly we all failed to notice. Either way, it was feeding on Lagoon I before a genius of a dog-walker decided that there just aren't enough places to walk a pooch, went off-piste and blazed a new trail right round the margins of the pool. At this point the teal relocated to the tidal reservoir (later, the incoming tide pushed it back onto the lagoon).

A scene of pre-disturbance bliss.

 

"Hello ladies, if this was the 1940s I could impress you with my endless supply of chocolate and stockings. Mind you, if this were the 1940s this lagoon wouldn't be here, hmmm, this chat up line needs more thought."

 

Post-flush snooze; in the meantime three Siskin flew NE (ish), a fly-by Shelduck hybrid was followed up-river by 25 Barnacle Geese, and a Little Egret flushed from the same ditch it was in on the 8th,... that must be a mighty fine ditch. In fact, I know it is a mighty fine ditch because, rather than feed elsewhere, the egret stood a little way off looking as grumpy as an emo version of Jack Dee with piles. I hope he doesn't self-harm due to momentary loss of minnow action.

All quiet on the western front

Spent a lovely Saturday seeking the Great White Egret. It was a day of exotic travel to a point almost five yards over the border into Greater Cardiff - a feverish dreamscape of a Unitary Authority, a honeycomb of partly occupied light industrial units besieged by ropey ponies shivering in the shimmering wintry sunlight and, today at least, haunted by the dull clad restless creatures of the visionary carnival that is birding,... a bit like the better parts of Newport really.

Mind you, despite hanging around until I froze my frontal lobe, I failed to connect with the egret,... which was a bit of a shame, nice to get out though.

The theme persists

Rock Pipit,... Greylag Goose,... Jack Snipe,... dog skeleton,... huge vat of lubricant,...

Once again, the ineffable wit of the litter fairies leaps to the fore.

Refuse to ponder

Shopping trolley recently salvaged from a ditch. A bit of a 'design classic' bordering on cliche really. Do you suppose the yobbos who pilfer, ride, dump these things, are doing it as a conscious act of homage to oiks of yesteryear (a sort of ironic tip of the hat to light-fingered ne'er-do-wells of the 1960s/70s)? Or is this sort of thing so ingrained in the 'bored youth' that it represents little more than unconsciously arrived at pastiche?

The life of the fly-tipping critic is a meandrous path strewn with ambiguity, ambivalence and coke cans.

PS. On the bird front, Ruddy Duck on the 'square pool' at Avonmouth and a Kingfisher at Hoar Gout were the best of a quiet day out and about.

Smew, Smew, Barney McGrew...

The redhead Smew, along with it's kleptoparasitic little matey Black-headed Gull, performed admirably on the back lagoon at Goldcliff late morning/early afternoon. Not too much else of note though, just a trickle of Skylarks overhead, a single Golden Plover and a pair of Peregrines kicking seven shades of scheiße out of an interloping immature female.

The golden lagoons; I'm blaming a half-arsed nod to Lee Friedlander and dynamic symmetry for this one.

PS. Another Golden Plover was amongst the Lapwing down Boat Lane.

I'm sorry Shaun

Aaargh! The attack of the mutant killer snow zombies has begun.

"Just look at the face: it's vacant, with a hint of sadness. Like a drunk who's lost a bet." Dianne [Lucy Davis], Shaun of the Dead (Pegg & Wright, 2004).

Are you telling me that this sucker is nuclear?

The local kids are outside playing with Marty McFly's DeLorean DMC-12,... the snow-folk do not like it one little bit.