once more unto the beach

On Wednesday we left Norfolk feeling that there was unfinished business, so on Friday we were back on the coast determined to find something good before the weather set in. We were fortunate that the rain held off for a while, and in that time we found the Wryneck that had been reported the day before, as well as a bushful of Garden Warblers and Willow Warblers, Redstarts, Spotted Flycatchers and Whinchat spread along the dunes. With the wind at our backs steadily strengthening, and despite the gloom, a Yellow-browed Warbler appeared.

In hindsight, we should have left it there, but we pushed on with the drizzle now getting worse, and the birds getting harder to find. Drizzle turned to rain, and, having reached the pines at Holkham we decided to take shelter in the Jordan hide for a while, but the misty scene before us was not the wildfowl filled extravaganza that Holkham is famous for. A few harriers, a Peregrine, Spoonbill and Great White Egret were about, and six Pinkfeet flew past, the vanguard of future spectacle.

It was clear that the rain wasn't going anywhere except on us, so, doing our best to string a couple of barely seen birds fleeing our attentions, we bedraggled our way back to the car.

scarce pleasure

Hot you say. The seaside then. Almost. Rich and myself went up to Norfolk yesterday to see what the east wind had blown in, and at six o'clock in the morning it was already teeshirt weather at Wells. We strolled around a little patch of bushes and reeds and were just beginning to wonder where all the birds had gone when our attention was drawn to one bush in particular, a straggly hawthorn with no leaves that for some reason seemed to be the best place for a bird to be. Just one bush- but it was packed with Blackcaps ( at least ten) and a few other birds. A Lesser Whitethroat chased by a Common Whitethroat, a very tame Reed Warbler, Reed Buntings, Chiffchaff and even a Whinchat.

After a slow start it was turning quickly into a bird day, and we drove across to Burnham Overy to see what else we could find. Our first stop, at the end of a hedgerow, gave us the best action of the day- a bright eyed Sparrowhawk suddenly took off from a hundred yards away and approached rapidly, scattering Linnets from the top of a willow. Most of the twittering finches broke to the left, but one went right and was soon singled out by the hawk. The first lunge saw a puff of feathers float away on the breeze, but a fraction of a second later the cloak of death spread over the Linnet and the hawk flew back to the hedge with it's meal.

Down on the sea wall there was a vision of a different sort. A reed filled ditch came alive with the plinking of Bearded Tits, and soon we were watching a flock of over a dozen rise from cover, circle round and back again- the very definition of a babbling, a word I have literally just coined to describe the energetic hopping and flitting of these birds readying themselves for a big move.

Babblers may babble, but chats do not chat. In the dunes, once we'd got used to the constant appearance of Linnets, Reed Buntings and Meadow Pipits, without ever seeing anything rarer with them, we started uncovering the scarcer arrivals. Three Siskins were an anachronistic sight in the dune scrub, but a couple of Redstarts were more of an expected sight. Further along, two Whinchats and a Spotted Flycatcher sprang from bush to bush. We walked east over to the edge of Holkham Pines, and despite not finding anything major, we contented ourselves with more Whinchats- six or seven of them, a couple of Wheatears and a few Stonechats, as well as a Tree Pipit. We never did make it to the seaside as such, but a quick scan towards  the beach revealed a Peregrine eating something, and a distant Skua trying his best to eat something that the terns were catching.

A long hot walk back to the car was punctuated by a brief stop to watch two Red Kites tussling with each other. Not Bad at all.

titchwell afternoon.

Titchwell was a much more relaxed place than Frampton the other day, despite Dunc's two little scamps urging us onwards to the beach for a paddle. Needless to say I did not take my shoes of or go scrambling over the remains of the old pill box, but instead settled for watching the waders poking around just metres away from the path. All the usual early autumn species were there in small numbers, but that thankfully meant it was easier to take them all in rather than being swamped with the spectacle. 

Osprey.

I got a call from Lou this afternoon. The new stockman at Welney, Dave, had spotted an Osprey just south of the reserve. It landed in a stubble field and was still there when I arrived. A bit distant perhaps, but such a bold form and pattern stood out well, and I was able to do a bit of sketching before it took off and slowly sailed the breeze towards the back of Lady Fen.

frampton comes alive. obvious.

I'd never been to Frampton Marsh. It's been visited by a large number of Curlew Sandpipers recently, a good excuse for a visit of my own. Of course I hadn't realised that, if there could be a hundred Curlew Sandpipers, there might be a lot more of the commoner species. The 360 hide was beseiged by a host of waders roosting and jittering about the exposed mudflats. They were everywhere in vast numbers, surrounding the hide in the high tide. I did some sketching, but mostly just sat and found new birds to look at everywhere I looked. Some picked along the muddy bank just outside the window, while others streamed low over the scrape in ever increasing numbers, alighting on a sandy bar then up again as the falling tide lured them out onto the wash beyond the sea wall. This is a place to return to.

insert phrase about the irony of something that catches fish getting caught in a net

Prismatic beauty. Light scatters across spangled crown and flows down into an azure blaze that, upon turning, cools to a mint spray. In shadow it darkens like the deepest ocean, Prussian Blue. Intoxicating. Captured and yet captivating, an ornament of the river, as sharp as its call, as still as the fry-pools. Little Prince of Fishers on a Halcyon morning.

spring again

A bird appears. Silky smooth and dark like chocolate in the enveloping shadow cast by the aspens on the other side of the drove.

It's an upright bird, not a creeper- not a lawn hopper- it's feet never touch the ground.

Then it's away, flashing first across the hollow shadow, then a sunlit bush and over the crowning ash trees.

Further along the drove two Willow Warblers, mustard bellied youngsters, dart among the elm leaves, stopping only to practice next summer's tune. A Chiffchaff joins them and all of a sudden it's as if May has returned full of Spring-Song.

reason to wander

I've been busy with lots of painting for various bird reports recently, and that has meant I haven't allowed myself time off to take in the sights of late summer as I would have wished. What i needed was an excuse to get away, and as I've got a Little Stint to paint, what better reason to drive up to the coast- just to get some reference you understand.

There have been stints seen at titchwell recently, and knowing how close you can often get to them there, i packed my sketchbook and headed off. I wanted to be at titchwell in the evening when the crowds had gone and the light less glaring, and luckily there was a perfect place to head for before hand, just to waste an hour or two. I had seen a report from Snettisham of a Wryneck seen in the morning, so i strolled along the bank in search of it.There was no sign of any other birder about, and there was very little activity in the early afternoon heat. A dry breeze lulled the low bushes behind the sea wall. The odd Whitethroat flicked among the brightening berries and a Linnet creaked its tune. A pale bird perched up and proved to be a Winchat. The Wryneck could be anywhere by now, and I turned back. 

A bird sprang from a small hawthorn bush- like a small thrush, or a large sylvia warbler- or... a Wryneck! it flew across the reedy pool and sheltered in the shade of a bush, then briefly settled in a bramble patch and was gone, flipping behind the sprawling tangle and out of sight. I waited, but it did not reappear, and I had a stint to sketch.

 Titchwell dozed in the afternoon sun. Ruff wandered along the muddy edges while hundreds of other waders loafed on the islands- oystercatchers spread out near some large gulls, godwits just off a spur switching like weather vanes as the wind began to strengthen. A party of terns settled down, only to be blown up into the air. They whipped across the lagoon then tacked back to the start, grounding alongside the Black-headed Gulls. Three Greenshank called as they sped out onto the freshmarsh, leaving their cousins the Redshanks to sleep in a sizeable gathering on a samphire covered mudbar.
As the evening wore on a Spoonbill flew over, and as I turned to the west, a flock of more than a dozen more lazily circled in the pink sky, disappearing near the glittering creek.
There was no stint. Knot, Dunlin, Golden and grey Plover all vied for my attention, but as the day faded I realised I was not going to get what I'd come for. But that doesn't matter for now.