London Wetlands Centre's Winter Wonderland

On London Tonight on Friday, photographer Iain Green was shown demonstrating how best to take photographs on an icy day at the amazing London Wetlands Centre in Barnes. A fortnight ago, I was there photographing some of the same subjects on just such a day, but whereas he’s a talented photographer whose work turned out beautifully, I barely know how to switch on the camera. I have little concept of how to translate what I’m seeing in my mind into something impressive on display (I can’t say on paper; most of my photos end up as a slide show on my screen saver, which cheers me up as I love to see animals). I take snapshots, not photographs, to remind me of walking around somewhere wonderful on a pleasant , and that’s enough for now.

One day I will do as I’ve long intended and blog generally about visiting the sublime London Wetlands Centre (LWC), particularly as I still retain ‘outsider’ status despite being a member for over a year, since I get there rarely and know nothing about birds. I always say I’m not a birdwatcher; I’m a wildlife noticer. But I love going there for the amazing peace it offers, and given that just seeing mallard ducks on a park pond or starlings whistling in my tree thrills me, just because I adore seeing wildlife, it’s fantastic to find a spot where one is guaranteed to see plenty of it. Plus I figure if I keep taking pictures, one day I’ll figure it out, the theory being that practice makes acceptable. I will never be a committed wildlife photographer who lies in a frozen field for 20 hours in hopes of getting that perfect photograph of some rarely spotted creature. I like my creature comforts and can barely bend to bird-level to photograph the ones walking around thanks to my bad back. (I can bend down there; I’d just to remain down there until some kind passer-by passed by and offered to pick me up.) I don’t mind taking pictures with my unimpressive minor zoom lens of distant common ducks when I’m sitting in the comfort of one of their hides, and I tend to get shy and self-conscious around anyone who knows what they’re doing. But I just love being at the Centre and hearing the sublimely peaceful whisper of the breeze in the wheat-like fields with an orchestra of beautiful birdsong playing in the foreground. (One comes to zone out the sound of the planes flying overhead and the whistles from the nearby rugby ground, the latter of which rather adds to the atmosphere anyway).

But before I get to a sort of beginner’s blog to visiting the LWC and the true joys every step of the way, I thought I’d just put up a few of my snapshots from that icy January day, if only to show you the difference between what little I can manage when simply preserving a memory of the moment compared to similar subjects taken by professionals like Iain Green or the many mind-blowingly talented amateurs who regularly visit the Centre. I’m not just doing my part to make them look good, as they don’t need it. But maybe if I post a few of my mediocre snaps of a splendid day, it will show anyone reading that they can see some cute and pretty things on their visit and come away happy even if they’re ignorant and untalented as I am. It’s a great place to be. These aren’t my best photographs from the LWC ever (and there are many worse!) but they might give a slight impression of the loveliness of even an icy day at the London Wetlands Centre.

The ice, of course, brings the chance of seeing many apparently holy birds walking on water, like these coots. I think they must be the Torvill and Dean of the coot world, as they were very much at home on the ice together. Unlike Torvill and Dean, the ice seems to make them downright frisky.

This next photograph is a bit of abstract art, or a cold coot bathing in golden waters. It does not quite have the synchronised swimming look of water ballet that so many ducks give their audience, but I found it entrancing just the same.


Another enchanting episode repeated at the Centre is the sight of swans flying. The sound of swans flying is unreal; their flapping wings sound like the whirring of machinery in an industrial revolution factory, or the hum of a sleek classic car when it was a high-tech novelty. More than that, it puts one firmly in mind of aviation, which rather makes sense. Seeing such huge but graceful birds plough roughly into the water is another joy. They look as though they’re struggling to balance, trying out their new angels’ wings for a maiden flight, practically calling out ‘Whoa! Who-a!’ as their feet hit the water.

Their take-offs can seem just as unwieldy—but then even when we fly, take-offs and landings are the trickiest part of the flight. In this picture, I feel I should call ‘beware of low-flying objects!’ to what I think is a herring gull. It was like watching one of those films where the hapless protagonist is about to be run over by a lorry, and you have to hope that if he keeps his head down, it might just pass safely over him. (I’m guessing this big, brownish gull who was lone amongst the smaller black-headed gulls is a herring gull wearing his winter coat. His face is much more noble than I expected; he looks quite wizened. I wondered if he were a bit lonely, one of his kind amongst strangers who might have been thinking “You’re not from around these parts, are you?” and shutting him out. (No, I’m not really mad with Dr Doolittle Disease).

From huge to little….I saw a Little Grebe (and an astonishing number of other birds) on my first trip to the LWC and had never even heard of one before. Really, I first saw a little Little Grebe, as its mother was at the time underwater, diving for food for its….uh, grebeling? Dabchick chick? They wore flashier colours then, and I find them charming, so sweetly delicate, and they dive for so long whenever I raise my camera that I assume they’re trying to shake me off like celebrities try to ditch the paparazzi. Seriously, I think they are. If celebrities bothered to invest in scuba gear, far fewer photos of them looking fat in a bikini would show up in The Daily Mail.

Tufted Ducks are another charming group that always look like they’re shooting me an annoyed look. They remind me of Looney Tunes’ Daffy Duck, in which case perhaps the Tufted Ducks are just a bit self-conscious about their lisp and staring me down before I pick on them, which I would never do. But such a tough glare could easily give one Anatidaephobia. Though I still think it’s cute.

This blurry chap on the left is, I believe, a Water Rail. I caught him (insofar as I did) by pointing my not-outstandingly-long-zoom lens towards a very distant slightly bulbous blob amidst the far away reeds that I thought there was the tiniest chance could be the Jack Snipe that I had been looking at from a different hide (thanks to kind souls welcoming me when I arrived and letting me look through their scope to watch it bob). My cheapo binoculars don’t bring things much closer, so I snapped away on the off chance and was surprised to see the Water Rail when I got home. Which is grand because I didn't know I'd seen one. I know little about birds so I could be wrong, but it’s blurrily purdy, innit?

Similarly blurry but with little excuse is this group pruning session of a Wigeon with Eiders either side—not a great photo (on the right), but the symmetry somehow soothes me.

Starkly in better focus is this duck that, frankly, I know nothing about, but isn’t it xtraordinary? What lovely feathers, despite it being an odd combination of colours and patterns, like a deliberately clashing outfit from the 80s. Mostly it makes me think of handing a duck colouring book to a little girl who then, rather than boringly filling in the lines with typical mallard colours or just brown as many children might, instead applies all her favourite colour crayons and patterns and produces this gloriously different duck. As though this duck standing on that bit of 

wood has been coloured in beautifully by Mother Nature’s little girl.

Another beautiful exotic duck that I believe permanently lives at the Centre is this one illustrating the expression “like water off a duck’s back.” This next mystery resident duck on the left always seems to have a silly but intensively innocent look on its face, which I know is a weird thing to say about something that cannot smile. But maybe acting teachers should show this to their students when they’re trying to achieve an innocent look.

Speaking of exotic ducks, this is a bad picture of a Mandarin duck, which must officially be one of the most incredibly beautiful specimens of water fowl. I mean, just look at it; it looks as though it were designed by Ferrari….or Gucci. The picture’s poor because I didn’t catch his reflection, but at the time I was more interested in capturing the funky way his neck feathers looked as he repeatedly plunged his beak into the water (left), but failed to get a good one at the right angle. Still, just admire that beauty. Gorgeous, isn’t he? Amazing what nature creates.

Still with ducks, I must say that as an American, I never understood the fashion for hanging three ornamental flying ducks on your wall, as one of the old Coronation Street characters did, but seeing the real thing against a blue sky can almost explain its charm.  

Moving to geese, I feel oddly like there’s something sassy about how Egyptian Geese walk away, like a petulant girl storming off. Note that I said sassy, not sexy. I have no duck fetish. I worry that, if I add that I love their colouring, particularly their beautiful tail feathers, this whole paragraph looks a bit disturbing. I promise you I have no sick Owen-from-Vicar-of-Dibley-style love of ducks; I just think they’re lovely as I think trees are lovely.

Less pretty and even hard to make out is this ominous Poe crow, looking as though it morphed magically into a demon on a stark branch above. Okay, so it’s just a bad picture, but it looks better when I see it as part of my bleak Edgar Allen Poe world on a desolate winter’s day.

I had been hoping that such a day, might bring one of the bitterns out into view, as it might need to step out onto the ice to reach some food, but they were content to stay tucked away in the reeds. On my previous visit, however, I managed finally to see a bittern—two, actually—thanks entirely to others. I always pictured birdwatchers as being secretive and not wanting to share if they’d caught sight of something special, other than bragging about it later perhaps. The reality I’ve found at the Centre is that people are kind and welcoming and will gladly offer to show you something wonderful in their scope.

On that day, I’d been walking towards the Wildside area of the Centre, I believe in hopes of seeing a Water Vole at last, when a lovely volunteer stopped me on the path and asked if I’d seen the Bittern from the Observatory. Had she not done so, I would never have gone there. Indeed, it took me several visits before I was even aware of it, and it made me feel a bit like an airport departure lounge, with its giant glass wall overlooking the main lake, but feeling far from the best action. And when I did pop in on my way back and still saw nothing, a kind woman upstairs suggested that I look through her scope, which was fixed on the elusive bittern.

Although it was so far away I could barely make out with the naked eye its shape against the reeds, I aimed my camera at it rather pointlessly but took a few shots just in case, and of course can barely make out the blurry result [see right], but I’m happy to have the memento.

The friendly sharing continued when another chap who’d joined us called to a couple downstairs to invite them to come watch the bittern, which led to a member of staff directing the gentleman, who was in a wheelchair, to a hidden lift (most of the Centre is wonderfully accessible) as we shunted things about to help him view the bird. He and his wife then showed me on their camera photographs they’d just taken a Water Vole near the Dulverton Hide, and although the sun was setting, I decided to rush there to try my best to finally see Ratty.

I had no luck, of course, and decided on my way back to the Visitor’s Centre and exit to pop into the Dulverton Hide even though it was surely too dark to see anything, thinking I’d just glance out the window at the emptiness and leave. However, two silhouetted gentlemen were in their helping each other find something they were straining to see—a second Bittern. They decided to include me but said things like, “Do you see that sand bank with the Egyptian Geese on it?” which made me panic and think, “Oh no—they assume I know what we’re talking about!” But then I realised I do know what Egyptian Geese look like now, thanks to my visits to the Centre. (Yes, they’re the sassy ones).

I watched it until it got quite dark, and then walked back with the remaining kind bittern-spotting soul, the only disadvantage being that we chatted as we passed through the gift shop, where I’d intended to use my coupon for a free book that I’d been given when I renewed my membership, so I thought I’d leave it ‘til next time, unaware there was an expiry date, 16 days before my next visit. So humph. But it was worth it. Not just for watching a bittern until late, but because the warm, chummy, can-we-help-you nature of the volunteers and fellow visitors shines over that disappointment. I was a bit intimidated when I first went to the Centre, seeing people who clearly know what they’re doing wandering around with telescopes on tripods and cameras that cost more than a car. But I’ve found that most knowledgeable people there really welcome the chance to share and don’t mind at all if you’re a novice.

Finally, this golden blur shows no cute birds nor any of the ice on my recent visit, but it always makes me think of cereal adverts for some reason, and its inclusion here is solely because I’m a bit peckish. Mind you, it also reminds me of the variety of mini-terrains in the wetlands centre, this reedbed area being one of the most peaceful, I find, because of the breeze in the wheat (or wheat-like grasses). Even on busier days, I seem to pass few people here, and I adore its tranquillity. Its charm never disappears, regardless of the season. There is always something fantastic to see at the London Wetlands Centre, be it migrant birds, resident birds (eg innocent ducks or sassy geese), insects like damselflies, as well as frogs, water voles (if you’re lucky) and glorious flora. It’s a marvellous place, even on a freezing day as this one was. I already feel eager for my next visit. There’s still a water vole to be seen…somewhere! 

 

Incidentally, the London Wetlands Centre occasionally holds wildlife photography workshops by photographers such as the above mentioned Iain Glenn and the outstanding Mark Carwardine, so keep an eye on their events page, sign up for alerts or follow them on Twitter.

Things to Come (That Have Gone)

One of the many things I thought I would do after being made redundant was to keep up this blog better, writing regularly, as well as update my website on music reviews and the like (I have photos and notes of dozens of concerts I’ve never written up that might be worth a re-visit, most recently The Bible reunion, Neil Finn’s PaJaMa Club live UK debut, Johnny Mathis, and many others).

Unfortunately, I’ve somehow managed to have rather neglected both, but I think I shall somewhat weirdly go ahead and write up my typically detailed accounts of the various things I’ve attended, even though they won’t be current and are thus not news, and perhaps not so interesting. But I will anyway.

So the things that I will be writing about in the near future include the following events I have attended since leaving work in August:-

• Jon Snow interviewing Jimmy Carter, at the end of which Peter Gabriel came on and led us in singing Happy Birthday to the former President
• The Guardian investigative editor David Leigh on working (and falling out) with Julian Assange of Wikileaks
• Andy McNab speaking on Afghanistan and generally rescuing hostages
• Seeing Bitterns at the London Wetlands Centre
• The Science of Secrecy, which included Simon Singh demonstrating a real Enigma Machine
• Peter Doggett on David Bowie in the 1970s
• Open House tours of the Park Lane Hotel and 55 Broadway (I love Art Deco), Lambeth Palace and Strawberry Hill
• The David Shepherd Wildlife Foundation evening focusing on the sadly real prospect of A World Without Tigers
• Craving, Collecting and Caring for Album Covers at the Victoria & Albert Museum, with speakers including music journalist Paul Du Noyer and the editor of Record Collector Rare Record Price Guide, Ian Shirley
• Jeremy Paxman talking on Empire.
• Sir Terry Farrell speaking on Postmodern architecture
• A sociable discussion after hours at the Natural History Museum on the ethics of wildlife photography
• Architectural critic Hal Foster speak on ‘starchitects’ and the relationship between art and architecture
• A technical wildlife photography workshop at the London Wetlands Centre with Mark Carwardine
• The marvellous inaugural WildlifeXpo at Alexandra Palace, with talks by Mark Carwardine, Nick Baker, Paul Goldstein and others on wildlife photography and tourism, Kangaroo Island, Alaskan bears, Polar Bears and the best places to see wildlife.
• An Art Deco tour of Eltham Palace
• Victoria & Albert Museum Study Days on Designing the Decades: 1930s and 1980s
• War Horse (the outstanding play, not yet the exhibition)
• The annual Durrell Lecture, this year on the marvellous Madagascar
• Nigel Warburton speaking on philosophy
• Simon Russell Beale speaking on his work with director Sam Mendes
• Franny Moyle speaking about Mrs Oscar Wilde
• The 10th Annual Earthwatch debate, where various experts vied for our votes to choose their concern as the most important environmental challenge we face today (eg food security, energy, oceans, water scarcity, overpopulation) .
• The Wildlife Photographer of the Year exhibition at the Natural History Museum
• Experts speaking on Pulitzer-prize winning poet Robert Frost
• Thought-provoking World Monuments Fund talks on UK sites on the Watch list, with presentations on fine buildings that have ‘vanished’ by authors Philip Davies (Lost London) and Gavin Stamp (Lost Victorian Britain)
• The Guardian’s Head of Digital Engagement Meg Pickard on how publishing news content has changed in the face of social media and the internet
• Various King James Bible readings at the National Theatre in celebration of its anniversary
• My first time attending a church service in the UK other than for a funeral, although it was the annual bereavement service.

Obviously, that’s just a dull list right now, but I hope to bring it to life soon with detailed descriptions of the various wonderful events and lectures I’ve had the pleasure of enjoying during my enforced leisure time. So if any of that seems remotely interesting, tune in again and I’ll get cracking for a change (in between stints of searching for my dream job—or at least a suitable income--and re-jigging my c.v.) and keep my blog better updated, even if it’s largely updated with out-of-date stuff. But I hope some of it might be useful reading for people who could not be at these events but would like to learn more about them. Later.

Guitar-playing Zebra Finches....Music to My Ears

On Friday, I tried to swing past the Barbican Centre for one more visit to see those remarkable zebra finches imitate Jimi Hendrix, but I was foiled.

I’m referring to the Céleste Boursier-Mougenot exhibition, where a flock of zebra finches live in an exhibition space furnished with several electric guitars and bass guitars placed flat, perpendicular with the floor, on stands and plugged into amplifiers, amongst cymbals (the bottom of brass toned Paiste hi-hats). The birds frequently land on and hop along the strings of the guitars, and indeed sometimes drag a twig across them in an attempt to build a nest on it, which makes an extraordinary random sound punctuated by the occasional perfect strum. Or, as the Barbican literature describes it, the artist ‘orchestrates a magical promenade with distinct, yet overlapping auditory experiences.’ Yep.

I was in two minds about this exhibition. I saw a clip at the end of an episode of The Culture Show that fascinated me and drove me towards it, yet the wildlife-loving RSPCA member in me thought it was wrong to keep birds trapped in an art gallery ogled by strangers when they should be out in the wild. I knew that the birds’ welfare had been carefully vetted by ‘the relevant authorities’ but it still seemed wrong....until I saw it.

First, the birds aren’t creatures someone caught from the wild and imprisoned in the Barbican Centre. They have been provided by a specialist who provides animals for artistic projects, we are told, as though they’re from the same acting agency that provided Eddie the dog in Frasier. So presumably they were raised in captivity and are used to being in an aviary. I’m almost just repeating that to try to convince myself that it’s okay, and I hope it is. Second, I had pictured the birds being contained in a low-ceilinged section of a small room, with the crowd lined up on the other side of a glass partition, peering in as though at a cramped caged animal in a Victorian zoo. Instead, the birds fly freely around an airy, sizeable space with a roof perhaps 30 feet high, with the people walking amongst them, and although they could fly away from us if they wanted to, they were so used to people walking around them that they would fly right past our faces and even land on our bags—at least they did on mine (they have discerning taste).

The description of the exhibition describes this interaction as creating a different visit for everyone as the installation was ‘in a constant state of flux’ and ‘to be fully activated, the piece relies on the visitors’ movements around the space, which elicit counter movements by the birds, resulting in a subtle choreography.’ Well, I will say it was neat to be able to observe beautiful wildlife so closely, and fun when they sat for an age on my briefcase and later my handbag (and very kindly left nothing behind). I wouldn’t suggest I was tap-dancing with them, but an artist wouldn’t be an artist (and a marketing person wouldn’t be a marketing person) if they just said ‘there’re a lot of birds flying around and they be cute.’

Although the well-lit room was white and a bit sterile, there were sandpits on the ground in which arid grasses had been planted so the birds had plenty of natural things to grab and use when building nests, which they seemed to be doing with tremendous commitment. Although they clearly loved landing on the guitars, sometimes several birds doing so on one at a time, they were also quite happy sitting on the fire extinguishers, ‘break glass’ and exit signs. I was pleased to see a series of nesting boxes placed in a long row high above our heads on one wall, almost all of which were occupied by a female practically hidden by the nesting material. Apparently, a friend linked to the Barbican has told me, this was a result of a panic when one of the birds had laid an egg, I think on a guitar, forcing the staff to clear the exhibition of customers and close it down until they got advice from the RSPB or another ‘relevant authority’, who said they really should provide nesting boxes, so voilà.

But before visitors get to that room, we walk through a dark corridor (also with high ceilings; nothing is claustrophobic) with video projections of white-silhouetted ‘flying fingers’ playing electric guitars, against a black background. And you can hear electric guitar as well, albeit not in the style of Eric Clapton or Jimmy Page, but a random droning and, as I mentioned, the occasional impressive deliberate-sounding strum. The soundtrack is, of course, provided by the birds around the corner (or around the curve, as the exhibition is in the part of the Barbican aptly called The Curve). One can also hear crickets, stressing the feeling of night-time, but I think that was a recording unless we were crushing innocent crickets as we walked through the darkness.

It’s difficult to remember that this first bit is part of the exhibition. Everyone seems to see it as a corridor to rush through to get to the real things, the darkness perhaps helping your transition from the Arts Centre outside to the unusual experience you will soon meet, or perhaps discouraging the birds from flying out into the Centre and interrupting a play or a film or escaping into the City. It probably does that, but the (uh) flyer one can take (by ripping a printed page from a pad hanging on the wall that had a large sign containing a description of the installation and the artist, which I overlooked on the way in and only paused to read on the way out) explains that this first element is part of the ‘multi-sensory experience.’

Let’s face it; we’re all racing to see the birds. And they were no let-down. I’ve never seen or heard of zebra finches before, and they are stunning, a bit odd but truly amazing. Rather tiny, I realised when they landed on me, and they have deeply orange beaks that give them a tropical air, with a small white patch and black stripe by their eyes, then the males are mostly pale grey, with a light brown undercarriage and black and white tail feathers. The females are mostly white, but also with the black stripe by their eye. Just observing a living creature that is so unusual and beautiful in close proximity was a delight, and they just didn’t seem to mind us being there as they flew around and tried to build nests in Gibson guitars. Yes, they were guitars of quality. I wondered whether they were just toy plastic replicas so as not to waste the real thing on a bunch of wild creatures, but they were Gibson Les Paul models—about 10 of them. The artist apparently had tuned the guitars so that whenever a string was touched, it produced a clear chord. That was key; everything sounded impressive and interesting; never did we wince, even when different guitars were played by different groups of birds around the room at the same time.

Added to the random guitar sounds was a great deal of sweet chirruping, almost like quick high beeps, and the busy flutter of wings, which added to the delightful soundscape. I pressed record on my Dictaphone for a bit and came home with an amazing snippet of sounds. Most of the birds were paired off (so no solos) and quite dear. They had endless patience; I observed one fly up to a nesting box with a long, thick piece of grass that was about seven times his size, but after he landed in the box, the unbalanced long blade of grass would fall out, far below onto the floor. Without any look of scowling, rolling his eyes or cursing, the bird just flew down, picked it up again, flew all the way back up to the nesting box, again drop it back onto the floor because most of it was hanging heavily outside, and then he would fly down to retrieve it again. He did this several times until eventually another bird decided he’d rather like that ginormous blade of grass, and he swiped it the next time it was dropped before the first bird could return to the floor for it for the umpteenth time. Frankly, I was a relieved.

The environment was so soothing, I almost wished for a park bench so I could sit and write whilst enjoying the atmosphere, being surrounded by (and landed on by) happily chirruping unusual finches as though I were in a park in Australia or Indonesia, where they’re native. But then, benches would mean people would stay longer, and fewer people would then be allowed in. The Centre only let a few people in at a time, which was the right thing to do so as not to freak out the birds or spoil the experience (or invoke disturbing ‘choreography’!), although it meant there were always queues, particularly as people would usually spend at least 25 minutes in the company of these birds. We would smile at each other as we shared the experience, sometimes talking about how grand it was to be near such exquisite creatures, and I became a part of the exhibit when, as I said, a finch landed on my handbag and remained there for an age, which caused several people to gather around me and point (or maybe it was my Thatcher-like suit). Later, one landed on the top of my briefcase, which was slung over my shoulder, and I remember worrying a bit that I might accidentally leave with it, which partly sounded fun but then I doubt I could look after it properly, though I probably wouldn’t have to after my cats greeted it. So good thing it got bored and flew away to do some guitar-picking.

The birds eat grass seed and there was plenty of seed around. The cymbals weren’t being pecked as percussion but instead were filled with either water, where the birds sweetly splashed themselves in a rapid dance, or seeds that they scoffed happily. The floor (around the sand pits and arid grasses) was made of wooden planks with surprisingly no evidence of bird droppings, so the Art Centre must scrub it regularly. But no one did so while I was in there. There were only two attendants—one outside monitoring the numbers entering and leaving, and one inside covering the entire airy room.

That wouldn’t have been enough to prevent me from taking a photo, as he would have been unable to see me do so when my back was to him and he was chatting to people on the other end of the curve. But I’m a terrible goody two-shoes and the big sign outside prohibiting photography, which I had plenty of time to stare at whilst queuing to come in, weighed heavily on my mind. I hate myself for not stealing a photograph, which would have cheered me no end, allowing me to relive this pleasant experience as soon as I got home and to smile when it came up on my screensaver slideshow. Plus, I go to so many things and I get so little sleep, I always worry I will forget what I’ve been to altogether unless I have a photo for revisiting.... But nay, I’m a wimp and took nothing. A woman near me did get told off (very politely) for taking out her camera, but she must have got a shot, and that would be worth it. I hate myself, the same way I did when I was prevented by the South Bank Photo Police from snapping Ray Davies when he came out in a union jack suit, and I was in the second row with an unimpeded view. I should have just taken it; why didn’t I?

So my only complaint about the exhibition was that I couldn’t take a photo or two, obviously without a flash. What harm would it have done? I wonder if the artist felt doing so would steal the soul of his exhibition or something. Immediately after I visited this exhibition, I went upstairs to the Ron Arad exhibition where the public were encouraged to take photos and post them on Flikr and link them to the Barbican website. And boy did I take photos, and I’ll add those here soon, but a million pictures of chairs—no matter how unusual—just aren’t as cute as a bunch of zebra finches, particularly ones playing Gibson guitars. (I did Tweet from the exhibition though, which I thought was rather fitting.)

Had I managed to return on Friday as I attempted, I might have tried to snap a quick shot of these adorablenesses, but I doubt it. Not with a big sign telling me not to be naughty. But I’ll never know. I didn’t manage to leave work as early as planned so got there at 7.15pm, and the gallery closes at 8pm, and there was a significant queue, which the attendant closed just as I arrived since all those people were unlikely to get in. It was a disappointment, given that the exhibition was to close on 23 May, but perhaps a second visit would have been less magical and ruined the memories for me. I doubt it though.

A small comfort is that there are videos on YouTube shot of other such installations, including one that appears to be the official Barbican clip (probably what I saw at the end of The Culture Show), although it wasn’t filmed at the Barbican as what appears is a much smaller space, more like the Victorian zoo look that I had worried about encountering. If it works, I’ll put the link below. Enjoy it, but if you ever get the chance to see such a thing in person (or in bird?), make sure you fly to the exhibition as quickly as you can.

(I've replaced the previous video, and if one doesn't appear below, try here:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1eX0vDPPnDA&NR=1 )

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Fox Caught Cat Napping

As an animal lover, I was surprised and enormously cheered to find a lovely fox curled up asleep in the middle of my urban garden at lunchtime on Saturday…and unfortunately, this delight led to a bit of embarrassment on the train this morning. I didn’t accidentally take the fox to work with me—nothing like that.

On Saturday, I had just come back from the vets (got all my shots!) and felt somewhat shaken from the journey there at the hands of a truly psycho minicab driver, so it was a diverting surprise to see my new furry friend honouring my neglected--nay ignored-- garden with its snoozy presence. Anyone who read my first posting about how a pigeon’s nest outside my window lifted my spirits for a month can imagine I might get positively feverish at the sight of a fox so near for so long. Usually, they are just fleeting glimpses of scarlet in the moonlight, dodging the bullying neighbourhood cats as they search for food often in atrocious conditions, nights I would have hoped they’d stay huddled safe in their den somewhere, but I suppose they must go out in horrid weather as they can’t ring Domino’s for delivery.

Here in broad daylight, in the middle of a small square shabby garden that was long ago concreted over and just barely decorated with errant vines straying from the neighbours’ garden with no respect for the boundary, and on the other side of the fence, with numerous noisy Christmas shoppers chatting and slamming car doors just a few feet away in the car park so near the main shopping centre in town….lay a snoozing fox, rather exposed.

It seemed so surprising that I started to worry that the fox must be injured and could crawl no further so stopped where it landed. Fortunately its chest was rising and falling with comforting regularity, and surely any broken limbs would not manage to curl into such a tight red ball. I also feared that it might be disturbed and run into the path of danger, and I hoped it would at least sleep ‘til dark, which would be in a few hours at 3.30pm.

So I kept an eye on him, took a few photos from a distance as I did not dare go down into the garden for fear of terrifying him. I eventually got out my old-fashioned camcorder and filmed him, and just as the sky grew a bit darker, he picked up his head, looked back (coincidentally in my direction) revealing his gorgeous fox face and wonderful ebony ears, had a bit of a chew on his probably mangy skin, and gave his ear a scratch with a back foot as a dog would. He was lovely, and he seemed to be well.

He then hit nature’s snooze button and curled up for another brief visit to noddytown, then after a bit lifted his head, stood and straightened out by lunging forward then backward, stretching his legs. He raised his head to assess the situation but didn’t look at all surprised about where he was so it must have been a conscious choice to nap there. After a bit, he moved to the edge of my garden to the path that led to the front, cautiously gazed down it and seemed to decide that direction was unsafe, thought he’d go through the small picket fence to my neighbour’s garden and cutely tried to put his big furry head through the fence only to find—fortunately before it got stuck—that it was way too big to fit. So he looked up and leapt over the fence, ran through my neighbour’s garden and disappeared….though he would have had a lot of concrete and pavement to cross before he got anywhere remotely secluded.

Pleased to get some footage of such cuteness unravelling before my eyes, I transferred it to my computer that night and left it (and a few other clips) burning onto a DVD whilst I slept. In the morning, eager to see how it turned out, I grabbed the newly burned DVD to watch on my laptop on the train. Comfortably seated on a busy train carriage, having put my MP3 player headphones in my ears, I turned on the laptop and carefully checked that the sound was, as always, muted so the DVD would not be heard by everyone in the carriage. The DVD would contain no fox noises (which I’ve often thought to sound a bit like someone slowly strangling or crushing a screeching bird of prey—horrible in the night) as I had filmed through a closed window. What it did contain, I’m ashamed to admit, was a running commentary from yours truly that comes naturally when I see cute animals. It’s scary; I talk out loud and in a thoroughly shameful goopy voice.

So I watched the DVD on the crowded Christmas Eve train, and lots of people looked over at me and my laptop, which often happens; I think it’s rude and surprising that people are so unaccustomed to seeing someone use a laptop on the train that they stare. When the fox footage ended, the DVD moved straight to a slideshow I’d done of photos of my father throughout his life to Warren Zevon’s Keep Me in Your Heart. Such a fitting tune, but I did not expect to hear it absolutely blasting out of my laptop today on the train. It took me a moment to realise I was the one to blame for the powerful noise, as my ears were otherwise engaged listening to music, remember. I ripped out my headphones to confirm, with great alarm, that my laptop volume was not muted after all and in fact was horribly loud. The speaker volume was set to mute, yes, but apparently the DVD-playing software overrode that setting. I immediately shut down the software and opened the DVD-tray in a panic to stop the noise that everyone in the busy train carriage was hearing.

To my horror, it dawned on me that I’d just unwittingly treated said carriage full of people to about 15 minutes of the soundtrack of the fox footage. They would have heard a constant chorus of “Awwww, bless it! Look at the cuteness! Look at da fuzzy wuzzy ears! What adorableness! Please, please let it be okay! Awww, look at the fluffiness of da tail! It’s skitching its little ear, soooo sweeeet!” in an ultra-goopy voice of which I am not proud. I also seem to recall near the end as the fox made its getaway that I uttered an extremely rare-for-me expletive when I tried to film and photograph the fox at the same time and dropped one of the cameras. So that, after all the fuzzy goopy silly ‘adorableness’ constant narration, would have been blasted around my train carriage without my realising. For about 15 minutes. So maybe, just maybe, that was why everyone was staring at me! Including the many, many children on the train who must have been coming to London for some pantomime treats.

Oh dear. I just hope that those people are people who ride the train in only on Christmas Eve so I will never see them again. I’m sure that will be the case, if I wish really hard on the Christmas star I see tonight….

Pet Pigeon

September has brought a sadness for the loss of more than just the summer; I feel as though I have lost a pet. I should think in more positive terms as though it was taken to live on a farm where there’s more room for it to run around—or fly around—and live happily ever after, or so I hope. What pet? A pigeon. Not one of those fancy ones, the poodles of the pigeon world, nor a homing one. No, just Joe Pigeon. Joe and his bride and his wean.

I live in a London borough where the avian wildlife mainly comprises pigeons, seagulls, Hitchcock-like numbers of starlings, and the odd crow or magpie. I adore animals but have sufficient knowledge of hygiene matters to grimace when tourists in Trafalgar Square encouraged these major disease-carrying flying health hazards to perch upon them en masse. But that doesn’t mean I’m not heartbroken when I see one limping around with a deformed foot, or annoyed when I see a child run at them as they desperately try to scrounge a meal.

Said heart was stirred and surprised when I glanced out of my window in early July at the large Weeping Birch that my neighbour wants me to remove, thinking that it would be the wrong time of year to do so as a bird’s nest had revealed itself when the tree was bare in the winter, and I’d seen several adorable blue tit fledglings on the branches some weeks before. When I tried to make out the nest’s outline through the many draping branches in full leaf that usually hid it, I was shocked to find a bird sitting on it then, just level with my first floor kitchen window. It was a pigeon. I thought pigeons’ nests were never seen, that the birds nested on ledges in high-rise buildings, yet here was one in a tree.

Thus began a relationship of sorts that lasted about two months. Every morning when I raised my blind, I would check on my pigeon. When I came home from work, I’d go to see that the pigeon was there, and it always was. Whenever I went to make a cup of tea or wash up: pigeon. I’d often feel forced to photograph this glimpse of nature, and would be unnerved when the pigeon would seem to turn to look at me, as surely it couldn’t see past the branches and shadows, through the glass and into my kitchen to see me. But then I remembered that pigeons have excellent eyesight; they can, after all, recognise landmarks when they are flying high above them, which helps their homing skills, although that’s apparently based on some sort of magnetic pull (though these days perhaps they have a i-phone with GPS). Pigeons can see colours and even ultraviolet light. Their hearing is also superb, which is why a flock sometimes seems to fly away for no reason; perhaps they’ve been disturbed by a foreign volcano (as opposed to one in Kent).

I found that I spent a great deal of time worrying about my pigeon—or pigeons, as there were two taking shifts. The dad clocked in for the work day, and the mum sat on the nest overnight (I read this; I couldn’t tell their gender). One of them sometimes looked speckled brown from the underneath rear view as though a giant wren had taken its place. I suppose it was just that I'm not used to seeing pigeons from below with their tail raised, nearing their soft white underside. These pigeons—wood pigeons--also had a lovely white ring around their necks, like a pearl necklace, which made me think of them as upper class, and more closely related to delicate doves, symbols of peace and love, than your average urban disease deliverer. But most biologists would tell you there’s not much difference between pigeons and doves anyway, and pigeons are actually rock doves.

Pigeons are also monogamous, so this pair might have been together for years and might remain so for many years yet; they can live for around 16 years. I learned many such pigeon facts as my curiosity was peaked by my feathery new neighbours, and I have a new respect for them.

I came to look forward to checking on my pigeons—I'd see them one at a time, of course—and worried about them. They must have thought their watch was wrong as it couldn’t possibly be August, with absolutely fierce winds blowing them all around, loads of driving rain, and they’d chosen the worst place for a nest. Any other tree surely would be more stable; a Weeping Birch is top heavy, flimsy, and waves about madly in the slightest wind. Indeed, another one in our close was felled by the merest breeze. This precarious situation made me fear for them, which made me feel even fonder of them. The nest was composed of a mere few twigs barely connected, it seemed, and surely the only thing that kept it in place, though it did seem to drop slightly over time, was a rogue vine that was torturing the tree.

One time, their white egg was clearly visible from the side, and I worried that it must be dangerously chilled as certainly neither the nest nor the tree offered it much protection. I cringed when rowdy groups of young delinquents drank and shouted in the car park a few feet away from the tree, and wished I could shield my pigeons, and always prayed that none of said delinquents would ever catch a glimpse of the nest, as no doubt they’d compete to knock it out of the tree with rocks. I would stand and watch the pigeon who was sitting guard on the nest during the worst windy storms, praying it would make it, and the next morning I’d return to the check the tree, fearful of the worst. To my relief, one of the pigeons would still remain dutifully in place.

This sense of duty later seemed to fade slightly. There would be times when I eagerly rushed to the window to greet the sight of my pigeon, only to find a vacant nest. I would be terribly worried for hours. What had happened? Had the egg been blown out of the nest, so the pigeons abandoned it? Just when I began to feel deflated that the joyful experience was over, the next visit to my kitchen would reveal one of my feathered friends sitting there. Perhaps they’d needed a break; it was a tougher than expected job after all, with this wintry weather in summer. When the absences become slightly more frequent, I worried that one of the pair might have been killed. One time when the nest was empty, I saw a lovely wood pigeon on top of a nearby garden shed, forlornly looking out as though it was searching and waiting for its partner. I noticed then that this pigeon was actually a lovely bird when you see its grey back feathers separated by the breeze, so much prettier than those glossy lacquered-looking solid typical City pigeons with the iridescent opal-like sheens. This bird had character, and right now, it was looking lost and lonely. Or perhaps I was going a bit mad; I’m no Dr Doolittle.

Fearful that one pigeon was forced to leave the nest to feed because its partner had been killed, I once put some breadcrumbs on top of my bin near the tree so it wouldn’t have to travel far for food. The bread remained untouched. I later learned that wood pigeons don’t eat any old junk like their concrete city cousins, they prefer plant shoots and sometimes insects. Or maybe they just didn’t like my cooking; no one does.

I also wondered whether the egg had yet hatched, as I could no longer see through the sides of the nest to be certain. I felt the presence of a new life (or squab) had been confirmed when I saw one pigeon sitting on the nest when another flew in and stood on the edge, leaned over the nest as though regurgitating into a squab’s hungry mouth, which was also happy confirmation that both the cock and hen were still alive (unless they rope in step-parents pretty quickly).

There still remained some worrying interludes when no adult was on the nest, but I didn’t know the phone number for Pigeon Social Services. My fears were realised when, one morning, I opened the kitchen blind to look out at my warm and fuzzy “Springwatch” scene---only to be greeted by an Edgar Allen Poe horror. I saw a flurry of giant black wings flapping madly over the nest! A crow was attacking my precious pigeon, my nearly constant companion day in and day out for well over a month. I couldn’t think what to do so I just opened the kitchen window as loudly as possible, and the crow leapt off its prey so abruptly that a few black feathers fell to the ground, and it perched on the tree trunk beside the nest and gazed at me to size up the threat. After a few moments’ thought, it flew to a nearby branch and watched me as it pondered its next move, then shortly afterwards, it flew away. (I have no photo of the dramatic crow attack as I was too busy trying to save the pigeons; I guess I’d fail the David Attenborough School of Naturist Filmmaking as I interfered rather than just observing.) I later wondered what I might have done if the window noise had been insufficient, and I realised I had some brazil nuts that I might have thrown, but if I’d injured even this devil, I’d be devastated that I’d hurt an animal, so it’s good it hadn’t come to that.

I actually felt shaken by the attack and realised that no adult pigeon had been on the nest; it had been a one way fight. But surely the crow had just killed the baby pigeon. This, I thought, is why the adults shouldn’t leave! Think how terrifying that attack must have been for the baby, and what an awful death. As I expected, I didn’t see another pigeon all day; I figured the baby had been killed so they’d abandoned the nest.

Much to my surprised delight that evening, I not only found an adult pigeon on the nest, but I saw it feeding the littlun’! I couldn’t believe it had survived the crow attack, and I was thrilled. It was a treat to see all three pigeons that night with both adults fussing over the peeper, one adult sitting on the nest, the other flying in with food.

That fortunately was the last terrifying episode that I witnessed, although I saw no reason why the crow wouldn’t try again as the parents still occasionally left the nest. Shortly after that, the combination of the wind having blown the branches around so much and the rain having brought tremendous shoots of new growth on the tree meant that the nest was no longer visible to me unless wind blew the branches out of the way. I could still tell when an adult was seated on it as I might catch a glimpse of its tailfeathers, but I didn’t see the youngster again…..until my birthday.

My birthday at the end of August provided me with a gratifying treat when I opened the kitchen blind and found that the baby pigeon had fledged. It was perched on a branch near its nest, absolutely adorable, a mini-pigeon puffed out, more like a new species of sweet little bird. That sight cheered me up no end, but that night was terrible, with driving rain and dreadful winds that really shook the tree side to side. I couldn’t imagine that this new little fluffball, using its new feet and clinging to a branch for the first time, could survive it. I kept checking on it until I got the sense I was making it nervous; I guess the dear ingrate didn’t appreciate that it was me who had saved it from a crow. Soon, it was too dark for me to make it out in the branches, so I closed my blind and prayed, but worried all night.

I was jubilant in the morning when the fluffball was not only still clinging on, but it had moved to a branch right outside the window. Worryingly, this was in plain sight and I feared it might invite a crow back, and I hoped the adult pigeons were keeping a close eye on it, and it seemed to do fine. After a couple days, I saw no more of the baby pigeon, and of course the adults were never on the nest again.

So I feel a bit lonely now. Several times a day for two months, I would regularly look out my kitchen window and see ‘my’ pigeon sitting there, and I saw these two adults raise a youngster that eventually flew the nest, without Bill Oddie or Simon King obstructing the view or narrating. I remained worried for a while about the welfare of the baby bird but have to have faith that it’s out there living a grand life. A few days after it fledged, I found myself leaning against a fountain in Trafalgar Square as I enjoyed a Chai Tea Latte before catching a matinee of Elling starring John Simm, and naturally I was surrounded by pigeons, but the common variety rather than the prettier special wood pigeons. Indeed, I find when I walk around the city that I care more about all pigeons, but see wood pigeons as vastly superior to the others, with more character and class.

So if you spot a slightly daintier, seemingly more naïve wood pigeon trying to tackle some food stuff that is beyond its capability, or see some kid cruelly and needlessly running at it, please protect it, because it might just be my little pigeon.