His Imperial Majesty 12th July 2013

Friday dawned warm, humid and overcast but with the alluring promise of sunshine to come later and that it would be one of the hottest days in this wonderful spell of good weather.There really was only one place to be in Oxfordshire on such a day and so I made my way to Bernwood Forest in search of Purple Emperors and the cool, quiet comfort of the woods. 

Various duties meant I did not get there until just before noon by which time the sun had broken through and having missed the morning rush of dog walkers I found myself virtually alone wandering down the wide main ride through the woods. This time of year the woods are quiet and tranquil with just the odd sound from a bird hidden in the dense foliage. The vitality and urgency of Spring had now been replaced by a slower and easier rhythm of life as the bounty and profligacy of high summer was enjoyed by all, apart from the contradiction of insects and butterflies, which are seeking to mate and reproduce in the short time span, often lasting only weeks, that is allotted them. 

The sun was reflected in shimmering waves of light off the oak leaves as I slowly meandered along the ride lost in my own personal reverie of time and space. The grass verges were alive with Ringlets and Meadow Brown butterflies, restlessly but gently lolloping along amongst the grass, occasionally spiralling up in a brief whirl as they met up with another of their kind only to just as quickly part and drift back down to their ceaseless quest for I know not what amongst the summer grasses. A Silver Washed Fritillary, bright biscuit ginger against the dark green foliage, cruised at great speed alongside the silent, drousy oaks lining the ride and then disappeared into the sun dappled shade of the forest depths. A White Admiral flew at speed the other way. I found myself traversing a veritable lepidopteran highway as I came to the far end of the ride, alone and pensive with wonder at the sheer beauty and peace of the woods around me. 

Silent and still in mind and body I contemplated a flowering bramble patch on the edge of the wood, deep in the lush grass, set back from the ride and superficially devoid of insect life, but as I gazed my eyes discovered and my ears heard a myriad of insects living out their brief lives in this, their own small universe. It harboured, as Matthew Arnold so eloquently wrote in his poem The Scholar Gypsy, 'all the live murmur of a summer's day.' 

Slowly as I became attuned and patiently waited, more and more of interest became apparent in and around the bramble. A Comma, previously invisible, suddenly opened it's wings and became obvious, an orange and black masterpiece, cruciform on a bramble leaf. A Large Skipper, like some intercepting missile, shot up from a purple headed Knapweed to joust with another of it's kind, the two of them whizzing around in a frenzy before separating, the aggressor to go back to feed on the knapweed, the other to resume its perigrinations. A Blue Emperor Dragonfly, with a bright green barrel body carried on gauze brittle wings flew by me, turning with incredible agility on it's own axis, back and fore and then soaring high and over the trees. Gone forever into the shining blue. Chequerboard patterned, a Marbled White settled on a bright yellow Catsear, its delicate black legs clinging like threads to the flower head as it drank the nectar. 

I stirred myself from my reverie but just as I did I was graced by the presence of His Imperial Majesty or The Sultan of Morocco, exotic and romantic names from times past for what we now know as the more prosaically named Purple Emperor, who seemingly from nowhere landed literally at my foot and proceeded to suck up minerals from the track with his pale yellow proboscis. Totally dismissive of my presence I was completely ignored. I felt I should have at least bowed in deference and indeed inclined my head in a brief acknowledgement of him granting me an audience. Standards must be maintained! At first the full glory of the purple on his wings was invisible. He was just a large brown and white butterfly but undoubtedly with a majesty and presence denied any other butterfly species to be found in Bernwood or anywhere else in Britain for that matter.

Only at certain angles does he allow his purple finery to shine for one always capricious with his public as befits such a regal personality. I moved slightly and as I changed the angle of view so the full glory of his colouring became evident. The sheer beauty and perfection of the colouring and the intricate, subtle patterning of the underwings took my breath away. It happens every time I see one and I know for three short weeks I will be endeavouring to see as many as possible. It will be over far too soon leaving only memories until next year. Today I was granted an all too brief audience before he was up and away, flying off down the summer lit ride in that unmistakeably charismatic, stiff winged and powerful flight so typical of his kind. The ride now seemed diminished by his absence. I waited and he came back for an encore, flying low, straight towards me and disdainfully passing within inches of my feet but he was restless and irritable, only settling for seconds before moving on and it was obvious that he could not find suitable mineral deposits on the bare ride and in the end he ascended into his natural home, seeking invisibility in the canopy of oak leaves above the ride. 

I wandered on still in a mood of quiet contemplation, stopping again at a junction of rides which also seemed to serve the same function for butterflies. Silver Washed Fritillaries passed to and fro, always in great haste as if the very energy in them was almost too much to contain and White Admirals flew straight winged, gliding, flickering white on black in and around the surrounding Oaks. The sun was now at it's zenith and the white light of a full summer's day glittered as I stood in the tree shade, idly contemplating the sunlit trees on the other side of the ride. A large dark butterfly flew imperiously onto a leaf halfway up an Oak and settled head on into the sun. Another regal presence. Unmistakeable. Another Purple Emperor. A White Admiral passed close by and the Emperor was out and in pursuit in an instant of affront at the unwarranted intrusion. 

The full drowsy heat of mid afternoon was now oppressive and bore down upon me with even the Ringlets and Meadow Browns sinking into the juicy depths of the long grass, seeking shade. I too sought those grassy tracks through the woods that were bowered and partially shaded from the heat of the sun and coming up a wooded ride, I looked ahead as if into a tunnel of green light and a Fallow Deer doe, almost orange in the tree diluted rays of the sun contemplated my approach. Her gentle demeanour and huge eyes of innocence encapsulated the mood and I turned slowly away so as not to alarm her. I melted as best I could into the wood and she looked on. More curious than afraid. It was that kind of day.

Unbridled joy 2nd July 2013

Bridled Tern c Justin

I was sitting in the garden of our local pub in Kingham having a pleasant evening glass of wine with my wife and daughter when I received a terse text from Justin. 'Are you looking to go for the tern?' I knew exactly what he was referring to. A Bridled Tern had arrived on the Farne Islands the day before and was 'a mega' as it would be the first one twitchable since July 1988. I consulted my family and as usual was given their wholehearted approval to go. 

At half past midnight I collected Justin in Bicester and we set off north. To my shame I did not know just how far north the Farne Islands were. They are, as I learnt as we headed inexorably north, almost at the Scottish border, further than I had anticipated. Neither of us had got much sleep due to the late decision to go. Justin had a couple of hours on the couch at home and I  had similar but in bed at my home. Slightly frazzled as we set off we regaled each other with past birding exploits just to keep each other awake as we drove onwards. After a while to my tired eyes the reflections from the cat's eyes on the Motorway became like mesmerising white tracer bullets coming at us at speed as we headed north. So long as you remained in a lane they never scored a hit and disappeared behind into the darkness of the empty road. Fanciful I know but this  form of extreme birding brings strange illusions. Boredom, tiredness or just an overactive imagination?  I redoubled my concentration.

Tuesday after midnight on the M1 meant there were few vehicles on the road and we proceeded steadily northwards untroubled by obstacles real or imagined. We had reached Leeds by three in the morning and it was already getting light with a suffusion of pink rising off to the East. Alternating the driving responsibilities was a real  boon on such a long and tiring journey and gave both of us a chance of getting some rest. We passed The Angel of the North, looming huge and rusty over Gateshead but still very impressive against the lightening sky.  By the time we turned off the A1 it was broad daylight bringing that grey and calm early dawn stillness so familiar to birders when most other people are sensibly still abed and for certain not whizzing up or down Motorways and country lanes. We wound around the rural, single carriageway road to Seahouses from whence a boat would take us on a short  sea crossing to our twitching destiny on Inner Farne. Startled groups of Jackdaws flapped heavily from the deserted road at our approach as did a lone Buzzard, perched sentinel on a telegraph pole.

We arrived in Seahouses, a small, pleasant seaside town with one main street, surprisingly containing no less than four fish and chip shops and made for the car park above the pier. It was just after five in the morning. Already the car park was half full with cars disgorging birders, some quite cheerful and energetic others still sleepy from a long drive. Acquaintances were renewed and slowly everyone made their way down to Billy Shiel's smart blue office cum shed where we parted with £15.00 per head to be transported across to Inner Farne. 

Twitchers waiting for the boat at Seahouses

A whisper went round the assembled throng that the tern had already been seen this morning and there was a discernible change in atmosphere from one of tension to a more relaxed and jovial anxiety. Gathered at the end of the pier we filed down the steps and onto the Glad Tidings. Despite the  boat looking somewhat small the two man crew managed to get everyone on board and we were on our way promptly at six. 

Glad Tidings

Over to our left the hulking and brooding outline of Bamburgh Castle was prominent on the coastline as we traversed the calm sea and thankfully no one was ill as the crossing took no more than twenty minutes. From the Seahouses shoreline Inner Farne had appeared as an unremarkable, low lying island with a squat white lighthouse at its highest point. It was only as we got nearer the island that the sheer number of seabirds on and around the small island became apparent. The sea was dotted with hordes of Guillemots and Puffins plus an occasional Razorbill and Gannet amongst them. Above the island a huge number of terns flew in seemingly haphazard circles. We rounded the northern point of the island and drew alongside the landing stage manned by three wardens in bright red jackets. The head warden greeted us with a cheery 'Morning lads. Not to worry. The tern's on the rocks to your left showing well'. The tension and anxiety amongst the fifty or so birders on the boat increased palpably and some could hardly control themselves, gently chivvying those in front leaving the boat to get a move on. Everyone wanted off the boat as fast as possible and to get to see the tern as quickly as possible. Thankfully this being England everyone managed to remain almost polite and soon we were all on the landing stage looking left and getting our first view of the Bridled Tern. 

The landing stage on Inner Farne

The rocks where it was perched were a loafing area for an assembly of off duty Arctic, Common and Sandwich Terns, that after having a wash were sorting out their plumage or just having a sleep.

Every so often 'a dread' would seize the throng and they would all noisily rise up and wheel around for a minute or so before settling again. The Bridled Tern would join them and we were treated to close fly pasts and at one stage it was no more than a few feet above our heads actually calling. A gull like cry, very distinctive above the harsher calls of the other terns. Unfortunately because of the restricted viewing on the landing stage it was virtually impossible to get a decent photo but I certainly got more than adequate views of the Bridled Tern through my bins. 

Bridled Tern c Justin

Slightly larger than the Arctic and Common Terns it was grey brown on the upper parts with a prominent and rather snazzy black and white head pattern. The underparts were snow white. Supremely elegant in flight, its narrow body moving up and down with each  beat of  it's long wings and a prominently forked tail showing white outer tail feathers. It perched on the rocks regularly but was constantly taking off and flying around us. Occasionally it was mobbed in a somewhat desultory fashion by other terns. Maybe they thought it was a small skua due to it's brown plumage and rakish appearance. We watched it for around fifteen  minutes before it disappeared over the top of the island into the milling throng of terns nesting there and was lost to view. It came back briefly some minutes later and performed another circuit but then again retreated back over the island. We all waited but it did not come back. 

The wardens had given special permission for us to be there this early in the morning as normally access is restricted to between 1.30-5.30 in the afternoon and our special viewing was restricted to only one hour and only from the landing stage, which passed all too quickly. Then we all had to re-board the boat to return to Seahouses.

The time I spent between the Bridled Tern making off and the boat leaving for Seahouses was certainly not wasted from my personal point of view. I have always wanted to visit the Farne Islands and took this opportunity to admire and enjoy the sheer seabird spectacular all around me. Arctic and Common Terns were everywhere, constantly active, their beauty and sheer elegance in no way diminished by their continuous raucous and ear jarring cries. 

Common Terns

Common Tern

Arctic Terns

Arctic Tern

Arctic Terns

Arctic Terns usually do not return to the breeding grounds in their second calendar
year but there were a number of these birds present still in first winter plumage

Flocks of terns and Puffins discomfited by the appearance of predatory Herring and Greater Black backed Gulls periodically wheeled wildly in the sky before resuming their positions on the turf and settling back to family duties. A warden ran, shouting and waving his arms at a Herring Gull that landed in a group of nesting terns. Too late. The Herring Gull flew off with a half swallowed tern chick. Puffins stood sentinel on crumbling walls. So dapper in their black and white plumage and  technicolour bills. 

One of the wardens went up the famous pathway to the ruined buildings and was instantly assailed by fearless, aggressive terns pecking at her head. The sheer pulse of life and  the variety of birds was uplifting. The absolute energy and relentless activity of the birds all intent on reproductive success was reward enough for being here but today it was topped by a real tropical star in the very rare Bridled Tern.

Justin making friends with St Cuthbert's Duck. St Cuthbert was a monk who lived
on Lindisfarne, one of the Farne Islands and protected the Eiders that lived there

What do you mean they are rare? 1st July 2013

Last week I went to Waterperry Nature Reserve looking for the rare and often elusive Black Hairstreak butterfly. Last year was pretty disastrous for them so it was by no means certain there would be any but I found four over the space of four and a half hours and felt very pleased with myself.

Fired by my success at Waterperry, today, I tried my luck at the nearby Bernwood Forest Nature Reserve. To be precise I tried my luck at the M40 Compensation Area which is an area of land sandwiched between the forest and the M40 and a well known place in which to find Black Hairstreaks. This was the first time I had visited here and I was told the Compensation Area was at the end of the main track that runs through the forest. This was true. What I was not told was that it was very hard to find, necessitating following hardly discernible tracks through nettles and sundry other vegetation and I met several other enthusiasts also very confused but after several wrong detours through the woods and some uncertainty we finally found ourselves in the right place.

We were not alone when we got there. I suppose being a sunny, warm weekend it was inevitable that a considerable number of people would come looking for the hairstreaks. Nonetheless I was a bit taken aback by how many people there were with some even from as far as Cornwall. The Compensation Area looked prime habitat for hairstreaks with swathes of Blackthorn everywhere you looked. Normally it would be deserted as no one in their right mind apart from butterfly enthusiasts would come here for enjoyment, slap bang by an endlessly busy and very noisy Motorway.

The prime areas seemed to be right by the fence running along the edge of the Motorway. Not the quietest spot by a long way as vehicles roared up and down the six lane highway literally feet from us but this was where the butterflies were so it was here or nothing. After a while the incessant noise seemed to become less intrusive as one's ears got used to it although using a mobile phone was nigh on impossible.  

Almost immediately I saw a couple of Black Hairstreaks fluttering around the Blackthorn but they never settled low or close enough to photograph. This went on for about an hour with regular appearances by the hairstreaks but always bringing frustration as they settled high up in trees or just flew off. Another butterfly enthusiast came along and suggested we go further along the fence line, maybe half a mile south where there were up to twenty, yes twenty Black Hairstreaks settling low down on leaves and everyone was getting great pictures. Apparently one person had even video'd one laying eggs! 

I needed no second invitation and following his directions arrived at another area of Blackthorn even closer to the edge of the Motorway. Black Hairstreaks seemed to be everywhere I looked. Fluttering high and low around the Blackthorn and settling on a particularly favoured flowering Wild Privet and nectaring from the opening flowers. Remarkably, considering their scarcity they were the most numerous butterfly species present during my stay.

I stood there with others and just waited for suitable photo opportunities as an endless procession of Black Hairstreaks came and went or was it the same few individuals? Probably not. I estimated there must have been at least twenty present over the four hours I watched them, maybe more, it was hard to tell. Close up views were the norm but they rarely remained still for more than a few minutes before restlessly moving on or interacting with other Black Hairstreaks or the occasional Speckled Wood. Everyone had a camera of one sort or another and no one was disappointed.

Its all rosy in Norfolk 23rd June 2013

Friday evening and I had the usual what shall we do tomorrow conversation with Badger.The weather forecast was as per normal, dire. Hey it's only June what do you expect? I checked the forecast again. Go West? Go East? The marginally better forecast was for the East. Norfolk it is then. Why Norfolk? Well an adult Rose coloured Starling at Wells on Sea had been featuring for the last four days and judging by the resulting photos you could get close to it. Both of these facts were somewhat novel as virtually all my previous experiences with Rose coloured Starlings had been of juveniles which are frankly totally uninspiring in their pale brown plumage and are usually found distantly on rooftops which seems, like their commoner cousins, a favoured hangout. An adult Rose coloured Starling at ground level is something else altogether, being attractively presented in a combination of pink and black which seems to encompass the more vivid colours of their usual habitat. Even their bill is pink. 

The previous week had been tiring both mentally and physically with long non birding trips to Norfolk and Essex leaving me down and slightly depressed. I find going for a run the antidote to this so I took to the lanes on Friday morning to get those endorphins pulsing through the brain. It did the trick but advancing years means I inevitably feel tired and stiff the next day. I struggled early next morning to the rendezvous with Badger and Andy at our meeting point in Kidlington and with enormous gratitude slumped onto the back seat of Badger's car for the three hour trip to Norfolk. We indulged ourselves in the usual birder conversational drivel, dissing all and sundry to pass the time away and eventually I slumped into a light sleep. Awake as we approached Kings Lynn I navigated our way through the lanes to Wells on Sea and we arrived  at the location, a pleasant little narrow lane with houses on one side and a creek with saltmarsh beyond on the other. There was no mistaking where the starling was frequenting. The spot was staked out by a frighteningly large number of birders on both sides of the lane and virtually every car parking space was taken along the lane. Yellow lines were prominent so parking was difficult but we found a space further up the lane by the yacht club. As we walked back a large percentage of the assembled birders appeared to be dispersing. Obviously they had been waiting to see the bird and it had appeared then departed whilst we were parking and getting it together. No problem it will be back again. The bird was apparently favouring a stunted sycamore tree hung with feeders opposite a whitewashed cottage with the very accommodating and welcoming owner ensconced outside guarding a collection bucket for the Norfolk Air Ambulance.

The Tree. The Rose coloured Starling is in there somewhere!

We took up position by her house looking directly across the narrow lane at the feeders. There were not so many birders now. The starling, apparently was in the tree and invisible but we were assured the starling would drop down on the feeders from the tree. We waited and we waited and we waited. The usual busy Saturday morning procession of cars, bicycles, locals, dog walkers and tourists passed by. Some stopped to chat others did not. I needed the loo and wandered back down the lane into town. A pub offered relief but only for patrons. I entered and forking out £1.50 for tea served in a pot and on a tray with milk and sugar, found both a bargain and relief. I drank the tea quickly and walked back to the starling site assuming it would have shown up while I was absent but Badger and Andy told me I had missed nothing. 

The world according to Wells carried on. Swifts flew low over the rooftops and a Common Tern reconnoitred the creek. A man with a small dog under his arm waded the creek in his bare feet. They were not webbed. Yes it really was that interesting. I jest. A bespectacled, stick like young man with a ridiculous, affected posh accent strode down the lane and demanded of the assembled camouflaged innocents, 'Just who had blocked his car in?'  It was none of us so he was therefore completely ignored and stalked off back down the lane. Two hours had now passed and doubts as to whether the starling was actually in the small tree were now becoming very real but suddenly the starling rose from it's hiding place in the leaves, ascended to roof top height and crossing the lane perched on the roof tops behind us. Andy missed it as in his boredom he had resorted to digiscoping a Jackdaw scoffing fat balls from one of the feeders. 

There was a mass migration of birders to the middle of the lane to get a brief but obscured view of the elusive starling on a rooftop before it flew off. See what I mean about rooftops? 

I did not bother to move. OK I had seen it fly from the tree but it had to be better than this before I was satisfied and yet another rooftop view was not on the itinerary!  Another hour passed. Nothing happened apart from a regular scrutiny of Jackdaws, House Sparrows, Common Starlings and Collared Doves on the feeders by yours truly and virtually everyone else. I checked the camera settings yet again. The number of birders slowly increased. Lethargy took over and I slumped down the wall of the cottage onto the gravel and went into a light doze. How long I was like this I do not know. It always seems longer than it actually is but then a seemingly distant voice said  'Here it is' and scrambling to my feet  I saw the starling returning to do a fly past and then circling back over the creek, descend into the sycamore tree and become invisible once again. We waited and waited. Not a sign. Come on. Please, not another two hours. Twenty, thirty minutes passed and then there it was, suddenly dropping from the leafy depths down into the fork of the tree and then onto the feeders.

What a beautiful bird. An adult in full breeding plumage. Coral pink underbody and mantle offset by glossy black wings, tail and head, complete with crest. The bill was also incongruously pale pink. It attacked the peanuts and  fat balls with relish whilst cameras went into action filling the lane with high speed staccato shutter bursts. For five or ten minutes it hung on the feeders and then it dropped down on the creek side of the privet hedge enclosing the tree and was out of view for us. Dilemna. Do we wait here for it to possibly pop back up onto the feeders or move position to view it on the other side of the hedge? Other birders positioned some metres back up the lane and on the other side by the creek were obviously watching it. We moved to join them which was in hindsight a wise decision. It was showing in glorious isolation perched on a concrete bird bath and posing in all it's pink and black glory. 

So exotic when compared to the browns of  the local sparrows and juvenile Common Starlings. Carefully, so as not to obscure the view of others I edged forward and just pointed the camera and fired it off for all it was worth. No time for consideration of light or angles. This was the moment. It could be gone in an instant. The starling moved right onto a whitewashed wall and gave yet more photo and gawping opportunities.

Andy was doing the same as me with his digiscoping set up until some unthinking idiot stood right in front of him just as he was going to get his best photograph. Why do people do this? Control, you must exert control of your emotions and anxiety and think of your fellow birders. Restricted space, restricted opportunities. Just a little thought. Any conflict such as this will ruin the experience and just leave you with unfortunate memories. Such was the case for Andy which was both sad and annoying as you cannot legislate for the unthinking behaviour of others. You want your colleague to share the same joyous experience and if they do not, it somehow diminishes it for everyone. Before Andy could re-adjust the starling flew off onto the saltmarsh and joined a feeding flock of starlings. 

We watched it from the seawall, it's bright pink plumage obvious amongst it's darker cousins as it fed with them and joined the flock in flight as the starlings periodically rose and settled on the saltmarsh. Then the whole flock of around sixty starlings rose up one more time and flew off over the lane behind the houses. It was over. Four hours in Wells-on-Sea.

Wells town centre in distance, the creek and 'the tree' just visible extreme left

It was now two thirty so there was still most of the afternoon left. 'Let's go to Titchwell. It's always good there'.  Titchwell was predictably busy but bearable. I grabbed a pasty for my lunch while Badger and Andy perused the RSPB shop. Wandering out to the huge new hide with it's innovative design and viewing facilities it was obvious that there were a large number of waders present. Avocets were everywhere, their constant liquid calls permeating the whole area. 

It was sunny but windy, very windy, so we headed for the shelter of the hide. A veritable wader fest greeted us on looking out through the wide windows. Most remarkable was the large flock of Knot, around a thousand, with a few in full breeding plumage, tightly huddled together in classic Knot fashion out on the scrape before us. I imagined them saying, 'Are we still going north or is this it? Let's stop here - stuff Greenland. The weather's not much different.'

Almost two hundred Bar Tailed Godwits were with them, either females or males in non breeding plumage. Around a hundred Black tailed Godwits, conversely virtually all in summer plumage were energetically feeding in the shallow waters. Their bills probing the mud at a ferocious pace.

The more we looked the more we saw. Badger found a summer plumaged Spotted Redshank, completely black apart from dark crimson legs and bill. Almost sinister as it fed by the far reeds.We then found seven more. Badger found a Green Sandpiper. Andy found a Little Ringed Plover and then a Ringed Plover. I found a Little Tern. Sulphur yellow dagger bill and short yellow legs. It's black eyestripe giving it continental waiter chic. Up to six immature Little Gulls wandered along the shore picking at insects. Common Shelduck, Mallard, Common Pochard and Shoveler all had broods out and about. All the buzz and activity of a breeding season in full swing with just a touch of sadness about the inexorable passing of the promise of Spring