A calm, sunny visit to Henley Road GPs near Reading (but crucially, just in Oxfordshire) produced a nice Smew this morning. The first bird in my first scan was a male Wigeon, far right in the picture below. The second, a redhead Smew, second from right. A pleasantly quick result:
After a few moments, the Smew pulled out of the water and perched for a while…
… before continuing fishing under the overhanging branches:
Aging redhead Smew appears to be a tricky affair, as adult females and juvenile birds are very similar. Collins mentions that juveniles have a greyer, less white belly and that the loral area remains brown in their first autumn and “sometimes for longer”. This bird was too distant for me to to be certain of either of those features, so remains an ageless redhead (!).
The Hawfinch invasion of 2017 brought large numbers of these fantastic finches into the county. I enjoyed catching up with some of the vanguard back in October, see here, but I wanted some more good views of these birds, just in case they all disappeared in the spring! The churchyard at Northmoor has held a small flock of Hawfinches since the autumn, so I paid a visit this morning.
I began by scanning the trees in the churchyard, checking the higher exposed branches for perched birds and the dense yew trees for signs of feeding birds, hidden away in their depths. I regularly looked around for flying birds and listened for the flight call. I checked the trees at the front of the churchyard, then walked quietly around to watch the trees at the back, before returning to the trees at the front again. This seemed like a sensible strategy but after half an hour it had produced zero Hawfinches. I had seen a fly-over Red Kite, Buzzard, Sparowhawk, Kestrel and even a circling Peregrine:
After nearly an hour, I was getting seriously cold and was in despair about why I had not located a single Hawfinch. Perhaps the regular raptor flyovers were keeping the Hawfinches secretive? Was I to be the only birder in the county to come here and not see Hawfinch?! Then an elderly couple enter the churchyard, both wearing binoculars. “Have you seen any Hawfinches?” they call, “this is the fourth spot we have tried for them, we keep missing them”. I have to admit that my heart sank. Having more people wandering around would not increase my chances of seeing these shy finches.
Nevertheless, I went over for a chat and the couple told me that they had read reports of the birds feeding at the back of the church. I had checked those trees even more frequently than the ones in front of the church, as they were out of the wind. “Let’s have another look” I suggest and we walk around behind the church. Immediately the elderly woman calls “There’s one” and points up to a single bird in the tree behind the church. I lift my binoculars and look at the bird. There is a Hawfinch perched in the exposed branches in the top of the tree. I must have checked that tree twenty times in the last hour. The couple have been in the graveyard for less than a minute!
We admire the bird and after a few minutes it starts calling. Not the hard “tick” call, but something more like the soft flight call:
[Ruud van Beusekom, XC298155. Accessible at www.xeno-canto.org/298155]
The Hawfinch then flew to the tall trees at the front of the church. As it leaves the tree, at least three other birds fly in to join it.
Hawfinches are masters of perching up quietly and using the shadows:
The small flock drops down to feed in the trees in the front corner of the churchyard. I then spend a fabulous 45 minutes watching feeding birds in the yew trees:
Their plumage breaks out their outline very effectively. In flight, in good light, the huge bill and tail tip glow white. But in the shadows of the trees, the white patches on the tail, undertail coverts and wing coverts blend in with the patches of sunlight between the branches, making them hard to pick out:
The black bib forms a triangular patch that perfectly mirrors the large pale bill, when viewed from below:
I saw the huge bill, famous for it’s power, being used to delicately pick out seeds from the tree:
This bird, below, is in mid-crack. The seed casing can be seen falling down, in front of the bird’s breast:
Hawfinches are superb birds. Although it took a while for the birds to come and feed, once they were settled it was fabulous to get close, relaxed views of what it historically a tricky bird to see in Oxfordshire. A fantastic morning and a reward for the slow and cold start.
Shorelark, one of my all time favourite birds. But first a word about their name. For the British birder “Shorelark” seems perfect, as we only come across this species on the coast in winter, or more rarely in coastal-type habitats, such as the edges of inland reservoirs. But across their global range, these are mountain birds. Only the European subspecies flava spends any time on the coast, so the name Horned Lark is much more appropriate: in their breeding plumage across their whole range these birds have fabulous black horns. However, all my formative associations with this species are connected with the British name “Shorelark”. As such I shall refer to “Shorelark” when describing the European subspecies flava and use the term “Horned Lark” for all other forms. It is a personal thing!
As a boy I can remember studying pictures of Shorelark, of seeing their amazing horns and their yellow-and-black patterned head. On reading that these birds could be found on the Norfolk coast in winter, I immediately started dreaming of a visit to Holkham Bay. Being a young teenager with no income, it seemed impossible that I would ever get to such a remote place. But I worked out that if my paper round could somehow pay for my train ticket, then I could sleep in the bird hides at Cley and make my winter dreams come true. I even got as a far as persuading my parents to let me practise sleeping in the shed in our garden on a bitter winter night, as preparation for my nights in the Norfolk bird hides. I think I made it to about 10:30pm on the first night before the freezing feel of sleeping on concrete drove me back inside.
It was some years before I made it to the north Norfolk coast and fortunately I never had to endure a night in the hide to do so. My early notebooks record my most memorable UK Shorelark experience, a close encounter with a flock of 32 in front of the dunes at Holkham Bay. I crept out alone onto the freshmarsh before dawn and waited for daylight. As light arrived a large mixed flock of birds flew in and landed right in front of me. Scanning through the flock I came across the Shorelarks, which were feeding together with Twite and Goldfinches. In those days special moments were recorded on paper in the form of some rather dodgy drawings, rather than by camera:
Not only was this a memorably close encounter, but once in a while the flock would fly up and circle around me, the air filled with calling Shorelarks, before settling down to feed once again.
Sounding something like this:
[Matthias Feuersenger, XC41283. Accessible at www.xeno-canto.org/41283]
When I was young it seemed impossible to imagine that one day I would travel widely, often just to look for birds. I have always been drawn to the mountains and so, as life turned out, I have come across Horned Larks in many countries and in many different forms. This week Dave Lowe got in touch and asked if I would be interested in joining him to go and see what is widely regarded as an individual of the North American form of Horned Lark which has somehow found it’s way to Staines Reservoir in Surrey. I believe that this bird is suspected of being of the form hoyti, from the north central part of the North American range, breeding on arctic islands. Neither Dave nor I travel to see birds out of the county much these days, but a nearby vagrant Horned Lark would be a treat. Dave, incidentally, was also the finder of the Farmoor Reservoir Shorelark, some years ago.
Last Saturday afternoon at Staines Reservoirs in late January was dark, with gusting wind and rain showers. The Horned Lark was present, but was feeding some distance away on the west shore. We could make out that the bird we were looking at was a Horned Lark, but seeing the finer plumage details were impossible at that range. Fortunately others have had closer views, so I have borrowed a image from fellow Oxfordshire birder Ewan Urquhart:
Horned Lark taxonomy is changing rapidly. This paper splits Horned Lark into five palearctic species and one nearctic species. Never needing a second invitation to look at my Horned Lark pictures, I’ve dug out a few images from various locations over the years for comparison:
American Horned Lark, Eremophila alpestris alpestris, Rocky Mountains, Jasper, Alberta, Canada, June 2013. Many subspecies of Horned Lark have been described from North America and their distinction and identification is not fully understood. Future DNA studies may help clarify the situation. This bird was in the far west of North America, high up in the Rockies, so would not be expected to bear a close resemblance to the bird at Staines Reservoirs. The ground colour to the face and throat is white with no yellow, although many other nearctic forms inlcuding hoyti, do have yellow in these areas. The eye mask is clearly separated from the throat patch. The mantle feathers are dark centred on this bird, creating a streaky and contrasting feel to the upperparts. There are pinkish tones to the nape and lesser covert feathers.
Shorelark, Eremophila alpestris flava, Hardangervidda National Park, Norway, May 2008. A European bird on it’s Scandinavian breeding grounds. This is a bird of the population that are thought to winter on the English east coast. There is an intense yellow to the forehead, supercilium and throat, the black eye mask does not extend below the ear coverts. The lesser coverts are not noticeably pinkish.
Perhaps my favourite form of Horned Lark. In spring these birds have dense black eye masks, that curve down to nearly meet the large black throat patch. There is a slight yellow wash on the throat and forehead and best of all a lovely pinkish-rufous nape that contrasts with the light grey back. The upperpart feather tracts have slightly dark centres, but this does not create a very streaky or contrasting pattern to my eye. Compare the upperparts on this bird with those of the American Horned Lark above.
In the form pencillata the black eye mask extends down to meet the black throat patch. The throat and forehead are slightly washed with yellow and the nape is pinkish in colour. The lesser coverts and mantle are greyish in colour without much streaking or contrast.
Sogut Pass, Taurus Mountains, Turkey, May 2007
This bird, below, from south-west Turkey is also of the form pencillata and shows much black on the head and throat. The eye mask extends down from the eye to join the large black throat patch, which extends up onto the lower throat and is more extensive than that in the forms above. This was a particularly horny bird!
Horned Lark, Eremophila alpestris elwesi, Tibetan Plateau, near Zioge, Sichuan, China, May 2015
Much further east there is little yellow on Horned Larks. This bird was feeding in late afternoon sun at 3500m in a restaurant car park. The ground colour to the face is white, not yellow. The eye mask and throat are clearly separated by white. The lesser coverts and nape had a light brown tone (maybe a hint of pink?). As I lay flat out on my front photographing this bird, it ran straight past my right shoulder to take a breadcrumb from the road behind me.
Temminck’s Lark, Eremophila bilopha, Tagdilt track, Morocco, April 2008. A monotypic species from north Africa and the desert cousin of Horned Lark. Superficially similar to the elwesi subspecies of Horned Lark from China, see above, with no yellow on the forehead or throat. However the throat band is much thinner and the upperpart colouration is a rich desert brown, perfectly matching it’s habitat.
I still think Horned Larks are fabulous birds. They not only provide much interest with their subtle plumage variations across their enormous range, but they are beautiful birds found in very special places and that is part of their appeal.
Many years ago, a man who goes by the name of Badger, decided it would be good to bring the local community of birders together for a Christmas meal. And so it was. Over time this festive meal became an established part of the annual routine for Oxfordshire birders. Last year Badger asked me to say some words at the end of the meal and together we handed out a few prizes, in recognition of the work local birders do. Not so much after dinner speaking, but more of a gentle dessert.
This year we went all out and held a review of the year, together with a full on Oscar-esque prize giving ceremony. Some prizes were obvious, such as Best County Find and Best Local Patch Find. Others were more tongue in cheek: the Best Oxon Bird Photo included three appalling photographs of birds in Oxfordshire and there were prizes for the Best Dressed Birder and, my favourite, the You’ve Smashed It Award for the person who had broken the most equipment in the calendar year. 2017’s winner had accidentally damaged a staggering £16,500 worth of lenses, hence the award’s alternative name “The Thank God for Insurance Award”.
It is always great to get everybody together and such an event allows us to thank Badger and Adam for the tireless work they do in running the Oxon Bird Log. The open, free exchange of information on birds in the county is not something that happens everywhere and we should celebrate the fact we have an open, friendly birding community.
Many thanks also to Peter Alfrey, who not only turned up, but won a prize, took some pictures (above, thank you!) and even wrote a nice little blog piece, here. We look forward to seeing more of him and fellow recent addition to the Oxon birding community, Mick Cuningham, out in the field in 2018. Both have already found good birds in the county. Standards are rising!
Like a cherry stone in a Hawfinch’s bill, I cracked on Saturday morning. The second half of October has seen record numbers of Hawfinch arrive in southern England, presumably from the continent. Further north, there is little evidence of large numbers of birds passing through. For example, only small numbers of Hawfinch have been recorded at Spurn this autumn (see Mick Cuningham’s comment below for clarification). But for landlocked, migration-deprived counties such as Oxfordshire, this is a huge event. Seeing Hawfinch in Oxfordshire has always been difficult and usually required a number of visits to the miniature railway shed at Blenhiem Palace in early spring. Every time I went it was absolutely freezing. Once in a while, often after quite a long while, very small numbers of Hawfinch could be glimpsed distantly in the tree tops, before inevitably disappearing. 2011 was a good Hawfinch year in Oxfordshire: there were 11 records. By 2012, numbers had reduced to a single record.
The autumn of 2017 has changed everything. From mid-October onwards Hawfinch began being reported from all over the county, often fly-over birds migrating with Redwing. In the last 15 days of October 2017 there were 152 records from Oxfordshire (full details in the Oxon Bird Log monthly report here). Unfortunately October 2017 also proved to be the month that my business purchased new commercial premises and moved location. I had been fully committed to work issues all month, had done absolutely no birding and had barely even been outside. Thank goodness the Siberian Accentor irruption did not occur in 2017.
Friday night drinks with a few local birders began stiring my interest, a few of the guys had already added Hawfinch to their local patch lists or had sought out birds feeding in the woods in the Chilterns. When Andy Last popped into Standlake and recorded a fly-over bird with Redwings on the Saturday morning, I knew I had to get out and find my own. A quick negotiation for a couple of hours off childcare on Saturday afternoon and I headed south to the Highmoor area, near Nettlebed. Unsure of whether I should find a vantage point and hope for a fly-over bird, or go into the woods themselves, I decided to try both. Almost immediately I picked up a distant flock of 5 finches flying in from the north. In binoculars they were unidentifiable at such range. I quickly took a few pictures, but even on the back of the camera, could make out virtually no detail. However, when I got home and processed the pictures, enlarging the birds to the point of pixelation, they did prove to be Hawfinches, not that I knew that at the time:
A few Siskins were moving around, 2 Lesser Redpolls flew south calling but there were no further Hawfinch candidates. I moved south into the woods and saw nothing but Redwings for an hour. They appeared to be feeding on the yew trees here. Then suddenly, where there had been nothing for an hour, there was a flock of 5 birds perched up in a nearby dead tree: 5 Hawfinches! A Waxwing-esque appearing trick. As I raised my camera, they flew deeper into the wood, taking a further 2 Hawfinch that I had not initially seen, with them. I stayed for another half hour or so and got further glimpses of a single Hawfinch in a treetop, but there was no further sign of the Hawfinch flock. The walk back was something of a finch-frenzy with Chaffinches, Bullfinches, Greenfinches and Goldfinches, the icing on the cake being a fine male Brambling:
Sunday morning involved an early morning run over my local Shotover Hill. Even here the woodland bird theme continued as I flush a close Woodcock from a secluded track. Now that local birders have migrating Hawfinch firmly on their radar, it will be interesting to see how many autumn records Oxfordshire will get in future years. Have we been missing something all along and it has taken an irruption of birds at a national level to increase our awareness of these fabulous flying finches?
This summer I discovered a nocturnal world of beauty and awe. For Father’s Day, on 18th June this year, I was bought a moth trap and this single item has opened the door to an entire whole new world. A few times a week I plug in the trap and leave it lit up all night. A typical catch is not particularly large or diverse, as the local habitat is not great. Despite this we have recorded over 100 species since mid-June, nearly twice the number of bird species recorded in the same period. And 100 species is not a particularly good total. If the habitat was wilder and more diverse, many more species would be possible. A friend with a larger, more mature garden in East Oxford and far better identification skills then myself, has recorded over 300 species. But I still find it incredible that so many moths visit our unremarkable garden at night. But to see them, one requires a moth trap:
My moth trap, a Skinner Trap, is effectively a wooden box, with sloping perspex panels under a fluorescent bulb. The panels funnel any moths attracted to light into the box and keep those inside from escaping. It is best filled with empty egg-boxes which provide hiding places for the trapped moths, until they can be safely released in the morning. Traps are widely available, but Richard Campey at the One Stop Nature Shop sells moth traps at a very competitive price and provides excellent, friendly advice (conflict alert: he is also a good friend!).
I photograph any new species or particularly good looking ones. This provides a useful record and as my identification skills progress, gives me the opportunity to revise identification at a later date if necessary, which is all a good part of the learning experience. Some go unidentified, but the online community is very friendly and helpful and can usually point me in the right direction. The Norfolk Moths and Hants Moths sites quickly became immediate references, even if I live somewhere between these two counties. For reference books I use Richard Lewington‘s fabulous Field Guide to the Moths of Britain. The Amazon link is here, but you may wish to support your local book shop too.
Species turnover is very rapid, which is one reason why so many species can be recorded even in a small garden such as ours. Most moth species seem only to have a few weeks on the wing. Moths also have a fabulous selection of names. When we began it was all Hearts and Darts and Scarlet Tigers; then staggering numbers of various Yellow Underwings before the nights drew in and Lunar Underwings became all the rage.
So having set up my trap and caught a few moths, I was then faced with the challenge of identification. Initially I found this very difficult. Then things sort of clicked and I became able to pick out distinguishing features and develop some idea of what was likely. I am a complete beginner, but the pleasure has been enormous. It has been fascinating to begin an identification process in a new field and to contrast this with a field in which I am competent, but not expert. Bird identification is something I have done for years. I am certainly not perfect, but I have a good understanding of what is likely and am familiar with most European bird species. With moth identification I had no such context. In the beginning there were just so many moths and all appeared very, very similar. But humans are very good at pattern recognition and with time and persistence, patterns and identifications emerged.
It has also been fascinating to compare my developing skills with those of my seven year old daughter. Frighteningly, in no time at all, she was much better at identification than I was. She could glance down at a moth and dismiss my postulated identification in a second. Children’s brains are truly remarkable things when it comes to learning. Both my five year old and my seven year old daughters love coming down to examine and help release the moths on a moth trap morning. Indeed, one of the unexpected benefits of moth trapping which will stay with me forever, was the day in late June when I discovered both children dressed and in the garden at 5:50am on a school day. I was greeted with the words “7 Scarlet Tigers Daddy!”
Once I had a basic grasp of some of the features to look for, the species came thick and fast. One of my early dream species was Elephant Hawk Moth. Adorned in pink and brown, like a character from 1960s Carnaby Street, these are large and striking beasts. On June 22nd, in our first week of trapping, I peered into the trap to be greeted with the sight of magnificent Elephant Hawk Moth. It was unclear who was more excited: my children or myself. Either way, we had caught the bug.
Admiring one of the more spectacular visitors to our garden:
Other favourites from the first few months include Dark Arches:
The Miller:
Plain Golden Y:
Burnished Brass:
A lovely Herald:
The magnificent Iron Prominent…
… which also has fabulous antennae:
Orange Swift:
The remarkably shaped Spectacle:
A personal favourite, Angle Shades. We all find it very difficult not to call this moth “Angel Shades”, a much better name in our opinion!
Black Rustic:
The late summer inundation of Large, Lesser, Broad-bordered and Lesser Broad-bordered Yellow Underwings was great fun. The moth trap would be buzzing with moths, every cavity in every egg box bursting with one of the Yellow Underwing types:
Once word got out that we were interested in moths, other people begun to support our interest. A work colleague who was clearing their allotment found an Elephant Hawk Moth caterpillar. This beast (below) is currently going through the process of pupating in a tank filled with soil in our garden. We await the emergence of the adult in spring.
A small minority of moths are also active in the day. It is always a treat to come across a day-flying Hummingbird Hawk Moth:
Studying moths has also increased our awareness of the importance of biodiversity and habitat. All those moths come from pupae that come from caterpillars that feed on specific host plants. Without those host plants there are no moths. And therefore, less food for bats too. Those patches of Yellow Ragwort are no longer “weeds”. They are Cinnabar Moth caterpillar food stations. Moth trapping has not simply engaged myself and my children with a deeper appreciation for moths and their habitat requirements. It has enhanced the key component in watching and recording wildlife – the pure joy of discovery. You simply never know what will be found in the trap in the morning, every catch is completely different. We really have caught the bug.
Another day, another great bird at Farmoor Reservoir. This time the first Red-necked Phalarope at the reservoir in decades. Like yesterday’s Little Stint, it was a juvenile, very confiding and a pleasure to spend time with:
These birds have an incredible migration strategy. They breed on pools in arctic tundra, but winter at sea in warm tropical oceans. I have seen flocks of Red-necked Phalarope in the Arabian gulf in November – see here – and assuming this bird was from one of the northern European populations, it could be heading to join them. The small UK population that breeds on Shetland and the Outer Hebrides makes an even more incredible journey to the Pacific Ocean. They spend their winter around the Galapagos Island, off the west coast of South America – see here– one of the most remarkable migrations of any British breeding bird.
An unexpectedly free morning allowed me to spend a couple of hours at Farmoor Reservoir today. The highlight was a bright juvenile Little Stint on the F2 side of the causeway, found by Dai Johns this morning, I think. It is always a treat to see these tiny arctic breeding waders in Oxfordshire. This bird, hatched this summer somewhere in the tundra of northern Norway or Russia, may never have encountered humans before. It fed quite happily on the shoreline, ignoring myself and passing walkers only a few meters away:
Below: This is my favourite picture from this morning. All the fabulous colours of the upperparts are visible here, plus the split supercilium. The bird also appears to have three wingtips, as the rufous-fringed tertials on the right wing, feathers which normally cloak the folded primaries, have been blown to one side:
Below: The short-tailed appearance is apparent here – it appears almost tail-less! The tertials are nearly as long as the primaries and cover the tail. After a short while, the Little Stint became less active…
… and then settled down for a nap, which was how I left it.
Farmoor can, at times, appear to be something of a depository for the near-dead and dying. Today’s ghouls included:
The living dead 1: adult Great Black-backed Gull. This bird is close to paying the ferryman. In fact, perhaps Farmoor Reservoir is where the ferryman lives? That would account for the number of dead and dying birds. There were at least 5 adult, 1 second summer and 2 first winter Yellow-legged Gulls on the reservoir, plus at least one first winter Great Black-backed Gull.
The living dead 2: the single juvenile Shag is still hanging on. This coastal species never seems to survive inland. This is the only remaining bird from the influx of 11 on 27th August. It has survived 24 days at Farmoor to date. How long to go?
Below, adult Cormorant. For bill and forehead shape comparison with the Shag, above. Cormorants have amazing eyes, both in colour and function. They work perfectly well underwater and in air.
Not dying, but a variant, the leucistic Coot is still present:
There were a couple of Common Sandpiper on F2 this morning, some of the last birds of year. Several hundred Swallow, with smaller numbers of House and Sand Martin were also present.
Having explored the east side of the Lauterbrunnen valley, it was time to discover the west side. Mürren sits on the edge of the precipice and is the access point to the Schilthorn summit:
We got the train down to Lauterbrunnen from Wengen, then the funicular railway up to Grütschalp. From there we walked through the pine woods south to Winteregg, and then onto Mürren. The walk is pleasant and easy, with the main peaks clearly visible across the Lauterbrunnen valley:
Just before Winteregg we were stopped in our tracks by the rapid, deep drumming of a woodpecker from what sounded like only a few tens of metres away. Imagine a Great Spotted Woodpecker on steroids (like this):
(Sonnenburg, XC355459. Accessible at www.xeno-canto.org/355459)
“Black Woodpecker!” I exclaimed. Almost immediately it began calling, a distinctive almost cat-like call (like this):
(Annette Hamann, XC382687. Accessible at www.xeno-canto.org/382687)
But, despite our efforts to get a glimpse of Europe’s largest woodpecker, the bird remained hidden. There were good numbers of butterflies along the railway line from Grütschalp to Winteregg. As always, I am happy to be corrected over my butterfly ID, so from the top, Heath Fritillary, Titania’s Fritillary, Large Wall Browns and the abundant Chalk-hill Blue:
The highest peak behind Mürren is Schilthorn, at just under 3000m high. The Swiss have built a revolving restaurant on top of this peak and the associated cable car gives easy (albeit expensive) access to the high alpine peaks and their wildlife. My wife and I visited Schilthorn in 2008 and had fantastic views of Lammergeier. Two juveniles birds soared below us and indulged in a couple of memorable low passes just over our heads. At that time fledglings (an inappropriate expression for a bird with a wingspan of between 2 and 3 meters) from the introduced population in the Swiss Alps had a single primary and single secondary feather bleached white. We watched one juvenile Lammergeier with bleached feathers and one without chasing each other around in front of the magnificent vista of the high peaks (top two pictures below). We also got good views of Ibex (bottom picture):
Reflecting on that fabulous 2008 visit peaked my expectation levels. We chose a clear morning by simply checking the Schilthorn webcam – if there is no visibility on top, don’t go. At 7am it was crystal clear. We took the train down to Lauterbrunnen then the bus to Stechelberg Schilthornbahn, where we climbed onto the first of the three cable cars that take you to the summit. As we ascended from the valley floor we rose past the vast cliffs of the Lauterbrunnen valley:
At the top of the cliffs we changed cable cars. At Gimmelwald cable car station we noted a sign outlining a “Moral Code for Basejumpers”. Lauterbrunnen has a global reputation amongst the basejumper community. The attraction of hundreds of meters of vertical cliff, easily accessed by cable car and funicular railway makes getting to a jumping spot easy. The tricky part appears to be surviving the jump. Whether basejumpers use parachutes or wingsuits, fatalities are common. Unfortunately (for all concerned) it is often the local farmers who find body parts in their fields at the bottom of the cliffs, hence the polite request in the sign at Gimmelwald. There was a fatality the day after we arrived, reported here. Up until 2016 a base jumping fatality list was kept here, Lauterbrunnen features quite often. Like most extreme sport enthusiasts, my personal view is that they confuse the overwhelming surge of adrenaline that such an experience generates with happiness. But enough reflection on life and death. We continued our journey up to Birg, where the views were opening up magnificently and climbed into the final cable car up to the summit:
Above, looking down from Birg. Mürren is visible on the edge of the Lauterbrunnen valley, the big three (Eiger, Mönch and Jungfrau) are visible on the centre skyline, with their respective glaciers.
Below, looking up towards Schilthorn. Piz Gloria, the bizarre revolving restaurant on the Schilthorn summit came into view… just as the clouds rolled in! Disaster, we were too late!
Clear skies are a must up here, but as we stepped out at the Schilthorn summit visibility quickly reduced to zero. The picture below illustrates the gathering cloud. On the left, the side with views of the peaks, a complete white-out. On the right of the ridge, clear skies looking down into the valleys.
Within a few minutes only the odd patch of the outside world could be seen. We stayed up there nearly an hour but there was no indication that the cloud would lift. In fact it remained just below the Schilthorn summit all day. There would be no Lammergeier extravaganza today, just the odd Alpine Chough calling from somewhere in the clouds.
The Schilthorn’s own website gives a better impression of how spectacular this place can be. And given the remarkable feat of building, of all things, a revolving restaurant in such a stunning natural setting, I am saddened at the degree to which the James Bond film that was filmed there (On Her Majesty’s Secret Service, 1963) is used to advertise the place. Do we really need guns to attract people to a place that should inspire peace and quiet? The incessant playing of the James Bond theme tune, even outside on the viewing galleries at Piz Gloria, is completely at odds with the reasons that most people go to mountain peaks: silence. This is a missed opportunity to educate people about the spectacular scenery, the wildlife and the silence of the high peaks. Next time: less Bond and more Lammergeiers please.
I had arranged to get up early and get the first cable-car up to Männlichen. With time a precious commodity, I wanted to maximise some early morning birding on this 2300m high ridge. My day began, as every day did, with the steep walk up from our accommodation to Wengen and the cable-car station. Serins and Black Redstarts sang, Nutcrackers called and the sun shone. It looked like being a perfect morning to photograph some of the high altitude species and Snowfinch and Citril Finch were top of my list and at the forefront of my mind. What could possibly go wrong? Then the idyllic walk up to Wengen came to a brutal halt. I am familiar with the sound of expensive camera equipment hitting tarmac. At Niagara Falls in Canada, a camera body I had placed on luggage at the back of the boot, was propelled forward when I closed one of the rear doors of the car. It continued it’s journey over the lip of the boot, fell for nearly a meter before hitting the tarmac of the car-park. The sound is a unique combination of metal and glass crashing, as brief as it is violent. That traumatic memory came flooding back to me, as the horrendous crash of my 100-400mm telephoto lens smashing onto the road reached my ears. It had slipped from the side pocket of my backpack, where I had used two separate straps to to secure it. The same straps my wife had mentioned every day, as not looking totally secure. Instantly I knew there would no more big lens photography on the trip.
For a few moments I could not bring myself to examine the lens. I simply stood, looking down, feeling increasingly nauseous. When I could bring myself to kneel and pick up the lens, there was a moment of hope. The main objective lens was intact, could it somehow still work? I pulled out my camera body, removed the cracked hood from the lens and twisted the lens into place. It still fitted. I turned on the camera and peered through the viewfinder. I could see an out of focus image. I gently pressed the auto-focus button. There was a horrible grinding sound as the lens screamed in protest. It really was broken. I hunched over my crippled lens, feeling sick and helpless.
After a few minutes, having run through the options available to me, I packed the shattered lens into my backpack and decided to continue with my morning plans. I hoped that not having a big lens with me would guarantee that I would get point blank views of the key species, as life is often like that. And the sun was still shinning. The ascent in the cable car up from Wengen to Männlichen has stunning views that partially distracted me from my nausea:
Above, looking down: the view down onto Wengen from the Männlichen top-station. Lauterbrunnen can also be seen, nestling right down in the valley bottom, just behind Wengen.
Below, looking up: the view of the peaks from the Männlichen ridge. From left to right: The Eiger, Mönch and Jungfrau. The Silberhorn is the all white peak on the right flank of Jungfrau. Most of the snow visible on these peaks sits on glaciers.
Although quite touristy, I love it up here. The views are world-class, there was nobody about, the slopes were covered in flowers and the flowers were covered in bees and butterflies. Even the sound of smashing camera equipment was beginning to recede:
There were birds too. In fact the first passerine I saw was a Citril Finch flying past and then over the ridge, all green wing-bars and rump, with a nice grey head. It was quickly followed by two more and then a small flock of Linnets. I instinctively reached for my big lens, before sadly realising my mistake. Further along the ridge I heard a Snowfinch calling and located one perched on the wires of a nearby gondola. It was carrying food in it’s beak. I waited and watched and eventually the bird flew into a metal tube on the underside of a gondola pylon. A pair of Snowfinches was nesting inside the ski-lift pylons! With my large lens, I could have got some nice shots of Snowfinchs as they came and went with food. However, armed with only a 100mm macro lens, I did well to get any record shots at all. Below, an adult Snowfinch dropping out of the nest site:
The most abundant birds were Water Pipits. In two hours of trekking on the eastern flank of the Männlichen ridgeI counted over 200, they were omnipresent. Alpine Chough were around the top-station and there was also the occasional Northern Wheatear, Black Redstart and fly-over Raven. Raptors were strangely absent. The butterflies were also great, though I am happy to be corrected if any are misidentified here. Below, Titania’s Fritillary, Chalkhill Blue, Swallowtail.
Very few places in the world are unspoilt and this includes the Männlichen ridge. Since my last visit here in 2008 this enormous wooden beast has appeared, a sort of Swiss Trojan cow. You really can climb inside and slide down the tongue, before emerging into a fabulous mountain vista.
My family came up to meet me at the children’s play area, which can lay claim to having one of the best see-saw panoramas on the planet. Snow-capped peaks and huge glaciers make up a majestic backdrop:
So ended a very pleasant morning, one with lots of exercise, fabulous scenery and a good views of a nice selection of Alpine passerines.
