Hey, I’ve missed you too. January steamed by really fast and although various things happened, in the way things do, none found themselves onto these pages. I have a couple of half-written, rather uninspired pieces that may well make their way here eventually, but they had nothing of the excitement that gets them over the line.

Until yesterday, that is. And let me just pre-warn you: this one’s about birds and photography, so look away now if that’s not your bag.

Anyway, we seem to have reached a stage where the usual suspects – the silvereyes, the gerygones – had done whatever they do in spring and had moved on. The butterflies provided some slight distraction, but not much new happened.

Until yesterday, as I said. Well, strictly speaking, the day before yesterday, because that’s when, sitting in the shed (‘studio’), I spotted a completely new and unknown bird. Not only that, but this bird was hovering with skill and focus at a spray of flowers, clearly drinking nectar out of a blossom.

A scramble ensued: it was the action of seconds to snatch up the trusty Nikon with its ludicrous lens, but when I moved panther-like into position, Archie, alerted by this uncharacteristic burst of energy, scuttled out onto the lawn and scared the poor bird away. I guess it’s my punishment for encouraging this kind of behaviour.

I just had time to note that the bird was long and lean and had brownish underparts and a long, curved beak like a sunbird’s. Study of the literature suggested it must be a honeyeater of some description. It was a disappointment: it could have been one of those pics of a bird frozen in mid-hover, its wings still a blur despite the blink-fast shutter speed.

Which brings us to today. Again, sitting in the ‘studio’, my attention was drawn to a loud and persistent bird-like cry. Camera in hand, I emerged and saw it dart across the garden and into a bunch of rose bushes. Above my head the loud one was high in the old fir tree, presenting few opportunities for a decent shot, although some were in focus.  

The other seemed a better bet. Sneaking like Sylvester after a taste of Tweety-Pie, I crept around a bush. Nothing. I advanced a stealthy step – and it flitted out of the standard roses and out of sight. Cursing, I oozed around the next bush – and there it was, sitting on a branch.

You know, sometimes – very, very rarely – but just sometimes, things just go well. And this was one of those times. That little bird posed shamelessly on its twig for what seemed like the next hour or two. None of the darting about its tiny cousins indulge in. No disappearing into the next parish at the click of a shutter. It looked this way and that; it turned itself about; it even preened a bit.

And all the while, it emitted short, regular cheeps, which seemed to be answered by the yammering of the other bird nearby. I caught it cheeping after a huge number of tries when hitting the shutter seemed to coincide exactly with its rare silent moments.

And then, in the blink of an eye, the other bird materialised in the viewfinder, my subject yawned its beak open, and the parent bird (for that’s what it was) popped a bug in its maw.

Soon after this, just as the weight of camera and its glassy proboscis became too much (holding it steady, just so, is surprisingly taxing of shoulders and arms), it took off and joined its noisy parent in a tree across the road.

I can’t describe the thrill of knowing you have something good on your memory card, after trying and trying and giving up for a while. It’s tempting to assign some truism or other to this phenomenon – something about trying too hard, or maybe setting free the thing you love – but it’s really just about a whole lot of luck and what skill you can bring to bear when the opportunity arises.

A quick consultation of the usual sources confirms that we have a male adult Eastern Spinebill (a kind of honeyeater) and its peckish offspring. Another entry for the Birds and Beasts page – and sufficient excitement to elicit a blog post. What’s not to like?