Last night the wind was howling in, a bitter southwesterly liver slicer, that frankly made the idea of astronomical observing rather unattractive compared to stuffing yourself with tea and biscuits. The high waning moon in Gemini near the radiant made meteor watching seem an unrewarding prospect as well, so aside from the odd peak outside, I stayed in and I drank tea and stuffed myself with biscuits.
But at 0045 I stuck my head out again, and immediately was rewarded for my lack of persistence by the sight of a glorious fireball heading north through the bleak badlands beyond the pole star towards the northern horizon. Easily brighter than Venus, I'd put it at mag -5, and it was a sort of copper flame green colour, and was emitting pink "sparks" as it burnt up. It was that pretty I told my girlfriend I ought to have hung it around her neck.
Fortified with a strong rum and coke, I had a more determined watch for half an hour or so at about 3am, but the moon was virtually overhead, and I only saw one meteor of about mag zero in this period - I don't have great skies either so I was double hampered.
Will try again tonight in patches. But my god, wrap up warm. It's turn your hands purple weather.
Wednesday, 14 December 2011
Tuesday, 13 December 2011
Surely not in this wind!
But go out I did! And not just walking. I even managed to do a little jog for about 3 and a half miles, although my legs aren't thanking me for it now.
Like Bill does for Sookie, I ache.
I am annoyed at becoming so feeble.
Anyway, it would appear that anything feathered had the sense to stay out of the air today, the bush outside my living room window was full of weatherblown sparrows looking like the sort of xmas decorations I wish I had.
On London Road lake, the waterfowl were all collected down the eastern end, where I'm guessing someone had been lobbing bread in. The Tufted Ducks and the solitary Grebe were not party to these socialist handouts and remained aloof further out in the water. No young Moorhen in the choked little drain though today.
On Northern Road, as the sun dipped below the horizon, the starlings were gathering. One small flock at the Laurens end of about 150 birds, and down at the Winthorpe Road end, I noticed 4 small flocks take off from various trees and bushes round and about, and commence the evening murmuration at about 1545.
The way the small flocks gradually merge fascinates me. It's like two badly superimposed pictures of flocks passing in front of one another, clashing, as if on different plastic sheets being held to the sky.
But then the birds begin to harmonise their movements, and the two flocks begin to move in unison, no longer clashing against the winter cobalt sky but circling together, seemingly spirallying until two become one.
Like Bill does for Sookie, I ache.
I am annoyed at becoming so feeble.
Anyway, it would appear that anything feathered had the sense to stay out of the air today, the bush outside my living room window was full of weatherblown sparrows looking like the sort of xmas decorations I wish I had.
On London Road lake, the waterfowl were all collected down the eastern end, where I'm guessing someone had been lobbing bread in. The Tufted Ducks and the solitary Grebe were not party to these socialist handouts and remained aloof further out in the water. No young Moorhen in the choked little drain though today.
On Northern Road, as the sun dipped below the horizon, the starlings were gathering. One small flock at the Laurens end of about 150 birds, and down at the Winthorpe Road end, I noticed 4 small flocks take off from various trees and bushes round and about, and commence the evening murmuration at about 1545.
The way the small flocks gradually merge fascinates me. It's like two badly superimposed pictures of flocks passing in front of one another, clashing, as if on different plastic sheets being held to the sky.
But then the birds begin to harmonise their movements, and the two flocks begin to move in unison, no longer clashing against the winter cobalt sky but circling together, seemingly spirallying until two become one.
Friday, 9 December 2011
Wetter than the ducks
Yesterday was a thoroughly undistinguished late afteroon walk...headed down to London Road lake with a spring in my step and joy in my heart despite the cold and the fierce wind that has characterised recent conditions, however 30 seconds after I had turned onto the sustrans 64 cycle path that runs by the lake, I was wishing I was still at home under my duvet watching an entire series of The Tudors or other light viewing.
For, a grey curtain of rain was drawn across the land, one that quickly turned into a cloudburst so hard the great pregnant raindrops bounced a foot back upin the air, and you could see the wind making the raindrops behave like a flock of starlings.
The ducks, which were numerous, seemed unbothered and sailed serenely around in squadrons, mainly mallard but The Tufted Ducks have also arrived back, and were patrolling in a neat little mixed flock of about 10 birds, which along with a gaggle of mallards passing by in line astern, made it look like a quacking, befeathered prelude to the battle of Jutland.
Me, I was watching all this from under a bridge no doubt used to by courting couples at night, shivering, my clothes wet, my feet soaked, my jeans about ten kilos heavier.
At least the ducks are waterproof. There's nothing waterproof about me, I can tell you that.
For, a grey curtain of rain was drawn across the land, one that quickly turned into a cloudburst so hard the great pregnant raindrops bounced a foot back upin the air, and you could see the wind making the raindrops behave like a flock of starlings.
The ducks, which were numerous, seemed unbothered and sailed serenely around in squadrons, mainly mallard but The Tufted Ducks have also arrived back, and were patrolling in a neat little mixed flock of about 10 birds, which along with a gaggle of mallards passing by in line astern, made it look like a quacking, befeathered prelude to the battle of Jutland.
Me, I was watching all this from under a bridge no doubt used to by courting couples at night, shivering, my clothes wet, my feet soaked, my jeans about ten kilos heavier.
At least the ducks are waterproof. There's nothing waterproof about me, I can tell you that.
Wednesday, 7 December 2011
Out by the river
Today was a bitter bitter day, wind slicing through you like a band saw, cold air drying my skin and making it bleed raw. But, I felt I had to be out. I need to be out.
So I walked, rather than ran, out to Farndon and turned down the puddled, muddy lane down towards the river opposite the power station. Almost immediately a redwing flew out of the hawthorns on one side of the path before settling in a tree in the other, and this, dear friends, was a a definite sighting. A bit further along, another two redwing were perched in a tree.
I was struggling to keep an eye on anything, as the wind was just blowing straight into may face, making my eyes water, and the hood I had up to stop my ears dropping off in the cold. But as I reached the river past the bare fields that had been full of corn and wheat in warmer times, the unmistakeable bright yellow flash of two yellowhammers caught the sun as they headed out over the water.
And that was that for the trip, it was so cold I could barely concentrate. But I revived quickly after a cup of tea at the fantastic little museum cafe, and reflected that it is always better to be outside, any chance you get.
And besides, my flat is so chilly, it's often warmer outside!
So I walked, rather than ran, out to Farndon and turned down the puddled, muddy lane down towards the river opposite the power station. Almost immediately a redwing flew out of the hawthorns on one side of the path before settling in a tree in the other, and this, dear friends, was a a definite sighting. A bit further along, another two redwing were perched in a tree.
I was struggling to keep an eye on anything, as the wind was just blowing straight into may face, making my eyes water, and the hood I had up to stop my ears dropping off in the cold. But as I reached the river past the bare fields that had been full of corn and wheat in warmer times, the unmistakeable bright yellow flash of two yellowhammers caught the sun as they headed out over the water.
And that was that for the trip, it was so cold I could barely concentrate. But I revived quickly after a cup of tea at the fantastic little museum cafe, and reflected that it is always better to be outside, any chance you get.
And besides, my flat is so chilly, it's often warmer outside!
Tuesday, 6 December 2011
Let's talk about tits...
...and watch that hit count tise, hopefully.
So yep, today I was a bit lazier and didn't find my way out on to the roads until past half ten - slaps own face for laziness. I walked out to Sconce Hills Park, and back right along the River Devon, and to be honest noticed very little apart from the large quack squad of various mallards and hybrids on the river. I was to busy being annoyed at the feature on phone apps on 6 music, most of which as I tweeted only R2D2 could find a use for. Also I was trying to figure out how to buy presents with no money, and no hope.
But that's by the by!
But after my cup of tea at the museum and trot through town working out where to get my horrible, and diminishing, hair cut, I got home to find my garden and drive area alive with birds.
First up, even before I got there, the tell tale zupping of Long Tailed Tits reached my ears, and sure enough there was a flock of about 20-30 of them working my sycamore trees, cute as hell, and interestingly a mix of white headed and stripey headed sub types. They obviously found a good food source there, because they stayed in the vicinity rather longer than usual. They were joined by the "sips" and "seeps" of Great Tits, and a Blue Tit did an agile dance along the door of my shed - I reckon there's plenty of little spiders and insects at the gap at the top of the door where this little fellow was flitting along like a gossamer extreme climber.
I'm trying to get better with bird calls by the way, will write more on this subject another time.
The prize spot though, was when a blackcap warbler suddenly appeared in the sycamore amidst the Long Tailed Tits, not singing though, a male looking a little lost.
Goes to show, there's always somnething to see smack under your nose. Often when you least expect it.
So yep, today I was a bit lazier and didn't find my way out on to the roads until past half ten - slaps own face for laziness. I walked out to Sconce Hills Park, and back right along the River Devon, and to be honest noticed very little apart from the large quack squad of various mallards and hybrids on the river. I was to busy being annoyed at the feature on phone apps on 6 music, most of which as I tweeted only R2D2 could find a use for. Also I was trying to figure out how to buy presents with no money, and no hope.
But that's by the by!
But after my cup of tea at the museum and trot through town working out where to get my horrible, and diminishing, hair cut, I got home to find my garden and drive area alive with birds.
First up, even before I got there, the tell tale zupping of Long Tailed Tits reached my ears, and sure enough there was a flock of about 20-30 of them working my sycamore trees, cute as hell, and interestingly a mix of white headed and stripey headed sub types. They obviously found a good food source there, because they stayed in the vicinity rather longer than usual. They were joined by the "sips" and "seeps" of Great Tits, and a Blue Tit did an agile dance along the door of my shed - I reckon there's plenty of little spiders and insects at the gap at the top of the door where this little fellow was flitting along like a gossamer extreme climber.
I'm trying to get better with bird calls by the way, will write more on this subject another time.
The prize spot though, was when a blackcap warbler suddenly appeared in the sycamore amidst the Long Tailed Tits, not singing though, a male looking a little lost.
Goes to show, there's always somnething to see smack under your nose. Often when you least expect it.
Monday, 5 December 2011
Kestrels Tea and Twitter
...as I set off at 9am for a very bracing and occasionally sleeted on walk.
London Road lake was very lively as I went by on the cycle path. Large amounts of yarking squawking black headed gulls fighting over a single flake of bread, moorhens and coots, a Great Crested Grebe and many many mallards dabbling furiously as if they know the ice is on the way.
Feeling brave but still frustrated I can't run on my gammy leg, I walked the whole length of Clay Lane, happy that colder weather has temporarily at least driven away the fly tippers. Along here, unconfirmed because as you know I'm a rubbish birdspotter I think I spotted my first two redwing of the winter, alas not close enough. I did however have a lovely view of an unselfconscious female blackbird in beautiful condition stuffing herself with haws like she'd never heard of Britains Next Top Model.
Over Beacon Hill estate a Coromorant flew, high. Unusual sight there, but on Beacon Hill reserve the flocks of Chaffinches were not so. Also a pretty little flock of Long Tailed Tits - are they never not pretty? - was working through the woodland on the edge of the site. The Chaffinches are all puffed up for winter like blushing little pom poms.
Greenfinch still all but invisible.
As I came to the marina on the river, I was greeted by the most interesting sight of all. A Kestrel was working the fields and bushes on the edge of the marina, hovering with intent before sliding out of stationary like a sharp knife over the top of a block of butter to perhaps a more promising location before commencing to hover again, tale splayed, wings making whipped cream with the air.
It was a great spot to take to my usual museum tea and twitter session! I become more of a gentleman with every passing day.
London Road lake was very lively as I went by on the cycle path. Large amounts of yarking squawking black headed gulls fighting over a single flake of bread, moorhens and coots, a Great Crested Grebe and many many mallards dabbling furiously as if they know the ice is on the way.
Feeling brave but still frustrated I can't run on my gammy leg, I walked the whole length of Clay Lane, happy that colder weather has temporarily at least driven away the fly tippers. Along here, unconfirmed because as you know I'm a rubbish birdspotter I think I spotted my first two redwing of the winter, alas not close enough. I did however have a lovely view of an unselfconscious female blackbird in beautiful condition stuffing herself with haws like she'd never heard of Britains Next Top Model.
Over Beacon Hill estate a Coromorant flew, high. Unusual sight there, but on Beacon Hill reserve the flocks of Chaffinches were not so. Also a pretty little flock of Long Tailed Tits - are they never not pretty? - was working through the woodland on the edge of the site. The Chaffinches are all puffed up for winter like blushing little pom poms.
Greenfinch still all but invisible.
As I came to the marina on the river, I was greeted by the most interesting sight of all. A Kestrel was working the fields and bushes on the edge of the marina, hovering with intent before sliding out of stationary like a sharp knife over the top of a block of butter to perhaps a more promising location before commencing to hover again, tale splayed, wings making whipped cream with the air.
It was a great spot to take to my usual museum tea and twitter session! I become more of a gentleman with every passing day.
Thursday, 1 December 2011
A jog and a walk, then tea. Civilised!
Despite soreness and general uselessness, I have a fantastic degree of obsessiveness and rank stupidity when it comes to injuries and exercise.
I have a sore leg, some sort of pulled calf in fact. So obviously the best thing to do is try running on it JUST TO SEE DAMMIT if it will stand up to it. The day or so after you bloody hurt it again. I'm stupid. Stupid stupid stupid earthling.
So yes, the intention was to dress up warm and walk the brisk winds to the far end of Devon Park and then back through the sconce and along the river a bit. But no, despite being dressed for the tundra seemingly, as soon as I got into my brisk walk the urge to jog took me, took me further into the realm of the extraordinary, as Ewan Magregor would say in his punchable advert.
Well, I guess my jog didn't take me anywhere extraordinary, it just took me to the path where a vigorous woman was being taken for a spin by an alsatian. My leg wasn't hurting yet, oh no, that was saved for the day after.
But it got me along the River Devon, and evidently to a non striking museum, where I got an underweight pot of tea, and having watched a grey wagtail the day before, merely heard wagtails all of the time just out of shot of the view through the window. The sort of two tone whistling you get as they fly.
On Riverside park, running now abandoned for taking in the sights, I listened to the various high pitched tseeps and tsipps that to my untrained ears are starting to indicate the presence of tits of some kind. Sure enough, amongst the willows and bushes by the river, a number of blue tits were cavorting about as Sparrows less delicately crashed about on thicker twigs.
A pleasant run, but, yep, my leg, sore again. Such a fool eh?
I have a sore leg, some sort of pulled calf in fact. So obviously the best thing to do is try running on it JUST TO SEE DAMMIT if it will stand up to it. The day or so after you bloody hurt it again. I'm stupid. Stupid stupid stupid earthling.
So yes, the intention was to dress up warm and walk the brisk winds to the far end of Devon Park and then back through the sconce and along the river a bit. But no, despite being dressed for the tundra seemingly, as soon as I got into my brisk walk the urge to jog took me, took me further into the realm of the extraordinary, as Ewan Magregor would say in his punchable advert.
Well, I guess my jog didn't take me anywhere extraordinary, it just took me to the path where a vigorous woman was being taken for a spin by an alsatian. My leg wasn't hurting yet, oh no, that was saved for the day after.
But it got me along the River Devon, and evidently to a non striking museum, where I got an underweight pot of tea, and having watched a grey wagtail the day before, merely heard wagtails all of the time just out of shot of the view through the window. The sort of two tone whistling you get as they fly.
On Riverside park, running now abandoned for taking in the sights, I listened to the various high pitched tseeps and tsipps that to my untrained ears are starting to indicate the presence of tits of some kind. Sure enough, amongst the willows and bushes by the river, a number of blue tits were cavorting about as Sparrows less delicately crashed about on thicker twigs.
A pleasant run, but, yep, my leg, sore again. Such a fool eh?
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