Birds, huh ...

What makes us have a favourite bird.....or two....or three ? What is it about a particular species that sets it above others?
Is it just appearance?
Has it got something to do with the bird's perceived character?
The way it behaves...it's actions?.........who knows.
We all have them....favourites.
Ok, academic or 'scientific' interest in a specific type may be justified and explained, and be a reputable reason for special attention, but why do we 'like' a particular type of bird more than others.....for no discernable reason other than....." I dunno, I just do".

For me, I think, it mostly stems back to a childhood thing.... Maybe.
A vague mosaic of water-colour memories of first sightings and identifications of birds until then only viewed in illustrations or photographs in grimy-thumbed pocket-sized bird-books.
I-Spy and Observer.
Collins.
Wall charts.
.......fumbling, blurred glimpses through inept plastic binoculars...
Days spent wandering in fields and woods, notebook and sarnies at the ready.

Always seemed to be in either shirt and shorts warm summer sunshine or wool-wrapped and gloved, crisp pristine snow.

Anyway, whatever the reason for my own favoured list of suspects, seeing any one of the chosen few still gives me an unexplainable little spurt of special pleasure..!

Actually, to be honest, if Desert Island Discs ever comes a'knockin, in the same way that there is no way I could ever narrow my musical choices down to the allotted number, I can't see me limiting my favourite birds to just a few.........the more I ponder, the longer the list becomes...impossible to select...

It would appear that I'm just a whore when it comes to my avian-aimed affections...…nevertheless, here's just a few initial contenders for inclusion in the posse.......for a host of disparate reasons.....and in no particular order...

John.....meet Brian.

A disgustingly uncivilised early morning start .....when....

.....at about 6.30am, I stumbled about in the half-dark wishing I had prepared my outdoor stuff last night for today's ' away-day'( like a proper grown-up would)....Manage to blindly stuff assorted gear into rucsac, throw boots and various 'just-in-case' items onto back seat of car, and trundle off towards 'The Lakes' with a vague intention, but no particular plan, to partake of a day's walking  amongst the beloved hills of Cumbria.
The first half hour of urban-cautious gloomy driving serves as a progressive wake-up for me as I leave the familiar home patch.

I sharpen up as I join the main carriageway that heads determinedly across country.

The morning light starts to slowly strengthen and exposes the smeary dirt that filters the brightening day through my screenwash-droughted car window.
Heater on, radio tuned-in to early morning d.j. inanity, cardboard-tasting "energy-packed-cereal-bar" between my teeth, I realise I have mis-matching socks on....not important. The fact that I have a moccasin on my left foot and a similar, but definitely different, bedroom slipper on my right is more sartorially challenging. Still.....once I get to where I'm going they will be replaced with walking boots.....so all is well. Stopping for petrol may raise an eyebrow or two however.
About an hour and a bit later, I pull into a particular roadside rest stop. I am still 45 mins or so from my un-planned destination, (it being un-planned, how do I know?) but it has become a firm tradition of mine to take ones breakfast at this one particular establishment without fail, each and every time I traipse across the Pennines to the District.
I boldly sport my characterful footwear with impunity into the eatery and of course, order 'the works'. Cholesterol city with knobs on......but it not 'arf hits the spot..... Every time.

Suitably refreshed and at least a couple of pounds heavier, I accept the complimentary comments from the checkout girl regarding my choice of shoe style, rejoin my car and continue my journey onwards.....onwards towards the  horizon-glimpsed mountain skyline.

(As this is purportedly a natural history blog, perhaps I should  maybe mention the sightings sighted upon my journey so far....
Well......I sighted baa-sheeps, horsies, moo-cows, some birdies and a very flat Brock the Badger who was resting by the side of the road).

I make a snap decision a little later, and head towards a less visited area that promises a less than strenuous walk of promised interest that I had had in mind for a while.......so why not today.

After threading the car up a very interesting "Back-Road of Steepness", I eventually park the car in a splendidly situated "Lay-by of Tranquillity" overlooking an attractive vista of Lakeland 'foothills', and get out to stretch my legs in crisp, cold, but sunny morning air.
An appealing old stone-built Church sits quietly within it's girdle of Yew and Holly next to where I'm standing, and after sorting out my pack and apparel, I wander along the shaded path to take a quick, quiet look inside the cool, silent building.

As ever, there is something about the interior of an ancient church that I always find incredibly peaceful.
The architecture, atmosphere, aroma and 'mood' of these places always evokes a feeling of subtle calm and pleasure......and despite not having any discernible religious convictions, I really soak up the historic and I suppose, spiritual aspect of these places.....

Anyway......I sit for a short while and then, on my way out, read some of the Parish notices posted in the low, slate-roofed entrance porch. The appeal for donations towards the cost of replacing the vestry window frame is still current and appears to have some way to go before reaching it's modest target, and Mrs Pargeter is still welcoming volunteers to help with the floral arrangements for the church. I notice a birds nest moulded into the eaves over the door.
I make my way back along the path to the old Wych gate, and turning the corner round the weather worn dry-stone boundary wall, head out and up the grassy slopes behind that lead me away out onto the fell....

The route I am taking quickly and steeply rises up onto a ridge that runs centrally down the length of a quiet, beautiful valley, itself brooded over on both sides by ranges of much more impressive hills. The ridge I follow steadily lifts me above the wooded and pastured low lands. A broad and sparkling river in the valley down to my left is glimpsed through it's leaf-laden course, and down to my right, steeply brackened hillsides fall away to flatten out into the green-soaked vale below.

The way ahead emerges as I rise up and over the first shoulder, and gifts me, as I walk, with a constant and magical view of the length of the valley and even further beyond.....the distant higher hills forming a hazy but definite skyline of mountain slopes and peaks.

The ridge I walk undulates with rocky outcrops and the occasional still mountain pool. My way weaves it's tread between marshy areas and tussocky plots, but always offering a wide expanse of view all around. My altitude may not be great, but is enough to give me elevated sight of my hill-bound surroundings. With the higher hills around me, and my lofted route above the valley below, I feel enveloped in this mountain scene.

The day has steadily woken up around me, and by late- morning, I am walking in bright, clear cold-sharpened conditions, a thin sun in an open sky trying to touch the landscape with the coolness of the air still gently breezing through.

Distant patches of glistening snow still remain on the shoulders of higher ground, making pleasing contrast to the rock and green-hued contours of the surrounding fells.....

I amble along.....enjoying the views...the sights, sounds and feel of this favoured environment. The familiar physical insistence of walking on uneven ground, rising and falling along the back of this featureful ridge...

A pair of what I think are Ravens swoop and dive mid- distance in front of a small fortress of crag.

A little further, I reach a spot that makes me halt and sit awhile. A small spinney of weathered pine pictorially frame the mountain scenery ahead, and I munch on a few crumbling bits of shortbread that have somehow survived my early morning preparations. A slurp of flask- warm tea and a crunch of apple as I gaze fondly over the scene of hill and valley before me......and am content.

 

 

I gradually start to drop down to the lower slopes at the end of the ridge through the gently increasing stand of pines, and then oaks and ashes, to eventually emerge and sweep back alongside the valley's resident river. A slightly elevated path leads me through the light-dappled birch and beech which line the banks of the water..and I lope along back the way I came, but this time enveloped in beautiful woodland scenery.

 The course of the river then slowly winds out of the woods and leads me through the sheltered valley of open pasture.....



A couple of figures, heard before they are seen, work on a broken section of the dry stone wall, replacing the stones that have fallen....a timeless skill.....the occasional comment in strongly accented voice floating over the steady clink and clatter of stone meeting stone....all the time being observed by the posse of un- concerned sheep gathered around who themselves periodically pass comment...

I pass further along the valley and the way leads me through the splattered yard of a farmstead that offers beverage refreshment and home- baked cake to passers-by......no-one is about, but a hand-drawn notice written in orange crayon invites me to help myself to what is on offer in the tins laid out on the trestle table in the porch.....and to leave a financial donation in the milk churn by the door.......thank you.

So I do.

A flock of blustering geese honk me on my way as I leave.

I gradually make my way back towards my starting point along a few miles of earth-packed track guided by weaving dry-stone walls. The fellsides rising steeply either side of me enclose the lushly greened valley in protective custody.
Apart from the occasional herdwickian bleat, and the hardly noticed, but steady chirp of ...whatever was chirping..my guess is tit, finch and blackbird......I stroll along in gentle, quiet solitude.
I appear to have acquired a stick somewhere along the way, and I wield this splendid adornment rhythmically as a time-honoured rustic walking aid. A rod of weathered ash, the ends of which in the near future, would be spliced and bound in sturdy sisal string to improve longevity and performance. He would be named John, and would join the stick called Brian in the umbrella stand at home.

I reach the car mid afternoon in warm sunshine and a cloud of irritating flying insects, I feel quite tired as I realize I must have walked a fair distance over fairly rough terrain with a lot of up and down...I de-boot quickly and donning my mistakenly selected footwear of earlier, I jump into the car to sit in escape from the flies.....and to ease my slightly aching muscles before the drive home. I feel a familiar welcome weariness that comes from the pleasure of outdoor exertion.
Another vehicle, I notice, has parked in the other corner of the small space allotted, and it's elderly occupants are similarly engaged in sitting....a plastic cup of something being held by each. They clearly have not ventured beyond. They smile, nod in my direction and raise their cups in gentle greeting........acknowledging our shared experience of enjoying a nice day out in the country.

.

Lens is More.....

I am often amazed at how good the images produced by 'hobbyist' photographers can be...(especially those who use the natural world as their subject, obviously)...and I genuinely enjoy viewing their results, and have the greatest of admiration and respect for their skill, application and creative talent.

I myself spent a little over ten years making my full-time living as a professional photographer and I'd like to think that I know one end of a camera from the other...and maybe understand what it takes to make what could generally be regarded as a 'good' photograph.

Digital photography with it's related computer application now gives us all almost infinite creative possibility at the touch of a button. The most ordinary of photographs, and even 'duffs',  can be altered, corrected, tweaked and generally manipulated to produce stunning images from pretty nondescript beginnings. Nothing wrong with that, I say.....and some would say that this digital manipulation is actually a creative art form in itself.

Yet, my good listeners, I wonder how many photographers who in their life-time through no fault of their own,  have only ever known 'Digi', can appreciate the art of getting it right in the camera, first time, one shot only, with no all improving  'post production' computer magic to utilise. I know it's a bit of a clichéd discussion now, but none the less interesting.

I assure you I am not an old-fart reactionary when it comes to photography.....I use all aspects of digital advantage myself as a matter of course...(no choice really for general purpose!)...I no longer ply my trade as a Pro. Phot. and in fact have turned full circle when it comes to picture taking.....becoming a fully paid up member of the point and press brigade (though I do get a smug sense of satisfaction that my casual snaps still tend to do the trick, thank you very much!)

 however, just out of interest......

It was not that long ago..........My camera of choice was a Bronica SQA medium format with various lenses, backs and assorted paraphanalia including a whole rack of filters and attachments. My camera case was made of industrial strength armour-plating, about the size of a small family hatchback, and held a warehouse stock of flashguns, light meters, spares and a whole array of impressive pieces of complicated hardware that to this day, I have no idea as to their purpose....

.

..and of course, a shedload of boxes of FILM.

Yes FILM. Boxes of foil-wrapped rolls of film. Film of different
ASA speeds for different purposes.
Each roll of film allowed twelve shots only. Kodak VPS III.
Twelve.
The fact that twelve shots was the limit on each roll of film was one of the many factors that determined the creative process of making each and every shot count. Every shot had to be got right.....in the camera.
The cost and process of producing a finished paper print was also an aspect that necessitated not making mistakes...either creatively or technically.
Every shot had to be visualised and considered.

Light measured, ambient and reflected.....
Focus, composition, exposure, depth of field, shutter speed, aperture all manually applied before every shutter release. Click....shot taken. Once.
Maybe if the occasion warranted, I would 'bracket' the shot, using different apertures and shutter speeds.
The precious unchecked, un-previewed intended pictures, were sent off, still unseen on their film-roll,  to the lab for processing.
About a week later, my negatives were returned with my 'proofs' in 5x5 inch paper print format, rough 'machine' prints, from which I could see for the first time the fruits of my pictorial labours.
If I had actually got it right in the camera, each print would be exactly as I had intended.....exposure/composition and the subject matter presented as originally envisaged..if not, ....tough.
I could then return my chosen negatives to the lab to have hand-printed enlargements made, cropped to format.
Usually took another week.
Of course, this was for commercial colour prints......

Black and white photography was a totally different ball-game all together....and in fact, in all honesty, was the more involving and interesting, and potentially creative process.

This was done in-house, up front and personal....
Hours spent in the dark-room juggling toxic chemicals in order to magically conjure up images.

Films/negatives unwrapped and loaded onto spools to be annointed and soaked in potions and odourous fluids....

Trays of Developer....Stop- Bath.....Fix...and Rinse.....washing lines of pegged up dripping prints...the constant gurgle of running water.....

Boxes of different 'grades' of photographic paper to produce different 'effects'.....

Mysterious light emitting machine....The Enlarger.....into which negatives were fed and the image projected onto your choice of paper......cropped/shaded and dodged by waving your hands in the projection beam to lighten/darken specific areas of the picture......timing test strips and experimentation to eventually produce a single 'one-off' print..never to be reproduced the same again.

Each print, from start to finish taking a lot of time/skill and creative effort to produce.     It was great.  I miss it.

Nowadays, all can be achieved literally at the touch of a button, instantly, in the comfort of your own armchair.

However, never mind the technicals, the process, the equipment or the technology.....they are just tools.
The image is still made in the eye of the photographer.

The only criteria by which a photograph can be judged 'successful' or not.....is by the emotional response it evokes in the person viewing it.
A technically poor image can be unbelievably effective, yet a technically perfect image can be pretty bland.

As ever, appreciation will always be entirely subjective, of both technical and creative aspects.

That poorly exposed, out of focus, un-composed grabbed snap of dear departed Auntie Florrie laughing, often has more worth than the perfectly formed character study portrait if indeed the snap causes more emotional response than the formal picture.

Yet, conversely,  the artistry of an intended and creatively worked image, whatever the subject, composed and knowingly executed  as a piece of art has immeasurable, and incomparable value.

All hobbyist photographers have the potential to produce valued images.....IF they have 'an eye'.....its easy, especially with the current technology.
They choose the subject, they choose the time, place, creative approach and the purpose of the photograph is their own....and have the tools to produce it....
The professional, however, more often than not, does not choose the subject, time, place, approach or purpose...........(try getting that first time in the camera!).......and then have that image objectively 'judged' on emotional response AND technical application.
It's different.

I have friends who are keen hobby photographers, especially nature photographers, some are pretty talented, some are taught formularics,  but it would be very interesting to see if they could produce results to order, and to an unfamiliar brief......and without the marvelous benefit and creative advantage of easily applied digital technology.

As I say, the stunning images that regularly appear from bloggers on this site are wonderful to see, and I enjoy every one of them......some are truly wonderful, and display not only a high level of skill and creativity but an impressive knowledge of their subject so as to capture the image in the first place......

Pointless to harp on as I have just done.....at some length!...really. I know.....
I suppose its a bit like saying a modern driver would be struggling with an old Model T Ford.....course they would....and anyway, why would they bother.......modern cars are so much better.....................but still......in the words of Deep Purple, it makes me wonder.....

Rabbity Larks at Minimal Altitude.

The Simonside Hills in Northumberland... aren't really.....hills that is....not not in Northumberland.

'They' are a geographical feature that has resulted in a line of raised ground, mostly no higher than approx 400m above the briny North sea (the coastline of which can vaguely be seen from the tops....on a clear day). Simonside is a sort of a warm up for the more extensively remote and marginally higher Cheviot range.
The area offers characteristics that are typically north Northumbrian.....wide open, rolling moorland......wind-swept and interesting.......carpets of plantation forest and broad acres of tussocky-rough grazing for the hardy sheep.....mostly always dampish (both the sheep and underfoot), Simonside has a lot of space for yours truly to have a bit of a wander in.....and its only 30 mins or so up the road.

After reaching the small country town of Rothbury that sits by the river in the wooded Coquet valley below the 'hills', I drive up the wiggly minor lane to park the jalopy roadside and set out to tramp up the steadily rising heathered slopes above.

There is that familiar, almost instant feeling of release as I walk away from the car and out onto the open fell-side.....breeze in my face, rough gradient beneath my boots and the sights and sounds of 'wild' Northumberland surrounding me.

The close-up quiet rustle of my walking, and the gentle clump of my footsteps, are the only discernible man-made sounds amongst the more distant weave of nature's voice, underscoring
the span of moorland hillside.

  

I hear the insistent caw of a couple of crows as they flap lazily into the breeze ahead of me, and at the same time, see a pheasant reluctantly, yet urgently, bustle over the nearby loosely wired fence, no call of alarm, but its inept startled wingbeat and flurry making a sound so recognisable.

As I rise a little higher up the slopes, the views open up behind me, and looking out across the valley I can just about make out the sound of the collective bleating of the sheep I see being harried across the opposite fields, white smudges being buzzed by a couple of smaller, darker circling dots......the baa and meh occasionally accompanied by a piercing series of whistles from an unseen farmer.....

Walking further along an airy, gradually steepening ridge, I tread my way along a rough path snaking narrowly through thickening heather to reach a small outcrop of browny-grey rock. As I pass, I disturb a couple of Grouse who in turn, startle me enough to actually make me jump. Their sudden rising clatter and barks causing me alarm, never mind them, as they speed away low over the heather like fleeing wing-fluttered cannon balls.

I pause a short while.....and as I sit on a convenient seat of lichened boulder, the flash of a soltary Wheatear flits passed. It perches momentarily on a nearby stone, looks quizzically towards me on my own perch, and darts off again, unimpressed with my presence.

 



Looking through my ever-at hand small binoculars I track a pair of air-dancing Skylarks high above my head, my sighting being led by their twittering song more than by any keen observation.

Presently, after sweeping the expansive views around me of fellside and valley, I swing my proudly worn retro Millican daysac over my shoulder, loving the look and feel of it....no space-age fabric and zips for me boyo, oh no.......its canvas and press-studs all the way,......I make off towards the slightly higher horizon.

I remember being brought here as a lad by my late Father, and have vague recall of it being winter, snow on the ground, and bloody freezing. My then friend Graham was with us, and I seem to remember being bizarrely envious of his absurdly pom-pommed woolly hat............anyway, many years later, as a father myself, I brought my young son and daughter here too.....and dragged them through deep snow precariously, at high speed, along the forest rides, towing their plastic sledge on a rope behind my newly acquired 4x4 jeep. Tut tut.......how irresponsible.
I can still hear their screams of laughter and delight.

Today, I continue along the broad ridge towards the general high point happily aware of the space and the vista of the surroundings widening around me.
The holy trinity of Curlew, Lapwing and Snipe, I would love to report were all seen and heard........but they weren't. Not a sausage. Still, in my mind's eye they were still definitely there, covertly going about their business as part of the tapestry of the area......just wisely remaining unobserved.

The undeniable call of cookie and fruit-cake obliges me to pause again after a while, and as I sit waist deep in heather scoffing their loose-crumbed delights, I notice faint movement in the mid distance below me, on the edge of a bank of pine and fir.  Looks like a trio of Deer are cautiously nosing about in the long scrubby grasses and reeds that form a boggy moat beside a track around the trees. They are beatifully hard to see so well do they merge naturally into their environment.
I get better sight of them through the binoculars just as they appear to freeze, twitching noses all pointed towards the corner of the plantation.

Quickly, as one, they hop sprightly into the woods behind them and are instantly gone........just before a pair of bright lycra'd bikelists trundle into the picture totally unaware of the now evaporated scene.

I start to meander back along the way I came, enjoying the ease of walking that comes with the descent of a gentle slope.
A single rabbit, clearly a maverick or an outcast....(thereby hangs a tail......ha ha)...panic-scampers away. In leporidae terms, obviously a high altitude Sherpa of a bunny.

I eventually return to the car several hours after first leaving it, no doubt each hour of my traipse relieving untold hours of accumulated everyday harry......no great wildlife safari encountered, no great mountaineering conquest achieved, no adrenaline pumping adventure experienced.......just an inestimable amount of pleasure obtained from simply being....out of doors, naturally.

(....apologies for use of some  'stock' photographs.....but hey, they're there to be used......and they are only used for illustrative purposes to alleviate my mundane words!)