Horrid autumn- 11/8/17

A Horrid factoid- The site of the small cement works, on the bare island at the point, was said to be a an awful spot to work, especially during the winter. Some believe it was these workmen who nicknamed the site 'Horrid Hill'. Maps prior to this time do not carry any name for the area.

-----------

Sadly, could only manage a late morning visit over the high tide. As the day was good, the park the was heaving. I arrived just as the Starlings gave up on trying to feed on the berry crop at the Point, and headed off to the apple orchards just inshore of Bloors.

Spent some time comparing numbers of birds using Nor / Friars Saltings. The saltings had the edge, just:
Grey Plover- 64 / 170
Redshank- 2 / 4 (using Rainham Saltings)
Whimbrel 12 / -
Dunlin 4 / 10
Curlew - / 1 (low, using nearby Bishop saltings)
Turnstone 76 / 33
Little Egret 4 / 3
Shelduck - / 8

Additionally, counted the Oystercatchers on the Kingsnorth seawall; 709.

Horrid autumn- 3/8/17

A Horrid factoid- The Cement works closed in 1913. Just after, the final vessel to berth there grounded and spilt its cargo; the reason why the mudflats here often give up 'Dundee marmalade' jars.

-----------
03/08/17
10:15-11:05, high tide

Point- Zilch (had to be elsewhere on the estuary for dawn today).

Viz mig- 4 Common Tern w.

Offshore-
Severe lack of roosting waders thanks to ssw winds gusting to 30 m.p.h.- most small/medium waders had relocated the mile or so to northern seawall of Motney Hill. Larger birds could get by on northern edge of Nor/Friars.
Highlight a lone Greenshank Rainham Saltings.
So, counted 'roosting' Starlings instead. Over neap/lower high tides each salting can hold a small flock, many feeding, others just sitting up waiting out the tide-none feeling the urge to fly over water between sites or shore. About par for this time of year.

Them cr*ppy Starlings

It was on my 'to do' list. Find the local Starling roost.

Problem? I knew it was outside my birding area. When I moved back, I deliberately set myself the task of sticking to the south shore. During the autumn I would pick up some nice movements of Starling in the first couple of hours of the day, heading west, and I was always tempted to say 'migrants'. But the problem was I'd have similar numbers east in the evenings.

And then they'd continue into the winter. I tweeted a few months back about the numbers passing The Brickfields in the mornings, guaranteed close encounters. And if I watched from Raspberry Hill, out over Chetney, I'd see probably the same birds back, flying out of my self-set recording zone.

Infuriating. I pondered a few times last winter that the answer could be Murston, I knew it was hardly birded nowadays. I was close. And to add insult to injury, I was extremely close when I watched Chetney from Raspberry Hill. Now if I had just turned around...

Monday evening had seen me on Basser Hill, watching Barksore. Some nice stuff going on, highlight probably Chetney's Golden Plover, which had moved off the frozen grass to the slightly more broken harrowed fields.

But then, as I walked off the hill, I just, just glimpsed what could be the tail-end of a murmuration breaking the skyline for a nano-second. Probably about four kilometres away, but, yup, there it was again- a murmuration.

I bleated on to a friend about it, who had made the mistake of once saying they'd like to see a murmuration, plus they owned a car, plus I knew they were free Wednesday afternoon.

And no need to hunt the site down, it just so happened a few days before the site had broken, as 'just behind Morrison's distribution centre', via the twittersphere.

Looking at the OS, it could only be Cold Harbour Fleet, so fifteen minutes before sundown we were stood on a mound at the end of the road by the fleet. I was immediately annoyed as the sky was full of Starlings, but about a kilometre and a half south over Castle Rough. There were just groups of fifty to a hundred Starlings going in to the Fleet, with a small murmuration of about 400 birds above it.

Patience.

I realised the Rough lot were gone, and then suddenly a wave passed over, with an amazing sound of pifp, pifp, pifp, going off all around. We were right underneath, in a guano rainstorm.

The next eight minutes were sublime. No words for it. How taken was I? I didn't even bother to try to count, that's how taken. Well worth slipping over the count-y line for.

My friend was blown away by it too. Though when we got back home, I did feel the need to promise I'd clean their car the next day, just in case I ever needed to get them to go along with one of my subtle hints again.