Bordered Beauty, Earith 11 September 08

Black Rustic, Earith 10 September 08

Recent Cambridge Moths

Elophila nymphaeata (Brown China-mark); first garden record


Anthophila fabriciana (Nettle-tap); first garden record


Helcystogramma rufescens; recorded rarely here


Common Wave (Cabera exanthemata); recorded rarely here



Bordered Pug (Eupithecia succenturiata); second garden record

pete
22W actinic
Canon400D + 50mm/f2.5 macro

Predictions

We humans do like trying to predict things, and most of our predictions are bollocks. The fact that there is a multi-million pound industry based on complete and utter bullshit (it’s called astrology) is ample proof of that. We like to try and predict things because it makes us feel we’re in control of the universe, when of course nothing could be further from the truth. Many of the things we try and predict (e.g. the weather, Nutcracker invasions or whether we’re going to meet a tall, dark, handsome stranger) are beyond our understanding, let alone our control.

Anthony McGeehan once wrote an article in which he said that a ‘psychic’ friend of his claimed to have divined the presence of a Pallas’s Warbler on some island off the east coast of Ireland by using a pendulum held over a map. He was unable to verify the truth of this claim though, and I’m not even sure whether the article was meant to be serious or not.

However, when predicting rare bird occurrences, using a pendulum, or a crystal ball, or consulting the entrails of a weasel is probably just as likely to be successful as the average birder's pseudo-scientific method of ‘looking at the weather forecast and seeing what breeds or might be migrating where the wind’s coming from’. This approach is especially flawed because a) it assumes that vagrancy is largely dependent on the weather, and b) it relies on something which is itself notoriously unreliable – the weather forecast. OK, meteorologists are usually right when it comes to the next 24 hours, but beyond that it’s almost not worth taking any notice of.

But we still do it (predicting rare birds), mainly because it’s something to talk about, but also because we know that every now and then we will be right, and then we can feel either slightly smug or dangerously omniscient, depending on our particular personality disorders. Most of the time, though, our rare bird predictions are hopelessly wrong; it’s only because we make so many of them that any are right at all. To take it to the extreme, if you only make one prediction in your life, and that is that you’re going to go out and find a specific first for Britain in Leicestershire on a specific day, you will be wrong (and everyone will think you're a prick). But if you constantly fire off predictions of what might turn up in the next week based on the weather forecast and time of year, you will probably get one or two of them right.

Now, before the Punks start thinking I’m having a go at them again, I’m not – I enjoy the ‘rare-ometer’ and all the banter that goes on in the chatbox, and I’m sure it gets people enthusiastic for getting out there and finding stuff. But it does highlight just how hard it is to predict what might turn up, which as far as I’m concerned is a good thing. After all, birding would be completely pointless and exceptionally dull if we knew exactly what we were going to see every time we went out. A bit like having a pager in fact.

Right, now for my predictions (fuck, that’s a bastard word to type – I keep typing predicitions) for Shetland next month:

The wind will mostly vary between south-west and south-east, but some of the time it might come from other directions. Most of the birds we’ll see will be common, with a few scarce ones every now and then. The commonest warbler will be Yellow-browed. On the 5th of October at 10.37 I will find a Lanceolated Warbler at Quendale. Or it might be a different species. Or it might be somewhere else. On a different day. Or I might find nothing at all this year. There, I think that’s most options covered – we’ll see if I was right in a few weeks’ time...

Some Earith moths 27-30 August 08

Webb's Wainscot


Chilo phragmitella


Wax Moth


Epermenia falciformis


Treble-bar

Great British Eccentrics

Reading Tom McKinney's recent post I met this bloke the other day... prompted me to reminisce about some of the nutters we used to enjoy observing on Scilly every October. I wish I had photos of these people to illustrate them, but I haven't, and it would be unfair to identify them anyway. You may recognise some of these characters, or even have had different names for them. Or you may be a normal person who just gets on quietly with their birding and doesn't feel the need to deflect attention away from their own inadequacies by mocking the afflicted...

The Oven-ready Wanker. So named (by Stephen Dean) as he had several Pheasant tail feathers sticking out of his hat, which was a deerstalker type thing, so pretty silly to start with.

Sid the Sexless. The daughter (we think) of the Oven-ready Wanker. Actually this is already getting a bit dodgy, as I think she may have had some sort of syndrome. Perhaps I'd better stop now before I get more complaints. No, fuck it I'll carry on.

Running Man. Stephen Dean memorably described him as a 'scene leech'. This guy didn't appear to know anything at all about birds, or even own a pair of binoculars, but apparently went to Scilly every year simply to enjoy being part of the scene. He always wore a camouflage jacket and trousers, and used to run everywhere, usually carrying a shopping bag.

Crawford Crayon. Crawford is (now) quite a well-known birder, who lives in Suffolk, but in the early 90s he was the original 'Creeb' ('place names explained': a jumped up little twat who follows L.G.R. Sole around on Scilly in the vain hope of gaining some cred). The name came from his striking similarity to a one-off character in Viz.

Ronnie Corbett. Oh dear - another one who probably had a syndrome. Probably best not to say too much more about him, except that Rob, Richard and I once saw him on Shetland, appearing out of the mist coming down the road from Sumburgh Head. When we realised who it was ("is that... it can't be... fuck, it is!!!), we collapsed in helpless laughter as he went past. He must have thought we were strange.

The Man from Del Monte. No idea why we called him that. Perhaps he said yes a lot.

The Walking Cock originally had bright purple hair, hence the name. I think he was the same kid lister who later became 'Lap Dog' as he used to follow those two blonde girls around all the time with his tongue hanging out. Remember them? One of them was called Victoria, I think; their parents had a labrador. Not 'had' as in 'gave birth to', obviously. I presume they just acquired it in the normal way.

Mr Porridge. Again, I can't remember why he was called that, but I seem to recall he had a very lumpy face.

Desperate Deborah aka Handjob. Another quite well-known birder. We called her Desperate Deborah as she always seemed to be in a blind panic whenever anything turned up. Dave Hall christened her 'Handjob' from the distinctive 'wanking' motion she made with her right hand while walking at high speed to the next good bird.

I'm sure there were more than that, but that's all I can remember at the moment. Ah - I miss Scilly sometimes.

Light Emerald, Farcet Fen, 26 Aug 08

Caught at light (160w MVB).

© Steve Dudley / Panasonic Lumix FZ-30