Days have passed and during my general meanderings around the local vicinity, not a sparrow in sight. Trips to the newsagents, supermarkets, the garage for petrol and further visits to my garden have ended with a grand total of zilch. A visit to the trusty RSPB website informs me that sparrow numbers have dropped alarmingly and this is their official quote ; Monitoring suggests a severe decline in the UK house sparrow population, recently estimated as dropping by 71 per cent between 1977 and 2008 with substantial declines in both rural and urban populations.
Since this only takes into account a period to 2008, I have come to the conclusion that in my area and probably many others, our once abundant neighbours became virtually extinct in the following seven years. Living in a city would suggest that crop spraying is not the reason for the demise of the poor sparrow, so what is?
The thing that really intrigues me is that during my search for the lowly sparrow the only birds that proliferate in my area are a few wood pigeons and strangely enough an over abundance of the evil Magpies (Magpies being a protected species) and a few sparrow hawks, buzzards, peregrines etc. I refer back to my episode in the garden and the plight of the robin who was obviously being stalked by the sparrow hawk (and probably next door’s cat) now add in the magpie who was was likely to think nothing of busying itself devouring the robins eggs or young and I start to realise that the sparrow has not had a lot of chance of survival in recent years.
Every good experiment has to have a conclusion and the conclusion I am coming to is as follows; Our nation’s total fascination with the dreaded moggie and the RSPB’s determination to release a raptor of some kind into everyones back garden, along with protection of the Magpie spells doom for the sparrow and songbirds in general. On the bright side, it will surely come to pass that the Raptors, Magpies and Moggies will be soon vying for supremacy amongst themselves and those of us with a camera will be left to snap them eating each other.
Tuesday, 8 September 2015
Sunday, 30 August 2015
Sparrow Safari
As I have said before, time on my hands these days is giving me time to think and my thoughts this morning were on my recent hobby of photography. Glancing through my collection of bird snaps made me realise that although I had a good collection of Blue tits, Robins, Jay’s and all sorts the one not in my collection was the all too common Sparrow.
No problem this, just set up the camera with a 70/300 zoom lens throw a piece of bread onto the lawn and bingo. Or so I thought. After an hour all I had seen was next door’s mangy cat. What on earth is going on? In my younger days just the sound of a bread wrapper would bring Sparrows and Starlings by the dozen so it was obvious they had changed their tastes over the years…gone more upmarket so to speak. Went to my camera bag and took out my supply of wild bird seed that I use on my trips to the local park. I copiously spread some on the lawn and confidently awaited the deluge that was sure to follow. An hour later and no sign of a sparrow the only visitor turned out to be a sorry looking Robin and to my amazement it picked up a solitary piece of sunflower seed and left at great speed for the neighbours Laurel hedge. When I turned and glanced at the house roof it was obvious why, sitting on the edge of the guttering was a sparrow hawk. I dived for the camera tripod swivelled round to get a shot of said Sparrow hawk but alas I’m not as fast as that young boy who spent many any hour in the wild admiring the life form, and by the time I’d dragged my older less agile form to position it too had disappeared. After two hours no sparrows and it was starting to rain so time to go in doors and reflect on my failure.
Whilst sipping tea in the conservatory (another topic to follow) I mulled it over and put it down to the fact that I do not feed the birds in my garden due to the amount of Felines locally. Two hours, one robin and two predators were not good odds. However not being one to give up easily I decided to take my quest further and visit a couple of streets of terraced houses locally where surely the house sparrow would be in abundance as was the case when I was growing up. Yet the more I thought about it the more I doubted, simply because it dawned on me that it was actually a long time since I had seen a sparrow. Even on my trips to the local wildlife areas there was not a single snap of one and when I am out on my wildlife sojourns I tend to snap anything that moves.
Setting off down to the terraced houses with the trusty Canon set up ready to react I walked five blocks of terraced streets to no avail. I eventually decided it was best to make a retreat due to some strange looks coming my way. School holidays afoot the local Muffia seemed less than trusting of the dodgy looking old man prowling the neighbourhood with a camera. So alas up to now no sparrow pic and still more time to reflect on why?
No problem this, just set up the camera with a 70/300 zoom lens throw a piece of bread onto the lawn and bingo. Or so I thought. After an hour all I had seen was next door’s mangy cat. What on earth is going on? In my younger days just the sound of a bread wrapper would bring Sparrows and Starlings by the dozen so it was obvious they had changed their tastes over the years…gone more upmarket so to speak. Went to my camera bag and took out my supply of wild bird seed that I use on my trips to the local park. I copiously spread some on the lawn and confidently awaited the deluge that was sure to follow. An hour later and no sign of a sparrow the only visitor turned out to be a sorry looking Robin and to my amazement it picked up a solitary piece of sunflower seed and left at great speed for the neighbours Laurel hedge. When I turned and glanced at the house roof it was obvious why, sitting on the edge of the guttering was a sparrow hawk. I dived for the camera tripod swivelled round to get a shot of said Sparrow hawk but alas I’m not as fast as that young boy who spent many any hour in the wild admiring the life form, and by the time I’d dragged my older less agile form to position it too had disappeared. After two hours no sparrows and it was starting to rain so time to go in doors and reflect on my failure.
Whilst sipping tea in the conservatory (another topic to follow) I mulled it over and put it down to the fact that I do not feed the birds in my garden due to the amount of Felines locally. Two hours, one robin and two predators were not good odds. However not being one to give up easily I decided to take my quest further and visit a couple of streets of terraced houses locally where surely the house sparrow would be in abundance as was the case when I was growing up. Yet the more I thought about it the more I doubted, simply because it dawned on me that it was actually a long time since I had seen a sparrow. Even on my trips to the local wildlife areas there was not a single snap of one and when I am out on my wildlife sojourns I tend to snap anything that moves.
Setting off down to the terraced houses with the trusty Canon set up ready to react I walked five blocks of terraced streets to no avail. I eventually decided it was best to make a retreat due to some strange looks coming my way. School holidays afoot the local Muffia seemed less than trusting of the dodgy looking old man prowling the neighbourhood with a camera. So alas up to now no sparrow pic and still more time to reflect on why?
Saturday, 29 August 2015
At the Spa.
I went to the local for my usual couple of swifties and whilst talking to the landlord he informed me that Reg has taken to drinking in another watering hole along the road. Apparently he is now frequenting the Kings Head (aka ’The Nut’) rather than his beloved place here in the Marquis of Granby. Seems he has really taken the hump over the Cockapoo thing and despite my reservations I decided to go along to the The Nut and smooth things out.
Now The Nut is not really familiar territory to me these days simply because the same beer is more expensive and their leanings towards loud music are no longer my way of life. So, waltzing in I spotted Reg standing by the bar in the snug seemingly enjoying the Irish band performing at 110 decibels amidst a myriad of young students slopping lager all over the floor. Not only has he seemingly got a hearing problem, he’s evidently lost his faculties. Through the strains of ten verses of the Irish rover and the resultant banging of glasses on the table by the students I managed to persuade Reg to return back to sanity and come back with me to the Marquis for a quiet one in the bar.
On the walk over the subject of the dog raised its head and Reg promptly informed me that the matter was closed and he had not been down to Somerset to buy a four hundred pound mongrel. The upshot being him and his good wife had not been speaking for the best part of seven days when he told her he was not travelling all that way and spending that sort of money on as he put it, a posh crossbred. I quietly agreed with him but sensed there was something more to this as his mood was once again switching to a simmering anger. Glad to reach the Marquis I was at least placated to realise it’s dominoes night and it may well settle him down once he gets the feel of the bones and maybe wins a few Bob. I thought my feelings were justified when as we walked to the bar Harry shouted us over for a game of doms and we joined him and Jim in a four handed game of fives and three’s.The banter was good and Reg was sitting with a good stack of ten pence pieces in front of him when Jim (who is incidentally Reggie’s next door neighbour) asked Reg if Maud (Maud being Reggie’s wife) was back from her three day stay at a posh Spa in Somerset, and had she bought the dog back home with her as she intended…
Needless to say that was the end of a perfectly good game of Dominoes and Reg left the bar not in the best of moods. Another three days have passed and once again no sight of Reg in the Marquis but the trusty jungle drums tell me he has been seen in The Nut…no doubt, in a few weeks and a vet bill later for jabs, the students will be socialising the pup and teaching it to swim the sea of cold slops to boot.
Now The Nut is not really familiar territory to me these days simply because the same beer is more expensive and their leanings towards loud music are no longer my way of life. So, waltzing in I spotted Reg standing by the bar in the snug seemingly enjoying the Irish band performing at 110 decibels amidst a myriad of young students slopping lager all over the floor. Not only has he seemingly got a hearing problem, he’s evidently lost his faculties. Through the strains of ten verses of the Irish rover and the resultant banging of glasses on the table by the students I managed to persuade Reg to return back to sanity and come back with me to the Marquis for a quiet one in the bar.
On the walk over the subject of the dog raised its head and Reg promptly informed me that the matter was closed and he had not been down to Somerset to buy a four hundred pound mongrel. The upshot being him and his good wife had not been speaking for the best part of seven days when he told her he was not travelling all that way and spending that sort of money on as he put it, a posh crossbred. I quietly agreed with him but sensed there was something more to this as his mood was once again switching to a simmering anger. Glad to reach the Marquis I was at least placated to realise it’s dominoes night and it may well settle him down once he gets the feel of the bones and maybe wins a few Bob. I thought my feelings were justified when as we walked to the bar Harry shouted us over for a game of doms and we joined him and Jim in a four handed game of fives and three’s.The banter was good and Reg was sitting with a good stack of ten pence pieces in front of him when Jim (who is incidentally Reggie’s next door neighbour) asked Reg if Maud (Maud being Reggie’s wife) was back from her three day stay at a posh Spa in Somerset, and had she bought the dog back home with her as she intended…
Needless to say that was the end of a perfectly good game of Dominoes and Reg left the bar not in the best of moods. Another three days have passed and once again no sight of Reg in the Marquis but the trusty jungle drums tell me he has been seen in The Nut…no doubt, in a few weeks and a vet bill later for jabs, the students will be socialising the pup and teaching it to swim the sea of cold slops to boot.
Friday, 28 August 2015
Cockapoo
On one of my not too infrequent visits to the local pub last week a good friend of mine announced his intention to purchase mans best friend the dog.It is always said that the owner often looks like his dog or vice versa. So I looked Reg up and down and thought, here comes another labrador. I Could not have been more surprised when he announced he was going down to Somerset to purchase what he describes as a Cockadoodle ( my spell checker is even querying this). If I type in labrador no such problem, but Cockadoodle it can’t deal with.
I suggested to Reg in the ensuing conversation that travel to Somerset to get a mongrel for thirty quid did not make sense when he could get one at the local dogs home. Reg promptly became very indignant and informed me that the said Cockadoodle is a recognised breed and it was costing him four hundred quid (Spell checker recognised the word quid, but still no joy with the cockadoodle ).
By this time one of the local experts on the mobile phone had googled the said dog on the kennel club sight and it turned out Reggie’s dog would not be a Cockadoodle at all, it was in fact a cockapoo (Strange thing is the trusty spell checker can recognise this).
The following quote is direct from the kennel club.
Purebred breed associations such as The Kennel Club, the American Kennel Club, the United Kennel Club, or the Canadian Kennel Club, do not recognise the Cockapoo.
Reg promptly informed us that his wife had chosen the dog and he was sure she said cockadoodle, not cockapoo. As soon as Reggie’s wife came into the equation I quickly realised where the term a dog generally looks like its owner fitted in. By now the conversation, between what was now a growing band at the bar, had decided that Reg was buying a mongrel for four hundred quid and Reg was non too pleased. At this point I nipped off to the toilet and upon my return was informed that Reg had shot off in a huff.
It’s a week later and my good friend Reg has not been seen in the bar since, so I can only assume he made the trip and is currently dog sitting, so more may be said on this subject when he finally surfaces.
I suggested to Reg in the ensuing conversation that travel to Somerset to get a mongrel for thirty quid did not make sense when he could get one at the local dogs home. Reg promptly became very indignant and informed me that the said Cockadoodle is a recognised breed and it was costing him four hundred quid (Spell checker recognised the word quid, but still no joy with the cockadoodle ).
By this time one of the local experts on the mobile phone had googled the said dog on the kennel club sight and it turned out Reggie’s dog would not be a Cockadoodle at all, it was in fact a cockapoo (Strange thing is the trusty spell checker can recognise this).
The following quote is direct from the kennel club.
Purebred breed associations such as The Kennel Club, the American Kennel Club, the United Kennel Club, or the Canadian Kennel Club, do not recognise the Cockapoo.
Reg promptly informed us that his wife had chosen the dog and he was sure she said cockadoodle, not cockapoo. As soon as Reggie’s wife came into the equation I quickly realised where the term a dog generally looks like its owner fitted in. By now the conversation, between what was now a growing band at the bar, had decided that Reg was buying a mongrel for four hundred quid and Reg was non too pleased. At this point I nipped off to the toilet and upon my return was informed that Reg had shot off in a huff.
It’s a week later and my good friend Reg has not been seen in the bar since, so I can only assume he made the trip and is currently dog sitting, so more may be said on this subject when he finally surfaces.
Thursday, 27 August 2015
Reasons to be cheerful.
Having time on your hands is not always such a good thing. My reason for thinking this is the amount of small things that seem to annoy me that I never had time to even think about before. I got up at what I thought was the right side of the bed this morning but alas it was all in vain when it came to making my first cup of tea of the day and ending up with scalded toes and nearly as much water out of the cup as there was in it. For the last three months of using this kettle I have tried every possible method of pouring water and always get the same result. Water, water, everywhere but not so much to drink. This is not a cheap kettle and is made by a very big European manufacturer which leads you to think when purchasing that all functions of the kettle should be designed to give a satisfactory performance. I mean, how wrong can they get it ? I only want a cup of tea. We’ve been boiling water in vessels on home fires for centuries, if the disciples could do it with their limited resources why can’t we with today’s modern advances?
Back to the kettle in hand. I have to wonder if whoever designed it actually ever tested it, or if it was some kind of sick joke of theirs ? Somewhere under the heading of ‘how wrong can you get this simple every day kitchen utility ?’. I’m thinking rocket science isn’t in it. Design a kettle with a spout which pours water in the direction intended and not finish up with a pool of water every time. I don’t even expect perfection, the odd drip doesn’t seem unreasonable, needing to wear steel toe caps to make that drink though seems to sit somewhere on the wrong side of functional - yep, the designer must have been a) drunk or b) having a laugh. Furthermore, the amount of health and safety boys blighting industry at the moment have surely missed out on a golden opportunity with this one. I suppose they would point out I was not wearing hard hat, gloves and safety boots at the time of making my cuppa so the manufacturers could hardly be blamed for my second degree burns. Though I should point out that nowhere in the instructions did it mention that at least being able to tread water was a prerequisite of using this kettle! On the other hand, it is all coming together now, learning to swim in your PJ’s has long since been on the school curriculum, since I rarely wonder around lakes/pools/the sea and other dangerous open waters unclothed in the middle of the night (ruling out the chances of actually needing to save myself or somebody else in my baggy flannel bottoms) it stands to reason that Swimming instructors everywhere have learned the perils of a defunct kettle!
Ahhhh well, back to bed for me I think and try to get out on the right side when I once more arise, hopefully with the design ready to patent for reinforced slippers…
Back to the kettle in hand. I have to wonder if whoever designed it actually ever tested it, or if it was some kind of sick joke of theirs ? Somewhere under the heading of ‘how wrong can you get this simple every day kitchen utility ?’. I’m thinking rocket science isn’t in it. Design a kettle with a spout which pours water in the direction intended and not finish up with a pool of water every time. I don’t even expect perfection, the odd drip doesn’t seem unreasonable, needing to wear steel toe caps to make that drink though seems to sit somewhere on the wrong side of functional - yep, the designer must have been a) drunk or b) having a laugh. Furthermore, the amount of health and safety boys blighting industry at the moment have surely missed out on a golden opportunity with this one. I suppose they would point out I was not wearing hard hat, gloves and safety boots at the time of making my cuppa so the manufacturers could hardly be blamed for my second degree burns. Though I should point out that nowhere in the instructions did it mention that at least being able to tread water was a prerequisite of using this kettle! On the other hand, it is all coming together now, learning to swim in your PJ’s has long since been on the school curriculum, since I rarely wonder around lakes/pools/the sea and other dangerous open waters unclothed in the middle of the night (ruling out the chances of actually needing to save myself or somebody else in my baggy flannel bottoms) it stands to reason that Swimming instructors everywhere have learned the perils of a defunct kettle!
Ahhhh well, back to bed for me I think and try to get out on the right side when I once more arise, hopefully with the design ready to patent for reinforced slippers…
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