No Christmas break in sight for the herons, who still have to fish, and thereby eat. This one, rightfully, looks with some disdain at the litter that has been chucked in the Hebden Water next to its usual spot at the weir. Bloody humans, leaving their crap all over the place. And it’ll be there for weeks, I bet.
Doves have been a religious symbol for thousands of years: Christianity just adopted a tradition that had begun in Mesopotamia (according to Wikipedia, which of course is right about everything). If you ask me, though, this one has the evil eye; zoom in a bit and you’ll see what I mean.
Though we have been staying in London over the weekend, this part of the Thames is further upstream, just past Marlow, where the river forms the Buckinghamshire/Berkshire border for a while. I am very happy with this shot, as it turned out just as was hoped when I pressed the shutter. It seems to sum up two things about the Thames at this point — the wildlife and natural qualities are pretty good, and there’s certainly a lot of blatant displays of wealth around.
There has been a long period where no herons were to be seen on the weir on the Hebden Water in town, but in the last couple of weeks there has been one there every day. Presumably, the same one: but I can’t confirm whether this is one of the two that were photographed regularly a few years back. It’s probably not. Anyway, it’s nice to see one of them again: they really are the most patient of creatures.
Went on a walk that was neither particularly scenic nor particularly straightforward, but it did have one saving grace: this beauty hovering over the grass of Cutacre Park, between Bolton and Wigan. What must the mouse feel? Does it know its hunter is up there, waiting for it to poke its head out of hiding just for that one crucial second?
He’s just discovered running. Which means he’s discovering the pleasure of chasing things. The gull will tolerate it for now: revenge will come later, when the kid’s chips get stolen.
This cameo played out in the grounds of Carisbrooke Castle, in the centre of the Isle of Wight — worth a visit, if you want a recommendation. It was the place that Clare and I saw out much of our silver wedding anniversary: we were married on 2nd July 1999, and have made it this far, at least.
The wirebird — officially, the St Helena plover (Anarhynchus sanctaehelenae) but nobody calls it that — is the one species of bird that is endemic to St Helena. That is, it is found nowhere else. It is very much the symbol of the island, appearing on its flag. In my three visits here so far I had never seen one, but there it is. This is quite a coup, as this is one of the planet’s rarest birds; the latest census counted about 640 of them, so this single one is 0.15% of the entire global population. Birdwatchers, eat your heart out.
Anyway, that’s it for St Helena — this time. But, I will be back.
After yesterday’s exertions I did not feel like going very far at all; like this mallard, I was content just to sit and watch the world go by, to be honest. (And tomorrow won’t be much different.)
My ability to summon a robin now does not even need to involve any digging. Just go and sit down in the garden for five minutes and he turns up anyway, just to check things out. With largely frozen soil at the moment, though, I guess he’s probably hungry. This may well be the same bird as depicted here or here: the photos are all taken in the same place (our allotment) and robins are territorial beasts.
As seen on the canalised part of the River Calder, in Brighouse, early this afternoon. I hope it was enjoying the sunshine, as it gave its demonstration of fluid dynamics.
Being 42 