This Birding Life Read online

  After that, you couldn’t keep me away. During the mid-1970s, my friend Daniel and I visited Staines Reservoirs several hundred times, and kept ludicrously detailed lists of the birds we saw there. Our efforts paid off, at least occasionally. Highlights included summer-plumaged Black-necked Grebes, regular Little Gulls and, best of all, an invasion of what seemed like hundreds of Black Terns, in September 1974.

  As the years went on, and I ventured further afield in search of birds, I visited Staines less and less. A quick hack up and down the causeway on New Year’s Day in search of species to boost my ‘year list’, and the odd trip to see a rarity were about the limit. Perhaps it was the sense of familiarity, or the excitement of exploring other, more picturesque sites, but I just found I couldn’t get excited about the place anymore. But it was great while it lasted.

  We’re all going on a summer holiday

  JULY 2OO5

  As we set off on our family holiday to the south coast in July 2005, I had an unexpected flashback to the first time I visited the area, more than three decades ago. It was the summer of 1970, and at the age of ten I had just discovered the delights of birdwatching.

  I was clutching my very first pair of binoculars, purchased for fourteen pounds, nineteen shillings and sixpence, and a pristine copy of the famous ‘Peterson, Mountfort & Hollom’ field guide. My mother and grandmother might have been looking forward to a relaxing rest on the beach, but I was determined to spend the whole fortnight in search of birds.

  As soon as we arrived at the quiet little Hampshire resort of Milford-on-Sea, and had checked into our boarding house (imaginatively named ‘Sea Walls’), I was badgering my mother to take me for a walk. Fortunately Milford is situated next to some of the best tidal mudflats in the county, so as the sun began to set I found myself gazing with delight at Oystercatchers, Dunlin, Redshank and Curlew – all new species to me, and the start of my continuing passion for wading birds.

  Within a couple of days we had graduated to the nearby Keyhaven Marshes, which held even greater prizes, including Bar-tailed and Black-tailed Godwits, and my first Blackcap and Stonechat – both singing out in the open, conveniently allowing me to identify them with certainty.

  When not playing crazy golf or ruining my teeth with toffee apples and candy floss, I spent the holiday happily adding new birds to my ever-growing ‘life list’. Unfortunately having a field guide that included all the birds of continental Europe as well as Britain led to a few errors: such as the time I misidentified a small flock of Linnets on the lawn of our boarding house as Britain’s first Bar-tailed Desert Larks – a species confined to the arid deserts of North Africa and the Middle East.

  We also visited the New Forest, where I correctly identified a Marsh Tit in the woods and a Grey Wagtail on one of the streams. But my favourite outing was a little further away, to Brownsea Island off the Dorset coast. We were given a guided tour of this delightful place, which seemed like a little piece of the Mediterranean in southern England.

  This turned out to be even more appropriate. As we entered one of the hides overlooking a lagoon the warden gave an exclamation of surprise, for a hundred yards away, perched on a tree overhanging the water, was a snow-white apparition of a bird, glowing like none I had ever seen before. It was, of course, a Little Egret – a common enough bird nowadays, but at that time a true rarity. I later found out that the summer of 1970 saw a mini-invasion of these lovely birds, a foretaste of the permanent colonisation that occurred 20 years or so later.

  No doubt this summer I shall see a few egrets, perhaps at Radipole Lake in Weymouth, or just on one of the pools along the coast. But nothing can take away the wonder of that very first sighting.

  Master of Minsmere

  APRIL 1996

  If you want to spend a spring day birdwatching anywhere in the British Isles, you’d be hard pushed to beat the RSPB’s showpiece reserve at Minsmere, on the Suffolk coast. So when at the age of 13, I had the chance to visit, I couldn’t wait.

  It was the Easter holidays, as my mother and I headed up the A12 for the unknown reaches of East Anglia. I remember stopping off somewhere in suburban Essex – not to watch birds, but to buy my birthday present, a pair of old-fashioned Zeiss binoculars. They may look like antiques now, but these East German optics were absolutely superb, opening up a whole new world of birding experience.

  I was dying to try them out and didn’t have long to wait. If I remember correctly, we actually visited another RSPB reserve, Havergate Island, before making the pilgrimage to Minsmere. It was there that I saw my first Avocets.

  For anyone who hasn’t seen an Avocet, it is one of those birds where pictures just can’t do justice to the real thing. Perched on long blue legs, with their black-and-white plumage and bizarre, upcurved bill, they look like something out of an avant-garde design competition.

  I watched as one bird strolled right past our hide, utterly unconcerned at our presence. It was so close I wanted to reach out and touch it. When the RSPB adopted the Avocet as their logo they really knew what they were doing – it truly is a fabulous bird.

  Next day, we finally got to Minsmere itself. I had read about it in countless books; envied those lucky enough to go there; probably even dreamt about the place. I could hardly contain my excitement.

  It was a wonderful day. If my memory serves me correctly, I saw at least a dozen ‘lifers’ – birds I had never set eyes on before. But one still eluded us. In those days, the Marsh Harrier was on the brink of extinction as a British bird, with only a couple of breeding pairs. But it still nested on the reserve at Minsmere.

  The best place to see the harriers was (and still is) the Island Mere Hide, so that’s where we went. Along with a large party of loud, upper-class women, we sat in the hide and waited. Everyone scanned the reeds, but in vain. Then my mother, who didn’t even have a pair of binoculars, asked no one in particular: ‘What’s that big bird over there?’ A large man with an air of authority took a look, and in a booming voice announced: ‘Well spotted Madam – it’s a Marsh Harrier!’

  We left the hide. Realising that this was none other than the warden, Bert Axell, I caught up with him. As youngsters do, I plied him with question after question, chattering away about the Avocets, harriers and everything else I’d seen that day. I was only dimly aware of one of the women tugging my mother’s sleeve and hissing: ‘This is a private party – get that child away from Mr Axell.’

  Finally, after I’d exhausted my almost bottomless curiosity, Bert Axell wished me well, and we parted – he relieved, me proud and pleased to have spoken to the great man. It was only years later that I discovered that H.E. Axell, as he was better known, had a fearsome reputation. Not only had he almost single-handedly made Minsmere what it is today, but he was famous for not suffering fools gladly – even, dare I say it, for having a shortish temper. All I can say is that despite the woman’s protests, he listened to me with patience, generosity and good humour.

  Childhood enthusiasm is a vital commodity in all areas of knowledge – but especially in birdwatching. An unkind word or lack of encouragement, and a young person can rapidly lose interest. But when someone takes time to listen, even for just a few minutes, it rekindles the spark into what has become, for me at least, a lifelong passion.

  Cordon bleu birds

  MARCH 2006

  When I was a young birdwatcher, there was nothing I enjoyed more than visiting new places and seeing new birds. But unlike previous generations, who had to find their own birding sites, we had a useful tool to help us. Where to Watch Birds, published in 1967, was the bird-finding equivalent of The Good Food Guide, telling us where we could enjoy five-star service and cordon bleu birds.

  The author, John Gooders, had a nice line in hyperbole, describing the reserve at Cley next the Sea in north Norfolk as ‘a Mecca for birdwatchers’. Even at the age of 13, I knew that this promised a feast of birds. So when Daniel and I found ourselves spending the October half-term holiday a few miles along the
coast at Mundesley, we were determined to make the pilgrimage to Cley.

  One of the drawbacks of Where to Watch Birds was that we naively treated the contents as Holy Writ, believing that we only needed to turn up to see every species mentioned in the text. This led, I recall, to some disappointing moments over the years. But not this time. For once, the book was absolutely spot-on: as we wandered around the reserve the birds were everywhere.

  And what birds! A flock of Snow Buntings by the Coastguards’ Café, their wings flashing white as they flew. They were accompanied by a few Lapland Buntings – a much scarcer visitor, and one that I have struggled to see since. On the marsh, a lone Whooper Swan sat regally among the lesser wildfowl, while a tiny Grey Phalarope could be seen from one of the hides. Even the beach produced new birds: including George, a Glaucous Gull. This particular individual turned up at Cley every autumn for many years, until he eventually died, to be replaced by a younger bird – named, inevitably, ‘Boy George’.

  On that first visit to Cley I saw no fewer than nine new species. And these were quality birds – ones that any birdwatcher, novice or not, would be pleased to see. Of course, having faithfully read our ‘Bible’, this was no more than we had come to expect. Yet since that first visit, despite having returned to Cley dozens of times, I have never again experienced such a wealth of unusual birds.

  But the very best sighting came not at Cley, nor indeed at any other well-known site. On a rare occasion when we couldn’t persuade Daniel’s parents to give us a lift anywhere, we decided to take a walk inland, just to see what we could find.

  We were wandering aimlessly along a footpath near the hamlet of Edingthorpe when a bird swooped out of the hedgerow and perched on a twig right in front of us. It sat like a sentinel, resplendent in its smart black, white and grey uniform. Despite never having seen one before, we immediately knew it was a Great Grey Shrike, a scarce winter visitor from Scandinavia. It sat for a few moments, then flew away, never to be seen again. But what made the experience really special was that we had found the bird ourselves, away from the classic birding sites and without the guidebook.

  A gull too far

  JUNE 1996

  Ross’s Gull is one of the world’s most mysterious birds. It breeds in the remote Siberian tundra and winters in the Arctic Ocean, rarely venturing further south. Which doesn’t explain what one was doing at an English south coast holiday resort back in the summer of 1974. But that’s birds for you – always unpredictable.

  I was on my first ever ‘go-it-alone’ holiday with my classmate and birding companion Daniel. In those days, despite only just having turned 14, we were allowed to get on our bikes and head vaguely in the direction of Hampshire. Loaded down with tents, primus stoves and other camping equipment, our plan was to spend a week away, discovering the ornithological delights of the New Forest.

  Things went pretty well at first, and we managed to avoid the juggernauts and speed maniacs, and survived to pitch our tent. Too young to pass for 18, the local pub was out of bounds, so after cooking a meal bordering on the inedible, we retired to the tent for a night’s sleep.

  We spent the next two or three days in an agreeable routine of getting up, having breakfast and birdwatching until we became too tired or darkness fell, whichever came first. On the third or fourth day, we were wandering around the coastal marshes at Keyhaven, and not seeing very much, when we met a fellow birder.

  ‘Anything about?’ we enquired, in the time-honoured manner.

  ‘Not really – except the gull, of course,’ he replied.

  ‘The gull?’

  Remember, this was long before the days of rare-bird phonelines, personal pagers and all the other hi-tech aids to modern twitching. It turned out that a Ross’s Gull, only the eleventh ever recorded in Britain, was still present about 20 miles along the coast, at Stanpit Marsh near Christchurch.

  There was nothing else for it. We got on our bikes and went for the bird. Unfortunately, being a sunny summer Sunday, a large share of the population of southern England had also decided to visit Stanpit Marsh, which as well as being a good birding spot also boasts a beach.

  We waited. And waited. And eventually gave up, and endured the 20-mile ride back to our campsite – tired, hungry and frustrated. But we weren’t the sort to give up that easily. Next morning we remounted our bikes and made the long trek back to the marsh. Once again we joined the small band of eager observers perched on a sandbank.

  At five past eleven, just as my stomach was beginning its usual protests, the guy sitting next to us asked quietly: ‘Is this it?’ We turned and looked. On the water, a hundred or so yards away, sat a small, delicate gull, its pearl-grey back contrasting with a pure white head and neck, bisected by a thin, dark line. As I focused the bins, it flew – a creature of rare grace and beauty among its commoner cousins. It was the Ross’s Gull.

  Twenty years later, on an unusually mild February morning, I stood with a group of twitchers by the sewage outfall at Inverness, watching another Ross’s Gull. In those intervening decades, twitching has become a popular participation sport, with thousands of people racing up and down the country in search of rare birds.

  I don’t begrudge their enjoyment but do feel that perhaps they’ve taken some of the magic out of birding. I have occasional pangs of nostalgia for the days when you only heard about a rare visitor by being in the right place at the right time. And when catching up with the bird itself really meant something.

  Incidentally, in our euphoria at seeing the Ross’s Gull we forgot to fulfil an important promise: to phone home from time to time. When we finally returned, caked with a week’s worth of dirt, our parents weren’t impressed by our excuse. That’s adults for you – no sense of priorities.

  Half-term at Dunge …

  OCTOBER 1996

  To many people, the phrase ‘bird observatory’ conjures up a picture of a purpose-built, space-age building, with an array of hi-tech optical equipment trained on the skies, ready to observe and record each passing bird.

  The reality is rather different. Some observatories are in disused lighthouses, others in dilapidated shacks, held together with rusty nails and bits of rope. In terms of comfort, Dungeness Bird Observatory falls somewhere between the two, being the last in a line of old naval cottages, almost in the shadow of the nuclear power station.

  I first visited Dunge, as the regulars call it, in late October 1974. At the start of the October half-term, Daniel and I rode off on the long journey from west London, he on his small-wheeled Moulton Mini, me on my five-speed Coventry Eagle. In those days, as now, the observatory provided basic accommodation for a dozen or so people, though at this late stage in the autumn only a hardy few were actually staying there.

  We had an unforgettable week, although our staple diet of toast sprinkled with granulated sugar left something to be desired. Despite the late date, there were all sorts of interesting migrants, including a flock of 70 Firecrests in the area behind the observatory. We trapped a couple of these tiny, jewel-like birds, and were able to observe them at close quarters as they were ringed by the experts. We also saw a stunning Rough-legged Buzzard, an Arctic-nesting bird of prey which occasionally turns up in eastern England in autumn.

  But the most memorable sighting of all occurred early one morning, when we were inside the observatory itself. The night before had brought high winds and rain, and we were lingering over our breakfast, wondering whether or not to brave the elements.

  Then the door opened to reveal a man carrying what looked like a cardboard shoebox. In fact, that’s exactly what it was – but inside it contained a small bundle of black-and-white feathers huddled among some newspaper. It was a Little Auk – victim of a ‘wreck’, during which strong winds sometimes drive these tiny sea-going birds onshore. It had been picked up somewhere along the coast and brought along to the observatory’s warden, Nick Riddiford.

  After nursing the bird back to consciousness and giving it food and water, the decision wa
s taken to release it back into the wild. As two 14 -year-old schoolboys, Daniel and I were flattered to be charged with this awesome responsibility.

  We took the shoebox carefully down to the beach, let the bird go at the water’s edge and watched as it began to float out to sea. Then, the inevitable happened. A watching Great Black-backed Gull, noticing the Little Auk’s passive state, swooped down and grabbed it – and our precious cargo turned into an early lunch.

  We trooped dejectedly back to the observatory to face the wrath of our colleagues. I consoled myself with the thought that the bird was obviously far too exhausted to survive, and looked forward to seeing Little Auks again in happier surroundings. Yet amazingly, I never have. Even though each autumn they pass along the east coast in their hundreds, sometimes thousands, I always arrive too early or too late.

  In the last few years, thanks to better communications, Dungeness has become little more than a half-day trip from London. As a result, very few people actually stay at the observatory any more. Looking back at what we saw that week in autumn 1974, I think they’re missing out.

  Once Bittern

  MAY 1996

  It was Mick Lane who suggested it. Mick Lane, the biggest boy in the fourth year, the captain of the rugby team, the undisputed British Bulldog champion. ‘Why don’t we go birdwatching?’ As recollections of teenage life go, this isn’t quite in the same league as ‘why don’t we bunk off school and go to a twenty-four-hour rave?’ Then again, we didn’t really go in for that sort of thing. So in the Whitsun half-term, Mick, Daniel and I packed our bags and set off for Stodmarsh, in east Kent.

  It was my first real experience of birdwatching in spring, and I was, to put it bluntly, gobsmacked. Reed and Sedge Warblers were everywhere we looked. Whitethroats sang from any available perch, swaying in the breeze. And every few minutes, a Cuckoo flew past.