I had thought I'd get up early and go out to Marshside before the storm broke proper to get that Ross' goose onto the year list. Luckily it was bucketing down at daybreak so I thought better of it. I say luckily, mid-morning it joined up with a flock of pink-footed geese and decamped to Banks Marsh, joining the regular Todd's Canada goose that's come back for another Winter. Banks Marsh is a delightful walk on a fine day, and can be very productive even on a grubby day. It isn't the place to be during an Atlantic storm.
I got to thinking about this year's birdwatching stats, after doing the numbers the other day. I seem to be seeing a fair bit more than I was last year and the year before. Even better than my peak year to date which was 2022. I might do the same again next year. Or not. At some point I'll be recording my decline. I won't be hitting my usual targets. Then I won't be hitting the new ones I set myself. And so on. It's a sobering thought, just the sort I visit on myself on rainy days with my nose pressed against the window.
Whatever the numbers, and however I choose to obsess about them, the important thing is that the birdwatching's keeping me active. If I ever get old enough to qualify for a free bus pass — I'm in that age cohort where the State Retirement Age is always two years away — I'll be the old bloke on the bus from God Knows Where to Who Knows Why counting woodpigeons.
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