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Vanishing shades og blue and grey - Öland 2026-01-06

Last Tuesday, I headed over to Öland. My objective was to try and photograph kingfishers and hen harriers. I parked by the Mörbylånga water treatment works and spent a few hours exploring the area. The outing yielded some decent shots of bearded tits and my first-ever photos of a female hen harrier. At one point, a kingfisher landed on a reed just six or seven metres away from me in perfect light, while I was standing in full view. There was no chance of taking a photo, unfortunately; the bird took flight the moment it realised I wasn't a bush... but it was a magnificent sight.

Despite that wonderful encounter, it wasn't the kingfisher that truly left an impression on my retina. In the afternoon, as I sat in the snow photographing bearded tits in the cold, the birds suddenly retreated deep into the reeds with a great deal of fuss. I glanced upwards and caught the eye of a grey-blue shadow from above. A male hen harrier aborted its dive in my direction and vanished behind an embankment. My goodness, what a stunning bird. And what a photo that would have been. Next time...

Todays walkabout 2025-12-28

I went for a long walk with my camera today. My first stop was an old oak tree where I had previously spotted a tawny owl at dusk. To my delight, there was one perched in a crotch of the tree, basking in the sun. It was difficult to find an angle where the owl wasn’t obscured by branches, but I eventually found a spot that worked. After that, I wandered over to Barkeström and the Barka pond. Found a jay on the way.  A pair of whooper swans were out on the water, calling to one another. The light was beautiful, and I managed to sneak relatively close without startling them. Sunlit pine needles provided a lovely, soft foreground for the swans.

Buzzard, Buteo buteo, Hälleberga Småland 20251220. Canon R3 with Canon EF 600mm f/4L IS III USM. ISO 1000, f4, 1/500 s. Beanbag as support. Focusing distance 9,52m.

In August 2024, I embarked upon the construction of a woodland cabin for my children. The original blueprint was simple: I would lay the foundations, and they would take up the mantle of building the rest. However, I soon found myself consumed by a feverish obsession; a manic drive took hold, and the children were never given the opportunity to lend a hand. As the structure ascended, it became increasingly apparent that the project had transmuted into a dedicated photography hide.

Having exhausted every scrap of salvaged timber I could lay my hands on, I was eventually compelled to purchase some rough-sawn tongue-and-groove boards for the roof. All proceeded smoothly until I wrestled with the final plank, which had gone stubbornly askew. It cost me a taxing half-hour, perched precariously atop a small, folding aluminium stepladder. Eventually, I coaxed the timber into place, sweat pouring down my brow.

Job done—or so I thought. As I descended the one-point-four-metre ladder, it began to lurch on the uneven forest floor. Such wobbles were, alas, not an entirely new experience for me. I attempted a nimble leap to the ground, intending to land with some semblance of grace.

However, as I touched down, my lower right leg struck one of the metal steps with sickening force. I looked down immediately to find the flesh quite literally shredded. The entirety of my weight had been driven into a sharp metallic edge, resulting in a gaping thirteen-centimetre laceration, some two-and-a-half centimetres deep. It was a grisly sight; the subcutaneous fat hung in tatters around the open wound.

Thanks to my mobile phone, my daughter, a clean tea towel, and a generous application of duct tape-followed by an ambulance and the sterling care of the Swedish health service-I eventually made a full recovery.

Building a hide is always worth the effort. The resulting scar one year after the accident.

Work on the hide was naturally suspended until this summer, when I finally set about the finishing touches and gave it a lick of paint. The hide’s official inauguration took place this week, and yesterday, the first buzzard ventured into my proximity. It was remarkably bold. When I first caught sight of it, the bird was perched on a branch a mere seventeen metres away. From there, it dropped to the forest floor, took a few tentative hops, and took flight once more, alighting in a willow tree just ten metres from my lens. I had never dared hope it would approach so closely without being spooked by the movement of the lens, yet it remained quite unbothered. The eye-detection autofocus on my Canon R3 performed impeccably. I must confess, I find it a superior companion in the field compared to the R5, though I do pine for the R5’s resolution when it comes to the business of editing.

On reflection, I was most pleased with the captures. The f4 aperture perhaps yielded a depth of field that was a touch too shallow, save for the frame where the buzzard turned its head to reveal a flawless profile. In the other shots, the tip of the beak lacks that critical bite. Perhaps stopping down to f5,6 would have been the wiser choice?

I also have a regular troupe of jays visiting the hide. I suspect we shall become quite well-acquainted; they seem more than happy to trade their charisma for a steady supply of peanuts.

Buzzard, Buteo buteo, Hälleberga Småland, 20251220. Canon R3 with Canon EF 600mm f/4L IS III USM. ISO 1250, f5, 1/500 s. Beanbag as support. Focusing distance 17,1 m.

Buzzard, Buteo buteo Hälleberga Småland, 20251220. Canon R3 with Canon EF 600mm f/4L IS III USM. ISO 1000, f4, 1/640 s. Beanbag as support. Focusing distance 15,5 m.

Buzzard, Buteo buteo, Hälleberga Småland 20251220. Canon R3 with Canon EF 600mm f/4L IS III USM. ISO 1000, f4, 1/640 s. Beanbag as support. Focusing distance 9,52m.

Eurasian jay, Garrulus glandarius, Hälleberga Småland 20251213. Canon R3 with Canon EF 600mm f/4L IS III USM. ISO 2000, f4, 1/250 s. Beanbag as support.