Friday night's alright for biking

With a title like that you might be hoping this post features rock n' roll exploits such as heavy drinking and drug-taking, but unless you count copious amounts of water and hayfever tablets, disappointment awaits. I confess to doing coke, but just the one can, to wash down fish and chips at Stanpit last Friday night. 

But this particular story starts two days before on Wednesday when work took me to Reading for a couple of days. Thanks to a post-pandemic flexibility on the part of my employer, a presence in the office is only required for things which are best done face-to-face, which translates to being there roughly once or twice a week. They are long days by train but productive, providing concentrated work time and the ability to manage the inbox thanks to the now ubiquitous onboard wifi. 

Caspian Tern, Stanpit, 15 July

Despite being relatively infrequent, however, these visits seem to have an uncanny habit of coinciding with the arrival of rare birds back in Dorset which would otherwise have been within cycling distance. This year alone I have missed Red-necked Phalarope, Rose-coloured Starling and Alpine Swift when in Reading, though I did at least manage to catch the Swift at the second attempt. Wednesday's visit provoked the arrival of a Caspian Tern at Stanpit Marsh. Its appearances were erratic but it was seen early and late on the Wednesday, causing me to wonder if I could get home on Thursday night in time to go for it.

My train was due to arrive back in Wareham at about 1900, and google maps suggested that if I got a shift on I could complete the 21 miles to Stanpit by 2045, assuming the journey home went smoothly. It did so until Bournemouth when, for reasons best known to themselves and their shareholders, South Western Trains decide that the westbound service to Weymouth would no longer stop at Wareham or anywhere else for that matter, rendering it useless for 95% of the hot and frustrated passengers turfed off at Bournemouth. 

Caspian Tern with juv Med Gull in the background

To compound the problem they simultaneously appeared to come to the conclusion that passenger information about the timing of any later trains was entirely superfluous. The line was clearly in some chaos and a taxi home seemed like the best option - but certainly not the cheapest! Despite my best efforts to persuade others in the queue to share, they all seemed to be travelling on business expenses and not interested, so I arrived home at 1920, £45 lighter in the wallet.

I had pretty much given up hope of making it to Stanpit, but info from Olly Frampton reminded me that it was 2125 before the bird had appeared the night before, so I decided to go for it against my better judgement. I made good time in the cool of the evening and arrived at Fisherman's Bank in Stanpit, from where the best views had been obtained, just after 2100. One other birder was present and we 'scoped the area in vain for the next 40 minutes before reluctantly giving up. Checking the live departure boards for the trains online I was surprised to find that order had been restored so, having dipped, I was at least able to take advantage of the unused portion of my ticket from the earlier journey to complete the Christchurch-Wareham stretch to home.

I put the Caspian Tern from my mind and hit the sack exhausted, rising bright and early for work the next morning feeling surprisingly fresh. Reports of the Tern still being present on and off throughout the day got me thinking about a re-match. The sensible thing to do might have been to leave it until the weekend, but that would have meant cycling into the rising heat of what was forecast to be one of the warmest days of the year. In this context, heading out on Friday evening as soon as work allowed was the better option, and with the bike already packed from the night before I made a prompt getaway, cutting the corner off the flatter but longer coastal route to climb up to the Wallisdown Road some 12 miles from home before dropping gently down the remaining 9 miles to Stanpit.

Arriving shortly before 1830 there was no sign of the Tern but I passed the time chatting to Charles Stubbs, editor of the Christchurch Harbour Ornithological Group's annual bird report. He had been out of the country, making him one of the last locals not to have seen the rare visitor. 

Charles mentioned that he had to leave at 1900 for a pre-ordered meal from the chip shop on the corner. The mere mention of food reminded me of the need to eat, and Charles kindly agreed to watch over my bike and optics while I ran to grab some sustenance. We exchanged numbers 'just in case', and after a bit of a delay to my order I was heading back in his direction, supper in hand. As I was about 100 yards away my phone started to ring and I could see Charles holding his mobile to his ear, obviously watching the bird in his telescope. 'On my way!', I yelled, quickening my pace.

Within seconds I was enjoying good views of the Tern as it rested on the mud in front of Fisherman's Bank. Charles suggested I might consider heading further east, over the border into Hampshire to add the Lesser Yellowlegs at Normandy Marsh to my bike list. Whilst the possibility had occurred to me, I hadn't given it serious consideration, but was now starting to do so. I resolved to make a decision by 1900 which would still leave plenty of daylight to get to Normandy. 

Charles headed off for dinner with my expressions of gratitude hopefully ringing in his ears while I stuck around for a few record shots. Another birder then arrived and after getting him onto the bird, and a jolly exchange of the 'are you that bloke on Twitter who cycles everywhere to see birds?' variety, I made the decision to go for the double. Although Normandy Marsh is 'just along the coast' from Stanpit for the driver, to the cyclist it meant another 13 miles worth of pedalling in the heat, followed of course by a 34 mile journey pedalling home.

Although I could have done without even the gentle ups and downs en route, I made reasonable progress to Normandy arriving around 2015. There was no sign of the bird on its preferred lagoon so I headed for a couple of birders - the only birders - further along the sea wall. Fortuitously, their telescopes were pointing out towards the Solent - and straight at the Lesser Yellowlegs! The gamble had paid off and for the second time that evening I found myself being grateful to fellow birders for making it so easy for me. We had a lovely chat as Little Terns, Redshanks and Oystercatchers bombed around and I even added a bonus Eider to the year list thanks to a small flock on a distant mudbank. My new friends seemed a bit incredulous that I had cycled from Stanpit, even more so when I told them that I started the journey in Wareham, and would be returning there later that night!

The Lesser Yellowlegs was a long way out but the telescope enabled good views of the legs, needle-thin bill and other features

It was a beautiful evening with the Isle of Wight as a backdrop, but as dusk was approaching I needed to get on the road. Retracing my steps as far as Stanpit, I then turned south to the coast to take advantage of the flat run home via Bournemouth seafront. Although hard going into a stiffening breeze, it was an enjoyable journey, the highlight of which was a huge moon, reddened by Saharan sand, just above the horizon as I passed the pier. 

I arrived home half an hour after midnight with 68.63 miles on the clock, shattered but content. Moreover, I had added two species not just to the non-motorised year-list (moving it on to 189) but also my non-motorised life list. The latter now stands at 247, offering the tantalizing prospect of attaining the landmark of 250 before 2022 draws to a close.

The closest of half-a-dozen Eider on the Solent

2013: Anas Horribilis?

No, not a new species of duck, just a reference to a year when bad luck (and/or bad judgement) combined to produce more than my fair share of disappointment, plus a bit of comedy and no small amount of tragedy. The Queen had one in 1992. An Annus horribilis that is. Then again her house burnt down and two of her kids got divorced in the glare of international publicity, which rather puts my minor setbacks in perspective. But it started going downhill for me in February when ill health prevented a long distance twitch to Shetland for a Pine Grosbeak. Probably for the best as I try not to make a habit of twitching islands, especially those close to the Arctic Circle. If only there were some kind of seasonal opportunity to make a resolution about stuff like that, I'd take it.

Sabine's Gull (Cogden, November): a photographic highlight of 2013

Then there was a hat-trick of long distance dips - for a Rock Thrush (Spurn, bird departed overnight, missed by a day), a Bridled Tern (Northumbs/Cleveland, mobile bird, missed by 20 minutes) and a Great Snipe (Spurn again, killed by cat, missed by a whisker, so to speak). None gave me the option of waiting on news, and while I obviously had the option of not going at all, I hoped that fortune might favour the brave. Sadly fortune was in Aberdeenshire (where another Rock Thrush was found later in the year), or on the Farnes (where the Bridled Tern relocated) or had to go back to work on the Tuesday when I went for the Snipe.

I kept this feather which fell from the lifeless corpse of the Great Snipe - a real low point in my twitching career.

I hung up my long distance twitching boots for a while after that but that didn't work either: the Great Snuff tragedy was cruelly mirrored by a similar fate suffered by a local Pallid Swift (snaffled by a Sprawk, missed by 20 minutes). Untimely deaths also befell a Short-toed Lark I saw (alive) on Portland, and rarities I never even went for, like the White-throated Needletail and a Glossy Ibis on the Western Isles. Of course, death is a fate which awaits many rare birds, but this year they just seemed to be more public and tragic than usual.

This picture explains why I got so little birding done with one arm out of action in November and December - the birdspotter needs two good arms: one to hold bins, one to hold Collins.

Then as the year approached its end I made a failed bid for a Darwin Award and suffered my first ever broken bone, rendering birding, photography and driving all but impossible for most of November and December. I missed a couple of sitters during this period, notably a long-staying Orphean Warbler, a Baikal Teal and any number of Parrot Crossbills. On the up-side, a period of sedentary reflection forced me to conclude that I should not allow myself to be defined quite so much by the length of my list, and perhaps more by the length of my scar:

Selfies were all the rage in 2013 - so here's the scar from my collarbone op in November: breaking this probably cost me three British ticks - almost as painful as breaking it in the first place.

Despite this brush with mature self-realisation, and lest I acquire a reputation for complete haplessness, I should say that I did manage to add six new birds to my British list in 2013. A Hooded Merganser from the armchair early in the year was a cheeky bonus but it took the Kent Dusky Thrush (pending decision from the birding police on racial purity) to bring an end to a record 7 month run without a new bird. A Pacific Swift in Suffolk in June gave me something to show for an exceptional summer when I either couldn't go for or missed everything else.

Pacific Swift (Suffolk, June)

A stonking October put a gloss on the year, starting with a Semipalmated Plover in Hampshire and ending with a Hermit Thrush in Cornwall. Steve Smith was driver for the first three of these (cheers Steve), and Jol Mitchell came along for the ride for the Plover, maintaining our 100% record as a trio, but I managed the Hermit Thrush all by myself, just when I was starting to believe my solo efforts at twitching were cursed. Then, as Britain's birding community was hanging up its bins under the mistletoe for 2013, and bloggers had prematurely published their 'reviews of the year', up turned the Brünnich's Guillemot - long-staying, photogenic and just down the road in Portland Harbour.

Hermit Thrush (Cornwall, October)

It wasn't all tazzing around the country chasing other people's rarities though: sometimes I just tazzed around Dorset chasing other people's rarities; and frequently, if not religiously, I could be found at Swineham, looking for my own, hope rarely fulfilled, but the experience always enhanced by not needing to travel far to get there.

Caspian Tern (West Bexington, July): this carrot-nosed brute was a Dorset tick for me in 2013.

A patch can be a cruel mistress, and while my relationship with Swineham improved overall, I continue to suffer from a form commitment-phobia, and confess to long periods of neglect during which my head has been turned by more exotic locations. When I did pay it more attention than a fleeting booty call though it rewarded me with quality patch ticks like Water Pipit, Jack Snipe, Red-throated Diver, Long-eared Owl and, best of all, White-winged Black Tern. The absence of the year-round floods made it a bit less appealing to bird than last year, but a patch is a patch, and as I'm stuck with it, I stuck with it, if only for the sake of the children who get to see much more of me when I bird locally.

White-winged Black Tern (Swineham, October): patch gold, in monochrome.

Photographically it was a rewarding year, all the lifers above being snapped for the record though only the Guillemot with any distinction. Fortunately I have low standards so I was happy with that. More successful photographically were a series of pelagics in August, and a trip to Scilly from where most of these embarked.

Great Shearwater (August, off Scilly): one of many highlights from four August pelagics.

Best birding day in 2013? A toss-up between a January bird race around Poole Harbour, and a Lyme Bay pelagic with Dorset birders and my old mate Matt Jones, taking a break from his miserable job of showing Stewart Island Kiwis to tourists for money, to revisit his native Blighty.

Sooty Shearwater (Lyme Bay, August): another pelagic highlight

Rare bird of the Year? Contenders for me include the Pacific Swift - the unlikely combination of a rare bird and an even rarer opportunity to drop everything as news broke to go see it - and the Hermit Thrush - the irresistible draw of a Yank in an idyllic Cornish valley in October. But for sheer chutzpah it has to be the Brünnich's Guillemot - mega-rare, very obliging and just down the road. Most photogenic bird of the year though was probably the approachable Sabine's Gull which graced the Dorset coast for a few days in October. Exquisite plumage + co-operative bird + too big to be killed by cat + good light - large crowd = happy days. A juvenile Dotterel with which I spent a happy hour on Bryher ran it a close second, and an Otter-dodging Black-bellied Dipper in Norfolk takes third place for charm.


Dotterel (Bryher, August)

My Dorset list profited reasonably well from in-county birding, with such scarcities/rarities as Bluethroat, Green-winged Teal, Caspian Tern, Icterine Warbler, Rosefinch, Semipalmated Sandpiper, Red-breasted Flycatcher, Penduline Tit, Surf Scoter and Black (as well as Brünnich's) Guillemot being added to the county list. The county list seems to be gaining increasing importance for me, despite being based on an arbitrary medieval boundary subjected more recently to a random act of gerrymandering in the 1974 local government re-organisation. Silly really, but then so are most lists I suppose, so it's in good company.

Black-bellied Dipper (Norfolk, March)

And speaking of lists I suppose I ought to consider resolutions for the New Year. I do so with some trepidation as it was a quiet pledge to myself to aim for '500 before I die' that led to some of the rash decisions to go for stuff I would normally be more reticent about that led to the sorry dips mentioned above. 300 for Dorset before I'm 50 seems a bit more realistic though. Currently in the low 270s, with five years to go, assuming that Darwin Award comment doesn't come back to haunt me.

Bluethroat (Portland, March): a slightly tarty Dorset tick for me, but no less attractive for that. I waited for ages, then three came along at once.

All in all then, 2013 was not that horribilis at all, there was certainly more success than failure, and even the failures have, I hope, provided some amusement for the readers of my more confessional posts. Writing them has certainly been cathartic for the author and I dare say there'll be more to come in 2014. Happy New Year.

Brünnich's Guillemot (Portland, December): bird of the year for Dorset and beyond.

Can't keep up with it all

I've got photos of butterflies from when the sun was out, and nice pics of patch trash, and quality birds from the Dorset heaths to post, all piling up on my hard drive right now. There's so much wildlife out there and I just can't keep up. And then this thing goes and turns up yesterday, on a day when I had the car at work and camera in the boot.

The first appearance of the Caspian Tern in Weymouth early yesterday morning was too brief to even attempt to get there, which at least spared me having to think up an excuse to be late for work. So I had to wait until the end of the day before legging it to West Bexington where it had been relocated. By the sounds of it I was lucky with my timing as the bird had either been showing more distantly or not at all prior to me getting there, and it flew south east down the coast about 10 minutes later. A good Dorset tick for me and quite a few others judging by the smiling faces on the beach.

Caspian Tern is such an impressive bird - the largest of the terns, and as big as a medium-sized gull. The bill is often described as a carrot but has a dark tip with a touch of yellow on the extremity. The nearest breeding colonies are around the Baltic though who knows where this one came from. Blowing up these photos revealed a metal ring on the right leg, so if anyone can get close enough its provenance could be established beyond doubt!

The first one of these I saw in Britain was at Leighton Moss RSPB in Lancashire. We were driving quite close to the reserve on holiday when news of it broke on the pager, so hot footed it straight to the site. To park we had to get under a very low bridge and I remembered with inches to spare that we had a roof box on, which wouldn't quite have made it. It could have been an expensive tick. That was in 2005, and I hadn't seen one since. The roof box is still going though. In fact I had it on the car yesterday as it hasn't been removed since a camping trip in May. Obviously, I left it on as I can't wait to get that tent loaded up again...