In yesterday's edition of my semi-regular blatherings I told the gripping tale of our visit to Northam Burrows, and how we saw a flock of curlews. Much to my irritation, I was not able to video the curlews for On The Track (mainly because the video camera battery was flat, and like a bloody idiot I hadn't got around to checking or recharging it), so today I decided to return.
I also forgot to visit Boots yesterday to buy my weekly ration of diabetic shortbread (memo to self: if I regulalry praise Boots diabetic shortbread enough, do you think they well send me a free supply?) so, as Corinna had lots of things to do today, Graham and Prudence and I set off (with no less than three video cameras) and drove to Northam Burrows. We were late arriving, and - sod's law - we saw no curlews at all, although the shelducks we saw yesterday were still there.
Do you agree?
We had what passes as a brisk walk for Prudence and me (which means that we ambled about for about half an hour) and then trotted back to the car. Apart from a verbal altercation between Prudence and a cheeky young terrier (who started it, honest), the walk passed without incident.
We drove to Bideford to buy the shortbread, and found - to my irritation - that Boots had closed ten minutes early, but there was a spectacular display of starlings flocking and doing aerobatics above Bideford Bridge, so we amused ourselves filming them for a while, and then went home.
And today's title? Check this out (and I guarantee that Syd will hate it):
The hunt for British Big Cats attracts far more newspaper column inches than any other cryptozoological subject.
