Occasionally- and often when I’m trudging home on tired legs after a day’s birding- my imagination turns to what it would be like to finally go back and complete my PhD. I’m currently on the 29th year of my ‘year out’ so maybe time is running short, but anyway, my chosen subject would be a history of animal rights groups. Such a trudge got me thinking of how some groups and people start off as radicals, and then as time passes on, moderation sets in. The firebrand passion is lost, and the hope has to be that other people will take up the flame.
The week following my Aberlady trip was very much a repeat of previous weeks, with the garden and local area playing host to a decent (if predictable) variety of birds. Still no siskin, sadly, and I’m now resigned to either having to get really lucky, or really clever. Those who know me would point out its likely I’ll be neither.
I had booked another midweek day off and opted to spend it locally- probably best classed as a ‘must’ trip, and a relief that it moved away from the ‘should’ category. I had plans the following week for a bigger day in the East, and felt an urge to actually do some local birding. I formed a plan to walk to Blantyre along the Clyde, and on the way back visit Fin Me Oot. A more ambitious, but half-formed idea was to visit some of the less- well known places between Uddingston and Bargeddie. For once the weather was pretty much as expected, and despite the previous 2 days being cold and wet the Thursday dawned bright and reasonably mild. An unexpected errand in the morning meant that I didn’t get started until noon, and I restricted myself to Fin Me Oot and a walk to Bothwell Castle.
My hope for Fin Me Oot was for dipper- my mate Bill had had one there a few days previously, albeit he warned that it had been at the sixth time of trying. I was also hoping for raptors of any sort, plus whatever signs of life I could find. The River Clyde was in full spate, clearly the previous days’ rain taking time to resolve. The high water level, and generally muddy, chocolatey- looking water meant that the river itself was largely lifeless.
The path to Townfoot Farm was immediately noticeable for the way the hedgerows had been cut to barely more than stumps. Totally unnecessary, the hedges themselves never grow either tall or thick enough to cause the farmer problems, and clearly he has done it because he can, because he wanted to, and nothing to do with whether he needed to. My mood was not improved as I realised that the car breaker’s yard at the other side of the path had again took it upon themselves to expand their territory, this time dumping whole vans outside the boundary fence, creating earthen barriers, and installing temporary fencing. I had contacted my local councillor to complain the last time they tried this, but clearly, the needs of a local business outweighed the needs of the local environment in his eyes. Without getting too political, I expected better, and he should remember there's an election next year.
I pride myself on being the most annoying person I know- I mean, I really like that about myself. I’m what would affectionately be called a ‘wee nyaff’ sometimes. And this was one of those times. I took it upon myself to take as many photographs of the area as I could, not being skulking or discreet, and almost hoping that some of the workers would challenge me on it. My mind raced as I wondered who to send them to for maximum impact. Not the same councillor as before, and I would need to do a bit of work. The anger I had felt now had a focus, a purpose, and I felt better for it.
My favourite ‘unofficial’ path is now overgrown and near- impassable. Given the shortage of time, I opted for the less- impassable and slightly less ‘unofficial’ path. Within feet of joining it my attention was drawn to a fir tree and the sight of goldcrest and goldfinch flitting about the upper branches, silhouettes against the sky. I stopped walking and stared. Needless to say, I never, ever take goldcrest for granted, but then, do I ever take ANY bird for granted? Should we?
The dead woods had reverted back to being sort of dead, the noise and life of a few weeks ago, and last summer, now absent, hopefully temporarily. The lack of bird song made the noise of the nearby roadworks all the more jarring. Woodland, bushes and scrub destroyed to make way for a roundabout at Redlees Quarry. Another environmental crime by South Lanarkshire Council. I made a mental note to contact the council and politely ask about the local nature reserve we were promised. I suspect they'll be hoping this promise would be quietly shelved. Fortunately, I've got plenty of spare time to annoy people.
The path to Fin Me Oot was mostly empty bar the sound of corvids in various places. The thin sunlight and cawing of crows gave it a very wintry feeling. I negotiated the worst of the muddy patch (I like mud ON my boots, not IN my boots) and headed to the green bridge over the Rotten Calder. This river too was in spate, with fewer rocks exposed than before. The housing estate on top of the hill at Newton was as ugly as ever- like a weeping boil on the landscape.
Corvid calls vied with blue and great tits, but there was still nowhere near the wall of noise we can expect, or hope for, later in the spring. A grey wagtail flew over the adjacent field, heading for the confluence of the Clyde and Rotten Calder a few hundred yards downstream. I set up on the bridge, and urged myself to be patient. If My Mate Bill had to work hard, then there was no way that I wouldn’t. I spent ten minutes at a time looking downstream, before switching to look upstream under the bridge. I was rewarded by another grey wagtail on the far bank of the river bend, before it flew off. Not as good view as the one I had at Hogganfield, but this was one at my own place, my special place, so was even more appreciated than the first of the year.
Bill’s words of caution meant that rather than taking the grey wag and calling it a day, I persevered in the wait for a dipper. Eventually, my patience was rewarded as I searched upstream, past the bridge. A familiar brown blur landed on the spit of mud, its white bib eventually resolving as my eyes adjusted between the daylight at either end of the tunnel, and the darkness within. It stayed all too briefly, before flying off further upstream.
The walk back was much more positive than the walk there, although I was still ruminating about the auto wreckers. As I rounded the bend at the railway bridge, though, I stopped dead in my tracks. Ahead of me came the unmistakeable call of “chiff-chaff, chiff-chaff, chiff-chaff chiff”. A smile broke out on my face, instantly dispelling the sense of gloom, the frustration at how my local area, my patch was being treated. I sat on the Fin Me Oot bench, thinking that this would give me the best chance, if any, to find the bird in my binos. The nearest trees were quite distant, and the second call I heard sounded even further, but I spent a pleasant 20 minutes in the sun looking and listening for an encore. Eventually, though, it was time to move as I still aimed to walk from Uddingston Grammar bridge to Bothwell Castle. On my way back I took the higher path, hoping for treecreeper, and instead got long- tailed tits and a calling nuthatch. The Deadwoods not being quite so lifeless as I had thought.
The Clyde, when I got back there, was still a fast- flowing chocolate colour, and still devoid of any noticeable life. The walk at the Grammar was quiet, the late hour meant that it was dog walking time, and only corvid calls in the highest trees were obvious. Further along, blue and great tits calls picked up gradually, and a song thrush began showing off its vocal prowess. At the bottom of the Porter’s Well playing fields the noise levels increased dramatically, with goldfinch flitting between trees, plus the ubiquitous blue and great tits. The song thrush by now was in full voice, and I heard the ‘chacking’ of a great spotted woodpecker contact call. I made a mental note to spend time there on the way back.
The path along the river was itself relatively quiet. I was on the alert both for stock dove (it says something about 2025 that I need a separate list for ‘bogey birds.’) and an incredibly optimistic hope for ring- necked parakeet. The sound of the water rushing by- sometimes only inches from the path- drowned out almost all the birdsong. I focussed on checking for movement among the treetops, and across the river toward the ‘cormorant tree’ where Bill had had stock dove some time before.
Regrettably, bird sightings were restricted mostly to mallard and goosander on the mud at the far bank. A cormorant flew upstream from the Cormorant Tree, although I couldn’t get much of a view due to the unwanted attention of a very angry spaniel. I had thought that all spaniels were adorable, so clearly more fieldwork investigations are needed. Eventually, I reached the castle, as the clouds had begun rolling in from the South. I turned to retrace my steps, hoping that there would be enough sunlight left to spend some time at Porter’s Well. From the recesses of my memory I recalled a day watching a kestrel masterclass of hunting. (needless to say, Kestrel is on the 2025 bogeybird list)
I reached Porter’s Well without anything noticeable occurring, bar a possible ring- necked parakeet half- calling. Can’t be sure, so I’m not ticking it. It didn’t repeat either. One for another day, clearly.
Avid readers will remember a post- lockdown winter’s day that I spent on the Porter’s Well fields, with a walled- off area tantalizing in its mystery, like a secret garden. This area again came up trumps with a song thrush still in excellent song. Chaffinch had joined the goldfinches in flitting about the upper branches of the trees, with blackbirds active among the leaf litter on the ground. The ground where I was standing was deliciously soft and muddy, spongey without being waterlogged. Perfect. I stood, and watched, and listened, impervious to the growing coolness of the late afternoon. Eventually, hunger overtook me, and I reluctantly headed off to the shop for some well deserved junk food and to plan my big day out in Dunbar (the ‘away’ part of Home & Away, in case you were wondering).
THOUGHTS
Many blogs ago I ruminated about when I started thinking of Uddingston as ‘home’. I’m not from the village, and regardless of how long I live here I’ll never feel like I belong. And to be fair, I don’t want to. I’ve interacted with too many ‘Uddingston Folk’ to want to be one of them. I’m from the village next door, and always will be. But in terms of birding, Uddy is my home patch, and as it turns out, a place I quite care about. My kids have grown up here, and in all likelihood will raise their own families here too. This is a place with massive birding and wider wildlife potential, and its almost a physical pain to see whats happening to it. Maybe this is why it infuriates me so much, its not an abstract issue, its actually personal. I can't escape from the suspicion that the bloated high profile organisations have lost sight of this. And while that continues they’ll lose the battle..
And I’m not willing to accept that.
Stay healthy, stay brilliant folks.
John
The week following my Aberlady trip was very much a repeat of previous weeks, with the garden and local area playing host to a decent (if predictable) variety of birds. Still no siskin, sadly, and I’m now resigned to either having to get really lucky, or really clever. Those who know me would point out its likely I’ll be neither.
I had booked another midweek day off and opted to spend it locally- probably best classed as a ‘must’ trip, and a relief that it moved away from the ‘should’ category. I had plans the following week for a bigger day in the East, and felt an urge to actually do some local birding. I formed a plan to walk to Blantyre along the Clyde, and on the way back visit Fin Me Oot. A more ambitious, but half-formed idea was to visit some of the less- well known places between Uddingston and Bargeddie. For once the weather was pretty much as expected, and despite the previous 2 days being cold and wet the Thursday dawned bright and reasonably mild. An unexpected errand in the morning meant that I didn’t get started until noon, and I restricted myself to Fin Me Oot and a walk to Bothwell Castle.
My hope for Fin Me Oot was for dipper- my mate Bill had had one there a few days previously, albeit he warned that it had been at the sixth time of trying. I was also hoping for raptors of any sort, plus whatever signs of life I could find. The River Clyde was in full spate, clearly the previous days’ rain taking time to resolve. The high water level, and generally muddy, chocolatey- looking water meant that the river itself was largely lifeless.
The path to Townfoot Farm was immediately noticeable for the way the hedgerows had been cut to barely more than stumps. Totally unnecessary, the hedges themselves never grow either tall or thick enough to cause the farmer problems, and clearly he has done it because he can, because he wanted to, and nothing to do with whether he needed to. My mood was not improved as I realised that the car breaker’s yard at the other side of the path had again took it upon themselves to expand their territory, this time dumping whole vans outside the boundary fence, creating earthen barriers, and installing temporary fencing. I had contacted my local councillor to complain the last time they tried this, but clearly, the needs of a local business outweighed the needs of the local environment in his eyes. Without getting too political, I expected better, and he should remember there's an election next year.
I pride myself on being the most annoying person I know- I mean, I really like that about myself. I’m what would affectionately be called a ‘wee nyaff’ sometimes. And this was one of those times. I took it upon myself to take as many photographs of the area as I could, not being skulking or discreet, and almost hoping that some of the workers would challenge me on it. My mind raced as I wondered who to send them to for maximum impact. Not the same councillor as before, and I would need to do a bit of work. The anger I had felt now had a focus, a purpose, and I felt better for it.
My favourite ‘unofficial’ path is now overgrown and near- impassable. Given the shortage of time, I opted for the less- impassable and slightly less ‘unofficial’ path. Within feet of joining it my attention was drawn to a fir tree and the sight of goldcrest and goldfinch flitting about the upper branches, silhouettes against the sky. I stopped walking and stared. Needless to say, I never, ever take goldcrest for granted, but then, do I ever take ANY bird for granted? Should we?
The dead woods had reverted back to being sort of dead, the noise and life of a few weeks ago, and last summer, now absent, hopefully temporarily. The lack of bird song made the noise of the nearby roadworks all the more jarring. Woodland, bushes and scrub destroyed to make way for a roundabout at Redlees Quarry. Another environmental crime by South Lanarkshire Council. I made a mental note to contact the council and politely ask about the local nature reserve we were promised. I suspect they'll be hoping this promise would be quietly shelved. Fortunately, I've got plenty of spare time to annoy people.
The path to Fin Me Oot was mostly empty bar the sound of corvids in various places. The thin sunlight and cawing of crows gave it a very wintry feeling. I negotiated the worst of the muddy patch (I like mud ON my boots, not IN my boots) and headed to the green bridge over the Rotten Calder. This river too was in spate, with fewer rocks exposed than before. The housing estate on top of the hill at Newton was as ugly as ever- like a weeping boil on the landscape.
Corvid calls vied with blue and great tits, but there was still nowhere near the wall of noise we can expect, or hope for, later in the spring. A grey wagtail flew over the adjacent field, heading for the confluence of the Clyde and Rotten Calder a few hundred yards downstream. I set up on the bridge, and urged myself to be patient. If My Mate Bill had to work hard, then there was no way that I wouldn’t. I spent ten minutes at a time looking downstream, before switching to look upstream under the bridge. I was rewarded by another grey wagtail on the far bank of the river bend, before it flew off. Not as good view as the one I had at Hogganfield, but this was one at my own place, my special place, so was even more appreciated than the first of the year.
Bill’s words of caution meant that rather than taking the grey wag and calling it a day, I persevered in the wait for a dipper. Eventually, my patience was rewarded as I searched upstream, past the bridge. A familiar brown blur landed on the spit of mud, its white bib eventually resolving as my eyes adjusted between the daylight at either end of the tunnel, and the darkness within. It stayed all too briefly, before flying off further upstream.
The walk back was much more positive than the walk there, although I was still ruminating about the auto wreckers. As I rounded the bend at the railway bridge, though, I stopped dead in my tracks. Ahead of me came the unmistakeable call of “chiff-chaff, chiff-chaff, chiff-chaff chiff”. A smile broke out on my face, instantly dispelling the sense of gloom, the frustration at how my local area, my patch was being treated. I sat on the Fin Me Oot bench, thinking that this would give me the best chance, if any, to find the bird in my binos. The nearest trees were quite distant, and the second call I heard sounded even further, but I spent a pleasant 20 minutes in the sun looking and listening for an encore. Eventually, though, it was time to move as I still aimed to walk from Uddingston Grammar bridge to Bothwell Castle. On my way back I took the higher path, hoping for treecreeper, and instead got long- tailed tits and a calling nuthatch. The Deadwoods not being quite so lifeless as I had thought.
The Clyde, when I got back there, was still a fast- flowing chocolate colour, and still devoid of any noticeable life. The walk at the Grammar was quiet, the late hour meant that it was dog walking time, and only corvid calls in the highest trees were obvious. Further along, blue and great tits calls picked up gradually, and a song thrush began showing off its vocal prowess. At the bottom of the Porter’s Well playing fields the noise levels increased dramatically, with goldfinch flitting between trees, plus the ubiquitous blue and great tits. The song thrush by now was in full voice, and I heard the ‘chacking’ of a great spotted woodpecker contact call. I made a mental note to spend time there on the way back.
The path along the river was itself relatively quiet. I was on the alert both for stock dove (it says something about 2025 that I need a separate list for ‘bogey birds.’) and an incredibly optimistic hope for ring- necked parakeet. The sound of the water rushing by- sometimes only inches from the path- drowned out almost all the birdsong. I focussed on checking for movement among the treetops, and across the river toward the ‘cormorant tree’ where Bill had had stock dove some time before.
Regrettably, bird sightings were restricted mostly to mallard and goosander on the mud at the far bank. A cormorant flew upstream from the Cormorant Tree, although I couldn’t get much of a view due to the unwanted attention of a very angry spaniel. I had thought that all spaniels were adorable, so clearly more fieldwork investigations are needed. Eventually, I reached the castle, as the clouds had begun rolling in from the South. I turned to retrace my steps, hoping that there would be enough sunlight left to spend some time at Porter’s Well. From the recesses of my memory I recalled a day watching a kestrel masterclass of hunting. (needless to say, Kestrel is on the 2025 bogeybird list)
I reached Porter’s Well without anything noticeable occurring, bar a possible ring- necked parakeet half- calling. Can’t be sure, so I’m not ticking it. It didn’t repeat either. One for another day, clearly.
Avid readers will remember a post- lockdown winter’s day that I spent on the Porter’s Well fields, with a walled- off area tantalizing in its mystery, like a secret garden. This area again came up trumps with a song thrush still in excellent song. Chaffinch had joined the goldfinches in flitting about the upper branches of the trees, with blackbirds active among the leaf litter on the ground. The ground where I was standing was deliciously soft and muddy, spongey without being waterlogged. Perfect. I stood, and watched, and listened, impervious to the growing coolness of the late afternoon. Eventually, hunger overtook me, and I reluctantly headed off to the shop for some well deserved junk food and to plan my big day out in Dunbar (the ‘away’ part of Home & Away, in case you were wondering).
THOUGHTS
Many blogs ago I ruminated about when I started thinking of Uddingston as ‘home’. I’m not from the village, and regardless of how long I live here I’ll never feel like I belong. And to be fair, I don’t want to. I’ve interacted with too many ‘Uddingston Folk’ to want to be one of them. I’m from the village next door, and always will be. But in terms of birding, Uddy is my home patch, and as it turns out, a place I quite care about. My kids have grown up here, and in all likelihood will raise their own families here too. This is a place with massive birding and wider wildlife potential, and its almost a physical pain to see whats happening to it. Maybe this is why it infuriates me so much, its not an abstract issue, its actually personal. I can't escape from the suspicion that the bloated high profile organisations have lost sight of this. And while that continues they’ll lose the battle..
And I’m not willing to accept that.
Stay healthy, stay brilliant folks.
John