What goes up, must come down.

It was a lengthy, rain-drenched solo haul up to Fife and back down again yesterday – especially with the birding gods in an unco-operative mood.
Getting to Kilminning long before sun up, I managed an hour or two’s kip in the car with the place to myself and the wind moaning in off St Andrew’s Bay.
The flooded roads of rural Fife and continued showers promised autumn migration, but a fleeting glimpse of something or nothing just after 7.30am in the gloomy drizzle was the closest I got to the incredibly skulky Siberian Thrush there yesterday.
So I spent the rest of the day scanning its favoured Rowan and Elders, and keeping my distance from other folks.
Shame the thrush chose to do the same.
The elders sagged under the weight of more Blackcaps than I have ever seen in one place before – up to three to a branch and hard to say just how many were zipping about or sunbathing in the sheltered corner.
A Sylvia fall no less.
A Garden Warbler, Goldcrests, two Yellow Browed Warbler, four Bramblings and 200 odd Barnacle Geese coming from the north were pleasant enough distractions from the absence of the star Sibe.
The superciliums of my first Redwings of the autumn teased me as they jostled with Song Thrushes and Blackbirds and Chiffchaffs tail pumped in the Fife sunshine.
Several Grey Wags, flocks of Skylarks and a single Hawfinch went through overhead, and the local Yellowhammers called from the scrub alongside a few Goldcrests.
Can’t win ’em all (although just this one would have been nice), but driving the country lanes recognising village names I’ve long-forgotten since I haunted this neck of the woods over 35 years ago was at least a pleasing exercise in nostalgia.
Brownhills no more.