Thursday, 25 March 2010


With spring in the air and a spring in my step due to me being finally crutchless a visit to Spurn was the order of the day.  On disembarking the car, the usual Spurn sound of a Linnet in song filled the air.  Then I noticed the little twat on the wires.  Shit!  I was trying to avoid them bastards.  It's taken me until 25th March to see a Linnet this year, a true sign of my stupidity.  I was seeing how long I could go without seeing one, to set new stupidity records.

It's been a while since my last visit to Spurn due to rehabilitation issues and what a difference to last time.  The Meadow Pipits were going mental in crazy parachute display teams alongside Skylarks singing like fucking madmen, all happy with the fact that spring was finally here and pretty soon they'd be putting their bird-cocks to good use for the first time since last year.

Finchii were moving in small numbers and Great Tits were conspicuous between the Crown and the Bluebell with at least 8 different birds a-teacher-teachering which is quite a lot.  Or is it?  Yeah, it's fucking loads!  So spring was here and it was a fucking lovely day, it really was, and I was off my crutches and the world was beautiful and so I stripped off, bollocko in celebration.  At one with nature, behold the fresh air and the new-found ability to walk!  I approached the Warren and a fucking Firecrest called to the right of me!  I had a look.  It was there.  Down to about 6 metres showing really well.  Firecrests are cool as fuck.  I shouted over another birder, who was strangely fully clothed.  Weirdo.  The Firecrest remained cool as fuck.

A few Red-Throated Loons were at sea but none showing any sign of their summer garb.  Can't they be bothered?  Lazy bastards.
Get changed.

A Sanderling went south and I counted 99 Curlew on the Humber, only because they're easy to count - I didn't count anything else.  99 is an odd number but the Curlews were obviously not concerned about going through the hundred mark otherwise they would've called on of their mates to join them.

Chiffchaff.  Where?  There on the stair.  Where on the fucking stair?  right there.
A little Chiffchaff.  There were 8 seen in the area today.  I saw 2.  Wheatear, another stalwart of the early migration season was flashing its white arse and uppertail coverts.  Does Wheatear really mean "White Arse" in old Norse or something?  Or is it something someone else has covered or I've seen it on QI or something like that?  Fuck knows.  I can't remember where I've read it.  Or dreamt it.
QI is hosted by closet birdspotter but openly gay Stephen Fry (Fig 1). Jesus!  Ashamed of bird-fancying but not of homosexuality?  Fuck me, the shame of being a birdspotter.  Fuck it, I'm getting a new pastime.  I don't even like birds anymore, it's a bit of a wimpy hobby.  I'm into something more manly now.  Really manly.  Like, fighting....well, boxing....yeah BOXING!
"Where you going today, Spurn?"
"No, I'm off boxing, Mam".
"What about tomorrow?"
"I'll probably go BOXING again like a proper bloke".

A fucking Redwing was in the Churchyard, then betwixt Kilnsea and Easington, a Whooper was super.  Super dooper.  Then, like a trooper, I headed for Easington beach.  Two days after coming of crutches, I stupidly headed off into the wind.  On a beach.  With dodgy hips.  For about a mile.  The sand was getting blown between my testicles and the side of my leg.  I spotted five large gulls a long way down the beach.  Looks like I'm going to have to walk a bit and even then the Glaucous Gull that has been hanging 'round for a while isn't forced to be amongst them.  At this point I had to give in to the naturist celebration and had to put some shoes on.  Fuck me, my bollocks are rubbing like fuck on my leg with all the sand in between.  Some dog walkers saw me and shouted "Put some fucking clothes on you weirdo".  I told them to fuck off and started chasing them round the beach, laughing like a fucking MADMAN for added effect as they shit themselves as they tried to keep away from me.  Almost within identification range, when one of the loafing gulls got up and started flying towards me.  The unmistakable white flashes of the wing tips told me that the Glaucous Gull was about to make a close fly-past.  And close fly-past it did. 

I spent the afternoon beach-combing looking for valuable artifacts like a broken lobster pot and eventually found a pair of Admiral trainers.  Luckily the previous owner had tied the laces together before launching them into the sea.  That was thoughtful of him.

Fig 1.


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