Tag: birds
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One Contented Pigeon
The Wood pigeon in this photo above looks like a juvenile to me, going by the missing white patches on either side of its neck. Those patches appear at around six months old, about three months after leaving the nest, and young birds also have a greyer bill and lighter grey plumage than adults. It…
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A Glimpse of a Windhover
Despite spending at least two hours outdoors on most days, close meetings with nature are actually quite thin on the ground. There is the odd distant view, a brief flicker at the edge of sight, usually gone before my patience can catch up. My bird identification skills are basic, but even I know this much.…
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When the Fool Returns from Africa: Musings on Cuckoo Day
I was spared the indignity of rummaging through an empty pocket for loose change on my Monday climb up Roseberry Topping, which is just as well, since I heard no cuckoo. According to local superstition, today—April 14th—is “Cuckoo Day,” the date when this allegedly symbolic bird is supposed to announce its return with its distinctive…
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The Bullfinch: Bouncer, Thief, and Reluctant Songbird
Ah, the Bullfinch. Black-headed Bullies. Blood-Olphs. Whatever you prefer to call them, here they are, battling the winter like pint-sized gladiators. The sun, feeble and disinterested, barely filters through the foliage as I trudge back to the village along the River Leven. A few shrivelled leaves cling stubbornly to the trees, while dead Dock stalks…
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The Little Egret of Great Ayton
This morning, I set out with some faint notion of a nature photograph for today’s post. Nothing specific, but as fate would have it, on crossing the bridge over to Waterfall Park, I spotted Great Ayton’s resident Little Egret. Yes, “resident,” as though this bird has become some fixture of local society. There it stood—in…
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Geese over the Moor, Jets in the Sky: My Morning Routine Disturbed
Wednesday mornings have become a predictable affair—each week beginning with a stroll across Battersby Moor. This morning, however, my private reverie were rudely interrupted by the coarse honking of a skein of geese, or what I dare venture to call greylags, flapping about in that charmingly organised way they have, perhaps several hundred strong, hurtling…