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John's Mammals 2013 (1 Viewer)
- Thread starter Farnboro John
- Start date
The Hairy Highlander
Well-known member
There's something not quite right with this photo, can't put finger on it though...? 
There's something not quite right with this photo, can't put finger on it though...
Leaves not raked up on the lawn?
Farnboro John
Well-known member
Sort of a cross between the sand people and those little things that trade robot parts.
Good luck for 2013 John.
Rich
Good luck for 2013 John.
Rich
Mike Richardson
Formerly known as Skink1978
That's four more than me! Managed Wood Mouse very late on New Year's Eve but unfortunately I had to work most of yesterday. Happy New Year to the mammal watchers!
Farnboro John
Well-known member
I was birding yesterday (102 a good start to the year) but picked up the obvious five mammals along the way: Red Fox, Rabbit, Grey Squirrel, Roe Deer, Brown Hare.
Happy New Year and lots of luck to everybody!
John
Happy New Year and lots of luck to everybody!
John
John, your PM box is full. Good news awaiting the clearance of the said box
Farnboro John
Well-known member
John, your PM box is full. Good news awaiting the clearance of the said box
Cleared :eek!:
John
The sniper
Well-known member
Has anyone seen the footage of he roe deer running through Chelmsford city centre
Farnboro John
Well-known member
Cleared again....
and hurrah, Friday, I can get out and about again. Wildlifers should have special dispensation not to go back to work in the New Year.
John
and hurrah, Friday, I can get out and about again. Wildlifers should have special dispensation not to go back to work in the New Year.
John
Farnboro John
Well-known member
Regular readers will be aware that in the past I have developed a certain opinion of the denizens of the Forest of Dean. However, due to its mighty magnetic attraction as a wildlife hot spot I do feel the need to venture into banjoland from time to time, and when Marion offered to take me away for a few days to celebrate my 50th birthday, I suggested that as a destination.
After some confusion in which despite having booked the accommodation Maz thought we were going to Norfolk, and some dismay when her question as to whether there would be shops was met with hysterical laughter, we set off in the less sick of our two cars on Sunday just gone.
We had taken the recommendation of BBC Wildlife Magazine and booked three nights at the Fountain Inn at Parkend in the Forest proper. Once we had taken possession of our room we had a drive round trying to spot fresh boar sign (the whole forest is covered in boar sign, the trick is to spot the snouting that was done most recently!) and, of course, any wandering boars!
Darkness came and a bit of night driving revealed nothing. We decided on a swift half but found to our astonishment that part of falling through the timewarp into the Forest of Dean was that nearly all the pubs close between afternoon and evening. Up near Milkwall we found an establishment called The Crown that was open. On entering, the old hackles prickled as everyone fell silent and looked at us. Oh-oh. The attention span of the grotesques peopling the bar was mere seconds, and by the time we were confronting the squat landlady with her single, forehead-spanning black eyebrow, they had returned to their traditional occupations of sinking lagers, discussing the sexual antics of close neighbours and screaming with laughter at jokes that were old when Robin Hood roamed the forests of Britain.
Mine hostess asked what we would like, and I requested a pint of Sharp's Doom Bar, a fine if light ale from Cornwall. "We've run out," was the reply, disturbing as there were no other hand pumps. Fatalistically I asked what other bitters might be available, and ended up with a bottle of Old Speckled Hen.
Apart from a mountainous young woman clad mostly in pink material under terrible strain, and made up seemingly of fractal globes from the bun atop her spherical head to a body with its own gravity field, the obvious "character" in the bar was a hunchbacked old man in a flat hat and country waistcoat, alternating his beer and whisky for some time, and then proceeding to take snuff!! Good heavens, he must be 200 years old. Surely nobody does that these days (it wasn't cocaine, honest.)
We left after one drink. We didn't run to the car but we stood not upon the order of our going.
However, this was the only manifestation of Midgardian life we encountered. Our own hotel was comfortable, warm, and full of friendly helpful staff and friendly customers. The three real ales on the bar were in good condition, the breakfasts were excellent and the evening food was mostly good, though the cook consistently cooked vegetables until they were thoroughly killed.
We were also made very welcome and after only one visit recognised and engaged in conversation by the operators of the Gaveller's Cafe at the visitor centre at Beechenhurst. They were pretty knowledgeable about the whereabouts of Forest wildlife and quite a help to us.
I should also mention that Mark gave us some good gen before we went.
On to Monday, and into the woods in search of Wild Boar. We spent much of the day seeking them out in places we had been advised to try and which featured fresh tracks and snouting on the trails - but no views or even distant grunts from the big pigs. Maz was a star throughout the stay, making no complaint about being dragged through brambles and darkling woods, through marsh and mire, and quite a bit of up hill and down dale to boot: though she did describe the process as "extreme rambling".
The action through the day was winged: Ravens overhead and a nice cocktail of garden birds at Cannop Ponds where a feeder is positioned with natural perches all round and handily close to the entrance track so your car can be used as a hide. Fairly approachable Mandarins on the ponds rounded off the photo-session and our final gems of the day on a dusk stakeout for boars (none turned up) were a couple of single Crossbills calling above us and the fluttering of a Woodcock in the last of the afterglow.
We got through a few beers (and malts) in anticipation of my birthday on the morrow. Surely it was time for a change of luck....
I managed to get up early and take a dawn drive around the Forest, with a short boar walk, before breakfast. The fresh air and exercise were nice, and I picked up a couple of Fallow Deer for the year, but still no main event.
The light was miserable most of the day but it wasn't as wet as predicted so we were able to continue our relentless search - and again resort to the Cannop feeder when we needed a rest. This time I engaged in a battle of wits with three Jays who employed a wide variety of approach routes and changed their target areas on each raid to try to avoid my questing lens. Trying to outwit birds: to such am I reduced at my half-century, but at least I reckon I won: I got a few decent shots.
The cafe couple suggested a different track in the same area we had been staking out, and a walk up and down the stretch while the light was still good revealed lots of very fresh hoof prints and recent snouting that hadn't been washed down by rain. None of it helped us upon this gloomy evening: we returned to the car in near darkness, boarless.
Wednesday, our last day in the Forest of Dean on this trip. A perfect dome of blue above us, no wind, the morning sun creeping down towards the ground and gradually burning off patchy mist as we headed out from the Fountain Inn.
Our morning walk produced no mammals as usual, but with such fine weather it was obviously a day for raptors so we moved to New Fancy View. Unfortunately with no thermals and no breeze either, the raptors disagreed and not even a Buzzard was flying, though we did see one pulling up earthworms in a sheep field.
Notwithstanding this I scrutinised the tops of the trees carefully and foudn a huge rectangular block of white at the top of one: female Goshawk onto the year-list. It sat still for nearly an hour, then did some wing-stretching and the moment I turned my eyes away, disappeared down among the conifers.
From there were going to hit the cafe for a cuppa but decided instead to have one up at Symonds Yat. Sadly that cafe was shut so it was straight on to Yat Rock and distant views of the Peregrine tiercel sitting on a bare ash branch in front of the nesting cliff.
With Maz getting tea withdrawal symptoms we moved on to our usual cafe, where we were dismayed to hear that at 0700 no less than four Wild Boars had been rotavating the lawn right by the forest centre. It was perhaps as disturbing to hear that as a result the Forestry Commission had sentenced them to execution overnight. However, the true guilty parties were the individuals who had been feeding the boars in the woods and rendered them less nervous. So here is the lesson: if you see boars in the Forest of Dean DO NOT feed them, pet them, or otherwise encourage them to be casual about approaching humans. It ain't ultimately in the interests of those individual boars.
Anyway, this decided us upon one more shot. It ain't over till its over, Booboo; its the seventh wave that comes furthest up the beach, and so on.
With grim determination we crossed the stile into the woods and set off up the track again. Fifty yards or so along is a cut through an old built embankment (roadway, railway or something) and just beyond it a huge dark grey form loomed against the backdrop of the trees: "We're in business," I told Maz in low tones.
The Wild Boar looked substantial, and more so through my lens as I began to rattle off bursts in the fading light. "There's another on the bank," Maz remarked, and after a second's incompetence I picked it out between trees and shrubs. It was high enough above us to be backlit by the sky's deepening blue and it looked the size of a house.
It moved along the bank and down the far side of it to join its companion, and they then began a slow advance towards us.
As they did so, and the camera rattled, and between times observation nearer and nearer improved our grasp of perspective, the boars dwindled until as they reached us they could be seen to be about the size of large, stout labradors.
This however made no difference to Marion's opinion of Wild Boars as potentially fatal adversaries and as they approached her voice went up the octaves like Katherine Jenkins's dulcet tones. Indeed I suddenly found her hands firmly twisted into the back of my fleece and myself being roughly manhandled, swung left and right as a human shield to keep me between her and the boars.
I was completely unworried and would have been convulsed with laughter except that "do you mind? I'm trying to photograph these boars - stop yanking me about!"
Admittedly they were now round our feet but their expressions clearly smacked of a desire for biccies, chocolate, sarnies or any other morsels we might have about us.
A feeble flap of the hand and "Go away" spooked one of them about ten yards into the woods where it began snuffling through the leaf litter and up onto the left side of the embankment. The other one was more persistent and despite some efforts on my part to move it on, it stayed, begging for food. It was quite clear to me that I could have patted it had I wished to. I didn't. I felt guilty for not giving it a kicking in the hope of frightening it well away from the forest centre, but that I felt would have been a liberty too far.
Eventually we had to move away and it quickly got the idea that we weren't going to feed it. I hope the two of them found their evening meal in the woods and not across the road where the rifle was waiting, but somehow I suspect they are now sausages.
We headed home with the Wild Boar job well and truly done, after a fun and relaxing few days in a very nice place with very nice people.
John
After some confusion in which despite having booked the accommodation Maz thought we were going to Norfolk, and some dismay when her question as to whether there would be shops was met with hysterical laughter, we set off in the less sick of our two cars on Sunday just gone.
We had taken the recommendation of BBC Wildlife Magazine and booked three nights at the Fountain Inn at Parkend in the Forest proper. Once we had taken possession of our room we had a drive round trying to spot fresh boar sign (the whole forest is covered in boar sign, the trick is to spot the snouting that was done most recently!) and, of course, any wandering boars!
Darkness came and a bit of night driving revealed nothing. We decided on a swift half but found to our astonishment that part of falling through the timewarp into the Forest of Dean was that nearly all the pubs close between afternoon and evening. Up near Milkwall we found an establishment called The Crown that was open. On entering, the old hackles prickled as everyone fell silent and looked at us. Oh-oh. The attention span of the grotesques peopling the bar was mere seconds, and by the time we were confronting the squat landlady with her single, forehead-spanning black eyebrow, they had returned to their traditional occupations of sinking lagers, discussing the sexual antics of close neighbours and screaming with laughter at jokes that were old when Robin Hood roamed the forests of Britain.
Mine hostess asked what we would like, and I requested a pint of Sharp's Doom Bar, a fine if light ale from Cornwall. "We've run out," was the reply, disturbing as there were no other hand pumps. Fatalistically I asked what other bitters might be available, and ended up with a bottle of Old Speckled Hen.
Apart from a mountainous young woman clad mostly in pink material under terrible strain, and made up seemingly of fractal globes from the bun atop her spherical head to a body with its own gravity field, the obvious "character" in the bar was a hunchbacked old man in a flat hat and country waistcoat, alternating his beer and whisky for some time, and then proceeding to take snuff!! Good heavens, he must be 200 years old. Surely nobody does that these days (it wasn't cocaine, honest.)
We left after one drink. We didn't run to the car but we stood not upon the order of our going.
However, this was the only manifestation of Midgardian life we encountered. Our own hotel was comfortable, warm, and full of friendly helpful staff and friendly customers. The three real ales on the bar were in good condition, the breakfasts were excellent and the evening food was mostly good, though the cook consistently cooked vegetables until they were thoroughly killed.
We were also made very welcome and after only one visit recognised and engaged in conversation by the operators of the Gaveller's Cafe at the visitor centre at Beechenhurst. They were pretty knowledgeable about the whereabouts of Forest wildlife and quite a help to us.
I should also mention that Mark gave us some good gen before we went.
On to Monday, and into the woods in search of Wild Boar. We spent much of the day seeking them out in places we had been advised to try and which featured fresh tracks and snouting on the trails - but no views or even distant grunts from the big pigs. Maz was a star throughout the stay, making no complaint about being dragged through brambles and darkling woods, through marsh and mire, and quite a bit of up hill and down dale to boot: though she did describe the process as "extreme rambling".
The action through the day was winged: Ravens overhead and a nice cocktail of garden birds at Cannop Ponds where a feeder is positioned with natural perches all round and handily close to the entrance track so your car can be used as a hide. Fairly approachable Mandarins on the ponds rounded off the photo-session and our final gems of the day on a dusk stakeout for boars (none turned up) were a couple of single Crossbills calling above us and the fluttering of a Woodcock in the last of the afterglow.
We got through a few beers (and malts) in anticipation of my birthday on the morrow. Surely it was time for a change of luck....
I managed to get up early and take a dawn drive around the Forest, with a short boar walk, before breakfast. The fresh air and exercise were nice, and I picked up a couple of Fallow Deer for the year, but still no main event.
The light was miserable most of the day but it wasn't as wet as predicted so we were able to continue our relentless search - and again resort to the Cannop feeder when we needed a rest. This time I engaged in a battle of wits with three Jays who employed a wide variety of approach routes and changed their target areas on each raid to try to avoid my questing lens. Trying to outwit birds: to such am I reduced at my half-century, but at least I reckon I won: I got a few decent shots.
The cafe couple suggested a different track in the same area we had been staking out, and a walk up and down the stretch while the light was still good revealed lots of very fresh hoof prints and recent snouting that hadn't been washed down by rain. None of it helped us upon this gloomy evening: we returned to the car in near darkness, boarless.
Wednesday, our last day in the Forest of Dean on this trip. A perfect dome of blue above us, no wind, the morning sun creeping down towards the ground and gradually burning off patchy mist as we headed out from the Fountain Inn.
Our morning walk produced no mammals as usual, but with such fine weather it was obviously a day for raptors so we moved to New Fancy View. Unfortunately with no thermals and no breeze either, the raptors disagreed and not even a Buzzard was flying, though we did see one pulling up earthworms in a sheep field.
Notwithstanding this I scrutinised the tops of the trees carefully and foudn a huge rectangular block of white at the top of one: female Goshawk onto the year-list. It sat still for nearly an hour, then did some wing-stretching and the moment I turned my eyes away, disappeared down among the conifers.
From there were going to hit the cafe for a cuppa but decided instead to have one up at Symonds Yat. Sadly that cafe was shut so it was straight on to Yat Rock and distant views of the Peregrine tiercel sitting on a bare ash branch in front of the nesting cliff.
With Maz getting tea withdrawal symptoms we moved on to our usual cafe, where we were dismayed to hear that at 0700 no less than four Wild Boars had been rotavating the lawn right by the forest centre. It was perhaps as disturbing to hear that as a result the Forestry Commission had sentenced them to execution overnight. However, the true guilty parties were the individuals who had been feeding the boars in the woods and rendered them less nervous. So here is the lesson: if you see boars in the Forest of Dean DO NOT feed them, pet them, or otherwise encourage them to be casual about approaching humans. It ain't ultimately in the interests of those individual boars.
Anyway, this decided us upon one more shot. It ain't over till its over, Booboo; its the seventh wave that comes furthest up the beach, and so on.
With grim determination we crossed the stile into the woods and set off up the track again. Fifty yards or so along is a cut through an old built embankment (roadway, railway or something) and just beyond it a huge dark grey form loomed against the backdrop of the trees: "We're in business," I told Maz in low tones.
The Wild Boar looked substantial, and more so through my lens as I began to rattle off bursts in the fading light. "There's another on the bank," Maz remarked, and after a second's incompetence I picked it out between trees and shrubs. It was high enough above us to be backlit by the sky's deepening blue and it looked the size of a house.
It moved along the bank and down the far side of it to join its companion, and they then began a slow advance towards us.
As they did so, and the camera rattled, and between times observation nearer and nearer improved our grasp of perspective, the boars dwindled until as they reached us they could be seen to be about the size of large, stout labradors.
This however made no difference to Marion's opinion of Wild Boars as potentially fatal adversaries and as they approached her voice went up the octaves like Katherine Jenkins's dulcet tones. Indeed I suddenly found her hands firmly twisted into the back of my fleece and myself being roughly manhandled, swung left and right as a human shield to keep me between her and the boars.
I was completely unworried and would have been convulsed with laughter except that "do you mind? I'm trying to photograph these boars - stop yanking me about!"
Admittedly they were now round our feet but their expressions clearly smacked of a desire for biccies, chocolate, sarnies or any other morsels we might have about us.
A feeble flap of the hand and "Go away" spooked one of them about ten yards into the woods where it began snuffling through the leaf litter and up onto the left side of the embankment. The other one was more persistent and despite some efforts on my part to move it on, it stayed, begging for food. It was quite clear to me that I could have patted it had I wished to. I didn't. I felt guilty for not giving it a kicking in the hope of frightening it well away from the forest centre, but that I felt would have been a liberty too far.
Eventually we had to move away and it quickly got the idea that we weren't going to feed it. I hope the two of them found their evening meal in the woods and not across the road where the rifle was waiting, but somehow I suspect they are now sausages.
We headed home with the Wild Boar job well and truly done, after a fun and relaxing few days in a very nice place with very nice people.
John
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Did Rik Mayal miss the dartboard when you walked into the pub Jon? Thought you went to Aus for your 50th?
Rich
Rich
Farnboro John
Well-known member
Ah... now there is a sore point. Between sick cars and fixing bits of house we have had to postpone Australia until my dear mad mother finally pops her clogs.
In the meantime we have a number of short trips planned to make the best of both my and Maz's 50th birthdays (both this year) so between this thread and vacational trips I hope to provide entertainment for us all.
Of course there is always the back up of the lottery!
Incidentally I forgot to mention that we came home (after a stop at the Air Balloon, another fine hostelry) through thick fog over the Cotswolds, and as we came to the M4 roundabout at Swindon my foot hit the floor to build up speed for the long hill off the slip road. As we came off the roundabout onto the downhill slip road I thought "why has that fox got no tail?" just as Maz yelled "Muntjac!" and I had to slam the anchors on to avoid it, then accelerate again once it was safely out of the way.
John
Isurus
Well-known member
:eek!:
