Two in the Bush (Bello)

by Gerald Durrell

  As we drew closer to Melbourne the weather grew colder and colder until, by the time we had arrived in the city, it was as cold as Manchester on a raw November day. I was – quite stupidly – unprepared for this kind of weather in Australia. I had imagined it to be a land of perpetual sunshine, although a glance at an atlas and a few calculations would have shown me how wrong I was. Luckily we had brought plenty of clothing to cope with the inclement weather in New Zealand, and this now stood us in good stead.

  The two things that we were most anxious to see and to film, if possible, were the lyrebirds and the leadbeater’s possum. The lyrebird is probably one of the most spectacular of the Australian birds, and I knew that the Wildlife Department of Melbourne had created a sanctuary for them at a place called Sherwood Forest, but even when you have created a sanctuary for some animal it does not mean that the creature is necessarily going to be easy to see or film. However, Mr Butcher, the head of the Wildlife Department, seemed to think that we had a good chance of success, and passed us over to the capable guidance of Miss Ira Watson, who had been doing studies on the birds and knew the area intimately. Ira had booked rooms for us at a small hotel situated on the edge of the sanctuary, so early one crisp, cold morning, we set off with our mountains of equipment. By the time we had settled in the hotel, however, and unpacked our gear the whole world had been enveloped in grey mist and drizzle, and the temperature appeared to have dropped well below zero. Reluctant and shivering, we picked up our equipment and followed Ira into the forest in search of lyrebirds.

  The forest consisted of giant, elderly eucalyptus trees, standing about in elegant attitudes, each one festooned with its shawl of tattered and peeled bark. Interspersed among these were giant tree ferns, squatting on hairy brown trunks, their long fronds bursting from the top like a feathery green fountain. The whole forest was gloomy, mist shrouded and as echoing as a deserted cathedral. Ira took us along a narrow, meandering path which presently led us out into a sort of wide ride through the forest. The floor of the ride was covered with tree ferns and short vegetation, and here, in a clearing, we piled all the equipment into a heap and then set off to look for lyrebirds.

  The lyrebird is not particularly spectacular to look at, resembling a rather drab hen pheasant. Its beauty lies in its tail, which consists of two long, delicately curved white feathers which curve out and round so that they resemble an ancient lyre. To add verisimilitude to the illusion, the area between these two immense, lyre-shaped feathers is crisscrossed with a delicate tracery of fine white feathers that resemble the strings of the lyre. At the beginning of the breeding season the cock birds choose areas in the forest which they convert into dance halls. The area is cleared with the aid of the bird’s strong feet, and the leafmould neatly piled up in the centre of the clearing as a sort of stage. When this is ready the cock bird can commence his display, and it is probably one of the most spectacular in the world. With the aid of his tail and his voice he endeavours to seduce every female lyrebird within hearing, and even if they could resist his tail, it is doubtful that they could remain unmoved by his song. He is the most accomplished mimic and incorporates into his repertoire the songs of other birds and, indeed, any other sounds he hears which take his fancy; the result is not the cacophony you might expect but a breathtakingly beautiful performance.

  We wandered through the damp undergrowth for some time and saw plenty of signs of lyrebirds in the shape of scratchings in the leafmould and droppings, and this encouraged us. Presently we came upon one of the dancing halls and I was surprised at its size, for it measured some eight feet in diameter and the mound in the middle was about two foot six high.

  ‘This is one of Old Spotty’s halls,’ said Ira, ‘he’s one of the oldest and tamest of the birds here. He’s the one I was hoping we would find because he’d be much easier to film than the others.’

  But there was no sign of Old Spotty, or of any other lyrebirds, as we continued our way through the tree ferns. Soon we came to a small valley where the tree ferns grew thickly among massive boulders, each one wearing a green fur coat of moss. Here a tiny stream tinkled and bubbled among the boulders, and occasionally, where it curved, there would be a tiny beach of white sand. It was as we were investigating this stream that we saw our first lyrebird. Ira, who was leading, stopped suddenly and held up her hand. Very cautiously we moved up behind her and she pointed at a tiny beach by the stream some fifty feet away. On it stood a lyrebird, his head slightly to one side as he regarded us with large, liquid dark eyes, his huge tail flowing out behind him like a waterfall of crisply starched lace. He watched us for some time and then, deciding that we must be harmless, stalked gracefully off the small beach and made his way through the tree ferns’ massive trunks, pausing every now and then to scratch at the leafmould vigorously with his large feet. We followed him for some time, hoping that he might change direction and wend his way into the ride, for down there in the valley it was too dark for photography, but he was intent on his feeding and merely moved deeper and deeper into the gloom of the trees. But the fact that we had actually seen a lyrebird cheered us up immensely, and we made our way back to the ride in much better spirits. After some hot coffee to thaw us out, we split up and started to quarter the edge of the forest along the ride.

  We were so keyed up to look for lyrebirds that it came as a considerable surprise to meet up with other inhabitants of the forest. The first of these were three fat young kookaburras, or laughing jackasses as these giant kingfishers are called in Australia. The three of them were sitting side by side on a branch, squatting there smugly in their chocolate and grey plumage, with their handsome blue wing patches gleaming. The dark mask of feathering across the eyes made them look absurdly like a trio of fat small boys who were playing bandits. To our astonishment, as soon as they saw us they uttered their wild, chattering cries and flew straight down on to the path, settling a few feet away from us. Here they hopped about, uttering wheezy cries, fluttering their wings and opening their big broad beaks in supplication. Ira, who was obviously more used to the idiosyncrasies of Sherwood Forest than we were, unperturbedly produced from her pocket a large piece of cheese, and with this unlikely substance we proceeded to feed the squawking babies. At last, bloated with cheese (and having made sure that we had no more on us), they flew heavily back to their ambush and sat there to await fresh victims.

  The next inhabitant of the forest was even more unexpected than the kookaburras had been. I was standing at the edge of the undergrowth, moodily wondering which way was the best to go in search of lyrebirds, when there was a faint crackling of twigs and a portly grey animal about the size of a large bulldog suddenly shuffled out of the undergrowth. I recognised it instantly as a wombat, for in the past (when I had been a keeper at Whipsnade Zoo) I had once had a long and passionate love affair with one of these enchanting animals, and I have been enamoured of the species ever since. Superficially they resemble koala bears, but are, in fact, much more stocky and bear-like in appearance, since they are adapted to ground living. They have short, strong legs – slightly bowed – which give them a rolling gait very reminiscent of a bear; but their heads look more like a koala, with round boot-button eyes, oval plush-like nose patches, and a tattered fringe round the edge of the ears. The wombat, having appeared out of the undergrowth, paused for a moment and then sneezed violently and with a melancholy air. Then he shook himself and walked up the path towards me with the slow flat-footed, resigned walk of a teddy bear who knows he is no longer favourite of the nursery. He approached me in this dispirited manner, his eyes blank, obviously thinking deep and morbid thoughts. I was standing quite still, and so it wasn’t until he was within a couple of yards of my feet that he noticed me. To my astonishment he did not rush off into the forest – he did not even check in his advance. He walked straight up to my legs and proceeded to examine my trousers and shoes with a faintly interested air. Then he sneezed again, uttered a heart-rending sigh, pushed past me unceremoniously, and continu
ed up the path. I followed him for some time, but eventually he left the path and waddled off into the forest, and I lost him. I asked Ira about him and she said that he had been the Grand Old Man of the forest for about ten years. He was frequently seen during the day – which was unusual in a nocturnal creature like a wombat – and he never evinced any more interest in visitors to the forest than he had shown in me. His attitude obviously was that if a lot of ungainly human beings wanted to tramp about his forest looking at a lot of noisy birds it was all right by him, provided he was not interfered with.

  All that afternoon we wandered about the forest trying to find lyrebirds in a suitable area for photography, but without success. We saw quite a number of them, but they were all lurking in the dimmest recesses of the forest. We returned to the hotel irritated, cold and hungry. On the following morning – a Sunday – the weather had lifted slightly and so we set off into the forest in high hopes. Ira, however, dampened these slightly by telling us that Sunday was a favourite day for people to visit the sanctuary and so the birds might be more disturbed than usual. She was still insistent that Old Spotty would be the best bird to concentrate on, so we made our way to the best of his dancing halls we had found, which was situated in a clearing in the forest and set in waist-high undergrowth. If he would only decide to use this particular hall that day it would be perfect for photography. It seemed as if our plan of campaign might work, for no sooner had we settled down near the dance hall than Old Spotty appeared. However, having appeared, he did absolutely nothing except stand stock-still and stare at us with a vacuous expression for some minutes before disappearing into the forest again. Six times he did this during the morning, and each time we would seize the equipment and stand at the ready, quivering like terriers at a rat hole, but to no avail. The seventh time he joined us he walked right up to us, and condescended to eat some cheese, but at the mere suggestion that he should do a display for us he stalked away. We waited patiently while a file of sightseers passed us on the path – elderly ladies, young couples and groups of boy scouts, all on their way into the forest to try to witness the lyrebird’s display. It was enchanting to think that such a sanctuary existed where so many town dwellers could come to picnic and get within a few feet to watch one of the most extraordinary of all bird displays. They came trooping past us with their packets of sandwiches and Box Brownies, and they all wished us good morning and asked us for the latest news as to where the birds were displaying. We said, rather acrimoniously, that we wished we knew. We waited and waited and there was still no sign of Spotty. Presently there was a crackling in the forest and an elderly clergyman burst into view, clasping a bulging haversack and wearing a rather battered Panama. He paused when he saw us, adjusted his rimless glasses, beamed benignly and then tiptoed forward to examine our yards of coiling cable, our recording machines and the cameras, gleaming and inimical, perched like Martian monsters on their tripods.

  ‘Are you trying to film lyrebirds?’ he enquired of our dispirited group.

  ‘Yes,’ we replied, overawed at his perspicacity.

  ‘But there are lots down there in the forest,’ he said, with a wild gesture, ‘lots of them . . . I can’t remember having seen so many. That’s where you should really be . . . down there.’

  When he had passed on, having done his good deed for the day, Jim sighed deeply.

  ‘If another lyrebird comes within range I shall personally wring its neck,’ he said, and added, ‘and that goes for clergymen as well.’

  Another hour passed. Chris by now was pacing up and down looking like the Duke of Wellington on the eve of Waterloo, when suddenly two things happened almost simultaneously. There was a burst of lyrebird song from the forest some three or four hundred yards away, and with a muttered curse Jim leapt to his feet and, grabbing one of the cameras, bounded off into the forest. Hardly had he disappeared than Old Spotty suddenly materialised and made his way determinedly towards his dancing hall.

  ‘Quick, quick,’ said Chris in agony, grabbing the spare camera, ‘You’ll have to do the sound recording.’

  He rushed through the undergrowth to the edge of the dancing hall and started frantically setting up the camera, while I, enveloped in yards of trailing wires, followed him. More by luck than good management, we managed to get set up before Spotty reached us. We were within six feet of the mound, which was the nearest we felt it was safe to go without disturbing the bird. Chris pressed the button, the camera started whirring, and then, as if he had been waiting for this as his cue, the fern fronds parted and Old Spotty stepped into the dancing hall. He paused to give us a regal look and then stepped up on to the leafmould stage and began his act.

  I had expected something spectacular, but Old Spotty’s display was so fabulous that I had great difficulty in concentrating on the job of recording. He gave a couple of preliminary, flute-like calls to get his voice in trim, and then he slightly lowered his wings, arched his tail right over his back in a shimmering white waterfall of feathers, threw back his head and from his throat poured forth a song that was almost beyond description for purity and virtuosity. Apart from trills and flutings and rich deep contralto warbles, I could recognise incorporated into the song the harsh, chattering laughter of a kookaburra, the sounds of a whip bird (like the whistle and crack of a stock whip), and a sound that could only be compared with a tin can full of pebbles being rolled down a rocky slope. Funnily enough, as I say, these odd and unmelodious sounds were incorporated into the basic song so cunningly that they enhanced it rather than spoilt it. I had rather cleverly (I thought) hung the microphone within a yard or so of where Old Spotty was singing, but when I looked at the recording machine, I found to my horror that it was in danger of bursting at the seams with the volume of sound that was being poured into the microphone. I made wild gestures to Chris to try to explain my predicament. I could not speak to him for fear that my voice would be picked up on the soundtrack. It was imperative – I gestured furiously – that the microphone be moved back a bit. Chris, darting a horrified glance at the dancing volume needle on the recorder, nodded. Now two problems beset me: I had to shift the microphone without disturbing Old Spotty, and in so doing I would get into direct range of the camera unless I crawled, Red Indian fashion, under it. I cautiously lowered myself on to my stomach and edged forward over an area of ground on which had been congregated – for my especial benefit – all the spikiest bits of undergrowth in Australia. I need not have worried about Spotty’s reaction. Absorbed and enamoured of his own performance as any actor, he would, I think, have allowed me to pull his tail-feathers out without even noticing but on the off-chance that he might have come out of his Narcissus-like trance and ceased his display, I had to retrieve the microphone in slow motion. It was at this point that I discovered one of the basic truths of life, that a thorn driven into your flesh in slow motion is infinitely more painful than a thorn driven in rapidly. Eventually, however, I managed to get the microphone back to a position where it was not in danger of disintegrating with the volume of Spotty’s song. Chris and I, crouched in our ungainly positions, stood there for about a quarter of an hour while Spotty poured his soul out. He ended on a gorgeous contralto trill and then, lowering his tail and shuffling his wings once or twice, he stalked out of his dancing hall and into the undergrowth.

  Chris turned and stared at me with the slightly wide-eyed, incredulous expression that always spreads over his face when things have gone right. He summed it up with his normal masterly command of understatement: ‘I think that’s okay,’ he said.

  Plucking a large amount of Australian undergrowth from the regions immediately surrounding my umbilical, I rose to my feet and surveyed him with interest.

  ‘Yes, I think it will be okay,’ I said. ‘Of course, it would have been much better if we could have put him under contract and taken him to Bristol to repeat the whole thing in the studio.’

  Chris gave me a withering look and we packed up the equipment and made our way back to the ride.


  ‘Did you get anything?’ Jacquie enquired anxiously