BrickBuilding
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Easy to walk past but on second view the colours came alive and my shutter finger started to twitch.
Taken during a gentle walk in Conwy, North Wales.
The amber orbs are always switched on regarding every nook and cranny and twitch of the world around him ... obviously I was being too still :)
A cool shot is always good but ....
Just having fun. Hope you enjoy it.
Was in Cartegena sim for this one. Winter is the dino and I'm the wannabe influencer.
Darn! I should have said followers. Oh well. Too late now.
original picture is here--way too dark
gyazo.com/c99284680d30dcea2aa70bae03f42817
I changed this in a combination of topaz and photoshop on a livestream in Twitch as Mary Tamashiro but accidentally showed a bit of a youtube pic and title while I was changing screens so deleted it. I'll probably try to edit out that part and then reload it on youtube or something.
Don’t say it aloud,
don’t let the coastal span of another utterance
roll off your tongue.
It’s a subtle, innate, human skill
of non-articulation, omission, awkwardness,
concealing something light behind your heart,
something so light, so sweet, so unshareable,
this wild generosity of not burdening anyone
with things that might make their face twitch.
And then speech starts, like the start of a cold,
it warms your lungs, and the fever sets in,
and since early August anxious people have been wandering around
glowing from within with this mysterious light.
Serhiy Zhadan (Translated from the Ukrainian by Amelia Glaser and Yuliya Ilchuk)
Flower by Lode
'Silent hunter' The beautiful male Hen Harrier quartering the heather in its protected habitat on The Isle of Mull, Argyll and Bute, Scotland.
The Hen Harrier has been severely persecuted for taking game species and has suffered massive declines in numbers as a result. Thankfully, conservation projects are underway to reduce conflict surrounding its controversial prey.
Of the UK's birds of prey, this is the most intensively persecuted. Once predating free-range fowl, earning its present name, its effect on the number of grouse available to shoot is the cause of modern conflict and threatens its survival in some parts of the UK, particularly on the driven grouse moors of England and Scotland. (RSPB Note)
While males are a pale grey colour, females and immatures are brown with a white rump and a long, barred tail which give them the name 'ringtail'. They fly with wings held in a shallow 'V', gliding low in search of food, which mainly consists of meadow pipits and voles. The Orkney population is famous for being polygynous, with males sometimes mating with multiple females on the island.
They are listed as a Schedule 1 species under The Wildlife and Countryside Act.
Many thanks for visiting my Flickr pages ...Your visits, interest, comments and kindness to 'fave' my photos is very much appreciated, Steve.
Hen Harrier Notes and information:
Category: Birds of prey
Statistics
Length: 48-55cm
Wingspan: 1.1m
Weight: 350-500g
Average lifespan: 7 years
Conservation status
Classified in the UK as Red under the Birds of Conservation Concern 4: the Red List for Birds (2021). Protected in the UK under the Wildlife and Countryside Act, 1981.
When to see: January to December
About
The Hen Harrier nests on the ground among the heather of upland moorlands. It winters in the lowlands, particularly around the coast, on heathland and on farmland. It is one of the most endangered breeding birds of prey in the country; it sometimes feeds on small grouse and fowl (hence its name), bringing it into conflict with gamekeepers and farmers.
How to identify
The hen harrier is a slim bird. Males are blue-grey with a white rump, pale underside and black wing tips. Females are brown above and streaky below, with a white rump and a banded tail.
Distribution
Found in Scotland and parts of upland Wales, Northern Ireland and the Isle of Man. Only a tiny handful of pairs now nest in parts of upland England. Winters in small numbers throughout the UK.
Habitats
Heathland, Moorland, Farmland, Coastal Wetlands, Woodland
Did you know?
Female Hen Harriers are known as 'ringtails' due to their distinctive tail banding. Both females and males attend the young; the males provide food, which is often passed, mid-air to the female in a spectacular display of 'throw and catch'. NWT Notes.
There are several dead tree stumps exposed from a reed bed alongside a series of small lakes. They act as great vantage points for any fish or insect eaters. On this occasion, a plucky young Wagtail.
♂︎ Common Kingfisher / Eisvogel (Alcedo atthis)
A Kingfisher can brighten up any afternoon. On this occasion, this was as much as he was willing to show whilst fishing on a local pond.
He's perched above the same reed bed that the Rail in this shot was wading through, just a few minutes proir. A good day!
A bird visiting our water bath in Nairobi, Kenya. Again, I have no idea what type of bird this is, only that it may have spotted me while it was taking a bath!
Please make a note in the comments if you know the name of this bird...I believe it could be a type of warbler.
Thanks!
Out and about with breagha
I'm getting into the local stream at this point
She does a funny we thing with her nose like twitching
May 26, 2021 - Hwy 183 South of Holdrege Nebraska US
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Back in the Saddle that evening! Had and hour before sunset and we were on the hunt... for severe weather!
She wouldn't disappoint us that evening! Supercell development with a defined hook on radar. Beautiful structure on to areas of rotation! Total Storm Chasing Eye Candy!
#ForeverChasing
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D'Arnaud's barbet is a small East African bird that feeds on insects, fruits, and seeds.
It grows to about eight inches, and is equally at home in trees or on the ground. A vertical tunnel two to three feet into the ground with a sideways and upward turn leads to the nest chamber.
In a striking dance the male and female face each on nearby twigs and twitch, bob and sing like mechanical toys.
This was what all the fuss was about. Top of the fantasy wishlist of every twitcher in Britain, an accessible bird on the mainland was found by a dedicated local birder in the village of Easington a couple of miles North of Spurn Point, hot on the heels of a bird found on Shetland, its first day attracted an estimated 1200 birders. A local farmer set aside a field to accommodate the excess of vehicles and to alleviate congestion in the small village. Police patrols were stepped up and minor roads were closed to vehicles.
The bird spent a week feeding in this clearing taking tiny caterpillars, moving around furtively much like a common or garden Dunnock, oblivious to all the fuss it had created.
Please don't use this image on websites, blogs or any other media without my permission.© Degzi. All rights reserved.
The last post from my 'misty morning in Devon' series. This is a bird watchers hut in the middle of a small lake.
A twitcher is someone who sets out to see as many different bird species as possible. In this cat's case, I think any bird will do, common or rare. As long as it has feathers and flies, that will suffice.
I could tell from the look on the face of the concierge that my fantastic idea wasn’t going to happen. “I’m just worried for your safety,” he replied apologetically. “If they see you, the police will want to know what you’re doing and it may mean trouble for you,” he went on. Plan A had looked to be a relatively simple one, and yet there it lay, twitching in the dust like a dying beast. And to think all I wanted to do was walk to the west for perhaps no more than a mile, to a place where I could get a clear view of the mountains and point my camera at them in the golden hour. “Which side road should I take for a good view?” was all I’d asked. The answer was none of them. Stay in the hotel and forget your crazy notions. Unless you want to spend a night or two in an Egyptian jail waiting for the British consul to arrive. Go and have another pina colada by the pool. He didn’t say all of this of course. He didn't need to.
Remember those harmless British plane spotters in Greece who received prison sentences for espionage when all they’d wanted to do was jot down a few numbers? I sighed, thanked the concierge for his concern over my welfare and reluctantly put the idea to bed. By now we’d drawn a small crowd of equally worried looking reception staff. I told them I was going to climb Mount Sinai at sunrise on Monday and watched their faces fall towards the polished marble floor of the hotel reception area. “But on an organised trip!” I quickly added as I watched a small tidal wave of relief wash across the front desk. I probably wasn’t going to end up in prison and we could all move on with our mornings.
You can probably understand how frustrating the news was. Our hotel was on the seafront, while a few miles behind us to the west lay the southern corner of the Sinai mountain range. In between stood a mile of shops, hotels, houses and mosques, a huge concrete barrier obliterating all but the hulking shoulders and summits. From the balcony outside our front door we could see them beginning to glow against the setting sun each day, but there was nowhere within easy range to get a clean shot. It was like looking at the tantalising glint from a gold bar beneath the grille of a storm drain that had rusted over and refused to move. So very close, but yet so annoyingly elusive. Plan B? Well there was a backup solution. Not a very satisfactory one, but it would have to do because Plan C was non-existent. We’d already booked the Dune Buggy safari and that would put us right in among the mountains at sunset. Hopefully I’d find five minutes to grab a few shots in between the camel ride and the Bedouin show. No time for any of your considered compositions here.
At the safari centre we were given our instructions by a cheerful Mahmoud, fitted with crash helmets and covered from head to toe in protective scarves to prevent us from ingesting clouds of dust all afternoon. And then we commenced our drive into the desert in a game of follow the leader, quad bikes first, dune buggies at the back, each vehicle staying five metres from the one in front, or at least as well as we could manage to. I’m sure ours had a few less horsepower than the one we were immediately behind. Around us, other groups came towards us from the front, or joined us from the sides, like a network of trains on these desert tracks. We could have been shooting scenes for the next Mad Max blockbuster. Local Bedouins raced past in white trucks and battered old cars, throwing up a desert storm as they left us in their wake. It was pretty regimented with no going off piste, but that didn’t mean that it wasn’t enormous fun. Even my reluctant partner seemed to be enjoying herself. Every few minutes, the official photographer would appear on the back of an SUV, slowing down to wave at us and fire his camera in burst mode as we went past.
All the while, the guides on their quad bikes buzzed around us like flies on horses, weaving in and out of the train, grinning, thumbs aloft, standing nonchalantly on their running boards, with one hand on their steering columns. Without the protection we tourists were wearing, we speculated on how many cubic metres of dust these young men must swallow each year. We’d grin back at them and return the thumbs to confirm that yes, we were indeed having a splendid time. It was their job to make sure we were smiling underneath our face coverings, and most importantly of all that we would return to our hotels later in possession of the same number of limbs we’d arrived here with. One woman had braked too hard at one point, fallen off her quad bike, and was hobbling onto the minibus afterwards, much to Mahmoud’s annoyance. “We told her,” he complained to the rest of us, “but she didn’t listen and it causes a problem for us.” Who was right or wrong, I cannot say, but everyone else appeared to have survived the adventure intact.
Later, after the briefest of camel rides, from which it transpired that one hundred Egyptian pounds may not have been the most generous trip our Bedouin herders had ever received, we were led up a short steep slope to a place where we could witness the sun setting behind the mountains. In fact it had already disappeared behind clouds, but this was my only chance to get anything at all. I had about ten minutes to grab my shots and hope for the best. The young photographer cooed with excitement when he saw me taking my shots. A kindred spirit with a camera rather than a mobile phone. He cooed again when I showed him some of my photos on the way back down the slope to the open air theatre. All I could find in a hurry on my phone were the ones I had printed on my 2023 calendar. “That’s Iceland,” I told him as I scrolled to September and the black church of Budir under a swirling pink sky. He cooed some more. Whether he’d ever seen a picture from Iceland before I’ve really no idea. It reminded me how lucky I’ve been to have spent time in some incredible places where I could take as many pictures as I liked without being arrested and dragged off the local clink. Not everyone can travel as freely as we do. “You must be a professional,” he gushed. I laughed and told him how good you lot are at taking photos. He’s too busy trying to earn a modest living taking shots of tourists on quad bikes to have any time to photograph the landscape. The next day, in return for the twenty dollars I’d given him, I received a pack of photos of us waving back at him from our dune buggy as we clattered along the desert tracks. He’d done an excellent job. I thanked him and told him so. As for my own efforts, I just did what I could in a hurry. Plan B wasn’t ideal, but it was better than no plan at all. And the dune buggy beano had been a blast.
'All fluffed out'. The iconic, beautiful, ever vocal chattering Tree Sparrow, Passer montanus always reminds me of my childhood days when i'd be wondering around fields and hedgerows, Northumberland.
Many thanks for visiting my Flickr pages ...Your visits, interest, comments and kindness to 'fave' my photos is very much appreciated, Steve.
The Eurasian Tree Sparrow, Passer montanus ...is a passerine bird in the sparrow family with a rich chestnut crown and nape, and a black patch on each pure white cheek.
The sexes are similarly plumaged, and young birds are a duller version of the adult. This sparrow breeds over most of temperate Eurasia and Southeast Asia, where it is known as the tree sparrow, and it has been introduced elsewhere including the United States, where it is known as the Eurasian tree sparrow or German sparrow to differentiate it from the native unrelated American tree sparrow.
Although several subspecies are recognised, the appearance of this bird varies little across its extensive range.
Dory the cat's sittin' at her windae, watchin' the lively carry-on doon below wi' a growin' sense o' suspicion. As the meeces dart back an' forth across the field, somethin' on the sidelines catches her eye. There's that awful reprobate, Brushtail Mousie, who's gone an' set up a wee stall where she's takin' bets on the outcome o' the game. Dory's ears twitch, an' her suspicions deepen.
Could there be a connection between these bets an' the "donations" the BunBuns are so freely handin' oot tae the players? Dory's got a feelin' in her whiskers that Brushtail Mousie an' the BunBuns might be in cahoots. Maybe these donations arenae just innocent wee gifts, but part o' some bigger scheme tae rig the game. The BunBuns arenae just gamblin'—they're makin' investments, an' Brushtail Mousie could be the one makin' sure those investments pay aff.
Dory narrows her eyes even mair as she thinks it over. Whatever's goin' on here, it reeks o' a crafty plan that could turn the daft world o' pawball-playin' meeces upside doon. In a world where Brushtail Mousie is pullin' the strings, ye can bet yer last bit o' kibble that nothin's left tae chance.
Dory, die Katze, sitzt an ihrem Fenster und beobachtet das lebhafte Treiben unten mit wachsendem Misstrauen. Während die Mäuse auf dem Spielfeld hin und her flitzen, zieht etwas am Rand des Geschehens ihre Aufmerksamkeit auf sich. Da ist Brushtail Mousie, dieser abscheuliche Halunke, der doch tatsächlich einen Stand aufgebaut hat, an dem sie Wetten auf den Ausgang des Spiels annimmt. Dorys Ohren zucken, und ihr Verdacht wächst.
Könnte es einen Zusammenhang zwischen diesen Wetten und den "Spenden" geben, die die BunBuns so großzügig an die Spieler verteilen? Dory hat den scharfen Verdacht, dass Brushtail Mousie und die BunBuns gemeinsame Sache machen. Vielleicht sind die Spenden gar keine unschuldigen Gaben, sondern Teil eines größeren Plans, um das Spiel zu manipulieren. Die BunBuns wetten nicht nur, sie investieren—und Brushtail Mousie könnte genau derjenige sein, der dafür sorgt, dass sich diese Investitionen auszahlen.
Dorys Augen verengen sich noch mehr, als sie darüber nachdenkt. Was auch immer hier vor sich geht, es riecht stark nach einem ausgeklügelten Plan, der die naive Welt der Pfotenball spielenden Mäuse gründlich durcheinanderbringen könnte. In einer Welt, in der Brushtail Mousie die Fäden zieht, scheint nichts dem Zufall überlassen zu sein.
Here a female Chaffinch waits patiently for her turn to eat from one of the feeding stations in Lossie woods.
Scanned Lumen Print.
Oranges and plants from the frozen garden on Ilford Bromide "Special for Carbro" (24x30 cm).
Old school.
Citrus slices appear better on warm tone paper. But here they are anyway, just doing their best.
No fixing or toning.
The Bewicks Wren is a challenge to photograph as some part of it seems to be always in motion. High contrast conditions do not help but I got a couple of interesting images.
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Thank you so much for your visits, comments and favs.
©2018 Bruno Portier, All Rights Reserved. All images of this gallery are not available for use on websites, blogs or other media without the explicit written permission of the photographer
Symonds Yat Rock is home to Peregrine Falcons and Gosshawks among other bird species. It attracts bird watchers from near and far. The Peregrine (known as Duck Hawk in America) is the fastest animal on Earth, the highest measured speed in a dive being 242mph (389kph).
For the Twitcher 'nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.'
Wallace Stevens, The Snowman
With the Tracks "TWITCHING" due to the sheer weight, Class 60047 passes over the swing bridge at Preston Marina in spectacular style. Ribble Steam Railways Guest Loco 60047 draws in the crowds at this weekend Diesel Gala in there hundreds. Having worked the "TANKS" Thurs night Colas allowed her to stay over to appear at the event before her return working this Tues afternoon. 25/03/17
The Bewicks Wren is a challenge to photograph as some part of it seems to be always in motion. High contrast conditions do not help but I got a couple of interesting images.
I am using this as a backup page checker....so if you see it keep coming to the top of the Birds and Wildlife UK group pool page - you are not dreaming or seeing things. It has a purpose.
www.flickr.com/photos/91393324@N00/7263785904/in/album-72...