I’m walking along the outskirts of my local industrial estate when a bird flies up from in front of me. It’s been working the bank of the drainage channel, a stream which is a tributary of the River Teign. It flies into a bush on the opposite bank. Can you see it?
Here it is:
It’s a Green Woodpecker. I’ve seen a juvenile reasonably close before when I was in Italy:
I’ve seen an adult before, but only like a bullet undulating from bush to bush:
This is my chance to get a photograph of it. It’s working the opposite bank now. To get over there I have to walk half a mile to the nearest bridge and back. If I had wellies it would be a lot quicker and more direct. I stride off hoping it will still be there when I get round to the opposite bank. It is. I’m nestled down waiting for it to move along, away from the young trees and reeds, when a dog walker comes past. The dog finds me irresistible and the Woodpecker flies. The woodpecker didn’t laugh, and neither did I.
It’s a terrible photograph, but it’s my terrible photograph.