A quick Friday evening wander about the fields yielded
feeble pickings, the best being a Grey Wagtail in song on
top of Pizza Hut, a Goldfinch dancing (have you ever seen
Goldfinch displaying? It's well proper funny innit. They
swing their arses from side to side, kind of like an old
slapper dancing around her handbag in some grotty discoteque
playing Barry White), swarms of House and Sand Martins and a
few Swifts. Thankfully going to Fletcher Moss means I have
to pass by the Royal Oak, and obviously it would be rude not
to go in for one (a pint that is).
28th June, Birds and Maiden
The best birds in the whole world (Andean Condors filmed at
the Colca Canyon in Peru last year) and the best song ever
written - rock!
They are absolutely terrifyingly enormous.
Fabulous birds.
Imagine seeing a Hudsonian
Whimbrel in Britain, wouldn't that be just wonderful? It
was, it was absolutely wonderful. Of course you can't tick
it because it's not a real bird (hudsonicus is just
the North American bastard cousin of our proper phaeopus
Whimbrel), but it was still wonderful. We were lucky to see
it quite well, at times associating with another Whimbrel,
and - dark rump aside - it really is quite striking with
quite a different structure, especially with its long thin
scrawny neck and what seems to be a real whopper of a bill.
Here it is...
... well sort of, well not at all. I filmed
that bird in Peru last year where Hudsonian Whimbrels were
pretty common on the coast. I've slowed some of it down a
bit of it so you can see the all important dark rump, though
the quality is so poor that you can't really make anything
out. Still, you can't say I didn't try, I just didn't try
very hard.
So this is the 4th British record
(if it's accepted by whoever accepts stuff), though there
have been bags of other claims, including quite a few on
seawatches where presumably a Whimbrel with a dark rump
flies past, and therefore it's a Hudsonian, but rarities
committees don't believe it because they never believe
anything seen on seawatches because everyone goes a bit mad
whilst seawatching? Yet I thought that was how it worked:
American hudsonicus = dark rump, Eurasian phaeopus
= white rump. So how come there was a Whimbrel with a dark
rump at Wheldrake Ings in Yorkshire earlier in the year that
turned out to be precisely that - a phaeopus Whimbrel
with a dark rump? Well who said for certain that it was a
phaeopus Whimbrel with a dark rump? And how did they
know? So phaeopus Whimbrels can have dark
rumps? Bollocks, I give up. But what about the north-east
Asian variegatus Whimbrel? And the suspiciously
made-up-sounding alboaxillaris of central Asia? Does
anyone have a fucking clue what's going on anymore?
I really, really can't keep up
with stuff, and it's not that I'm stupid (!), but it seems
like I just about get my head around something and then
someone else comes along and writes something saying that
everything I've struggled to get my head around is all total
shit - apparently it's called science. Well science
can go fuck off. I go birding for fun and because I like
watching birds, not so that I can pretend I know stuff about
things I quite clearly don't and mis-pronounce Latin names.
I have a bad feeling that birdspotting in Britain is in
serious danger of becoming far too complicated and miserable
for its own good. Birding World has a lot to answer for!
Anyhow, fuck this, I'm going out birdspotting, though I may
not make it past the Dog and Partridge...
26th June, The Golden Age of Cinema
Two videos from 2004 that I've just uploaded onto YouYube.
The first is the amazing Ovenbird on the Isles of Scilly in
late October looking totally knackered. Sadly it died the
next day in a shoe box. Note head of a well known Staffs/Derbys
birder near the end - free toffee apple for those who can
guess who it is.
And secondly the equally, if not more amazing Cream-coloured
Courser (Troy Courser), Scilly's star attraction of 2004.
Here it is looking damn sexy on St.Mary's golf course
rocking out to music by Marcus Miller. Sadly it also died at
Mousehole's sanctuary for disillusioned vagrants.
24th June, Bharatpur, India
That's right, today I went to India - awesome! I actually
won a daytrip to India in a pub quiz last week - how cool is
that?! I'm lying. We went to India in 1999, which was in the
last century when everything was more fun. Don't worry, this isn't a trip
report. But looking through my India photos (taken with old skool Kodak film) I came across this:
A White-tailed Plover, or a White-tailed Lapwing, whatever.
They were shit common at Bharatpur - brilliant birds. Incidentally, Bharatpur
is THE best place in the whole world to watch birds. And I
know that for a fact because I have NEVER been birding at
Draycote Water in Warwickshire and I am never going. I still
dream about that very first afternoon at Bharatpur which
began with Clamorous Reed Warbler and ended with a massive
Dusky Eagle Owl. And the next day was even better with
Orange-headed Ground-Thrush probably just stealing the show,
though Siberian Rubythroat and Black Bittern shared a very
close joint second place. In a good monsoon year it really
is a spectacular place. Here's a few piccies I've scanned:
Magpie Robin. These were shit common as well. I can only
ever get photos of common stuff, and even then my
photos are still wank.
Sarus Cranes. In 1999 there were two Siberian Cranes at Bharatpur. The rickshaw drivers were running a scam where
they took unsuspecting moronic western tourists straight up
to the two Siberian Cranes and then charged you for showing
you two Sarus Cranes. Loads of people fell for it. Including
us. But we did see the real deal eventually, unfortunately I
couldn't get a photo.
Painted Storks. Shit common. I like big, brash, clumsy
birds, and these were very big, brash and clumsy. Apparently
in a good monsoon year there can be up 55 billion pairs of
Painted Storks nesting at Bharatpur.
An Eagle, probably Lesser Spotted. Eagle sp. were shit
common at Bharatpur. After we had one definite Lesser
Spotted, Greater Spotted, Imperial, Tawny and Steppe we gave
up after that, they were too hard, and besides there were
lots of pretty Storks to look at.
White-breasted Kingfisher. Shit common, yet still makes a
mockery out of our own pathetic Kingfisher.
Five-striped Palm-Squirrel. These kicked ass (trans. arse).
According to Hindu stuff, they got their five stripes when
Brahma stroked one down its back and left a trail of five
white lines from his finger tips. Good job
Terry Nutkins
didn't stroke it, otherwise they would have only had three stripes.
Snakes are supposedly really dangerous, especially massive
Pythons. So you should exercise great caution and never get
too close, and you should never ever ever grab one by its
rear end and yank it out of a hole like some rickshaw
drivers do.
Can't remember what this place was called, but it was
brilliant for Little Green Bee-eaters, Greenish Warblers,
Asian Koels, catrillions of Egyptian Vultures, and loads of
waders, terns and gulls on the river at the back. There were also plenty of
human limbs dangling out of sacks washed up on the river
bank. I've read that there's a place in Las Vegas that looks
just like this, but it's loads better because it has gambling
things and hookers with rare VDs.
I might some photos from Rhanthambore next... or maybe I
won't.
A Kingfisher was kicking up a stir on the
east island, a smallish Canada Goose was cruising with the
bigger jobs and two adult herons were back messing about at
the nest - surely they aint going to go through all that
having kids stuff again are they? Herons don't do two broods
do they?
Noticed a Wren scolding me with
some raucous trrrrrrrrrr aggressive piss off far away from
my nest type call, and yet this bird had bright yellow
sides to its mouth/bill - so was it an adult? or a recently
fledged youngster? Hmmm... back home it was time to consult BWP V. Indeed the call was a perfect match for an adult
getting pissed off with a potential predator getting too
close to its nest, yet the yellow bill was the mark of a Wren in
its formative years. But get this, do you know what BWP
calls the yellow bits at side of its bill? The most
authoritative text on birds in our region calls it gape flanges
- eurgh! Sounds a bit rude to me, in fact, I swear I've seen
"specialist interest" websites advertising birds with
gaping flanges. Shame on BWP!
As part of my Farewell to Manchester Tour 2007
(further dates to be announced), I'm visiting all of my old
haunts one last time. As far as old haunts go Pennington
Flash isn't really one of them, seeing as I've probably only
ever been about 10 times, but just go with me on this one...
.... it was quite emotional walking around the reserve,
perhaps for my last ever time (?), remembering the sound of
all those joyous conversations I've had in Horrocks Hide
over the years with some of the regulars, that warm and
friendly banter like "oh bloody hell, there's someone sat
in our corner," or the ever friendly wall of silence
that tends to greet me whenever I make even the slightest of
polite chit-chat, you know, the usual things like "hello"
or "hi." Still, there's always something good to see
from Horrocks Hide - today there was an eclipse drake
Garganey and a Ringed Plover, and thankfully there were no
other birders, otherwise I'd never have been able to get
away with all that scintillating conversation - honestly,
you just can't shut them lot up, it's just yap, yap, yap,
yap, yap! (Note extreme use of sarcasm, but in a
light-hearted kind of way)
A family of small brown ducks. Some will
grow up to have green heads, some will get massacred by an
unleashed Rottweiler. Note how the Canada Goose has managed
to sneak into the top left corner of the picture - they
bloody always do that! Why am I writing in a smaller font
and using italics?
That's better. I was quite apathetic about birdspotting
today, to the point where I couldn't quite muster the
enthusiasm to unleash the legs of my tripod - phwoar, that
sounds pretty exciting: unleash the legs of my tripod,
it's got a kind of Action Man ring to it. You could
market that at Christmas:
New Bill Oddie Action Man with unleashable tripod
legs and glow-in-the-dark Leica badge - only £16.99 from
Toys R Us. Buy it with the Crazy Kate Humble Barbie
Springwatch Grooming Kit (for that authentic 'just been
rolling about in the hay' look) and get a Simon King
Realistic Voice Simulator for half price - guaranteed to
bore your child to death by Boxing Day or your money back!!!
Anyone got any idea what I'm talking about? I think it was
something about apathy... oh yeah... hmmm... tripod legs,
that was it! So I didn't get around to trying out some digi-scoping
from the Bunting Hide, instead I had a go at digi-binning
(taking photos through binoculars). It's really difficult,
as these photos should demonstrate:
Alpine Chough?
Mystery photo. I was totally stumped
until it turned around!
14th June, Charlie the Unicorn
I think I watch too much YouTube:
13th June, 100 Years of British Birds(a brief history)
Part 1 - the early days
Harry Witherby, founder of British Birds,
used to eat too much cheese before he went to bed. Because
of this he had loads of mad dreams, the best one being about
a talking grouse that told him to start a magazine about
birds. He woke up the next day and got in touch with loads
of his birdy mates, many of whom were big hitting hotshots
in the birdy world.
"I had a dream," Harry said to his mates, "that
one day loads of people will be into watching birds, just
like us, and they'll have big digiscopes and pagers and a
magical invention called the computer will revolutionise the
way people watch birds - they won't even have to leave the
house, they'll just be able to visit a magical computer
address called ornithologyforum.net and argue with other
people endlessly about suppression and escapes and loads and
loads and loads of other bullshit that is totally
pointless."
"But Harry," one of his mates said, "what has this
got to do with this turn of the century world in which we
live right now? We know of no such futuristic terminology as
'computers' and 'suppression'. Explain yourself now, man!"
And so Harry explained that he had eaten loads of cheese
before he went to bed and had a dream about a talking
grouse. At first his friends were shocked: "a magazine
about birds? But surely this turn of the century world in
which we now live has no place for a magazine about birds.
Harry - this is sheer madness!"
But Witherby was a true visionary, sort of like Steve Harris
from Iron Maiden only with loads of posh associates, a dad
conveniently placed in publishing and without the spandex.
Witherby foresoothed a future in which people no longer
spent their free time flogging the poor and paying good
money to laugh at wretchedly deformed Siamese twins joined
at the arse in pickle jars, or albinos from Indonesia.
Witherby foresoothed a future in which people spent their
free time going out to watch birds, and foresoothed a future
in which these people, largely amateurs, could contribute to
the sum knowledge of the birds of Britain.
After he explained all of this, his great birdy mates began
to come round to the idea. "But what will you call this
magazine?" said one person. "How about Birding
World?" said another. "Oh no, we know of no such
words as 'birding' in this turn of the century world of
ours," said another.
"Silence," Witherby demanded. "Tonight I shall
retire to my bed chamber after eating a load of cheese, and
there in my dreams the grouse shall speak to me. We shall
meet tomorrow before the dog barks five."
That night Witherby ate six whole packs of Red Leicester
cheese and a whole string bag of mini Babybels. He
then went to bed and dreamt about stuff. A lot.
The next day the men met, excited to discover what the
grouse had said.
"Gentlemen," Witherby began, "last night I did
dream some crazy ass shit. Most of it cannot be relayed to
you in this prudish turn of the century world of ours, but -
amongst all of the nudity and obscure lubricated insertions
- the grouse did speak." There was a hushed silence.
"The grouse has told me to call it British Birds,
and issue number one will have loads of good stuff in it
about birds." The men rejoiced and threw their hats in
the air in celebration.
But then one man asked a quite pertinent question:
"Harry, what the flip has this magazine got to do with all
that stuff you said about loads of people being into birds
and digiscopes and pagers and magical inventions known as
computers that we know not of in this turn of the century
world of ours?"
"You'll see!" Harry said.
***
Part 2 - the middle bit
Loads of things happened in British Birds up until Harry
Witherby's death in 1943, unfortunately I don't have any
of those issues, but I'm sure they were fucking brilliant.
So let's jump forward to August 1962...
... British Birds went a bit mad in August 1962. They
dedicated a whole issue to the Hastings Rarities. Initially
they were going to call the editorial At
last we name and shame the lying bastard, but they
opted for the slightly less inflammatory Setting the
Record Straight, a missed opportunity if you ask me.
The
Hastings Rarities scandal centred around a Mr George Bristow
(no relation to darts champion Eric Bristow) and his shop in St.Leonard's-on-Sea, it was called George's Dead Bird
Shop. In this shop he used to fill dead
birds with sand and got paid for it, it was a skill known as
taxidermy. Anyway, this shop was mad, because between
1892-1930 loads of mad people kept bringing Bristow loads of
mad rare birds shot in Sussex. Eventually the people at
British Birds figured out that something public had to be
said about all these mad rare birds and that's what happened
in August 1962. Here are some of the startling facts and
figures (and these are true, you couldn't make this shit
up!):
From 1892 through to 1900 Bristow handled under 10 rare
birds per year that were allegedly procured from within the
Hastings area, and although they included some absolute
blinders as Madeiran Petrel and Little Shearwater, there’s
wasn’t really enough so far to go apeshit about. But in 1901
Bristow clearly loses the plot, claiming that 17 rare birds
were either shot or found dead/dying in the Hastings area,
and amongst these was another Little Shearwater. In 1902
Bristow decides that 17 per year is just enough, but ups the
rarity value by claiming that amongst these 17 were 3
White-winged Larks, a Little Bustard and a Black-eared
Wheatear. Clearly Hastings is the greatest place on Earth to
watch birds, either that or someone is being ever so
slightly slack with the truth. This continues for another
decade or so, until 1914 when Bristow really increases his
dosages of opium claiming to have received no less than a
staggering 63 rarities from the Hastings area, and within
these are some absolutely mental records: 2 Tengmalm’s Owls,
Bulwer’s Petrel, 2 Ruppell’s Warblers, 4 Sociable Plovers, 2
Slender-billed Curlews and a Noddy Tern. A year later in
1915 Bristow toned down the number but upped the quality a
bit, quite laughably handling 7 Dusky Thrushes and an even
more risible 3 Black Larks. But after 1915 he reduces it
year after year until in 1930 he claims to have handled only
1 rarity from the Hastings area, though he really finished
on a high in the form of another Noddy Tern!
In those less cynical turn of the century
times, George Bristow's mad claims were taken at face value
and added to the national bird record. Not everyone fell for
Bristow though. That August 1962 issue of British Birds also
featured contemporary correspondence between Witherby
and Bristow, and Witherby clearly wasn’t taking any of his
shit. Although perpetually polite, Witherby constantly
insinuates in his letters that Bristow is - hmmm, now how
can I put this - that Bristow is a lying bastard.
Even if you have only the slightest interest in the
Hastings Rarities you should get hold of that August 1962 issue of
British Birds; reading through the appendices listing all of
Bristow's mental claims is one of the greatest things you will ever
read, trust me. Of course if you look hard enough you can
find the occasional statistic in there that suggests he
wasn’t always up to something suspicious, but taken as a
whole it overwhelmingly points to not exactly a deception as
such, but a big bloody lie of similar proportions to Bill
Clinton categorically stating that he “did not have sexual
relations with that woman.”
***
Part 3 - the bit now
So what's the point in buying/subscribing to
any magazines nowadays in this current turn of the century
time of ours? The internet is so much better than any
magazine, yeah? Why should I bother to wait so long to read
magazines every month to find out what I already knew
from reading internet forums and seeing blurred photos on
Surfbirds? Good point, and indeed the internet has
probably fucked the two high street magazines up the arse
for good (so to speak). Birdwatch is actually still quite a
good read (too many fucking adverts mind), but I'd say
Birdwatching has totally lost the plot. I never really
gelled with Birding World, though that seems to be just me.
Topical news articles about conservation and the
environment and all that hippy bollocks can easily be
sourced on the internet, millions of foreign trip reports
can be found online, advice on everything from Will my
cock fit through the hole in my nest box? right through
to Should I wear trousers when out birdwatching? and
also some seriously shit hot advice from some mega birding
brains on everything from optics to foreign travel can be
found on the unbelievably massive Birdforum, so what's
the point in magazines now? Probably not much point.
But that doesn't apply to British Birds -
you see, you just can't get the good stuff in British Birds
anywhere else, and that's that. I'm not saying British Birds is all roses and
unicorns (I don't know what that means), and no disrespect
to the authors here, but what the fuck was that crap about
foraging behaviour of Pomarine Skuas all about the other
month? I mean, I forced myself to read it because I pay for
it, but Jesus H.Christ! Yet only the month before there were
two blinding papers on far-eastern vagrants in autumn and
breeding Wood Sandpipers in Britain. Then there's the annual
BBRC report (still a top read with lots of surprises), the RBBP report (fuck me -
Ring-necked Duck and Pectoral Sandpipers bred in Britain?),
finders' submissions of firsts for Britain, the best quality
photography and illustrations, taxonomy for morons, top
notch ID papers (though not as often as they should be -
hint, hint...), hot stuff on freak irruptions and weird
behaviour, the book reviews and all sorts of other
bird-related-bollocks-top-gun-mega-big-tits stuff. Subscribe
right now and be enlightenedeth!
If you consider yourself to be a proper
birdspotter/birder/twitcher/ornithologist living in Britain
- no Western Europe - and you're not subscribed to
British Birds then you're just a complete fucking bastard.
It's only £47 quid for the whole year, you tight fuckers.
How much did you spend on petroleum going to see them
pathetic Eagle Owls? As Bill Oddie used to say: "You
can't call yourself a real birdspotter unless you read
British Birds and advertise Leica at any given opportunity,"
or something like that (something leica that?).
So when you next log on to take a look at yet another
blurred photograph of a White-tailed Plover (you don't get
blurred photos in British Birds... very often), don't forget
everything that British Birds has done for birds, birdwatchers
and birding in Britain over the last 100 years, because if
you look back on it all (not that I have) then you'll
realise why Harry Witherby said "You'll see!" to his
mates way back in 1907 (even though he probably didn't as I
made it all up, but he might have done... obviously he
didn't). There wouldn't even be an internet if it hadn't
been for British Birds, Nelson Mandela would never have been
freed, we'd never have gone metric... the list is endless!
Will we be celebrating 200 years of British Birds? Well I
won't because I'll be dead and so will you, and to be honest
it'll probably go bust in 5 years, but it's a nice thought.
Okay, so this week I haven't got a car. Miss Cole's robbed
the car for the week (though technically she hasn't as she
owns half of it) and I'm without a car. I don't have a car.
There's nothing I can do because I don't have a car this
week. Not to panic. It's June, and June's rubbish. Tell me
one good bird that has ever turned up in June... thank you!
So I don't need a car. If something good turns up this week
then I'm just not bothered. There'll always be another.
There's always another. I mean what are the real holy grails
of old school twitching blockers? Wallcreeper, that's a good
one; Sapsucker, another good one; Hawk Owl, another goodie;
Thrasher, what a bird that must have been; Houbara, now
we're talking serious blockers; White-tailed Plover, yeah
right! So there we go, no need to worry about not having a
car this week. Anyway, the last time Miss Cole took the car
for a week was when the Calandra Lark showed up last year,
so what are the chances of getting a metaphorical kick in
the twitching nuts two years running? No chance. Lightning
never strikes twice. Lightning rarely strikes twice.
Lighting hardly ever strikes twice. Lightning occasionally
strikes twice. Fucking hell, it's happened again!
Mobile rings, it's Tristan Reid up in Carlisle - he has no
car, neither do I. We're both fucked then. Jason Atkinson
calls next - he's in Blackpool, can I come and pick him up
on the M6? Well no, because I don't have a car. Quick call
to Pete Hines - he's working. Things not looking good.
Public transport? No chance. Well not unless I want a 6 day
round trip, which I don't. Things looking bleak. Things
looking really shit. Need transportation. Pete again - he's
managed to get the day off. Things starting to look better.
Then Jason - he's coming back to Manchester to pick up his
stuff and then head off up to Caerlaverock. Text from
Tristan - he's sorted himself a lift out.
There is a God. Richard Dawkins is a twat. The God Delusion
my arse.
Jason sets a new land speed record northbound to meet Phil
Woollen on the M6; Jason then breaks his own land speed
record northbound to Caerlaverock; nerves shot to fuck on
bends and humpback bridges; somehow we make it alive; Messrs
Brewster and Curtin have just arrived; they are not at all
pleased to see me, seeing as I have become cursed in recent
months with not being able to see any good birds (Snowy Owl, Glaucous-winged Gull, Blue Rock Thrush, Audouin's Gull...),
probably as a result of throwing a potato out of the car
window at that gypsy woman selling heather the other month.
Avenue Tower hide was clearly not built with big twitches in
mind; queues on the stairs; tempers beginning to fray; bird
invisible; the shortcomings of twitching becoming painfully
apparent to all present.
Bird shows; limited viewing for limited numbers of people;
very limited views for very limited numbers of people;
McKinney is one of the chosen few; the pressure's off; but
binocular views extremely poor; fight breaks out on the
stairs; knives pulled; WWT staff intervene and prevent a
bloodbath; cause for argument becomes obvious, the hide is
packed full of Geordies and Mancs; southern English
twitching contingent yet to arrive and pleasant northern
accents prevail; stairs full up; no space to view; things
not good; pleas from people trapped on the stairs for
information, "can someone please, for the love of God,
tell us what's happening!?!"; but nobody knows;
confusion reigns supreme; suddenly a voice from above -
Woollen's on the top floor and has refound the bird; bastard
thing is invisible to those of us on the 1st floor; top
floor are enjoying good views; my floor beginning to scream
with frustration; people trapped on the stairs beginning to
die - it's getting like Titanic in here; accents become more
varied as the West Midlands begin to arrive and join the
queues on the stairs; another fight breaks out, this time
over a flask of soup; no end in sight; again a voice from
above - the bird should be viewable to those of us trapped
on the 1st floor; but it's not; yet; then movement in the
juncus; more movement; a head; an eye; a White-tailed
Plover; no time to masturbate, though the thought probably
crosses everyone's minds; a White-tailed Plover; phwoar!;
nice legs; but people still trapped on the stairs; bird now
actually showing well; riot about to break out on the
stairs; CS gas canisters thrown in by WWT staff in riot gear
to stem the brewing aggression; cars turned over and
torched; demands issued for a change over - "if you've
seen the bird can you please just fuck off out!";
selective deafness; more violence; nice bird though; who
needs a fucking car?
5th June
http://pinemuncher.blogspot.com/ - the ultimate web
resource for pine munching Scottish/Parrot/Common
Crossbills. You'd completely and utterly insane not to read
it and "gen up" (whatever that means) before a trip to
Scotland in order to tick them bastard things in the woods
around Aviemore. (Linz, how's that for a plug?)
4th June
Apologies if you've already seen this, but I think it has to
be shared. This is chapters 8-10 of R Kelly's "hip hopera"
(isn't that clever!) Trapped in the Closet. The most
amazing thing about this is that it's actually supposed to
be taken seriously. If you don't have time/inclination to
watch all three clips then just watch the middle one - trust
me, you'll just never expect what happens. Enjoy!
This won't take too long, should be easy, a
quick walk up, bang 5 Eagle Owls onto category Z of the
British list, a quick walk back down, back home in time for
Coronation Street - high quality skills demonstrated all
round. Well not quite, well not at all. It's a fair fucking
walk from Dunsop Bridge to these Owls, so take provisions -
tent, sleeping bag, distress flare, mirror, toothbrush,
spare sanitary towels etc...
The story behind these birds is that a
couple of ramblers were rambling around by the footpath
below the Eagle Owls' nest, got a bit too close, so the
female swooped down and battered one of them causing them to
go to hospital and have six stitches. This then prompted a
policeman to check it out who had his spine ripped out by
the female. Then the forestry commission sent up a team of 6
men to see what was actually going on - you can still see
their rotting corpses draped over rocks and impaled to
branches in the area. A total of 17 pet dogs have now been
savaged by the pair, and the disappearance of cattle in the
area has also been tied to these birds. Eagle Owls are
extremely dangerous, that's why the birdspotting information
services have to keep on putting out public health warnings
so that people don't get killed by them, and that's not an
exaggeration.
So why not go and have a look at this
"magnificent natural spectacle"... even though the male is
an escape and nobody has a clue where the female is from, so
it's not that natural. I suppose you could say that the
young are wild-ish though, seeing as they've been raised in
the wilds of Lancashire. For some this may turn out to be
the British ornithological event of the year... but not me.
