A Kingfisher Eulogy 23rd August 2019

The email came yesterday afternoon from Robert, informing me John had died. John Reaney, my bird artist friend and birding colleague for over forty years and still living in Brighton, Sussex in the same house in which he was born, making a precarious living selling his art.

I first met John when, newly married, I moved to Ditchling in Sussex and commissioned him to do me a painting of Brent Geese which I still have. I was never happier than when we lived in Ditchling and had many adventures with John, birding in Sussex and then the two of us venturing further to Norfolk and to Scotland, and memorably, once on a whale watching trip to Bilbao in Spain. We had like minds, a similar sense of the ridiculous and enjoyed each other's company immensely, sharing many wonderful and exhilerating birding sorties, laughing, being silly and gently chiding each other as we birded around Sussex.

John and Sussex, for me are inseparable, memorable for what was perhaps the happiest ten years of my life. Forever linked to John's quiet humour, undemanding character and humility are the Nightingales singing on a warm early summer's night in a bluebell wood deep under the South Downs, endless hours in Spring spent watching migrating skuas, terns, ducks and divers streaming past the end of Newhaven Pier, watching Honey Buzzards on a summer's day, displaying high over the forest at West Dean, doing monthly winter WeBS counts of waders, ducks and geese at West Wittering, walking the sandy beaches and dunes of East Head, finding rare prizes like Snow Buntings and even a Little Auk.

Then I moved away to live and work in Oxfordshire and the connection with John and Sussex became ever more important to my equanimity during a very difficult time of adjustment. We continued our monthly meetings to count waders at West Wittering and spoke on the phone regularly to swap our various birding experiences and still managed to go out for the occasional day of birding together in Sussex. 

A notable excursion with John that comes to mind was to see a ridiculously fearless and confiding Red backed Shrike at Newhaven Tide Mills a few years ago. I drove down from Oxfordshire to collect John from his home. He was not too well and could not get out of the house on his own but I drove him the short way from his home to see the shrike which lifted his spirits enormously and we enjoyed an afternoon in pleasant sunshine by the sea, just like we had done so many times before.

I spoke to John two weeks ago and he told me he was going to see the doctor in the morning and I commiserated with him about his continuing bad health and how his doctor seemed unable to ascertain what was wrong with him. His final words to me were 'We had some good times birding, didn't we Ewan?' I told him I would call him in the morning to find out how he got on at the doctor but my phone calls went unanswered and then yesterday came the worst news possible.

I slept fitfully during the night, The death of John creating a turmoil of reminiscences and anguish in my mind. As in a trance I got dressed and left the house at five in the morning. Sleep had eluded me.I had to be alone and knew of a place where I could sit and just think of John, the good times we had together and say a gentle, personal goodbye.

It was the hide at Shrike Meadow that I had in mind as a place of meditation and solace. For sure there would not be anyone there this early in the day and I could sit in the tranquil surrounds and hopefully find some inner peace and resolution.

The land was shrouded by a light mist that brought a chill to the air and extended to tree top height, creating a spectral like atmosphere as I took the familiar track beside the river. Imperceptibly the season is changing from summer to autumn, the thrust and vigour of new growth has long ceased and there is now a hiatus before this year's growth dies back and the land subsides into dormancy to await another spring.

Above me the sky in the east was turning the colour of peach flesh as battalions of large gulls left their roost on the adjacent Farmoor Reservoir, calling loudly as they passed overhead, a chorus of guttural exclamations to greet a new morning. They passed over me endlessly, in their hundreds, silhouettes in a windless, lightening sky now acquiring the salmon pink flush which heralds the sun's breaching of the horizon. Greylag Geese left the reservoir too. A gang of them, each goose joining in a chorus of loud rhythmic cackling, gregarious birds, never silent for long, re-affirming their companionship with other members of the flock. They disappeared across the meadow that was just visible beyond the river, passing over a vague impression of bulk which were trees marking the far boundary of the field, trees made fantastically gigantic, a distortion of the mist.

The river was as glass, smooth and unruffled by any movement of air with every tree and shrub on the river bank perfectly replicated in the opaque green water. The grass underfoot was damp with dew and the land about me muffled by the slowly dissipating mist and any sound was at a premium, now the gulls and geese had flown. Singing Wrens punctuated the stillness with loud trills and quietly ticking Robins, a true indication of autumn, were now beginning to find their voice after a month of silence, readying to set up territories for winter. Slowly my troubled senses settled, soothed by the timeless continuity of the river and the gentle Oxfordshire countryside through which I was walking.

I opened the door to the hide and the familiar musty odour of wood and a slight dampness enveloped me. I had the hide to myself and sat at an open window in the far corner and looked out at the familiar pool, the ranks of reeds surrounding it and the trees beyond. It was calm here and I needed this re-assurance of the familiar, a life-raft in a sea of emotional turbulence. Mysterious watery noises, plops and gurgles, came from deep within the reeds, breaking the silence surrounding the secluded pool. Moorhens most likely, as they have raised at least two families here already. The soft churring of juvenile Reed Warblers also came from the reeds and every so often the hidden presence of one was betrayed by the erratic movement of a reed stem.They hardly ever left cover, just briefly to cock an eye at the hide before diving back into the density of the reeds.

Reed Warbler

Naturally I hoped the Kingfisher would arrive soon but it didn't seem to matter too much when it failed to do so. I had come to terms with my feeling of loss over John's death, sat in surroundings he would have loved and that was all that mattered. Now I could reflect on and embrace the happiness I had known in his company and look back on our long association with, admittedly, still some sadness but mostly joy.

For an hour or so I was on my own and then Tricia joined me which saved me from becoming too introspective, bringing me back to the present and we talked as we awaited the arrival of the Kingfisher. It visited briefly, sitting on the post for a minute or two, allowing some photos but something unseen outside the hide unsettled the Kingfisher and with that it departed.

Such a prima donna, always leaving its admirers wanting more.

A long wait then ensued before it put in another stellar performance.

It flew in, not to the post but to the far end of the pool and perched on a  reed stem bent low over the water, where it sat for some minutes, as two Moorhens fussed in the reeds underneath, with one even climbing the reeds as if curious about the Kingfisher.

I willed the Kingfisher to fly to the post which it duly did and sat looking, as it always does, sensational in the gentle morning sunlight. It cocked its head and shifted its position on the post. A bob of the head and an upwards flick of its short cobalt coloured tail signified it had seen something in the water and it looked downwards more intently.

It dived from the post to hit the water with some violence and  returned to the post with something wriggling in its bill. It was a newt which the Kingfisher proceeded to whack to death or at least into submission on the post, twisting its neck while firmly grasping the newt between its mandibles and then untwisting its neck liked a coiled spring to bring the newt down with some force against the top of the wooden post. Several blows were administered and then the subdued newt was manouevred to be swallowed head first. The Kingfisher sat for some while afterwards, its appetite satisfied for now and then flew off towards the river. It was over in fifteen minutes.

This second interval with the Kingfisher proved the ideal distraction from thinking about John and with its departure my world again seemed bearable and grief was diminished.

We waited for a couple of hours but the Kingfisher did not return. We spent the time watching the various dragonflies that frequented the pool. A Migrant Hawker hovered in front of the hide, the blue patches on its segmented body a pale imitation of the Kingfisher. A male Banded Demoiselle, as exotic looking in its bottle green and blue iridescence as its name, settled on a blade of reed.

Male Migrant Hawker

Male Banded Demoiselle

I left the hide to walk out into a warm, sunny, late summer's day following the grass track I had walked this morning and stopped to look down on the river. I stood on the very edge of the river bank betwixt a large clump of purple loosestrife, the purplish pink flowers infested with bees and butterflies, swarming over the flowers, intent on pilfering their nectar and a bank of similarly fragrant and insect populated water mint, pushing up pale lilac, cylindrical heads through the grass.

I thought of John and the sadness that this beauty of nature was no longer his and similarly will not be mine to enjoy when the end comes  but then I rallied. I have after all the benefit of some of John's artwork hanging on the walls of my home which will remain as a constant reminder of him.

John may be no more in life but he will travel with me through what remains of my time on earth and bring certain happiness as I recall the memories he has left me.

Goodbye dear friend.

The Remarkable Sanderling 17th August 2019

After three hours sitting in the Shrike Meadow hide waiting for a Kingfisher which failed to put in an appearance I was just a bit downhearted so made my way back to the reservoir causeway to try and find the two juvenile Sanderlings. They at least would be certain to be more co-operative if I could only locate them.

Sanderlings are remarkable birds in that they, along with just a select few species have appeared in more countries than almost any other bird species. They are true wanderers of the world, their constant and restless demeanour when feeding on the sea shore or indeed Farmoor Reservoir's unlikely concrete shores is  replicated and magnified to grand proportions by their heroic migrations. 

A Sanderling born in Arctic Russia, and, when fully grown, weighing no more than 100 grammes, will migrate to western Europe and then fly onwards to South Africa, which may well be the case with the two juveniles currently here at Farmoor. A Sanderling breeding on Ellesmere Island may spend the winter in Tierra del Fuego and others cross Asia to fly to Tasmanian or New Zealand beaches, a round trip of thirty thousand kilometres. Peter Matthiessen wrote 'One only has to consider the life force packed right into that puff of feathers to lay the mind wide open to the mysteries - the order of things, the why and the beginning.' Indeed.

Farmoor's central causeway in the early afternoon was not an unpleasant place to be. Admittedly a blustery wind was churning the waters into waves that beat against the concrete in a pale imitation of the real thing one would find at the seashore but the sun was warm and bright in a blue sky and sparkling off the wave tops. All one felt that was needed now was a beach but the next best thing for a Sanderling was Farmoor's concrete edges which, with a current slight drop in water levels, had become more exposed than is usual.

I walked half way down the causeway, the wind whipping around my legs  and scattering moulted goose, duck and gull feathers, which whirled in eccentric spirals ahead of me, driven into the air by the relentless wind. The sun's brightness became almost too intense, a glare reflecting off the whitened exposed concrete by the water. Of a Sanderling there was initially no sign but in the distance there came into sight a small bird, a wader resolutely hugging the shoreline, almost running in constant  rapid movement, heading inexorably towards me. The speed at which it moved and its feeding action enabled me to identify it at long range. No other small wader behaves in quite such a frenetic way when feeding. A constant picking at the surface whilst forever progressing 'fast forward' as if in some hurry to reach an unknown destination. It was a juvenile Sanderling, what else, its underparts a dazzle of pristine whiteness.

As usual it was totally indifferent to me or anyone else, moving ever nearer, sometimes running up the concrete to search the tiny nooks and crannies underneath the retaining wall but then descending on twinkling black legs to once again follow the water's edge. 

It has been called a 'tireless toy bird' due to its almost comical and rhythmic clockwork like motion as it follows the tide back and forth but here it was impossible for it to run in and out after the waves, as the waves here are not tidal but form an endless lapping that neither moves in or out but beats on the concrete in mini explosions of white water. 

Today was different to the preceding day's encounters with the Sanderlings. The sun's bright light put the Sanderling in a context unknown to me since I last saw them in Africa, shining a similar luminescent white in the brilliant light of the tropics.

The Sanderling approached closer and paused when almost upon me and even then it was for just a few seconds. A brief look to see what my intentions were, a slight hesitation, a shake of its feathers and then it was back to perpetual motion, running onwards past me, picking at the ground as it went.

I have noticed this about many waders here. Carry on walking past them at a normal pace  and they cease to worry, but stop and make eye contact and it is a different matter, as they become edgy and anxious and eventually, if you continue to look at them and follow them, they will fly, although not very far. Just enough to put a reasonable distance between you and them.

I never did locate the second Sanderling which from my experiences of the past few days was usually  to be found in close attendance. Had it gone or fallen victim to the local Sparrowhawk which finds good hunting patrolling the causeway and surprising one of the many juvenile Pied Wagtails? Another small wader approached along the same shoreline but it was a juvenile Dunlin, smaller than the Sanderling but only just and with a markedly slower, relaxed feeding style.

This will probably be the Sanderling's last day here. Its departure will take with it the undoubted glamour and romance of  its all too brief presence and I will remember with affection this diminutive wader and the joy it brought me with its stopover at Farmoor. Along with countless others of its kind it is bound for southern lands of almost constant sun, far from these prosaic surroundings.

I wish I too could follow.

Double Delight 15th August 2019

In previous writings on this blog I mentioned that I hold a special regard for Sanderlings, especially when they pass through Farmoor on their Spring migration and are in their breeding colours.

By the time they return, which is now, those same richly coloured feathers have become faded and worn and they are not so attractive but the birds themselves still retain the immense charm that is an innate characteristic of all small wader species.

However juvenile Sanderlings, raised in the far north just a few weeks ago and now migrating south, easily match the adult for beauty as they have a delightfully intricate chequering of black and white on their upperparts, giving them a marbled appearance. Such is the intricacy and freshness of the plumage, the birds always look an immaculate ghostly grey and white. A subtle buff shading to the neck and sides of their breast is the only marking on their otherwise pure white underparts.

So you can imagine my delight when two juvenile Sanderlings touched down on Farmoor's concrete edge yesterday, a day of rain and low grey cloud. Juveniles such as these are by no means an annual occurence at Farmoor, so I made a special effort to go and see them and so rewarding was the experience I made time to go and see them again today, as the weather, although still windy was sunny and the Sanderlings would look at their very best.

Yesterday they were feeding along the water's edge by the central causeway and even by small wader standards of approachability were exceptional, in that I could, if I so wished, virtually stand next to them and they would be completely indifferent to my presence. Sanderlings always seem to be in a hurry, scampering along on twinkling black legs that move at an incredible speed for such a small bird, so fast they become a blur of motion. They delight in feeding at the edge of the water and Farmoor's waters, currently being stirred into a turmoil by a strong southwest wind provided the next best thing to the waves that they love to chase in and out at the seashore

They kept very much together, communicating with quiet conversational peeps, each bird running to catch up when it got left behind by its companion, often racing ahead, whereupon the other would run to catch it up. 

Today, on returning to the reservoir I could not find them despite having been told they had been seen up until noon at least. I walked the central causeway to no avail, finding just five Dunlin. I carried on round the perimeter of Farmoor One, the smaller of the two reservoirs, hoping I would find them feeding quietly by the water's edge on the far shore. A Northern Shoveler swam out from the bank where it had been snoozing, sheltering from the still strong wind with the moulting and now mostly flightless Mallards. 

Northern Shoveler

Further on four Common Sandpipers flew from the concrete and out over the waves of the reservoir but there was no sign of the Sanderlings. On getting to the grass bank opposite the water works, having almost completed a circuit of Farmoor One, I found a dapper young Northern Wheatear feeding on the bank. A nice surprise indeed and almost compensation for the absent Sanderlings. The wheatear hopped energetically along in front of me. alternately standing as if at attention and then dashing after an insect.

Northern Wheatear

I met Dai who confirmed he had last seen the Sanderlings today, right in front of the yacht club, totally untroubled by the swarms of youngsters being given sailing lessons and the windsurfers taking advantage of the windy conditions. He thought the Sanderlings must still be here somewhere.We walked back up the causeway and while I retreated into the bird hide that is halfway along the causeway Dai said he would carry on and walk round Farmoor Two, the larger reservoir and if he saw the Sanderlings would call me.

I sat in the hide, put my feet up to rest and checked messages on my phone. Thirty minutes, later and bored, I made my way back down the causeway to the yacht club to await Dai completing his circuit of the reservoir. As I approached the yacht club, the mini harbour in front with its temporary pontoons and a clutter of yachting paraphernalia was busy and noisy with windsurfers, erecting the sails of their boards and yacht's people coming and going in various craft. 

It was then that I saw them. Two tiny scraps of life, completely at ease amongst the commotion of the sailing folk's activities, standing relaxed on one leg, contemplating, well who knows? 

They were stood on the concrete, almost under the wavewall and I wondered how I could have missed them on my arrival but I had. I consoled my injured pride with the fact they were wonderfully camouflaged, their black and white chequered plumage blending perfectly against the mottled concrete on which they stood. 

Their location, right in amongst the busiest, most disturbed part of the reservoir, was also the last place I expected to find them but was no excuse for my complacency. I must have walked right by them, literally, as this part of the reservoir is normally only inhabited by belligerent Coots  and thus tends to be dismissed as not worth pausing to check. Hordes of shrieking excited children learning to sail also persuades one to pass by as quickly as possible!

I sat down on the retaining wall a few feet from them, ignoring the constantly passing traffic of windsurfers and sailors in their wet suits  The Sanderlings looked up at me, slightly curious but untroubled and I clicked away with the camera. A noisily flapping sail from a surfboard disturbed them into activity and they commenced hurrying along the water's edge, feeding as they went, covering some thirty metres, then turned and came back. 

They paused and then walked up from the water's edge to stand once more, a few metres apart, to rest. Looking at their plump little bodies it was impossible not to be charmed by their innocence and their complete lack of fear of human beings, the like of which they probably had never seen before.

One commenced preening, burying its black bill deep in its soft breast feathers. There was something very relaxing about watching this small bird preening, as its bill disappeared into the depths of the feathers, a similar feeling, if you like, to snuggling into a warm jumper or plumping a pillow. A comforting action of re-arrangement and re-assurance.

Satisfied all was in order the Sanderling ceased its brief spell of feather maintenance and stood quietly, retracting one leg into its white underparts, to stand in repose. Look closely though and you can see the Sanderling is forever alert, constantly moving its head in small lateral movements to check all is well. 

Not for long did it remain still. A slow luxurious upwards stretch of both wings to their maximum extent signalled that the equivalent of Sanderling down time was over. Its companion followed suit and both were soon scuttling along at high speed as they fed along the water's edge, dodging the  waves slapping on a green blanket of algae, or wandering higher up the shelf of concrete to probe in the myriad small cracks.

I left them busily fussing along at the water's edge. I do hope they are there tomorrow. They were!!