400 smiles a day
here's lookin' at you

(Smiles of 2009)

Page:  1  2  3  4('08)

The look the great tit is giving the chaffinch as it helps itself is wonderful.

Another great tit watches nervously as a marsh tit helps itself.

The great tit decides that the feed on the branch looks much too inviting.

A little bluetit adopts a similar strategy to what's on the fence post.

It's one careful step at a time as the bluetit edges ever nearer the goodies.

When a bird makes that first contact - the foot on my finger - it's a truly Magic Moment.

A pantomime moment as a busy bee lands on the flower: "It's behind you!"

The great tit turns its bum to camera, just a few feet away. A critical moment of trust.

Fear slowly but surely dissipates as the great tit claims its prize.

Similarly with the bluetit: "Decisions ... decisions ... what shall I have for breakfast?"

Next comes standing away from the tree: a great tit hovers but decides not this time.

Similarly with the bluetits: two rush in and land at the same time - neither claims a prize.

Several days - and many, many hours of patience ... success. Definitely a Magic Moment.

Actually, of all the birds, it was a bluetit that was first to land out in the field.

Just to check out the quote, I googled it - and landed on Wikipedia – Sunset Boulevard (film), where the famous line comes from. As I scrolled down I came upon the above, back-lit picture of Norma Desmond (actress Gloria Swanson), who utters the memorable line at the end of the film.
     Compare the pose, the turned-up nose ... great ... a different sort of Magic Moment, for sure.

have no idea of the colour of eyes, hair, clothes, etc ... but I will have registered little character traits, body language, is the person a dolphin or a shark, a pussycat or a polecat, etc, etc...
     Now I hadn't noticed that the robins have particularly large eyes, but here's a strange thing, or rather, here's a couple of photographs. Well, it's just the one photograph, but the second is a tightly cropped version of the robin's eye...

In the meantime, another robin has captured my attention. Now quite a few robins come to my candy shop, but because where I put the food down doesn't appear to be the territory of any one particular robin, they get on reasonably well ... well, except for one little robin, a small one, a teenager I presume - and all the other robins pick on the poor little thing and drive him off quite aggressively.
     I presume it's a he - whatever, I've grown exceptionally protective of the little thing as it dives into my hand to take feed. But it gradually dawned on me that there was something unusual about this robin. A series of pictures coming up ... see if you notice anything odd...

Meanwhile, here in the Towy Valley, I watch the other robins continually harass this little bird because of its disability (I guess). All of nature's creatures clearly have some intuitive need to attack the defenceless. Incidentally, it flies okay. At least it can keep out of the way of the other robins as they chase after it. How long this robin will survive, especially in this extreme weather - well, it's anyone's guess. But it has done remarkably well to survive this far. I mean, how can you not feel protective towards the poor little thing. And it is so loveable as it looks at me and appears to say "Thank you, thank you, thank you..." Or perhaps that's just me getting carried away.
     Yesterday morning, Sarah Kennedy played Julie Andrews' Feed the Birds on her radio show: "I do wish the dear Dame would talk more clearly," remarked Sarah with tongue-firmly-in-cheek after the song had finished. Indeed. Not only is the dear Dame blessed with a truly melodic voice - but her enunciation is top drawer. However, back with the song, it made me come over all goose-bumpy, I can tell you, listening to those wonderful words. Here's just a few appropriate lines...

The bird peers aggressively at its reflection
"Who you lookin' at?"

It launches a full-frontal, 'blue-on-blue' attack
"Go on then, put it there, sunshine..."

A home as safe as houses. Just one side-entrance off the street

Grub on tap for Pied Wagtail Junior

Once they're grounded they really are in trouble. So why don't they just take off again? Well, it's the design of the birds: they have short legs and relatively long wings. As they beat their wings for take off, especially if they are young and inexperienced, their wings hit the ground and they are unable to generate lift. At their breeding grounds around the coast they just launch themselves off cliffs, so the problem doesn't arise.
     In Mallaig they had already rescued 255 this year; they simply pick them up, keep them overnight, and then launch them into the air the following morning. And off they go. Over and out.
     Talk about every day being a day at school. The bird I'd stumbled upon was presumably on its migratory path from the nesting grounds of Ireland or West Wales, had become confused by Llandeilo's street lights - a couple just visible in the picture alongside - and had crash-landed. What I'd noticed from the Mallaig feature was that folk could grab them quite easily, which explains why mine never attempted to move away from me. If only I'd known. Ho hum.
     I can only hope that the handsome little bird I feature here, once rested and regained its orientation, had picked itself up, dusted itself off, and started all over again. And that right now it is eyeing the girl from Ipanema as she strolls along Copacabana beach.

Swan No 1: "I'm shy, Hubie baby, I'm shy..."
Swan No 2: "Keep your hands off my sister, you pervert."

With recent floods turning the Towy Valley into one big lake,
even the six young swans have to navigate a dangerous fence

IN MY previous bulletin I introduced you to the “Celtic Circle” at Newton House in Llandeilo – see alongside for a buttonhole reminder – adding, as is my wont, my take on things.  Imagine my surprise then when I received an e-mail from the artist, Pat Bullen-Whatling, informing me she had stumbled upon my web site and enjoyed my particular view of the world through the Circle. Indeed, she asked if she could include some of my pictures on her website, which I was delighted to agree to. Fame at last! Visit...
                                  www.patbullenwhatlinggallery.co.uk
Pat enlightened me that the 'Celtic Circle' itself was only supposed to stand for the twelve days the exhibition ran at Newton House, but it proved so popular that the National Trust invited her to keep it on display until the end of October. What is more, she has also been commissioned to run a one-week course at Newton House, constructing a series of willow pieces and, she added, if I ventured down to the ponds behind Llandeilo’s rugby ground, I would see a couple of test pieces under construction there ... an antlered stag and an ominously oversized dragonfly!
     However, they are soon to be moved (though the site is not yet decided) so that they can be used to promote her soon to be hosted workshop, where she will be working with the public, building more sculptures in the board-walk area – near the old slaughterhouse, close to Newton House.
     Anyway, I did a slight detour along my morning walk to have a look at her pieces ... I have to say I was most impressed with her work, but sadly it was a dull and misty early morning, far from ideal for taking pictures, so I called back around midday – and there indeed was one lady and her dog beavering away on her creations - if that is the right expression for someone working with willow.
     We had a bit of a chat and I told her I had something of a novelty surprise to do with her deer creation, and that I would unveil it on this site, this weekend.

NEXT WEEKEND the RSPB hold their Feed the Birds Day. In appreciation I submitted one of my robin pictures to the Western Mail’s Postcard from Wales, which they kindly published last Thursday, 15^th October.
     In the few days since, I’ve had a marvellous reaction to it, but as regular visitors here will know, I’ve already shown photographs of Towy Valley robins feeding from hand – click on the bulletin below, dated 12^th July:
     “A close encounter of the bird kind..."
    Anyway, here is the shot I sent the Western Mail. I'd noticed that this particular robin would often be puzzled-cum-fascinated by either that little orange light that flashes when the camera focuses, or more likely, the melodic beep-beep the camera makes once it has focused. Whatever, something grabs its attention as it peers up. I mean, it can't be me ... I've never in my life had the girls look up at me quite like that.
     However, Christmas has arrived early this year.
     As mentioned before, my ambition is to capture something other than a robin feeding from hand – I’m getting a bit blasé about old redbreast now! I’ve been yearning for one of the various tits, chaffinch, or whatever else that comes to greet me of a morning, to land on, or next to, my hand. Patience, Hubie.

My initial strategy was to leave some feed - there are a few locations where I do this, a couple of them are close to each other and both are featured in the photographs coming up. Once the birds began to realise there really is a Santa Clause they await my arrival with much excitement. I then place the feed, and with each passing day move marginally less distance away so that they get used to me... Finally, I keep the feed in my hand and extend it in anticipation.
     Whilst I was able to get quite close to most of the birds – I’ll have to do a “special” and bring pictures of the various types I've encountered – I’d noticed these very small birds fussing about like little children. I thought they were coal tits, but a quick check confirms that they are either willow or marsh tits.
     It appears they are marsh tits, which, by a curious coincidence, had a mention the other day on the radio because they are apparently becoming scarce, mostly due to loss of habitat, surprise, surprise.
     I've fallen head over heels with these little things, which are not much bigger than a wren. Not only are they handsome, but so fearless and cheeky.
     Alongside is one of them getting used to my presence. And here are a series of pictures showing the countdown to my early Christmas Day celebrations.

MAY 2008, NEWTON HOUSE: Trinity College, Carmarthen, put on a performance of Alice Through The Looking Glass. No, I never saw it, but I was quite taken with the paraphernalia the College used to promote the event in the locality, especially the use of red flags in unusual forms.
     Pictured alongside, one of the standard flags used along the drive from the town of Llandeilo to Newton House itself. But more of this later on.

TOWARDS the end of August this year, on a rather misty morn, one of the revised early morning walks I now go on since my move back from townie to country boy, takes me on a bit of a tangent, right past Newton House - and I'm surprised to notice what my admittedly over-active imagination identifies as a Stargate. Heavens above, the aliens have arrived.
     A closer inspection, together with the reading of the first lesson (neatly planted into the ground alongside), identifies it as a Celtic Circle, a Dinefwr Park Land Art Project, created by a Pat Bullen-Whatling.
     When I arrive home I visit her website www.patbullenwhatlinggallery.co.uk - and read the following...

  "Oh goodie - I wonder what Santa has put in my stocking this time?"  

  "I spy, with my little eye..."  

  "'Ere, pass the salt 'n' pepper, chief."  

  "Sod it, I'm not sharing this with you lot - I'm off."  

JUNE was a month of sensuous sunrises: 30 days of mostly settled weather, but with loads of cloud floating about; indeed, just as you must have rain and sunshine to generate a rainbow, so you must have clouds and sunshine to paint a glorious sky.

JULY, by contrast, was a dreadful month, not so much for the volume of rain that fell but the intensity of the downpours, which does rather confirm that our climate, as opposed to our weather, is relentlessly morphing into something quite nasty. Here are two images which perfectly sum up both months...

Meanwhile, up at the castle, with the rain having now stopped, visitors are gathering, pointing excitedly at the cattle and furiously clicking away with their cameras. Anytime soon I expect to hear the police helicopter approach to investigate following a call from a worried member of the public.
     In fact I explain to a few foreign visitors that as long as the cattle don't panic they are perfectly safe. And anyway, they can swim, but the trouble is if they did somehow find themselves in the Towy, what with its ferocious current when in flood, they would quickly tire and probably drown.

However, they appear to settle down, but the interesting shot is the close-up, above. As with all creatures - a shoal of fish or a flock of birds under attack from predators - an instinct for survival drives them into a tight ball, and you can see the cattle huddle tightly as the water threatens, with pretty much all of them looking inwards as if discussing their options.
     What of course the cattle don't know is that, while the Towy Valley floods with alarming speed following a prolonged and intense downpour, but within a couple of hours or so of the rain stopping the water retreats just as quickly.

By seven o'clock the following morning, when the above picture was taken, the flooding is history and the cattle have all survived intact.
     In the next shot, of the lone heifer, taken 24 hours later again, you will notice something white - a washed up plastic container I found on the field as I earlier walked the valley...

...which I then placed at the precise spot where the cattle had gathered in that tight ball at the water's edge during the flood.
     But it highlights just how rapidly things can change in the Towy Valley. And life returns to normal. Well, a sort of normality...

I've written before about what happens when heifers and bullocks are mixed. The heifers come into season and, surprise, surprise, are in desperate need of some hanky-panky with a friendly, neighbourhood Casanova.
     Now even though the bullocks have had their crown jewels doctored - chop, chop! - their mating instincts still work. They sniff, they acknowledge, they respond, they mount, their penises actually protrude ready for action, but - bugger, bugger! - nothing happens because they can't perform.
     I feel desperately sorry all round: the frustrations of the bullocks, which continually chase the heifers while they're hot - and I mean they queue up - but most of all I feel for the heifers, which are of course driven to distraction by all these lads who can't deliver the old one-two nature demands.

And here I declare an interest because I have, a few times in my life, whisper it, wished I had a pair of jump leads handy to connect to either Old Shaggy or Young Shagwell down at the Crazy Horsepower Saloon - but that's another story for another time.
     However,  just a couple of days after the flood I stumble upon something really unusual and rather weird. I notice one of the cattle lying down and surrounded by other, seemingly concerned, members of the herd.
     I fear the worst. But astonishingly, it's a heifer on heat, seemingly in good health, but clearly pissed-off with the all-talk-and-no-action performances of the boyos. She clearly decides to lie down, just to stop them blackguarding her and giving her a hard time, pardon the pun. Coming up, some images...

Next morning arrives on the dot, and yes, old faithful is there too, patiently awaiting my arrival ... I sprinkle my palm with crumbs of digestive, hold out my hand, and just as happened the previous morning, the bird flies straight to hand, alights – pictured alongside - and immediately tucks in with relish.
     The robin effortlessly seduces me into its world. I buy some proper bird seed. So I’m thinking ... I’d like to train this robin to perform a few “tricks” for me – oh, by the way, by now I’ve christened it Robin of Newton (I decide he’s male and the epitome of a legendary hero from history: he accepts from those who are willing to share, and shares with those who are willing a magic moment).
     Incidentally, it could well be Robina of Newton, but that rather spoils my little joke. Anyway, over the next week or so I manage to achieve one of the special shots I was after – which I am keeping in my back-pocket for now.
     I am taken aback at how nonchalantly Robin of Newton accepts me. As I only carry a smallish camera, always switched to auto pilot (including auto focus), I’m able to hold and operate it with my free hand. What is more, Robin of Newton allows me to stick the camera right in its face without complaint. Below, just a couple of further shots I was able to capture of this astonishing little bird...

Anyway, I'm halfway through training it for the second shot I'm after when, suddenly, one morning, he ain’t there. He’s not there the next morning either ... or the one after.
     I never see Robin of Newton again. I guess that one of two things has happened. A predator has nailed it: a bird of prey perhaps (there are loads of kites and buzzards buzzing around), or one of the many cats I catch sight of on my morning walks – I mean, it could be Jerry, who I featured in my last bulletin, although I have never seen him lurking around Newton House.
     Secondly, I sort of harbour the horrible thought that someone has captured and caged it. Whenever it landed in my hand I always felt I could easily have grabbed it, so trusting was the lovable thing. All in all though, I tend to come down on the side of predation. From Robin of Newton to Cock Robin, in one brief adventure...
 

Who Killed Cock Robin?
I, said Super Kev the Kite,
With my nasty little grab and bite,
I killed Cock Robin.

Who saw him die?
I, said Sly Silvester the Cat,
While lying there on the mat,
I saw him die.

All the birds of the air
Fell a-sighing and a-sobbing,
When they heard the bell toll
For poor Cock Robin...

AS I mourn Cock Robin's loss, I go on the internet to find out how easy, or indeed how difficult, it is to train a wild bird to feed from the hand. Well, not particularly difficult, and of our British birds, the robin is rated highest as generally confiding with people. But I am taken by the tale of an American girl.
     One day her parents are amazed to find that she has trained some wild birds to feed out of her hand (chickadees I think, which, like our robins are not unduly bothered by human presence). Apparently, every morning as she reached the bottom of the lane leading from the house to the main road where she waited for the school bus, she would scatter a handful of sunflower seeds on the ground. The birds quickly got into the routine and over a period of time (not stated) eventually took the food straight out of her hand.

Then I begin to wonder how easy, or indeed how difficult, it would be along my morning walks to do what the American girl did. I select a handful of likely locations, as far away as possible from civilisation (houses, farms, buildings, etc), to ensure that the birds have had no contact with people at all, apart from seeing farmers, and perhaps walkers like me, passing by.
     So every morning I leave a handful of seed at selected locations, making sure I don’t make it easy for predators to spot what I’m up to.
     Within just a week or so I’m aware of little songbirds hanging around; another week or two and the birds gather quite excitedly on fences and branches, awaiting my arrival. Unsurprisingly, at a couple of prime spots, the bird at the forefront of the queue is – yes of course, the robin.

BUT before I tell you what happened next, I have a query...
     Here in Wales, on Radio Cymru – the Welsh language radio station – every Saturday morning there’s a 90-minute show called Galwad Cynnar (early morning call), a series where all aspects of nature and wildlife are delved into with distinction, indeed they recently discussed old black and white photos of someone feeding birds from the hand. So I have a related question for the experts on Galwad Cynnar: why is it that small birds such as the robin and blackbird – crows even – while wary of humans are actually quite tolerant of us – yet a largish bird like the heron is hugely nervous of human presence?
     Along my walk I come across a number of herons, but as soon as they sense my presence, let alone see me - whoosh! - they're off with a cloud of spray and that dreadful calling sound they make (in Welsh the heron is called a crychydd, a perfectly onomatopoeic name for the bird). By a strange twist, my computer spell-check comes up with 'screeched' for crychydd. Honest! Spooky or what?
     So I find myself wondering if they’ve been hunted or persecuted down the years, and that this red-alert reaction has been programmed into their genetic code. After all, pigeons and wild duck are nervous of people because, I presume, they have been hunted for the pot – although I do seem to recall a ditty about four-and-twenty blackbirds baked in a pie.
     I’ve had it suggested that herons are persecuted because they have become the curse of those who have ponds and keep fish therein – but that, I guess, is a fairly modern phenomenon and would not have been imprinted on their behaviour.

Anyway, the closest I have ever been to a heron, albeit a dead one, is the one featured in the photo alongside. I came upon this unfortunate soul near a spot on the banks of the River Towy, a stretch of water where a heron was regularly fishing, but would take off in a hurry as soon as I got anywhere near it. I guess this bird was again a victim of predation, a buzzard perhaps?
     Apart from this unsettling encounter - look how clean and efficiently the bird has been picked - the closest I have ever got, and that by deploying maximum zoom, is a particular tree where herons are always hanging out – see the image directly above - but even then they take flight as soon as I move closer.
     However, during the bluebell season there’s a wood I enjoy walking through – and occasionally I come out near a backwater were a heron is regularly seen fishing. This one particular day I exit the wood – and there in front of me, not only a heron, but (I'm fairly sure) a Little Egret as well. I freeze and slowly lift the camera.
     For some strange reason, and contrary to normal practice, neither flies away, although with their keen eyesight they can, without doubt, clearly see me. I put it down to the fact that as I have exited a wood they somehow see me as less of a threat.
     Directly below, the backwater I mention, both birds can just about be spotted at the far end, centre. Alongside the backwater picture below, a rather splendid shot of both heron and egret together. Mind you, as you can see from the general shot I’m still a fair distance away, and have to deploy maximum zoom.

Eventually the heron manages to get the head in first – gulp! – and it’s gone. The shot alongside captures the moment immediately after it has swallowed the eel ... it seems startled by what it has just managed. And I found myself wondering what exactly happens inside the heron’s stomach, especially as that eel was alive and kicking as it disappeared down the heron’s gullet.
     Anyway, that’s the heron interlude done and dusted ... I shall look forward to any Galwad Cynnar thoughts regarding the heron behaviour - and I shall pass them on. But now back to my new friend, another robin redbreast.

This one I have christened Robin of Dinefwr. With every passing day he moves closer and closer. I now start to hold the feed in my hand, but he’s reluctant, so rather than stress out the wee thing I leave the seed and walk away.
     Then one morning, he moves ever so close and I have a feeling ... I turn on the camera and focus on my hand ... suddenly, whoosh – click! – a quick snatch and away. As previously mentioned, it’s an unsophisticated camera which I tend to leave on auto pilot – which means that it captures fast movement in a blur – and fortuitously I come up with a serious of atmospheric shots.

Intriguingly, if I were a carpenter – er, a proper photographer - and had carefully set up the camera to capture the perfect shot, I doubt whether I would have taken a series of pictures which so perfectly capture the fear and uncertainty melt away as I gain its trust.
     Oh yes, from that very first morning, when I left a handful of seed at this particular spot, to the moment when it decided to risk all and come to hand, took – just 28 days.
     One point of interest: on BBC's recent Springwatch they showed a clip of Simon King holding a container of mealworm in front of his face, and all the while remaining totally silent and motionless as a robin flies in and tucks in - and then as the robin departs a huge and memorable smile sweeps across Simon's face. Now I do the opposite, for I always announce my presence as I approach, and I talk continually to the birds - Prince Charles will be proud of me - but for no other reason, really, than I want them to get used to my voice.
     Finally then, how long will it take Robin of Dinefwr, not to mention all the other little songbirds come along for the ride, to reach the laid-back stage of Robin of Newton?
     To be continued – and therein lies a delicious little twist to the tale, and all to do with sex. What else?

Having introduced you (in my previous bulletin, just below) to the alpha family of swans that occupy the prime oxbow lake I pass along my daily circuit – mum, dad and the six youngsters – a progress report.
     All six have, somewhat surprisingly, survived the many predators prowling this area, especially so in those early weeks, and they’ve all come on a treat.

To recap...
The signets hatched on May 11, and the last image I show of them in my previous bulletin was taken on May 30 ... the next picture coming up was taken a month later, at the very end of June – and suddenly, they have taken on the appearance of that ugly duckling made famous by Hans Christian Andersen.

Talk of ugly ducklings brings me to geese, in particular a few breeding families of Greylags which share the oxbow lake with the swans. When the cob has managed to clear all the swans which continually try to take up residence on the lake, he keeps his fighting-eye in by doing his damnedest to drive away the geese, in particular he always goes after what I presume are the adults -

see the image above – but I have to report that, whilst he is ruthlessly efficient in clearing away all other swans, the geese lead him a merry dance, and it's pretty clear that they are going nowhere until the kids can look after themselves. Below, I leave you with a rather splendid image of the Greylag parents leading the kids across the lake...

The rain it raineth on the just
And also on the unjust fella:
But chiefly on the just, because
The unjust steals the just's umbrella.
                                    Charles Bowen, 1st Baron, 1835-1894
            Sichel, Sands of Time

To share the final roundup of the great pipeline project, with a smile or 400 (hopefully),
along the way - click here...

Follow the pipeline

That looks a promising love nest over there, sweetheart

So, if I said you have a wonderful body...

Romance done ... Mum builds nest, Dad goes scuba diving

Phew! Feet under at last - until the kids arrive, that is

Island in the sun...

Mum incubates, Dad guards

22nd March, 2009
The Moon & Bluebell - oh, and turn up the heating, love...
 

Back in December 2006, along my regular very early morning walk through Dinefwr Park and beyond - somewhere between first light and sunrise - ahead of me stands Newton House, and just above, a gloriously crystal-clear full moon, slowly setting in a cloudless sky...
 

     Our feet splay quite dramatically, as the tracks in this photograph, alongside, show. Indeed, I have never observed a ‘tidy’ set of spontaneous human footprints. Perhaps someone out there can set the record straight.
     Also, probably many folk, me included, have been somewhat foxed by the other footprints in the picture. Yes, they belong to rabbits, but how does a creature with a foot at each corner make such intriguing tracks? Well, just recently I read an explanation by Derwent May in The Times, and it’s worth sharing.
    I quote: The prints consist of a pair of hollows in the snow side by side and two more hollows in a line behind. If one draws an oval line round them in the snow they look like a face with two eyes, a nose and a mouth. The two prints that are side by side show the direction in which the rabbit is going, but oddly enough they are made by the back legs, while the two prints in a line at the rear are made by the forelegs. This is because the rabbit first puts its two front feet down one after the other and then shoots its two back feet forward in a single movement landing in front of the forefeet.
     Hopefully that concise and delightful explanation will add to your appreciation the next time you observe these curious tracks in the snow - or indeed when you see a bunny hopping across a field.