Everyone marvels at stunning photos and videos of murmurations, the evening pyrotechnics of starlings gathering to roost. People flock to see them at Brighton Pier, Minsmere, Gretna Green and Avalon marshes. In Denmark murmurations can involve a million birds.
We admire these huge gatherings from a distance; however this week on a byroad in Lancashire I found myself bang in the middle of a feeding flock of at least 10,000 starlings. With my new found enthusiasm for social media, I rummaged for my i-pad, wound the windows down and snapped away; birds were everywhere, birdshit covered the car, and quite a bit splashed the upholstery inside. Every shot was different and interesting; I narrowed down to a dozen or so and posted a gallery on facebook. In case you saw them I've uploaded different ones here. 

​My first blogpost has had 405 views, which is encouraging, and one comment, from my friend Thomas Urquhart in Maine, who asks "What are you actually doing?!" I'll try to explain:

I was invited to Eilean Shona (see the last blog) by the owner, Vanessa Branson, to survey the birdlife and look into running some birdsong activities there. The quid pro quo for the trip was that while I was there I would post regularly on social media. She wanted three instagram posts per day. This didn't sound like me; I've always enjoyed other people's snaps, but felt I was missing the moment if I was stuck behind the lens. However, I wandered around the island with my i-pad and posted pictures of the constantly changing colours; to my surprise I enjoyed it.

After leaving the island I kept posting, but felt the need to include pictures of birds. To get acceptable images with i-pad you have to get within a couple of feet of your quarry. I picked an inquisitive looking nuthatch as my first target. I moved some garden furniture out of the way and pulled my car up against the fence near the bird feeder to serve as a hide. I sat motionless, window open, back twisted, i-pad raised for action, and waited for the bird to pluck up courage to take a sunflower seed eighteen inches away from me. Time passed. Through the corner of my eye I could see the nuthatch watching the car from bushes a few metres up the fence, so any sudden movement would be fatal. At first other birds kept their distance, but eventually coal tits started to flit to the feeder, each visit only lasting a second or two; soon after came blue tits, then after much nervous chattering and whirring of wings, great tits. I photographed them all. After 45 minutes of expectant discomfort (for both of us I suspect), the nuthatch flew in.

I love the idea that anyone with a mobile phone and a little patience can take decent photos of birds. People fear that devices take us away from the natural world, but we can use them to enhance our relationship with it. Birdsong is very hard for humans to understand without some help; that is the point of the Planet Birdsong initiative. On Shona we talked about the pressure for "digital detox" to be the selling point for recreational experience of the wild; yet it can be just as transformative to slow down and immerse ourselves in the myriad details of nature that escape us in our busy everyday routines, using all of the wonderful resources now available to us. For me the key is for each of us to develop the right dialogue between our own intelligence and AI.
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What made me start this new blog? Vanessa was hosting a writing retreat while I was there. Twice a week writers would emerge from their far-flung cottages to share extracts from their latest work. A skinny-dipping cranial osteopath, with an infectious sense of new-found freedom now that her children are grown up, read enigmatic tales about unresolved family mysteries; a Hong Kong Banker's ex-wife told stories about Hong Kong Bankers' wives, extolling the joys of extreme plastic surgery (she's spending a whole month in a remote cottage by the sea without electricity- it's heroic!); Vanessa read movingly from her forthcoming memoirs. All I came up with was a little piece for the Eilean Shona visitors' pack, which became last week's blog; however I caught the storytelling bug so now I'll post a story about birds once a week.

I'm cosily installed by the fire in a cottage on Eilean Shona off Ardnamurchan, a 2000 acre island where I am on a winter retreat. I look out over the waters of the South Channel of Loch Moidart towards the imposing 14th century ruin of Castle Tioram. This panorama is the backdrop for a steady stream of avian comings and goings; through binoculars I sometimes see a flock of rock doves, wild cousins of the feral pigeons found in cities, wheeling around the ramparts of the castle; on the water are small parties of red breasted-mergansers, raffish males leading dowdy females, sometimes a solitary goldeneye, once a male eider; occasionally a peregrine dashes across, hoping to surprise a dove or a duck. Jet-black shags dive, then fly off to dry their wings on the rocks. One afternoon a handsome great northern diver worked its way along the channel, spending almost as much time under water as on it. In the evenings the imposing form of the resident juvenile sea eagle (they are sometimes known as flying barn doors) wings its way across on its way to roost. The constantly changing wave patterns occasionally break to reveal the rounded head of a passing otter. Angular herons from a nearby heronry stalk the shallows, keeping an eye open for sea eagles, who regard them as both food and competition.
 
The magnificent 19th century plantations provide refuge for many of the island's small birds. Blue tits are concentrated in a single mobile flock of 100 or so, frequently joined by great tits, goldcrests, coal tits (already breaking occasionally into their see-saw song); a variety of other birds seem to tag along loosely for security, chaffinches, blackbirds, song thrushes, a few redwings from Scandinavia. Inquisitive robins fly over to investigate you, dunnocks and wrens skulk in the undergrowth; jays announce your arrival with raucous screeches in the gnarled oaks. There are other, more elusive flocks around-it is worth getting to know the wheezing call of siskins and the rattling of redpolls if you want to see them. Once over the wind I heard the "chup-chup-chup"s of a group of crossbills, but could not locate them. The island's resident pairs of great-spotted woodpeckers are most easily found by following their their far-carrying "tchick".
 
On walks there have been periods of sunlit stillness, the air full of the exuberant piping of oystercatchers and the mournful song of curlews, punctuated by the deep croaking of ravens; at other times the wind blows up and it is hard to imagine how birds can survive-we almost tripped over an unfortunate heron which seemed to be giving up the struggle. At this time of year there are few birds on the windswept tops, just a few wisps of meadow pipits and the odd woodcock, for whom even when it blows a gale the west coast is mild compared to their frozen breeding grounds in Russia. Large numbers fly over the North Sea on full moons in November and December, and slowly work their way westwards in search of milder air. There has been a big freeze inland while I am here, and today on a path through boggy woodland I put up a dozen woodcock, where last week there were none. When I emerged into the open the young sea eagle flew straight over my head, checking me out and causing the hinds on the hill to freeze.
 
Eilean Shona's birds do not always give themselves up easily; however, over time the island gives up its secrets, and after almost two weeks I am still adding a new bird or two to my list nearly every day.