This happened to me a few weeks ago. I went out to try and find one of the Yellow-browed Warblers that were turning up on the East Coast, I need one both for my Life list and for my River list. In fact, I took two days off work specially to find one. The first day I went along the south side of the river (Orwell) but had no luck. The second day I made one of my occasional trips to the north side to visit Trimley Marsh, Trimley Lagoon and Loompit Lake. Everywhere was very quiet. On the return leg I was walking between the lagoon and the lake, where the path passes through a shelterbelt of trees and scrub, when I heard a “hweet” from the trees just ahead of me. I stopped (as you do) and waited for the bird to show (as they do, sometimes).
It called a couple more times, but just then a cyclist a came up the path from behind me. I stepped aside to let him past (very narrow track just there), and as he passed he said “thankyou”. As soon as he said that, a little bird shot across the path into the scrub behind me. By the time said cyclist had passed and I was free to move, the little beggar had disappeared, and never showed again. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t a Chiffchaff.
Something similar happened to Samuel Taylor Coleridge, I believe. Inspired by an opium dream, he sat in his Somerset cottage and wrote ‘Xanadu’, but before he could finish it he was interrupted by “a person from Porlock” who sat and chatted for some hours. By the time his visitor left, Coleridge had forgotten the dream, and one of the most beautiful poems in the English language was never completed.
Thus: “Porlock”, n. A member of the public who unwittingly flushes or disturbs a rare bird before you can ID it. Also, “to Porlock”, vb. To commit said act on an innocent birdwatcher.
Have you ever been Porlocked?
M
It called a couple more times, but just then a cyclist a came up the path from behind me. I stepped aside to let him past (very narrow track just there), and as he passed he said “thankyou”. As soon as he said that, a little bird shot across the path into the scrub behind me. By the time said cyclist had passed and I was free to move, the little beggar had disappeared, and never showed again. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t a Chiffchaff.
Something similar happened to Samuel Taylor Coleridge, I believe. Inspired by an opium dream, he sat in his Somerset cottage and wrote ‘Xanadu’, but before he could finish it he was interrupted by “a person from Porlock” who sat and chatted for some hours. By the time his visitor left, Coleridge had forgotten the dream, and one of the most beautiful poems in the English language was never completed.
Thus: “Porlock”, n. A member of the public who unwittingly flushes or disturbs a rare bird before you can ID it. Also, “to Porlock”, vb. To commit said act on an innocent birdwatcher.
Have you ever been Porlocked?
M