Wednesday, 7 September 2011

Birding. Yes, birding. No Trevor Francis. No Metal Fury. Just a Pure Unadulterated Birding Tale

Honestly.  Fuck Trevor Francis.  I don't need to write short childish verses about him anymore.  I went out yesterday.  In the field!  I know you can't believe it that Q has now got the all clear from the Doctor clearly of eastern origin to drive, which means I can drive to places like Cornwall for a great seawatch, Shetland for rare hunting, and The Scillies to regain it's lost reputation by finding 14 mega rare American Yankee Doodle Dendroica Dandies.  Today I went to Barton.  Far Ings.

First up, Chowder Ness for a bit of Gulling and the very probable chance of a Semi-P or better.  I'd even settle for a Baird's.  Here's the cracking results:

3 Curlew
4 Black Headed Gulls
3 Teal (east on the Humber)


[still pausing]

Now that you're over the shock of my finds I'll continue with wild tales of deprivation, rock 'n' roll sex orgies and a photographer whose battery had ran out on his camera and he had to go back to his car to get his spare!  Crazy days.

Far Ings was a little bit quiet as well although a crazy hybrid duck with the head pattern of a teal, the head shape of a wigeon and the body of a tank did warrant closer inspection.  It also had the tertial plumes of a Falcated.  In fact I think there was a bit of Falcated (this bit is true honestly) in this duck.  Or maybe not. 

A young male Marsh Harrier did a fly-by so close to the hide that I could actually see it's wings, it's head and it's body.  A Cormorant fed on fish, probably Sturgeon, and the Coots were just swimming about minding their own business and not really doing much.  One swam about 5 metres to the right then, amazingly, turned and swam towards me, only to turn again back in the direction from where it had come then it carried on feeding and that.  This is the level of excitement that was witnessed here at Far Ings.  Truly shite and a very good example of why I should not write about birding and continue with odes to Trevor Francis.

Oh Trevor Francis,
I was you had wings,
Then I could spot you,
From the hide at Far fucking c.



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