Thrills and trills in the Cotswolds 22nd April 2014

Easter Monday and I am about to make a visit to see the emergent bluebells at nearby Foxholes BBOWT with my wife when a text arrives from Steve. It is the metaphorical birding bombshell. He has found a male Pied Flycatcher just up the road near Chipping Norton. My wife recognising the signs puts the bluebells on hold. Five minutes in the car and we meet Steve in a remote country lane between our respective homes in Kingham and Chipping Norton and head for the hidden wood where he had seen it an hour or so ago. We are at quite an elevation and the Cotswolds, bathed in soft morning sunshine lie below us in a wide screen panoramic view as we walk down through cowslip festooned fields to the wood.  Almost inevitably there is not a sign of the flycatcher despite extensive searching. The woods are beautiful and full of warbler song and, yes, a few bluebells. We walk back up to the road and meet our local MP  David Cameron who is also our illustrious Prime Minister, plus family, out for a bike ride with security in tow in the form of a large black van. "What about the massacre of migrant birds in Malta Dave?" We enquire. He ignores this and cycles off looking vaguely ridiculous in tory blue shorts and top with the radiant Samantha and kids following.

Later we go for lunch in The Wild Rabbit in our home village of Kingham. Located on the opposite side of the road to our home "The Bunny"  is convenient but now being "uber" trendy is the place of choice for the great and good and any minor celebs who reside in the Cotswolds. Jeremy Clarkson is sitting in the front garden "avving a fag". What have I done to deserve this? Dipped a Pied Flycatcher and twitched two of my pet hate figures all in one morning. My wife gently leads me to a quiet corner out of sight of the petrolhead pantomime buffoon. A pint of Old Hooky and life takes on some meaning again.

By mid afternoon I am contemplating the rear of a Subaru whilst stationary and well and truly stuck in a tailback of Easter Monday traffic mayhem on the M25 around Heathrow. I have a business appointment in South Croydon and there is no escape. My phone cheerily alerts me to a text. What now? It's Paul Wren advising me there is a Wood Warbler, a county mega if ever there was one, literally a few minutes drive from my home in a nearby village called Shipton under Wychwood. At least it would be a few minutes if I was not currently parked on the M25.

There is nothing I can do. I console myself with the fact that Badger has gone to Lesvos and Andy is in Suffolk so I am not the only one to miss out. The clouds loom ominously dark grey and fulsome over the Motorway and suddenly the rain descends in biblical intensity and proportions. Bloody hell. Birds are now totally forgotten as, with the car moving once again I take extreme measures to survive the blinding spray and traffic chaos brought on by the Motorway rain.

Driving home later that night it is still raining. Mesmerised by the wipers I feel sleepy and pull over into a layby for a power nap.  I mull over the, for me, disastrous days events but stop at the Wood Warbler. If it has been raining almost continuously and still is now after dark then surely there is a chance the Wood Warbler will not be going anywhere and maybe, just maybe there is a slim chance of seeing it tomorrow? Yes I know, drowning men and straws but be fair there is a slim chance. I get home and switch on the TV  The first programme I encounter is Have I Got News for You. Who is the guest presenter?  F*****G Clarkson. I give up and go to bed setting the alarm for 5am

Dawn the next morning is not propitious. The birds are singing alright but it has rained all night with consequently low cloud, mist and the odd rain spat waiting to welcome me to a new dawn as I get in the car for the short drive to Shipton. I get to the designated spot and park. Out into a depressingly dull, overcast, green and sodden landscape. Unsurprisingly I am alone  in my quest. Birds however are now singing everywhere. I walk along the length of the trees by the road which were favoured by the warbler yesterday. No sign or sound of any warbler let alone a Wood Warbler. Drained of energy I lean on a metal gate and stare vacantly over the water meadows by the River Evenlode. I listen to the various bird songs. A Lesser Whitethroat rattles away in some distant hawthorn hedge. Various trills emanate from random bushes and trees but not the desired one. Blue Tits, Great Tits even Long Tailed Tits scold and flit through the trees and bushes. A Blackbird croons its laid back melody from atop a hawthorn whilst a Muntjac ventures from the vibrant green hedgerow to my left. Just a few feet from me. Daintily it minces its way through the long wet grass. I freeze. It tiptoes on legs of spindle further out but then senses me, turns to look in my direction and with a leap and shrieking bark rapidly returns into  the cover of some brambles. It cocks its white tail as it flees. A glance at the time reveals it is now 6am. I reason the warbler could be anywhere now as there are many trees for it to choose from over a very wide area of countryside, so decide to give it just fifteen more minutes. Five minutes of dejection pass leaning on the gate whilst the early morning traffic begins to make itself evident.  I hear a trill but was that quite right? I wait and there it is again. Still not quite sure as there is so much bird racket going on to add to the noise from passing vehicles. Then finally, unequivocally comes the shivering descending trill that can only be the finale to a Wood Warbler's song. It is in the trees that were formerly silent, close to me, just on the other side of the road and virtually opposite me but well inside the grounds of a very upmarket retirement home complex call The Old Prebendal House. All Cotswold Stone and landscaped gardens. You have to be wealthy to afford to reside there

The Wood Warbler's favoured area in the grounds of The Old Prebendal House
with the trees around the pond harbouring the warbler for long periods

I abandon all decorum and race up the road to the Old Prebendal House entrance and into the landscaped grounds on my left well away from the buildings. Forgive me. I am sure nobody will mind but even if they did it would not matter for the grounds are deserted at this unearthly hour as none of the elderly residents or staff are up and about. I follow a short winding path and come to the area where I first heard the warbler from the road. Silence. Nothing. Why does it not sing?  Come on I know you are here. A tiny movement high in a willow catches my eye. No need for singing now. Through binoculars a lemon yellow face and breast, silky white underparts and moss green upperparts greet me and bang on cue it opens its bill and pours forth notes of silver from on high. The bird's whole body quivering with the effort. The light in the early morning gloom is truly appalling but through the binoculars I can see everything clearly. 

The Wood Warblers favourite tree

It is not particularly shy but is constantly active and remains towards the tops of the trees with one willow in particular much favoured. It feeds by delving into the leaves for invertebrates and occasionally hovering to pick them off. I watch it for over an hour as it feeds and sings almost constantly, moving with slim elegance through the maze of twigs and leaves

The trilling song always helps to locate it as it moves around its self imposed restricted area surrounding the pond. A truly rare bird for Oxfordshire and but for last night's rain one that would have undoubtedly moved on. Luckily it did not and for me just reward for an early start. Thanks also to Paul Wren for first finding it yesterday and letting everyone know.

A Spring Farmoor morning 10th April 2014

The mist slowly drifted away above the westerly wind  ruffled, grey waters of Farmoor. A patchwork of grey and blue formed in the heavens as the sun slowly filtered through the dispersing mist. The all pervading concrete contours of the reservoir, so obtrusive and unforgiving on the eye are no longer surrounded by the stark, bare bushes and trees of winter but are now muffled and softened by the burgeoning green of emerging leaves and the surrounding resurrected vegetation somehow makes the reservoir less stark.

The landscape of winter has ceased to be brown and has become one of green growth as far as one can see. A much more appealing  prospect, bringing with it the eternal and annual optimism of renewal and expectation.

Willow Warblers and Chiffchaffs have arrived unheralded during the previous nights after perilous journies across land and sea, and now sing to announce their presence from high perches in willows and hawthorns. Each bird so nondescript in appearance but their appeal to us enhanced by the knowledge of what has been achieved by each and every one of them to get here

The walk up the central causeway, as so often, was unexceptional. The only gulls were hundreds of Black headed Gulls feeding on the myriad of flies across the reservoir. Small groups of Coots, possibly non breeding birds, picked lazily at the weed in the water and a few Pied Wagtails flew before me along the concrete pathway. The female Mallard still has her twelve young and four 'orphaned' golden ducklings were feeding in their own little group, dangerously unsupervised by a parent.

Great Crested Grebes flew unsteadily across the Causeway from one reservoir to the other whilst single individuals whiled away the morning asleep or casually feeding. Two amorous Great Crested Grebes, breast to breast, bill to bill, glanced sharply left and right in unison, almost mechanical in their actions as they displayed to each other.

Great crested Grebe

I turned off the Causeway to walk along the top end of Farmoor Two and look for the Red necked Grebe. Now something of a celebrity, having been here for five days with a constant stream of birders and or photographers tramping the concrete to admire it and take its picture. I found it easily, all alone in a  sheltered area of the reservoir, it was fishing not far from the bank, catching small unidentified fish, often trailing strands of weed in its bill from the murky green depths where the fish had been snatched. The grebe played with some of the fish before swallowing them head first and then picked off a few flies from the water's surface to complement its fishy repast. This is the highlight of the morning. This is Farmoor

Red necked Grebe

Now the morning's bright sun and blue sky had taken over and lulled one into a sense of warmth and benign well being but the sharp west wind reminded otherwise. This is early April and  ever capricious at this time of year, the weather can turn in a moment. Indeed Farmoor seems to have a climate of its very own. Out of the wind it was warm and soothing with clouds of flies hanging in the still air behind the windbreaks of the hedges. Exposed to the wind it was uncomfortable in the least.

Blackcaps warbling, rich and throaty, are here in force now and seemed to be singing from every suitable point and Chiffchaffs rivalled them for abundance. I walked back to the Causeway with Dai and left him to go down the Causeway while I carried on round Farmoor One.  Four wagtails prinking and preening on the path were unusual here. They are usually found further down the Causeway. They kept together, obviously a group and were a little nervous and flighty. They were White Wagtails, migrants, stopping here on their way to, well, who knows where. They did not remain  long and soon, with irrepressible loud cheery calls, took to the air in a group and disappeared northwestwards. Migration in action. This is the other highlight of the morning for me.

White Wagtail

I wandered down to the path running by the Thames and snaking, sinuous as the river along the back of the small reserves at Pinkhill and Shrike Meadow.

No redstarts were in the hedge, maybe next week, just a lone Robin darting out onto the path and back into the hedge, doing a passable impression of a redstart.

A Little Egret sunned itself  on the edge of the reeds at Shrike Meadow but as soon as it saw me took off in a flurry of dazzling white. Many migrants are yet to come. The bleached, dead, reed stalks, taller than a man and each with a tufted pennant of a purplish, dead, flower head, form an avenue through which I wander. The reeds  do not yet harbour Reed or Sedge Warblers but they will come shortly. For now just a few singing Reed Buntings make do. A pair of Bullfinches pull at the heavy white blossoms on a flowering cherry, nibbling the petals fussily in their stubby black bills. Ever secretive they slip away piping their diffident call note to each other. Heedless of my presence two Wrens fall from a bush to scuffle in a frenzy of aggression at my feet before noticing me and flying off, still continuing their dispute but now on blurred and whirring wings

Butterflies woken by the sun warm themselves on the dry mud of the path. Peacocks mainly, seeking out the sun warmed earth where the wind is diverted by thick hedgerows frothily white with Blackthorn blossom.

Brimstones, all males, come to prominence later in the morning. They are never still, constantly flying, lemon yellow over the  low, emerging nettles and umbellifers or along the hedgeline in a constant unknown quest. Cowslips in random splashes of rich, yellow, trumpet heads, nod in the wind amongst the short grass of the reservoir banks

I love this time of year. So short, so transient, just eight weeks of vitality and perfection as everything in ever increasing profusion adopts its finest to reproduce and perpetuate.

Two Stars 5th April 2014

The weekend. Saturday. Dull and grey. Back to normal for the weather but at least the polluting haze and Saharan dust has gone. The plan was to meet Badger at Otmoor around about eight. En-route a text from Badger advised we were now re-routing to Farmoor.

I arrived at the entrance to find the gates to Farmoor firmly closed and a huddle of yachts and cars awaiting Thames Water to open the gates. Badger and Andy arrived shortly after myself and some minutes later the gates were opened and we entered the concrete wastes of Farmoor.

Farmoor provided a convincing aura of dourness thus ensuring any Spring friskiness was soon quelled. As so often at this time of year it was grey, a little  damp and soulless with a chilling wind blowing across the haze shrouded reservoirs as we walked up the central causeway. The sun struggled to show itself and apart from a few Pied Wagtails our optics remained unused.

At the far end Badger found a distant Little Gull dip dip adipping to pick invertebrates from the waters of Farmoor Two. Black headed Gulls squalled and squabbled on their inadequate nesting raft on Farmoor One and a female Kestrel stood sentry at the entrance to the owl nesting box that it has commandeered this year, high on the pumping house building. That was it. We turned and walked back down the Causeway meeting The Wickster about to embark on his monthly Farmoor bird walk  with three regulars in tow. We told him about the acute lack of birds but as a Farmoor regular he was unfazed by this. Something always turns up. How right he was much to our later embarrassment.

Otmoor appeared the only alternative. The others would be there and we could indulge in some banter and socialising and reflect on our traitorus diversion which got its just desserts. Arriving at Otmoor we instantly heard a sound of Spring. A Willow Warbler trickled down its wistful cadence of melancholy notes from a hawthorn in the Car Park field but frustratingly remained invisible whilst a ChiffChaff was the precise opposite. At the very top of a tree, totally exposed it belted out its shameless apology of a song for all to see and hear. A Blackcap sang lustily from the hedgerow and a pair of Bullfinches slipped through the foliage quietly calling to each other.

We joined Chris two thirds down the bridleway. He had just seen the resident female Bearded Tit and was waiting for it to show up again from the dead reeds in the ditch. This was more like it. We stood but for a while nothing was seen or heard. An early Reed Warbler scratched out a couple of stanzas from the reeds and then thought better of it. Winnowing noises from high above our heads signalled the roller coaster exertions of a Common Snipe crazily hurtling around the sky in nuptial display. Why is it called drumming? The sound is nothing like it.

Displaying  Common Snipe c Andy Last

Then pinging calls emanated from much further along the ditch. The Bearded Tit! We headed for the spot and a small shape flew across the bridleway and into the reedy ditch the other side. More waiting ensued. Then more pinging but the source resolutely remained invisible. More waiting and finally we saw it clearly as, calling loudly it ascended through the twigs of a hawthorn to show itself at the very top before flying high, up and away towards the Hide. We followed and found it in a much more viewable ditch with considerably less cover, adjacent to the Hide. Here it repeated its performance of working its way up through another hawthorn bush and gave us exceptional and eye watering views as it dithered about, unsure of what to do, at the topmost twigs of the bush.

Female Bearded Tit c Andy Last

Finally it flew back down into the reeds. I followed with Jon but the others went into the Hide only for Badger to re-appear pretty pronto with the alarming news that The Wickster had called to announce he had found a summer plumaged Red necked Grebe on Farmoor Two.

A Red necked Grebe in Oxfordshire is a must see in any Oxonbirders book, especially in summer plumage, as then they are quite beautiful and it is rarely such an opportunity presents itself. We headed for Otmoor car park, Badger heroically texting all and sundry with the glad tidings  and finding out exactly where the grebe was on Farmoor Two to save a lot of wasted time and effort, as this reservoir has a two mile circumference.

As usual the bird was as far as possible from Farmoor's car park so we settled on driving to Lower Whitely Farm which conveniently lies under the far southwest corner of the reservoir, this would be the nearest place we could park to the grebe and  would save us a considerable amount of walking. I followed Jon or at least did my best in a high speed dash to Farmoor

Up the bank of the reservoir at Lower Whitely and onto the concrete perimeter track but not a birder in sight! I looked east and there was an optical huddle of birders in the southeast corner of the reservoir. 

Birding Paparazzi

The grebe had obviously moved from its original position. We set off in the direction, dodging flying trout flies as the fishermen cast their lines from the bank and joined The Wickster and others admiring the grebe. 

I got my scope on the grebe and there before me was a most beautiful apparition. A black crown and bill, the latter with a striking sulphur yellow base. Dove grey cheeks running into a long chestnut neck. Sinuous feathered grace. It was easily the best view I have ever had of one of these grebes in summer plumage. For me it was bitter sweet as due to my shoulder problems I had left the camera at home to save any extra strain on my body and who needs a camera anyway - nothing ever turns up at Farmoor does it?

Red necked Grebe c Andy Last

I metaphorically kicked myself  for abandoning the camera but then settled back to enjoy this lovely bird or as best as I could. Gallingly it came closer and closer to the reservoir edge. Everyone else was now in paparazzi mode clicking away nineteen to the dozen. This close you could not fail to get a decent picture. 

Red Necked Grebe c Andy Last

Groan, grimace but I had only myself to blame. The grebe was obviously unsure of its transitory surroundings and swam around constantly alert and occasionally picking hapless flies from the water. It dived on a couple of occasions, effortlessly sliding below the surface and remaining underwater for a surprisingly long time but mainly remained on the surface where it could keep an eye on matters. When feeling particularly oppressed or nervous it would fly a considerable distance from one end of the reservoir to the other showing its prominent white wing bars and small white shoulder patches. I chided myself yet again, reflecting on missing out on recording with my camera this grandstand performance and after an hour of close encounters of the Red necked Grebe kind resolved to go home and get the damn camera. It was just too much to bear.

On my return the grebe was of course nowhere to be seen and was now from all accounts leading everyone a merry dance as it moved around the reservoir constantly disturbed by the usual  weekend shipping of yachts, fishermen in boats and windsurfers.

I got a huge amount of unwanted exercise walking around the vastness of Farmoor Two chasing after it but did find a charming Mallard family of mother and twelve ducklings during my travels, a Curlew flew over and finally I got my photos once the grebe stayed put, although by now the lowering clouds made for very bad light but one does one's best.

I reflected on the frustrations of modern birding and calmed myself by taking a moment to philosophise on the fact that I had just had the privilege of an encounter with yet another wonderful living creature that shares this incredible planet with us. That for me is the most important thing to take from this brief and thrilling episode.

On yer Baikal 1st April 2014

Glorious spring weather brought a report of a drake Baikal Teal at Fen Drayton Lakes RSPB reserve in Cambridgeshire. Baikal Teal is a species normally found in central and eastern Asia so to see one here in Britain was an opportunity not to be missed especially as I had missed by a day one that frequented marshland at Southport for a few days last year and later turned up in Holland.

The duck at Fen Drayton had been found some two weeks ago but the news only became generally known three or four days prior to our visit. It has attracted considerable attention and a steady stream of admirers have  made their way to Fen Drayton to see it in the last few days

A call to Terry on Monday resulted in a plan for the two of us to leave Oxford for Cambridge at the relatively civilised hour of 7am on Tuesday, April Fools day.

I say civilised advisedly as our  subsequent encounters with rush hour traffic, thick morning fog and the resultant jams and hold ups were definitely not civilised but I guess people going to work have little choice but to endure this daily version of insanity. I am just glad I no longer have to commute anymore.

Terry kindly offered to drive due to my still very painful shoulder making driving difficult for me. The night before had been hell with the pain from my shoulder waking me at 3.30 in the morning and try as I might I just could not find a comfortable position after that to get to sleep. Tired and dishevelled I inevitably fell fast asleep in the passenger seat of Terry's car as we drove across country waking up at strategic intervals to ensure Terry was keeping us on the straight and narrow which he did with great skill. It took longer than we anticipated to make the journey due to the Satnav diverting us away from various traffic hold ups en route but eventually we emerged from the fog into a bright and sunny Cambridgeshire morning that revealed a flat landscape stretching as far as one could see and now, on the cusp of spring, rapidly turning green. A drive down some pleasant country lanes and soon we were following the brown RSPB signs to Fen Drayton.

Neither of us was sure what to expect as we had not been to this reserve before. All I can say is it is huge, consisting of a complex of ten large lakes spread over a very wide area interspersed with hedgerows, tracks and footpaths running round and between them. Slap bang through the middle runs The Cambridge Guided Busway. A sort of cross between a tramway and railway line but for buses. A space age concrete construction that allows the buses to be propelled at high speed along an exclusive and specially constructed concrete highway, their passage being controlled by sensors.  It is also according to the locals very controversial as it cost a fortune to build and does not seem to be particularly widely used even though buses career up and down it every five or ten minutes regardless.

We parked the car on the entrance track beyond where it  crosses the busway and then walked a mile or so east along a tarmac path by the busway that acts both as a cycleway and pedestrian access. On a number of occasions I had close encounters with bikes as they came along the pathway silently behind us. Apart from the speeding buses and bikes it was a tranquil mile long walk to Moore Lake where the Baikal Teal was entertaining all comers. We wandered along the pathway accompanied on occasions by a staccato burst of song from various Cetti's Warblers and finally we even managed to catch a glimpse of one of these elusive and skulking brown birds. In a frenzy of Spring exuberance I predicted to Terry that they would recolonize Otmoor in our very own Oxfordshire this year having been wiped out by the hard winter of 2012/2013. Terry was not so sure.

Eventually we came to a small track on our left which led to the Hide from which we would be able to see the teal. A pleasant short walk down a meandering track overhung with branches of bright green emergent hawthorn leaves and the bulging golden yellow buds of pussy willow brought us to the Hide. I walked up the ramp to the Hide and opened the door with no little trepidation. It was as feared but to no surprise, full of birders. My worst nightmare. Nonetheless we ventured in to its depths,  managed to squeeze into the far corner and were soon looking at an adult male Baikal Teal in all its intricate patterned glory. What a truly beautiful bird.

The head is what really catches your eye. A combination of iridescent green and cream with a black teardrop around the eye and a black line like running mascara dropping vertically down the cheeks to join the black chin. A white line divides the pink breast from the grey flanks and white elongated scapulars droop theatrically down over the rear flanks.

Always relatively distant it was too much for my lens but Terry managed to achieve some images which illustrate this piece. Through the scope however it could be seen in all its beauty and we watched it for an hour or so endlessly swimming back and fore along with Eurasian Wigeon, picking insects and invertebrates from the surface of the lake. Small islands in the lake harboured a pair of Avocet and Oystercatcher and Black headed Gulls looked like they were preparing to breed. Further out on the lake Eurasian Teal and a pair of Common Goldeneye rested on the still waters.

A constant stream of birders came and went from the hide with consequent disruption and disturbance. My feelings about hides and their inhabitants are well known and after an hour I had reached critical. It's not just the dropping of scopes and general banging around but the conversation and remarks often volunteered at full volume that really get to me. One particular gent seemed to only have one way of communicating which was at full volume and it never ceased to amaze me how he seemed to have no embarrassment about demonstrating his ignorance with ill considered remarks. It's an unwelcome intrusion and disturbs my, and probably everyone else's concentration and enjoyment  Nor do I want to listen to yet another birders endless travelogue of the latest trip he has made to somewhere in the world and then to listen to his mates try to outdo this by relating their latest birding exploits. And so it goes on.

We made our escape and returned to peace and quiet making our way back along the path and onto the walkway cum cycletrack and eventually returned to the car. What now? I had done some research on the internet the night before and found there was a male American Wigeon and a female Ring necked Duck not too far away at a place called Pymoor near the Wildfowl and Wetlands Reserve at Welney. We could go there. I also consulted a map I had downloaded of Fen Drayton Reserve and we decided that we should first take a look at the largest lake here which was Ferry Lagoon and conveniently was right next to where we had parked the car.

It was so pleasant to stand in the warm sun by the track, having a snack and relaxing after seeing the Baikal Teal. We watched an ash grey male Blackcap warbling its way through a nearby Hawthorn whilst high above in an Ash tree a ChiffChaff  let forth with its metronomic song.

We drove the car further down the track and left it in a car park at the end. Nearby some birders were looking from a gate over the northwestern part of Ferry Lagoon. Amongst the Black headed Gulls three more delicate gulls swooped, tern like, to pick invertebrates from the water's surface. Small with black underwings. Little Gulls. So delicate!  So petite! So nice!

Not much else was to be seen from here but we were told of a Sedge Warbler singing from brambles further around the lake to our left although sadly three Garganey also in this area had been scared off by a Grey Heron. The Sedge Warbler gave a brief burst of song from the aforementioned brambles as we arrived but then silence. Well it was silence until another three birders arrived bellowing to each other  and making such a noise discussing a forthcoming trip to Scotland that no bird in its right senses was going to show itself let alone sing.

"Have you seen the Sedge?" one of them loudly enquired of us. "No not yet" I replied resignedly. They stood around for a few minutes talking loudly but patience was not a virtue that seemed to be part of their repertoire and thankfully for us they walked off to a nearby hide. By now one of them was on a phone and I could hear the entire conversation from many yards away. The Sedge Warbler sang again briefly from further up the hedgerow un-noticed by the noisy birders. Terry and myself walked the short distance to the approximate spot. The warbler sang again and I found it deep in the brambles before it disappeared again. Just a flash of striated brown and a long creamy eyebrow but that was enough. We waited and Terry finally saw it as it came up from the brambly depths to sing briefly before descending back into the dark impenetrable interior of the bramble patch.

We had also learned that there was a drake Greater Scaup and a drake Smew on Ferry Lagoon but typically they were at the far end of the lake which was a good mile distant and would require a considerable walk. Terry had never seen a drake Smew so we decided to make the walk. We set off just as news came through of a Blue winged Teal on a gravel pit near Northampton.  Dilemna. We hesitated and then decided to walk to the next inlet of the lake and if we had no luck from there we would return to the car and head for the Blue winged Teal. We walked round a bend in the track and down to the lake's shoreline. Another birder was already there scoping across the water. He saved us a lot of time by first announcing he had located the Greater Scaup which was consorting with a group of Tufted Ducks by an island in the lake and then saved us a lot of further effort by finding the drake Smew, close into the far edge of the lake. So Terry got his look at a drake Smew and satisfied we headed back to the car.

The latest news from RBA informed us that the Blue winged Teal had flown off. Never mind we would go and try to find the American Wigeon at Pymoor. An hour's drive found us on an unclassified road leading to Pymoor, driving through yet more flat endless fields with absolutely no likely looking wetlands. I stoically followed the directions I had downloaded and we were about to give up  when we turned a corner and just before a railway bridge Terry saw some birders looking north from the high embankment to our left. We pulled over and went  up the bank to join them and there before us was a wide area of flooded grassland inhabited by a large number of Eurasian Wigeon and Teal, Northern Shoveler and with a few Tufted Duck and Common Pochard amongst them. This must be the spot and the birders confirmed we were in the right place.

The American Wigeon was not easy to find as it was quite a long way off and the heat haze added to our problems but eventually, not without difficulty, we found it by way of locating its prominent white head patch, subtly paler than the yellower head patch of the commoner Eurasian Wigeon feeding with it.

Having got our fill of the American Wigeon we decided to head for home but at the last moment I suggested that we may as well look for the Ring necked Duck which according to my downloaded information was close by and viewable from the same embankment but near the intriguingly named  Four Balls Farm.  We drove a couple of miles and came to the farm. One other birder was already looking from atop the bank on our left. Joining him we  enquired about the duck but he had not seen it. I looked out on a vast area of wetland full of hundreds of ducks but it was going to be impossible to find the duck due to the light and heat haze. Large numbers of Eurasian Teal and Wigeon were supplemented by smaller numbers of Northern Shoveler, Gadwall and a couple of pairs of Northern Pintail. A small group of Tufted Duck gave some vague hope that one of them might be the Ring necked Duck but after intense examination it was not to be

We looked and admired the sheer spectacle of so many ducks but realised we were not going to find the Ring necked Duck. Terry scanned right and as a finale found two Common Cranes standing in the middle of a vast grass field.

That was our cue to call it a day. A very good day indeed.

Upset on Otmoor 22nd March 2014

A sunny but cold start at Otmoor at around 7am. A little bleary I met Badger and Pete in the Car Park and we set off down the approach track to the Reserve. My but it was cold compared to last weekend - a huge drop of around nine degrees in temperature and once on the Bridleway the raw wind soon started chilling us. Woolly hats were soon the headgear of choice and necessity! 

Nonetheless many birds were, despite the cold in full territorial mode, singing and displaying. Common Redshanks flew over us indulging their wing trembling display flight, calling querously whilst Lapwings were bowing and scraping on their chosen territories. A ChiffChaff struck up its two note 'song' from the hedgerow. Unseen, Bullfinches piped their melancholy calls from deep in the green budding bushes and Reed Buntings sang their monotonous song from the reeds. We joined Terry and Andy further along the bridleway and the five of us meandered down to the first gate.

A lady ensconced in the corner of Big Otmoor was monitoring the Red Kites which were already checking out the potential of the Lapwing and Redshank 'chick feeding station' that has unfortunately been the legacy of the RSPB 's efforts to provide habitat for breeding Lapwing and Common Redshank on Big Otmoor.  As if to prove the point a Red Kite swooped over accompanied by a blizzard of Lapwings mobbing it from all angles. The Red Kite seemed untroubled by this and carried on quartering the land below. Alarmed by its presence a flock of five hundred or so Golden Plover took to the air, wheeling around, showing gleaming white undersides as they caught the sun, apart that is from the few with black undersides and almost in full breeding plumage. Canada and Greylag Geese maintained a continual duet of loud calling, harsh, nasal notes ringing out across the reserve, grating to the ear. A lone male Northern Wheatear, my first this year bounced jauntily on the short grass of Ashgrave and I felt all the better for seeing it.

We made for the Hide. Once inside we looked down the path towards July Meadow. No stonechats on the fenceposts but instead a Common Buzzard was perched on one of the posts. Badger then saw a Barn Owl perched close by on some wooden fencing. A couple of Magpies like juvenile delinquents testing their bravado, all flicking wings and flirting tails maintained a discreet distance from the owl but circled round it and chattered in alarm at its presence. Badger continued looking at the owl and said he thought there was something wrong. It did not move or look around and it was surely unusual to be perched out in the open for such a long time. Fifteen minutes passed and Badger said he definitely thought there was something not right with the Barn Owl and alarmingly said he thought he could see blood on its plumage. The Buzzard had ominously moved a few fenceposts nearer the owl. We went to investigate. The Buzzard flew off  at our approach but the Barn Owl remained hunched and motionless apparently rooted to its perch. We stopped a short distance away and looked through our bins. It looked forlorn, dejected and definitely unwell. Poisoned by something, sick with some avian virus? We carried on and still it just stood there. I looked again and there was blood on its face and feet. When we were virtually level it panicked and tried to fly. Now the problem was all too evident. Its foot was entangled in the barbed wire running along on top of the fence. It hung there upside down flapping feebly. I vaulted the fence and went up to it. I remember thinking 'Please don't let its leg be broken'.

Now this was the most upsetting part of the whole incident.The reason it was caught up in the wire was that it carried a BTO metal ring on its leg and this had become so entangled with a shaft of the wire on the fence that the owl was trapped. Who knows how long it had been there but it must have been some time and even worse in its struggles the trapped leg had been broken. I extricated the owl's foot and leg from the wire and it was free. So light and soft in my bloodied hands I held it firmly to prevent further struggle and possible injury. It sunk the talons of its remaining good foot into my hand which was not pleasant but I hung on in grim determination. Badger prised its needle sharp claws from my finger one by one. That's better. We put the owl in a bag and Badger and Terry immediately took it to Tiggywinkles in Haddenham.

BTO metal ring clearly visible on the broken and bloodied leg

All of us were very upset. Personally I went through a range of extreme emotions but felt mainly anger and frustration at the person who had ringed this owl and inadvertently brought about this situation as well as the BTO (British Trust for Ornithology) for their ringing scheme and adding yet another hazard to what is already a perilous existence for our wild birds. I accept my views maybe reflect my upset and ringing does have some benefits but I am writing this some fifteen hours after the event and I am still very troubled by it. I was a bird ringer for over forty years but for some years before I relinquished my licence I harboured increasing doubts about ringing and the collateral injury and disturbance it brings to birds and which is one of the downsides of ringing wild birds.

In this particular case I would ask do we really need to still ring Barn Owls? The recovery rate of ringed birds must be infinitesimal and what new information does it provide if any? There are reams of scientific data and information to be found in the literature about Barn Owls. So my question to the bird ringer and BTO is why was this owl and presumably other ringed Barn Owls in Oxfordshire made vulnerable to an avoidable mishap? For the sake of what? Another meaningless statistic gained from a probable fatality?

PS 

The verdict from Tiggywinkles was not good. Apparently Barn Owls with injuries such as the one we rescued do not settle well into captivity and the chances of the Barn Owl's survival are slim.

, 

Spring of Teal 21st March 2014

After a restless night of tossing and turning trying to get comfortable but failing miserably due to a damaged shoulder, the dawn finally came and the sun broke through illuminating the bedroom and radiating welcoming light into my consciousness.

It was impossible to be downcast on such a morning so I rose and resolved to do something, anything to distract myself from the pain in my shoulder. I consulted RBA and a male Green winged Teal at a place called Morton Bagot in deepest Warwickshire instantly appealed. It was not too far, about an hour's drive from my home, deep in the Warwickshire countryside and was unlikely to draw a big crowd. Ideal.

I set off just after nine and once through a tangle of roadworks at Stratford on Avon I found myself turning off the main road and driving down silent and for the most part deserted high hedged roads in search of Morton Bagot and Church Farm to be precise, which is where a footpath led off across the farmland to some pools created especially for wildlife. The pools in fact were no more than flooded areas at the lower end of some marshy fields.

The footpath actually ran through the farmyard and after some difficulty finding it I was set in the right direction by the helpful farmer and found myself traversing a field full of sheep and new born lambs to an ancient gate which once  I had passed through, led to a hedgeline through which you could view the pool in the adjacent field.

Aaaahh or should that be Baaahh!

It was a beautiful spring day as I did my best BoPeep impression by tiptoeing past sleepy sheep and lambs sunning themselves on the grass. Skylarks poured down aerial waterfalls of notes from the sky. Individual larks finished with singing, their ardour temporarily dissipated, descended on quivering wings to finally swoop to earth and become invisible on the ground whilst others, ascending from the ground, struck up phrase after phrase of silver notes as they headed heavenwards. A ChiffChaff sang monotonously from a bare ash and Chaffinches rolled out their song of rattling notes from the blackthorn hedgerows. A Blackbird, for me the sound of Spring, crooned its lazy contralto  notes, so smooth, effortless and melancholic. Spring was most definitely on its way.

I could feel the Spring manifesting itself around me in a myriad of shapes and forms. An imperceptible shift of spirit, a hint of optimism and longer days was tangible although the trees show little green yet, but the journey here had been accompanied by banks of daffodils, golden fanfares of yellow on parade by many a roadside verge and garden path. On shady, sun dappled banks in sheltered byways the subtler yellow flowers of primroses, shone like constellations of pale brimstone stars amongst the dead winter grass and leaves.

It was indeed good to be alive. I looked through my scope at the pool which had attracted quite a bit of birdlife. Mallard, Common Teal and a lone male Wigeon hunkered down in the sedge by the water's edge, sheltered from the wind. Up to twelve Common Snipe were scattered along the  pool's edge together with a constantly restless group of Lapwing, The latter, unable to control the rising tide of their hormones, flew at each other and constantly bickered. Two Little Ringed Plovers pattered around the muddy margins, often alarmed at the Lapwing's behaviour and never ceased feeding for more than a few seconds. My first true Spring migrants. I counted one Green Sandpiper, then another and another and yet two more wading through the shallow pool bringing a total of five. Cheewitt cheewitt, they suddenly rose in noisy alarm and flew around the pool before settling as a group on clods of earth by the water, bowing and jinking. Nervous and edgy.

The male Green winged Teal was feeding with two Common Teal unconcerned at the brief sandpiper frenzy going on around it. Peace descended as forty or so Common Teal now fed or lazed around the shallow pool. Where had this Green winged Teal come from I wonder? I watched as he convulsed and displayed to a female Common Teal, standing up on end in the water, tipping his bill downwards to his breast and then dropping back down on the water, raising his rear, all in the matter of a few seconds. The female showed little interest. The vertical white lines, one on each side of the breast were very obvious, contrasting with the other male Common Teal that showed a horizontal white line between upper and lower body.

An hour spent here, alone, provided welcome therapy both physical and mental, distracting me from the current problems with my shoulder.