I always got a big kick out of photographing the birds that visited the grounds of the former Swede Towers - I occasionally shared the resulting images on these very pages. When I relocated last October, I assumed those days were well and truly over. My second and third floor apartment sits at the back of a converted late-19th century maltings, with no great views to speak of from the living room windows downstairs, save the back gardens of neighbouring houses. It transpires that my initial negative assumption was a tad hasty, however.
As I type these words I'm upstairs, sitting beneath a Velux window that affords me a direct eye to the sky - the only other objects in my line of sight are the overhanging branches of a tree (sycamore I think, but I'm no expert). To my delight I've discovered that the tree in question appears to be a pretty convenient stopping off point for all manner of feathered friends. It's a bit like having my own private hide - I can see the birds, but they can't see me. The most exciting thing I've spotted so far was a tree creeper working its way up to the very top branches. I've only ever had a single fleeting glimpse of one before, but this sighting was clear as a bell, uninterrupted and a real delight. I was so transfixed by the tree creeper that I didn't even reach for my camera, but when a small group redwings settled for a while, I hastily fired off a bunch of shots. I still only have a simple point and press camera and I was shooting almost directly into the sun so by and large the results weren't anything special, with the exception of the one at the top of this post, which I'm well pleased with. I'll let you know if anything else interesting drops by.
I stumbled out of the back door early yesterday morning and caused the usual flurry of panicked fluttering as numerous blackbirds, sparrows, doves and tits rose up and flew off from all corners of the garden. All except for one bird, which sat watching me from the conservatory roof a few feet away, without the slightest hint of panic. Its sheer apparent fearlessness made me jump a bit though. At first glance I took it for a gull, such was its size, but quickly realised that it must've been some sort of pigeon or dove - I've never seen that particular colouration before though. Can anyone put an exact name to the species?
Meanwhile, here's an appropriately titled tune from 'Inferno', the excellent new Robert Forster LP (available here).
Feeding time in the garden over the weekend. The kids are growing up fast. No wonder he feels the need to let off steam every morning!
Because of staff holidays I was offered a stretch of early shifts last week, which meant getting out of bed at 4.30 and into work by 6am. It was a long haul, but I successfully negotiated the week despite feeling more knackered than usual by the end of it. One morning (I don't remember which, they all blur into one) I fuzzyheadedly checked my clock and saw that it was exactly 4am, leaving another half an hour to doze. The pre-dawn light was weak. All was still and absolutely silent, apart from Mrs S breathing gently beside me. I closed my eyes. It felt like little more than a blink, but when I opened them again, the volume of the world had increased to a cacophonous level. The dawn chorus was in deafeningly full swing. I looked at the clock. It read 4.12. Just 12 minutes had elapsed, but in that time the local robins, sparrows, wrens, cockerels and finches had all kicked off big style. Even the visiting cuckoo somewhere out on the marsh behind the house was joining in with gusto. Leading the charge, as always, was the neighbourhood blackbird population, one of which uses the ledge above the dormer window in our bedroom as a vantage point each morning for maximum volume and sound projection. 'Shut up' mumbled a half asleep Mrs S as I slipped out of bed.
Just lately, during my breaks at work, when not digging into the recent batch of decent new releases, I've been reacquainting myself with the music of the 1960s/70s Canterbury Scene and related spin-offs. This past week it was the turn of Steve Hillage, whose early solo albums were big favourites of mine as a teenager, until the advent of punk and post-punk set me off in a different direction. The opening track from his third LP, 'Motivation Radio', felt a particularly apt one to revisit.
As the winds increased still further and the rain began to fall in sheets, Mrs S & I retired with haste to the nearest cover. It was one of those ancient, wooden, open-sided huts that were once omnipresent on the promenades of our coastal resorts, but are now only found in the most gentile of seaside towns, relics of a bygone age. This one must have stood unchanged for a hundred years or more. As we sat sheltering from the deluge, something blurred past us and up into the rafters causing a flurry of excited screams, before blurring back past us out into the rain. It was a swallow's nest, just a few feet above our heads. We watched the parent (or parents) come and go a half a dozen times within the space of a few minutes. I was thrilled and mesmerised. If Mrs S hadn't pointed out that the rain had eased up, I'd be sitting there still.
In between parental visits, three little heads peered silently and expectantly from the gloom. I optimistically fired off at least 20 shots into the semi-darkness - just one came out with any clarity.
I was inordinately fond of Los Halos for a few years in the early noughties and, if your tastes run in something of a Sparklehorse direction, I can thoroughly recommend any one of their first three LP's. 'Easy, As You're Waiting' is taken from my favourite of those three, 2002's 'For Ramona'. If you like this tune, check out (and/or pay what you like for) the whole album here. Los Halos - Easy, As You're Waiting
In the middle of last week I had to walk into town to pick up my car from the garage. Along the way, I marvelled at the swallows swooping under the bridge and swifts screeching around the narrow streets at little more than head height. In amongst all this small bird action were the ever present gulls - looming from the rooftops, scavenging around waste bins and screaming from the skies. They are ridiculously fearless, intimidatingly huge, but largely harmless. In fact, until last week I would've said that they are totally harmless.
Heading down the narrow lane leading to the garage, I became aware of a large gull swooping back and forth a few feet above my head, all the while making that unsettling squealing noise. There were other gulls around and I assumed the noises were aimed at them. This one gull didn't seem to fly far from my vicinity though. Was I imagining that its angry screams were directed at me? I was pleased to arrive at the garage where I stepped inside and quickly forgot the whole brief episode.
After chatting for a while with the mechanics at the garage, they returned my key and told where they'd left my car. It's a small family run concern with very little space, so cars are routinely left in nearby streets and cul-de-sacs until collection. I'd been in the garage for around ten minutes and left distractedly fiddling with my key-ring. Instantly the gull swooped low over my head, screaming as it went. I was freaked out - it'd been waiting for me. I had a few hundred yards to cover before reaching my car and walked quickly, trying to stay close to an overhanging wall, but the screeching gull was never more than a few feet away from my head, ignoring all other pedestrians. I saw my car up ahead and broke into a slightly panicky jog to reach it, but the Hitchcockian swooping and screeching continued right up until the very moment I went to open the door, when the gull made its closest pass, directly over my right shoulder, unleashing a hefty dropping that missed me by about two inches, splatting down the side of the car and onto the pavement.
I was genuinely shaken up by the whole episode. Perhaps while walking down the lane, I'd unknowingly passed close to some fledglings and the gull was merely fulfilling its parental duties in protecting its offspring. I don't understand why it followed me for so long though - the car was a quarter of a mile from our first encounter. Plus it appeared to wait for me while I was in the garage - what's all that about? And then there was the parting gift that so narrowly missed me.
Unsurprisingly, Number One Cup's 'Divebomb' became an earworm for the next few days.
On Wednesday afternoon, just half an hour after I'd read through C's brilliantly vivid post concerning her recent grisly encounter with a sparrowhawk (here), I went downstairs to make a coffee. On my way back up, I paused at the back window overlooking the garden and the marsh beyond, to take my first slurp. It was at this point I noticed the silence. The garden and sky above are usually busy with birdlife coming and going in a constant whirl of activity, but at that moment there was not one sparrow, tit, pigeon, starling, dove, dunnock or finch to be seen - or heard. I ran my eyes around the neighbouring rooftops and along our fence. Then I saw it. The very slightest movement. A well camouflaged sparrowhawk biding its time, on the lookout for a late lunch. For once my camera was nearby and I fired off a single, hopeful, shot in the general direction of the mass of greenery that blankets the fence towards the end of the garden. Can you see her?
No? I couldn't at first either. Hang on a moment, let me zoom in.
There she is. She may have been very still and very quiet (and very hidden!), but news of her presence had clearly spread through the local population - she was out of luck. It's been well over a year since we had an actual sparrowhawk kill in the garden, though sparrowhawks themselves are rarely far away. I heard a commotion in the sky not that long ago and looked up to see a large group of crows bullying and hectoring a lone sparrowhawk who appeared stubbonly reluctant to leave the area. Endlessly hassled and hugely outnumbered, it finally swooped off and away to find some peace and quiet.
Like C, we recognise some of our more frequent garden bird visitors and bestow (usually unflattering) names upon them - Stumpy, Lumpy, Dangle, Peg-Leg, Patch etc. Unlike poor old Limpy over at C's place however, for now at least, all the regulars remain present and accounted for.
Before we went inside, Mrs S & I watched skylarks performing vertical pirouettes in the far distance, spoonbills and little egrets poking around in the shallows, oyster-catchers piping frantically overhead and terns plummeting from the skies into the deeper waters beyond. A little later, as Milly Hirst began her set, a heron flew low from left to right across the sight-line directly behind the performance area. A majestic marsh harrier passed by in the opposite direction soon after. It was a busy evening on Cley Marshes.
In these idyllic surroundings, Milly impressed the hell out of me once again (I wrote about her previously here), playing a couple of songs with which I wasn't familiar and teasing us with a progress report on how the recording of her debut LP is coming along. Then it was time for Rozi Plain, who played a wonderful stripped down set with only Rachel Horwood for company. By now I'm sure that everyone is aware of just how highly I rate Rozi's music (look here if you need reminding) and to see her play in such an intimate setting (the audience numbered a mere 50) was truly a privilege.
At the conclusion of Rozi's set, we wandered back outside to watch the last rays of the sun disappear from the huge North Norfolk sky. The silhouette of a barn owl fluttered silently above the marsh. What a glorious evening.
Just over a week ago, for the first time this year, we heard a sound we've come to love more than almost any other - the screaming call of returning Swifts. Just a couple of birds to start with, twisting and turning in the skies above, but within a few days more had arrived, as gradually they began to re-familiarise themselves with their surroundings and the rooftop nesting spots they've used for generations.
On Wednesday evening, Mrs S & I noticed a variant of the Swift's call with which we weren't familiar. Instead of the usual joyous passing screams from above, we heard an odd, panic stricken call from below. A pair of Starlings had blocked a lone Swift's high speed path into it's nesting space beneath the roof tiles, forced it to the ground and were viciously pecking away at it. A downed Swift is as good as dead without speedy assistance, particularly when it's on the receiving end of such an attack, they spend virtually their whole lives in flight and have no means of becoming airborne from the ground. We ran down to the garden, scooped the shocked bird into a small box and took it to the highest point of the house, our bedroom, to release it. Holding it on an outstretched flat palm, we let it feel the breeze and sure enough, it soon took flight. What we didn't realise was that the Starlings were still waiting on the rooftop and immediately appeared from nowhere to forcibly bring the Swift crashing to earth again. Mrs S and I raced down the stairs and into the garden once more, to rescue our prone, plucky pal from the lethal beaks of the Starlings. This time we decided to wait awhile, to allow the starlings to disperse and let our battered Swift calm itself.
A little later, with the coast apparently clear, we once again climbed to the top floor to release the Swift. This time, it was understandably initially reluctant to take flight, though eventually swooped from Mrs S's outstretched hand and off around the house. To our absolute horror, the Starlings reappeared from out of the blue and were onto it like a shot. We once again heard that awful terrified scream as it was forced out of the sky and out of our view, somewhere further down the lane. We feared the worst. A grounded Swift stands little chance of survival, but this one had now been brought crashing to Earth on three separate occasions. We ran along the lane and miraculously spotted the Swift on the ground in a neighbour's front garden. Amazingly it was still alive, but had clearly endured enough for one day. We carefully placed it back in the cardboard box and took it home. It gratefully slurped some water offered from a pipette, then we left the shell-shocked little mite to chill-out, hoping it would make it through the night.
To our great relief, the Swift not only made it through the night, but looked quite perky when we carefully opened the lid of the box on Thursday morning. What we couldn't know of course, was if any serious damage had been caused either by the Starling attacks or the repeated collisions with the ground, not to mention the extreme stress involved in all these events. This time Mrs S & I resolved to release our beleaguered chum elsewhere, somewhere safer. The photo at the top of this blog was taken from our bedroom window, where we had unsuccessfully released the Swift on the previous two occasions. Squint and you'll be able to see the steeple of the church in town, across the marsh. Beneath that steeple is a large, lofty old graveyard, overlooking the marsh in our direction. We took the Swift to that quiet, bright and breezy location, held it aloft and within seconds it took flight. Looking none the worse for its multiple ordeals the previous evening, it circled us twice before climbing, up and away.
As I watched it soar, I considered the thousands of miles that little Swift had already travelled and, with a fair wind, the thousands more miles it might yet have left in its wings. And I don't mind telling you, my heart soared too.
'Ond Yn Dawel Daw y Dydd' (translates as 'But Quietly Comes a Day') is by Huw M. His beautiful music is my current obsession and I will definitely return to it in more detail soon.
Almost exactly a year ago I posted a few shots (here) of a collared dove who'd elected to set up a nest in a very precarious position. Sadly, on that on that particular occasion, the eggs were lost in the storm, though I'm happy to report that the family were more successful in the same spot a little later in the year. I happened to glance over at the same stretch of our neighbour's guttering a couple of weeks ago and noticed a dove sitting on a nest right over the downpipe, exactly as that one did 12 months ago. Yesterday afternoon, as I walked past an upstairs window, I spotted some movement across the way - it was a proud parent gently encouraging a recently hatched youngster to take a stroll along the gutter, while another egg sat temporarily abandoned back in the nest. Never fear though, shortly thereafter, one of the parents was back on the nest, incubating the second egg, so we're keeping our fingers crossed for two out of two. (Click on the photos to enlarge)
As we're rolling out the welcome wagon for the new arrival, it seems an apt moment to share a tune by the Asthmatic Kitty recording artists of the same name. The duo's 2008 début, 'Welcome to The Welcome Wagon', was produced by Sufjan Stevens, who also put in an appearance on the 2012 follow up, 'Precious Remedies Against Satan's Devices'. Album number three is due later this year. This is 'Sold! To the Nice Rich Man', originally released in 1999 by Danielson, another artist with a strong Sufjan Stevens connection.
The local sparrows have always pulled and pecked a
bit, but this year they've really been
munching away at Mrs S's beloved garden.
Leaves from the stems and petals from the
flowers, nothing, it seems, is safe from
their roaming beaks. They leave a trail of
devastation behind them, causing Mrs S a
whole bunch of grief. Perhaps their extra-curricular quaffing is a comment
on the quality of the actual bird food I put
out for them, though that always disappears
fairly sharpish too. To Mrs S's credit the garden still
looks fantastic, regardless.
Nom nom
All of this is a long-winded way of
introducing 'Garden', the latest track to be
lifted from C Duncan's imminent debut LP,
'Architect', following on from last year's
equally classy single, 'For', and 'Say' from
earlier in 2015. C Duncan hails from
Glasgow and I feel sure that one of my Scottish
based blogging chums must have flagged him at
some point over the past few months, though
as I've only lately come to fully realise
just how special his music is, I'm sure they
won't mind me spinning a couple of his tunes
again.
A few more photographic memories of our short
holiday in North Norfolk.
This is Bruce. He immediately made us feel
very welcome on his patch and became a proper little poser whenever a camera appeared.
Fred Astaire. We stayed in a secluded cabin,
the roof of which Fred and Ginger (not
pictured) treated as their dance floor each
morning. Fred appears to have removed his
tap shoes for this photo.
There were no street lights in the remote
village we called home, so we were treated to
some glorious late evening skies.
We saw a wide variety of birds on our travels,
from tiny Wrens to the mighty Marsh Harriers that seemed to be everywhere. I spent much
of the time gazing through my binoculars at
the bird-life rather than the camera lens, but
while walking down a long country lane in the
blistering heat, we encountered this
Chaffinch who showed no inclination to fly
away, at least until he'd finished his song.
Life is getting loud in our neck of the woods. Standing in the garden for 10 minutes earlier today I heard a recently returned Cuckoo sounding off a couple of fields away, admired the shrieking aerobatics of a dozen swooping, rolling Swifts overhead and watched an equal number of screaming Starlings dripping off of the coconut shell fat feeders as they squabbled to gather food for their young. A couple of the youngsters were clearly hungry and impatient though, and camped out close to the noisy throng in the garden to ensure they had first dibs at whatever treats Ma & Pa were able to grab.
Produced by the first lady of Jamaican
reggae Sonia Pottinger, this is Johnny & the
Attractions in 1968 with their Rocksteady
reading of the 1963 Ruby & the Romantics
tune, 'Young Wings Can Fly'.
Snug as a bug in a rug, this collared dove
has built a nest in a temporarily comfy,
though ultimately unwise location - a
neighbour's gutter. With heavy rain forecast
in the second half of the week, we fear the
worst for her eggs.
French musician Nino Nardini enjoyed a 40
year career, predominantly composing and
recording library music, which was used on
radio, TV and film. His large catalogue has
been much sampled by DJ's, though 1971's
'Jungle Obsession' is the only album I own.
From 'Jungle Obsession', and with the fate of our friend
the collared dove in mind, this is 'Creeping
Danger'.
Down the garden, over the allotments and
across the marsh beyond. I always stop to
look out of our bedroom window, whether I'm
on my way into bed at night or stumbling out
of it at the start of a new day. It's never
the same view twice. Here's what I saw this
morning.
I could write a whole piece on the range and
variety of mists that gather on the marsh,
but would struggle to illustrate any of them.
Successfully capturing mist on camera is akin
to capturing lightning in a bottle, for me
anyway. This morning's mist/frost/sun combo
was particularly beautiful though. And as I looked out, I too was being observed. I guess the view in the other direction is no big deal to this little 'un.
Later in the day, we endured a private mist
of our own - inside the house. The next door
neighbours were sanding down a beam and, as
our two houses were once one and thus we
share some floorboards, a gentle sawdust fog
drifted up and through the rooms, leaving a
fine covering over everything. I'd only
vacuumed yesterday too.
We're off to the smoke for a couple of days
to catch up with the visiting New York
contingent of the family, where we'll be
swapping the veritable cacophony of birdsong that currently forms the soundtrack of our lives here, for the more general
cacophony that is London.
A recently arrived and very welcome visitor to these parts is a lone Nightingale who has
taken up residence in the tree across the
lane, from where he flits back and forth to
our chimney, charming all and sundry with
his astounding range of whistles and trills.
Bit of a show-off really.
Something strange is going on around here.
Our house has suddenly become a magnet for
birds and I don't mean the general area, I'm
talking about the building itself. Over the
last week we've had a tit and two robins
standing on the back door handle while
tapping on the glass, and today, as I sat at
my computer, I had a sparrow tapping at the
window to my right and two collared-doves
standing looking at me on the window sill to
my left. Here's one of them.
Even as I type these words, another
sparrow has appeared and is tapping on the
pane to my left. What's going on? Mrs S
brought me an adhesive window bird feeder
for my birthday, which is currently sitting
on the table waiting to be attached to the
outside one of these very windows. Perhaps
word has got out and the locals are becoming
impatient.
