Tag Archives: Rainham

Wetting my lips: the call of the Quail

On the Patch it already feels like June is on us. I was out early this morning, but it did not feel very rare at all. Tony and I stood in the Brooms watching nothing, bemoaning nothing, and then went our separate ways. My Patch story from today was short, but didn’t quite end there as I got a lucky patch year tick from three Shelduck flying low over the School Scrub as I walked home.

My ‘way’ took me back to Rainham. This time to Stone Barges and the three mile walk to Rainham Marshes – as I arrived too early to park in the reserve.

Wheatear dotted along the path kept me company on the walk, as did the omnipresent sound of singing Skylarks on the tip, and a steady stream of Swallow that whipped past me as I walked East, and the occasional screams as large numbers of Swift gathered.

But it is also a long, and rather odd walk: past the concrete barges; alongside the rising tidal Thames lapping at the mud with the occasional Common Sandpiper, Oystercatcher, or Whimbrel to break the monotony; gulls circling over the landfill site and – depending on wind direction – the odd whiff of the stench of waste; a smell replaced by a strange sickly molasses odour as I walked past hundreds of old damp wooden pallets mixed in with the brackish smell of the estuarine Thames. The strange combination of industrial and marshy wildness is occasionally decorated with the bizarre; perhaps a statement of the uncertainty that exists in urban fringes.

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Eventually the marshy reserve stretches out in front of you with the mud of Aveley Bay to your right and the pregnant grassy mound of filled-in-tip to the left. It was here that I saw Shaun; a super guy as well as being a good birder, but looking slightly agitated. I was greeted with a question: “is that your phone? Are you playing Quail James?” Before I even had time to answer, the distinctive, but short, song of Quail reached my ears too. There were a few tense minutes of slight uncertainty before others joined us and louder bursts of the song of this elusive summer bird sealed the deal. Despite a reasonably sizeable twitch of watchers for much of the day, nobody saw the diminutive galliforme, but my lips were wet (apologies if the birding in-joke doesn’t make sense): this was a big London-first tick for me and a lovely addition to my UK year list. I think I owe Shaun a pint in the not-too-distant-future as this is not the first excellent bird he has found that I have enjoyed.

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The view from ‘Quail hill’ with the reserve to the extreme left, the mud of Aveley bay to the centre left and the Thames stretching away to the sea

When I left, I focused more on waders. I had some good scope views of three Wood Sandpiper on the reserve and was then treated to a super mixed flock of waders on Aveley bay (where last week I had watched Little Gull).

This time Black-tailed Godwit, Bar-tailed Godwit, Grey Plover, Dunlin, and Redshank were also joined by some super smart Knot – all in breeding plumage.

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Red Knot (Calidris canutus), female Grey Plover (Pluvialis squatarola), and Dunlin (Calidris alpina)

Whilst, again, I missed lots of good birds I had hoped to see (Little Stint, Curlew Sandpiper, Ring ouzel, Grasshopper Warbler being first in mind, and if I were a better birder I may have been able to nail a probable first year Caspian Gull) I still nudged my patch year list up to 92, and took my UK year list up to 140 with four new additions.

Still waiting

So am I still waiting
For this world to stop hating
Can’t find a good reason
Can’t find hope to believe in

– Sum41, Still waiting

There is a curse. It is the patch birder’s ‘Catch 22’: do you wait for birds to visit your local patch, or do you go out and find them? Do the former and you can be left waiting for indefinite time. Do the latter and you might miss some patch gold.

And so it has been with Waxwing. The irruption of these gorgeous punks this winter has meant we have been waiting expectantly, looking at every berry-bearing tree with the hope of a child on Christmas Eve. Prominent trees have even been laced with apples. But the Waxwing have not come. Or, we have not seen them if they have.

This weekend I cracked. I left my patch and went in search of them elsewhere. We say ‘them’ because we always imagine a flock, but I saw a Rogue One. The lone X-wing… *ahem*, I mean… Waxwing (alright, I’ll quit with the Star Wars puns) has been a regular feature, delighting the crowds at the Rainham Marshes reserve for a few days now.

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Bohemian Waxwing (Bombycilla garrulus)

“You scoped it?”: This was one of my fellow patch birders’ response when he saw this photo. He has a point. The Waxwing was showing exceptionally well and close in. To understand why I didn’t get a better shot with my camera, instead of a digiscoped view with phone and  scope, is its own little story about patience and waiting: or lack of…

I did get a few shots with my camera, but was unlucky with the position of the light and obscuring branches etc etc. But really, the truth is the fact that makes me a terrible twitcher: I simply hate crowding round a bird like a paparazzi scrum around a Kardashian. Whilst everyone waddled from bush to bush as the Waxwing moved from perch to berry-larder, I sometimes stayed behind and trained my camera on something else instead. Like a Fieldfare for example – only too happy to mop up the excess fruit intended for our Bohemian visitor.

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Fieldfare (Turdus Pilaris)

And then I abandoned the scene altogether to walk around the rest of the reserve in rather more peace.

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Great Tit (Parus major)

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Common Snipe (Gallinago gallinago)

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Common Reed Bunting (Emberiza shoeniclus)

As you would expect with Rainham – the estuary walk from Stone Barges and the reserve itself – there were some pleasurable bird sightings and a total of 15 year ticks for the day – January is great like that. Redshank fed and called loudly to each other across the mud, a few Black-tailed Godwit  scoured the waterline shores whilst flocks of tiny Dunlin whirred over their heads and bigger flocks of bigger Lapwing took to the skies and back down again to the ponds with their characteristic jitteriness. Curlew and Snipe alerted me to their presence by dropping in from the sky. Birding from dawn until after dusk I watched gulls move to and from their roosts, with my first Great Black-backed Gulls of the year marching up and down on the decks of static boats like attentive sea captains.

Hundreds of Teal were joined by even larger flocks of Wigeon alongside a smattering of Shelduck and even >16 Pintail.I also felt a shred of envy as I watched flocks of over thirty Skylark (we never get that many on the patch – the dogs and habitat destruction undoubtedly help ensure that).

Patience was rewarded a little on the river walk…

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Thames at Rainham (I have taken nearly exactly the same picture almost every time I visit).

Rock Pipit bobbed up and down the man-made river banks and flood defences, whilst their  meadow cousins seemed to be put up in the air from almost every patch of grass I walked past. But it was the subtly different markings, and colouration, that drew my attention to a pipit feeding in the mud. It was only when it took off that I could see the bright white on the sides of the tail that I felt fully sure in calling it as the third of the ‘common’ pipits: Water Pipit (a bird I didn’t even see once last year). When I later met another birder  who described seeing a ‘Wipit’ in exactly the same place, I felt even more comfortable about my tick. Unfortunately my efforts to identify it in the field meant that my camera was still in my bag when it flew off towards London.

Later that afternoon, I went back to my patch to test my patience again in my two-year long patch search for Little Owl and Woodcock – they are becoming like patch-bogey birds of mine. My dusk-walks through the copses produced no owls and so I walked over to the Roding to stake-out the Woodcock that apparently, like clockwork, sails out of the woodland and over the river to begin its nocturnal feeding on the golf course every evening. I have tried this waiting game before, and once with serial Woodcock-watcher, Nick, but yet again went home empty handed (or without the tick, in case my metaphor leads you to believe I would be vile enough to join the ‘hunters’ who shoot the declining populations of these wonderful birds).

Standing by the river as the sky turned from red to purple to dark blue, I turned it even bluer as I cursed and muttered about late-evening golfers and a UFO (that’s Unwanted Flying Object, rather than ‘Unidentified’) that buzzed around like some loathsome mechanical insect, and I was sure dissuaded Mr or Mrs Woodcock from leaving his/her daytime woodland lair until after we had all disappeared and (s)he could be alone with his/her darkness and worms.

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Drone over the golf course

And so I went home, still waiting, but happy at a full day of birding. I left the world of the wild and re-entered the human world and reflected on the ‘hating’ and intolerance that seem so prevalent at the moment. My fleeting sadness at not seeing a Woodcock was replaced by a deeper and uglier melancholy over some of the actions our ‘so called’ leaders are taking. The day began with a punk, the Waxwing, and so my post ends, as it began, with the punk lyrics of Sum41:

Can’t find a good reason
Can’t find hope to believe in*

* I am not yet at the stage of punk-cynicism where I have lost hope, but then… I am not a Syrian refugee escaping terror and being told I am not welcome anywhere.

A Tale of Two Patches (I’m a fungi to be with)

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…”

It was the best of times: a shrike on the patch! The first Great Grey Shrike on the patch in 39 years. I wasn’t even a twinkle in the eye when the last one was seen. And, I’ve never even seen one (I’ve got three species of shrike on my lists and ‘Great Grey’ ain’t one). Brilliant! Except…

It was the worst of times: I didn’t see it.

I had been out the night before and may have had a drink or two. I missed the calls from Jono alerting me to the Shrike, and woke up too late. It had gone. A fantastic find by Tony and well deserved, but devastating to dip.

Nick and I searched hard, but didn’t find it. There were points on my walk around the patch when certain bushes seemed so promising as a shrike-perch that I almost built myself up into a frenzy of expectation and optimism. But it was simply not to be.

I hit a low searching the patch of grassland known as the Forbidden Triangle, which resembles the Bermuda Triangle in that anything with wings that might visit the area disappears and is never seen. But even that was not to be the nadir…

I scraped the barrel by walking into the City of London Cemetery. It was like Piccadilly Circus at the gates with flower stalls doing a roaring trade from the bereaved and hearses gliding past with large entourages. I looked at the three paths roads stretching away in-front of me which, then, in turn, split again like some fractal nightmare of labyrinthine infinity, and I just gave up. I nipped between a processional cortège like a green-clad funeral crasher, and escaped back out of the gothic gates without having seen so much as a robin.

“…it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness…”

By the time I reached Wanstead Park, my optimism of finding the Shrike had all but evaporated.

My mood was poor as I entered the wooded darkness of the dell. I knew I was leaving any likely habitat for a Shrike-stopover.

But as I entered the woodland, my funk was pierced by what sounded like a thousand ultra-high-pitched whistles. As the trees encircled me, it felt like I was surrounded by legion invisible Goldcrest. And, albeit not quite literally, I probably was. Our resident reguli (I feel like Alan Partridge insisting on referring to the plural of his car make as ‘Lexi’) have been swelled enormously by Eastern passage migrants.

It was the age of wisdom: In a better frame of mind I began to see things that were there, rather than hoping to see something that was not (profound no?!). And those things were mostly of a fungal nature.

Autumn can so easily seem like a season of death. But with death comes decay, and with decay comes a bloom as impressive as any Spring floral display. I was surrounded by mushrooms, toadstools, and slime moulds.

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From the large…

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… to the truly minute (I found caps that were just a few millimetres in diameter).

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I found and photographed at least twenty types of fungi. Exhilarated at the prospect of looking them up and listing them somewhere, I longed to thumb through my tome of Collins Fungi Guide and tick off everything I had seen. But the reality was to be somewhat different.

It was the age of foolishness: The Collins guide illustrates over 2,400 species of fungi. It boasts that it is the most complete field guide available, although there are believed to be well over 17,000 species of fungi growing on the British Isles. I hopelessly failed to accurately identify anything – even with photographs and a guide book.

Other than having a broad sense of fungal families seen: Inkcaps, Parasols, Chanterelles, Agarics and the like; I flailed with the scale and similarity of the possibilities. The very fact that this blogpost is posted somewhat ‘after the fact’ (to take a line from Eminem) is a clue to the reality that I spent two nights flicking between photo and guide picture largely fruitlessly.

“…it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity…”

It was the epoch of belief: I realised once again what many birders have noted before; birding in Britain sits in the ‘Goldilocks Zone’ of wildlife hobbies. Enough variety and variation for challenge, but not so much that it becomes a hard science rather than a pleasurable hobby. There are about three hundred species of breeding and regularly visiting birds in the UK, and about three hundred more possibilities of scarcities and vagrants.

It was the epoch of incredulity: Compared with 17,000+ British fungi (it is believed that science has named less than a tenth of the fungi in existence on earth: likely to be in excess of a million species), birding is positively ‘Duplo’-like simplistic fun. I know there are people who will  examine gill filaments and spores of a fungus under a microscope, or indeed the genitalia of a moth, for the sake of identification, but… I prefer birding: “definitely a Chiffchaff. It just went ‘chiff chaff‘”.

“…it was the season of light, it was the season of darkness…”

It was the season of light: Being in a somewhat philosophical frame of mind off the back of my fungal forays (and still blissfully unaware of the ID enigma I was to encounter at home) I did my best to cheer Nick up over a couple of pints of beer at our patch pub (and failed rather miserably – Nick finds more on the patch than most of the rest of us put together, but was clearly gutted by the GGS dip). [OK! I realise two birders drowning their sorrows is hardly an embodiment of the ‘season of light’, but I have committed to this ‘Tale of Two Cities’ theme now and I am damn well going to see this extended metaphor through to the bitter end! The pub is the ‘Golden Fleece’ after all (although the nearby ‘North Star’ would’ve been even better for my story)]

It was the Season of darkness: [This one’s back on track] The next day was so foggy, that attempting to identify any birds on patch was tricky and photography was virtually useless…

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Reed Bunting (Emberiza schoeniclus) in broom in the fog


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European Stonechat (Saxicola rubecola) in the fog

“…it was the Spring of hope, it was the winter of despair…”

It was the Spring of hope: I whirled around the Flats from dawn to check in case our shrike had come back or come out of hiding. But to no avail. My Sunday of hope lay elsewhere: on another patch a few miles down the road (or down river to be more precise)…

A mere stone’s throw from the stone barges of Rainham, a little warbler was skulking around in some bushes. Another local birder, Shaun Harvey had played a blinder (almost literally) and found London’s second ever Dusky Warbler from its “took” or “teck” calls. Most of the Wanstead crew piled over on Sunday morning, along with many other birders to congratulate our neighbouring patch-worker and pay our respects to the diminutive dark phyllosc.

I stood in the twitch line looking at the tangle of gorse, nettle, bramble, and ‘thorn occasionally hearing the odd call from deep in the vegetation. A ‘tick’ from the ‘teck’, so to speak, but I wanted at least a glimpse as well. A Robin, a Wren, a Dunnock, and a Reed Bunting all popped up every now and then to show us how easy it is for a bird to perch in full view while our Asian visitor stayed resolutely hidden.

But eventually, through fence, branch, stalk, and twig, I got a view of an eye under a distinctive supercilium peering out from its thorny bower and then that brown phylloscopus-body moving between twigs. That is how life ticks are made.

It was the winter of despair: Winter is indeed on its way, and the season of crazy passage vagrant arrivals will soon be over, but it is no time for despair. For every fungus that cannot be ID’d, there will be another that can (maybe with practice); for every bird that is dipped, there is another that can be ticked. And with both comes a story to be told, even if not quite worthy of a Dickens novel.

 

Wanstead Patchwork: Part XIX (birding in mist and fog)

A foggy patch

The Wanstead Flats often wears a coat of early-morning mist.

Western Flats at dawn

Western Flats at dawn

Brooms, Wanstead Flats

Brooms, Wanstead Flats

Wanstead Flats

Two weekends ago I walked around mesmerised by the familiar landscape and how different it can appear. As the sun rose, the mist disappeared like it was a mirage, and the day blazed with early-autumn warmth.

Water Rail
At the other end of the patch, literally the eastern extremity from my home in the West, I bumped into Bob Vaughn by the river Roding. He had just been watching two Water Rail wade and swim against the flow of the river. We stayed together for a while and eventually Bob spotted one of them in the distance gingerly poking its head out of the reeds in that way that rails do. That was my 94th patch tick of the year.

It was a long way away, but I managed to get this snap of it in the distance:

Water Rail (Rallus aquaticus)

Water Rail (Rallus aquaticus)

If your BS detector isn’t squealing at you now like a water rail, then it should be. The photo above is actually one I took in January of this year at Rainham when I was literally a few feet away from the bird which was out in the open – a highly unusual situation. The actual photo I took in Wanstead wasn’t quite as good:

Water Rail

I stayed ‘with’ the rail for about an hour and was peering at the place where it had been from across the river when a pig started squealing beneath my feet. Of course, it wasn’t a pig. It was the other water rail hidden deep in the reeds below me.

Misty river
The following weekend I drove out to the Thames at Rainham in Essex. The area is known as ‘stone barges’ after the concrete and steel barges moored there – it blows my mind that these things actually floated, but apparently they were actually used during the second world war to transport fuel (I am feeling slightly scared I am being gullible just writing this).

Unlike the low carpet of fog on the patch the weekend before, the Thames at Rainham was engulfed in mist.

I walked along, with my scope, watching Redshank, tens of Meadow Pipits, a probable Tree Pipit, a distant Wheatear, loads of skylark, and a Stonechat (some of them captured far better than I did by local birder, Shaun Harvey, who I met along the way). A dog-walker stopped me and commented that it wasn’t very good weather to take photos. I was a bit confused as I wasn’t taking photos, I was looking through a spotting scope, but I exchanged pleasantries and walked on.

It was only after we had parted ways that I realised how much I disagreed with the man. It is true that the cloud joined earth and sky with a blurring or negating of horizon like some bridge between the elements, but just as watercolour often displays a washed out bleakness in art, so can the camera pick up some of the mood of this weather. Perhaps pathetic fallacy in action, although my mood was pretty good and clear but I just wanted to show I haven’t forgotten my literary terms from my days in academia:

Thames at Rainham

Thames at Rainham

Thames

Thames

Later that day I also visited the nearby RSPB reserve – on the other side of the gigantic rubbish dump from Stone Barges – where I listened to numerous Cetti’s Warbler with their calls exploding out of the mist and watched a distant Heron move through the dense atmosphere; the moisture in the air removing most of the colour from the scene, but none of the beauty:

Grey Heron (Ardea cinerea)

Grey Heron (Ardea cinerea)

And eventually, that evening, when the fog had gone (if you are questioning my use of ‘mist’ and ‘fog’ interchangeably, I believe I am correct in understanding these blurry weather forms are indeed blurred in definition as well), I raised my eyes to the newly blue sky. There in the far and high distance, was a dot. That dot was a soaring Marsh Harrier, that I ambitiously pointed my camera at:

Marsh Harrier (Circus aeruginosus)

Marsh Harrier (Circus aeruginosus)

Wanstead Patchwork: Part III (a rail cheat)

This weekend I spent several hours walking around my local patch (Wanstead Flats and Wanstead Park) trying to build up my patch list of birds. Wanstead Flats With several common birds missing from my list so far this year, I have got up to a barely-acceptable 53. Additions from this weekend were:

  • Linnet
  • Jackdaw
  • Lesser Black-backed Gull
  • Herring Gull
  • Egyptian Goose
  • Kingfisher
  • Goldcrest
  • Coal Tit
  • Little Grebe
  • Siskin

Ticks on a list never, of course, tell the full story. Take the Siskin as an example: Several local birders told me where Siskins had been seen on Saturday. I went to the wooded area and stared up high into the tall trees, but with no luck. I returned on Sunday morning determined to find them. I knew Siskins travelled closely with charms of Goldfinches. This morning I spent more than 20 minutes scanning the tops of trees and peering at every distant Goldfinch and Blue Tit closely. When I eventually saw a pair, I felt like I had earned that tick, but more importantly, it heightened my enjoyment of watching these beautiful little birds knowing the effort I had taken to find them.

I have also heard that a Water Rail has been seen on the Wanstead Park lakes, but I could not find him. However, rather like a Bloodhound, when the scent of a species of bird is with me, I can be pretty stubborn about finding it. Even if that means cheating a little. I whizzed down to Rainham, where I knew I might see one, and for a general change of scenery…

Rainham Marshes

Indeed the change of scenery came with a change of birds and I added a few to my other list for 2015: my UK year list…

  • Golden Plover (too distant for photos I’m afraid)
  • Snipe
  • Barn Owl (seen through a scope in a man-made tree box)
  • Water Rail

With several of the new Wanstead birds counting twice, this took me to 73 species for the year in the UK thus far.

Water Rail are not uncommon, although only about 1000 pairs breed in the UK (supplemented by Winter migrants), but they are exceptionally difficult to see. They skulk around deep in reeds, rarely showing themselves, but occasionally giving themselves away with their distinctive calls which have been described as ranging from ‘squealing piglets’ to the ‘purring of contented squirrels’. I would normally be very pleased with a photo like this:

Water Rail (Rallus aquaticus)

Water Rail (Rallus aquaticus)

But recently at Rainham, the rails have been showing-off: Water Rail I love lists, and I love new ticks on my bird lists, but the joy of getting so close to such an elusive creature transcends any satisfaction of ‘collecting’ or ‘ticking’.

A Big Birding Year: Part XIX (good creature of mud)

This blog has described Rainham Marshes before, (here and here), and Saturday was my second visit as part of my Big Birding Year. There have been numerous sightings recently there of the very rare Spotted Crake, and I always go full of hope to see my first Bearded Tit. Unfortunately, I did not get any life-firsts or see any particularly rare birds, but I did add a tick to my year list.

But first, I want to re-cap a bit on the terrain as it fascinates me. As I have pointed out before, Rainham Marshes sits next to the Thames about 18 miles down river from Central London, but the steel and glass spires of London can just about be seen looking West up-river in the distance:

Rainham and view to London

The marshes are now protected from the tidal Thames by some flood defences, although every time I visit, I am struck by how close to the water level the marshes are:

View East

To illustrate this better, I want to return to my new favourite online map tool (topographic-map.com) which shows clearly that most of the marshes sit below sea-(and Thames) level.

topographic-map.com

In fact, Rainham Marshes is the lowest lying land inside the M25. Despite its importance for wildlife, I would guess, sadly, that the chances these marshes will still exist in 100 years are very slim indeed.

But, for the moment, the marshes provide refuge to important wildlife, including the bird which has become my 92nd species to be photographed of the year (A Kingfisher nearly became my 93rd as well, but was too fast for me), the Black-tailed Godwit. In the heavily cropped and fuzzy zoom image below, two Godwits can be seen in flight along with a Lapwing and Black-headed Gull whilst you can see another Lapwing in the background and a third (male) Godwit looks on from the right almost nonchalantly:

Black-tailed Godwit (Limosa limosa)

Black-tailed Godwit (Limosa limosa)

Godwit, as a word, is from two old English words meaning ‘good creature’, and its Scientific name, Limosa, means mud, which is appropriate as these beautiful birds hunt for small creatures in the mud with their long bills.

Formerly heavily hunted – shamefully it still is in France – even 170 years ago Yarrell noted that numbers of these birds were declining:

Yarrell

In fact less than 40 years after Yarrell was writing, the breeding population was extinct in the UK. Luckily, these migrant waders started breeding again 70 years later in the 1950’s and every year around 100 birds will spend the Summer in the UK, like the birds I photographed, and even smaller numbers will breed.

The UK is already starting to feel a bit Autumnal and soon these birds will migrate to sub-Saharan Africa for the Winter. However, unusually, it is in Winter when you have the best chance these beautiful birds. this is because the UK receives its own Winter migration influx from a slightly different sub-species that breeds in Iceland. Around 44,000 Black-tailed Godwits will winter in the UK, but I was particularly pleased to see the much rarer (in the UK) European form here during breeding season.

Black-tailed Godwit has been assigned red conversation status in the UK. If important sites like Rainham Marshes disappear under water, the threat to these birds will increase further and they could disappear from the UK as a breeding bird like they did in the 1880’s for another 70 years, or perhaps even forever…?

A Big British Birding Year: Part III

To really get my numbers up for BBB, I visited one of my favourite sites just out of London: Rainham Marshes.

Marsh

It lived up to its name, as it was impossible to walk all the way around without Wellington boots or getting very wet feet following the floods. But I did manage to see 17 more species of birds to get my numbers up to 48 for the year so far. This included some very common species I just hadn’t managed to photograph yet since 2014 began, such as:

Chaffinch (Fringilla coelebs)

Chaffinch (Fringilla coelebs)

House Sparrow (Passer domesticus)

House Sparrow (Passer domesticus)

Winter Wren (Troglodytes troglodytes)

Winter Wren (Troglodytes troglodytes)

European Goldfinch (Carduelis carduelis)

European Goldfinch (Carduelis carduelis)

Collared Dove (Streptopelia decoacto)

Collared Dove (Streptopelia decoacto)

Long-tailed Tit (Aegithalos caudatus)

Long-tailed Tit (Aegithalos caudatus)

Pied Wagtail (Motacilla alba)

Pied Wagtail (Motacilla alba)

I also saw some fascinating behaviour from other common birds, such as great flocking activity from the thousands of Starlings found at Rainham:

Common Starling (Sturnis vulgaris)

Common Starling (Sturnis vulgaris)

… and a Swan feeding on Common Reed-mace – often called Bulrush – (Typha latifolia):

Mute Swan (Cygnus olor)

Mute Swan (Cygnus olor)

Scanning the sky, I caught:

Greylag Goose (Anser anser)

Greylag Goose (Anser anser)

… and…

Little Egret (Egretta garzetta)

Little Egret (Egretta garzetta)

As is often the way, the most interesting (or rare) birds I photographed were often taken at enormous distances or were heavily obscured such as the merged two shots of a single male (top) and pair (bottom) of Stonechats:

Stonechat (Saxicola rubicola)

Stonechat (Saxicola rubicola)

…as well as…

Common Reed Bunting (Emberiza schoeniclus)

Common Reed Bunting (Emberiza schoeniclus)

…and…

Northern Pintail (Anas acuta)

Northern Pintail (Anas acuta)

Rainham marshes is only a couple of big deluges away from succumbing to the mighty Thames estuary which runs right next to it:

Thames

The seawall is covered in plastic and other detritus, and I was incredibly lucky to photograph both Meadow and (the rarer) Rock Pipits (left and right respectively on the collage I have made below):

Meadow Pipit (Anthus pratensis), and Rock Pipit (Anthus petrosus)

Meadow Pipit (Anthus pratensis), and Rock Pipit (Anthus petrosus)

And finally, I was very pleased to capture the rare -ish (around 2000 breeding pairs in the UK) and incredibly shy Cetti’s Warbler. The explosively loud warbler is one of the most recent arrivals to the UK; first recorded breeding in the UK in 1973. Unfortunately, I only got heavily obscured shots like the two merged below:

Cetti's Warbler (Cettia cetti)

Cetti’s Warbler (Cettia cetti)