Written by It had been mostly clear overnight and a cold, bright morning followed. A slight frost hugged the ground in sheltered places, a frost that melted away within minutes of sunrise. I scraped a thin layer of ice from my windscreen so that I could see clearly and set out in search of curlews.
This may prove to be a good year for curlew photography, there are plenty of birds around, at times their burbling calls fill the skies and I’ve even had the pleasure of watching and listening as one flew low overhead while I was standing in my garden.
So there I was, driving along at a snails pace and checking out a few spots that I thought offered the best potential. With one hand on my steering wheel and one on my camera I was ready. Did I get to photograph any curlews? No I didn’t. They were poorly sighted, too far away, or unsettled by the sight of a car at such a ridiculously early hour and refused to co-operate. I was beginning to think that I wasting my time and should have stayed in bed, like every sane person in the land was probably doing. Then I spotted another spring favourite of mine.
A few wheatears were foraging around a couple of small boulders that were lying among clumps of heather. Gently slowing to a halt (which doesn’t take long from a snails pace), I placed myself carefully for what I thought would make a nice picture and waited. Thankfully, the birds didn’t disappear at the first sight of me, which is what usually happens. My patience paid off and eventually I took what I consider to be the photograph of the morning – a very smart looking Mr. Wheatear posing on an equally interesting looking rock. That will do nicely thank you; time for breakfast.
The most memorable art lesson I had at school was when I was taught how to mix the colour grey. Not, as you might think, by mixing black and white but by taking a bit of blue, adding some yellow and then some red. White was added last of all to lighten the tone as required. I now know that this is called a tertiary grey. I was too young at the time to understand such a grown-up word and my teacher called it a colour grey. That was a valuable lesson learnt; grey can hold a colour.
This is the original (non black and white) photograph. You are probably thinking that it still looks like an ordinary mix of bright and dull patches. Look closer at the duller parts. Look long enough and you may see many subtle variations. That’s because these bland looking patches aren’t as innocent as they look and their secrets can be teased out with a bit of care.
My picture was taken with a camera and telephoto lens. If I stretched my budget and bought an astronomical telescope, I would probably be able to get a more stunning result. If I took things to extremes and multiplied my budget a couple of hundred million times or more, I could do what NASA has done. Theirs is an extreme example that was taken by the 
As winter finally shows signs of releasing its icy grip and hints of spring start appearing, things begin to change. The first change that I usually notice is how, little by little, daylight becomes stronger. The second is how animal and bird behaviour changes, even our crazy free-range chickens aren’t immune to this. Where rabbits are concerned, I’ve noticed that youngsters are more often seen. I suspect that during times of harsh weather, young rabbits don’t venture forth until they are already well on their way to adulthood. By mid-April I see them almost every day.
Eventually the sun had risen to a point where light was losing its warmth and becoming a little too harsh for my liking. That was my signal to head back home for breakfast; that and the fact that my stomach was beginning to think that my throat had been cut. That’s another thing that beaches are good for, losing track of time.
There is more to taking this type of photograph than simply looking up. Trying to find a composition that balances interesting bare tree canopies with patches of open sky is definitely more of an art than a science. Sometimes it will come together almost immediately, while at other times it takes a lot of walking around and neck stretching, and sometimes it doesn’t come together at all.
Plop! A lump of snow landed on my camera lens and obliterated my view. Disappointed, I moved my camera to one side so that I could look at it and clear away the snow. Plop! Another lump landed on my spectacles, blinding me for a second time. Holding my camera in my right hand I lifted off my specs to shake them with my left. Plop! A third lump landed in my eye.
So there we were, waiting to see who would make the first move, frozen like two statues in a staring competition. We were fixed eye to eye, or more accurately, eye to telephoto lens, for what felt like a lifetime, but was probably less than ten minutes before Mr. Pheasant decided that I wasn’t much of a threat after all. He stood up, gave me a quizzical ‘What’s your game?’ kind of look and then leisurely sauntered off, melting rapidly away into long grass.
This occasional blog is a tasty serving of nature and wildlife photography, with a side dish of my experiences out in the field and lightly seasoned with any random thoughts that occur to me along the way.
