Not quite Little Auk

Went looking for some post-storm feathered flotsam this afternoon. Ynys-y-fro didn't produce, although the number of gulls had jumped; Goldcliff Pools also lacked quality but the 300 or so Shelduck did have another Tadorna hybrid in their midst (see superb, 70mph wind enhanced, video grabs below). Got to Goldcliff Point for the last half hour of decent light, the first bird to appear in the Swarovski was an Arctic Skua (not too bad), then Weekendbirder pulled out a Great Northern Diver heading down channel (not bad at all) and a couple of Kittiwake rounded things off. Not quite Little Auk or Grey Phal but you take what you're given round here.

Seemingly a different bird to those in Breconshire a couple of months back.

There's a storm brewin'

Given this morning's BBC weather map looked liked this...

... I just nipped to Ynys-y-fro, counted the Pochard (all 18 of them) and returned to Castle Gloom to batten down the hatches and refloat last season's ark. Thought listening to the cricket (if Twenty20 qualifies as cricket) might provide a little vicarious respite, but now it's pissing in Jo'burg too.

1-2-3-4-5,...

A couple of Med Gulls were the best of a slightly disappointing haul today. Did stumble over this on my return though. Apparently Big Bird would shit himself if you told him the truth about climate change, bit odd,... I'd have thought Oscar would be a recycling guru by now.

That's it Ernie, get that description off to the county recorder.

Today's post has been brought to you today by the letter M and the number 2. This blog is not a production of the Children's Television Workshop.

In need of a biggy

This weeks tally of half-interesting species continues to grow, today Bewick's Swans, Woodcock, Black Redstart, Chiffchaff, more Bramblings, Crossbill and more Yellowhammers were added to Monday's Whooper Swans, Swallow, Rock Pipits, Water Pipit, Brambling, Yellowhammer and Lapland Bunting. Supporting cast bagged, just need a proper rare to be the star of the show now.

PS. Rest easy, all the above is occurring comfortably beyond the Gwent boundary.

Tardy Swallow

Actually bumped into one or two half-decent birds today and, as hammering everyone's bandwidth is all the rage, I thought I'd spoil you with some moving pictures of a Swallow that might not be moving for much longer.

Go faster forks

Two days flogging the dead horse that is Gwent, and the promise of a week in the field to come, meant I opted for a spin on the bike followed by a day of indoor chores (WRP stuff, Azores stuff, stuff stuff, stuff-stuff-stuff-stuff-stuff, etc.). The ride was basically just wide and fast, or at least, potentially fast, if you don't keep easing back to register Siskin, Bullfinch, Goldcrest, etc., and stopping to check Dipper spots. Lets just say, not exactly an adrenaline-jolt-ball-shrinker but then you don't have a cat's chance of bagging Goshawk, Crossbill or Brambling on some tight-arsed, super techy downhill or a balls-out, rip-roaring airborne speedfest on which, by the time you have worked out what "screaming road gap", "corkscrew", "dropaway" and "tabletop" actually mean, you have used your face as a brake and your abiding memories of the day out are restricted to the rhythmic throb of air ambulance rotors.

The view from the handle-bars, magic red forks showing well, knackered hydraulic disks showing (and working) very poorly indeed; oak, beech, birch and larch,... now where are those Crossbills?

Tits, feck, arse and tits

This morning's attempt on Collister Pill was totally buggered by one of the local farmers shuffling his herd, I didn't even get to the saltmarsh and narrowly avoided having several mobile tonnes of beef put a new slant on my paintwork. Magor Marsh held all the usual but nothing more, and Redwick/Porton didn't exactly get the heart pumping either. Should have stayed in bed.

Another mediocre image of a dirt common bird,... because there just aren't enough on the internet already.

The Jack Snipe Game

Couldn't relocate the Twite this morning, mind you, only seeing the Linnet flock (now a 20 strong throng) in flight heading towards the Glamorgan boundary didn't help. Did see a few Water Pipits (no more than two at any one time though), plus singles of Blackcap and Chiffchaff. I was also presented with a perfect opportunity to immerse myself in The Jack Snipe Game.

Naturally enough, I can't go into details, the very mention of the game is probably too much for the more draconian members of the order, but think of it as something akin to Das Glasperlenspiel plus mud. I can divulge that today's period of play lead me to momentarily doubt the existence of the snipe, then, in turn, the existence of the saltmarsh and I was left knowing only I persisted in an anchorless, undifferentiated time and space. It was only via a fleeting understanding of the primal homology of snipe and marsh, and yet the fragmentary internal nature of each within the basal human consciousness, that I began to harmonise search image with quarry and found the snipe (or allowed the snipe's presence to form in my reality by way of retina, nerve and cortex) - a new way of seeing the snipe! A break through moment for someone at my level I think you'll agree. And how did I do overall? Well, I'll let you decide (pics below), suffice to say, I performed to my current position in the grand hierarchy of things, not exactly Magister Ludi but I persist with my struggle towards a dynamic fusion of meditative mind and meaning within nature, and continue to peer blindly into the internal cosmic mystery that is... Lymnocryptes minimus.


And I looked, and behold a small horsegok: and his name that sat on him was Jack, and Hell followed with him [before you ask, I was listening to Johnny Cash, not reading Revelations].

Azores FAQs: part four

Corvo is pretty much perfect if you enjoy finding your birds and marvelling at the chaos wrought by inclement weather. It might seem the island presents a blissfully easy way to bag Yankee rares; in order to provide some balance, I feel duty bound to outline those facets of the experience that might not sit comfortably with one and all. Therefore, prepare yourselves for... the dark side [cue rhythmic pounding of timpani or discordant blast of brass].

1. The lack of common migrants. A bit of a double-edged sword this one. On the one hand, it is quite easy to spend six hours with nothing more to trouble the retinas than Blackcap, Chaffinch and Blackbird; the flip-side is that, by becoming accustomed to every call, squeak and fart emitted by the regulars, one day you'll find yourself chasing an unseen bill-snap through the canopy knowing full well you are just about to nail something very exciting indeed.

2. The distinct possibility of breaking one's neck. The sides of the ribeiras are steep, coated in a reddish clay-like sediment (that goes all Bon Jovi after rain), and littered with decrepit stone walls with an unerring ability to collapse at the least useful moment. One day someone will have a serious accident in one of those valleys. If Corvo doesn't get you in a single fatal blow, the sheer physical grind of birding an upturned cone of petrified volcanic rage is sure to wear you down in the end. The only sizeable area of almost flat ground is the platform on which the village perches, beyond that, it is all gradient: caldera and cones, radial faults and basaltic dykes, they are all a bit 'upsy-downsy'.

3. Extreme weather. Another example of the double-edged weaponry which litters the rarity finding battlefield. Every year we beseech the ornithological gods for another hurricane season like 2005, we sit under anticyclones hoping for a storm so big it destroys another city, we revel in the increasing frequency of extreme weather events (keep burning the carbons folks) but, one day, a blow will come through that will rip the roof off the Comodoro, or a perfect storm that'll pluck a birder from the crater's rim and deposits them, head first, into the top of a Cryptomeria and we'll all wish we'd been botanists.

4. Travel woes. You pretty much have to like flying in planes big and small; on my last journey home I had five flights (this must be one of the few places you can do this and remain in Europe). Changing flights can be something akin to [well you think up something that should be straightforward but is inexplicably impossible]. Also, if the wind is coming from the wrong quarter the flight is cancelled; if the wind is out of the north there'll be no discussion, no chance and no plane.

5. Mental fatigue. Finding small birds in big valleys choked with sub-tropical secondary growth is tiring. Each day's toil erodes the cerebral defences, consumes the mental reserves and chips away at your belief in the redemption promised by the big one. The creeping, then rampant, agoraphobia; the rushing wings of the Corvo wraiths, at first, just perceptible in the depths of the darkest ribeira, become, by the end of a ten day stay, a constant, hounding cacophony. Crushed birders cower at the foot of walls, grazed flesh pressed against unforgiving alkaline basalt; gently rocking, their eyes white, wide, wild. The thrashing canopy closes in, the 'chink, chink' of aggravated finches piercing tympanic membranes, the 'tack, tack' of insistent Blackcaps tearing along shredded auditory nerves to explode in clusters on the superior gyrus of your, now crumbling, temporal lobe. And finally, there you are, trapped in a verdent 'Scream' or stumbling through a 'Guernica' of Atlantic Gulls and shattered windmills. Quietly violent, unbearably intense, unreal; this is birding in the foaming maw of an Atlantic breaker of existential anguish,...

...nothing that a cuppa and a slice of Rosa's chocolate cake can't put right mind :-)

Missing the flyby Double-crested Cormorant proved too much.

PS. I didn't even mention the limited diet - ham & cheese anyone?

Nice little surprise

A valiant, though ultimately unsuccessful, attempt to see the Peterstone Firecrest produced a nice little spin-off this afternoon. Despite five Gwent birders (that's as near to a twitch as we get round here) coming and going from the environs of the church, the natty little crest remained unseen. However, during a quick wander to the sea-wall, Nathan heard an interesting call and (to cut a long story of mud slippage, wet footery and near talocrural breakage short) it turned out to be an initially flighty, then bastardishly skulky, Twite. After several hours of effort, I got one decent, but flipping brief, view on the deck and a few flight views, not ideal but - GER-WENT TER-TICK! Even got an absolutely brilliant photograph as I'm sure you'll agree...

The first Twite in the county since 2002 (I think). Whaddya mean "Which one is it?"