This Birding Life

by Stephen Moss

  It’s probably nostalgia that creates this rose-tinted picture of delight. But one bird will stay in my memory until I finally hang up my binoculars. A Little Bittern. Not a ‘little Bittern’, but a Little Bittern: the Bittern’s rare and elusive southern European relative.

  The day was Sunday, 25 May, and it was a scorcher. By lunchtime, my stomach was in a state of open rebellion. Daniel and Mick seemed happy to survive on the bowl of cornflakes we’d had for breakfast, but I wasn’t. They put up with my whingeing for a while, and then gave in, so we walked back to the pub. Following in that great British tradition, in those days the Red Lion stopped serving food at 1.30 on a Sunday afternoon. We made do with a couple of packets of beef and onion crisps, and a lemonade. As we wandered back, we weren’t in the best of moods. Then, we met a man with the look of someone with urgent news to impart.

  ‘I’ve just seen a male Little Bittern,’ he gasped. So did we. We’d just missed the bird of a lifetime. And it was my fault – or at least, my stomach’s…

  But the great thing about Stodmarsh is that you can only go in two directions, unless you want to get your feet wet. So we strode forward along the footpath. I was just beginning to have my doubts when I noticed a bird flying alongside, low above the reeds, with trailing legs, yellow underparts and huge, pink wing-patches.

  I can’t even begin to describe the feeling as I watched my first Little Bittern passing by in the afternoon sun. What a bird! It stayed another two days, during which we got another couple of fleeting views, as it briefly rose from the reeds, before plunging back out of sight.

  The next afternoon our peace of mind was disturbed by a manic figure carrying a battered pair of binoculars. At first he couldn’t speak, having run all the way from the car park. Fighting for breath, he managed to gasp a question: ‘Did … Did … Didn’t you ring anybody? Don’t you know anyone on the grapevine?’

  We didn’t, and hadn’t. We were blissfully unaware that such a shady organisation, by which news of a rare bird was spread among Britain’s twitchers, even existed. There’s a word for it now – suppression – one of the deadliest sins a birdwatcher can commit. But we hadn’t suppressed the Little Bittern – we just hadn’t got any two-pence pieces for the phone. Eventually our interrogator calmed down, and settled down to wait for the bird’s appearance. But despite sleeping out overnight, he never did get to see it.

  Two decades later, part of me is sad that the Little Bittern remains a very rare bird in Britain. But less charitably, I rub my hands with glee at the thought of all those twitchers who still haven’t got it on their British list.

  It remains one of the greatest moments in my birdwatching life, and it probably always will. Like Cup Finals and Wimbledon, ice cream and summer holidays, some things are never quite as good as when you were 15 years old …

  Albert memorial

  JULY 1996

  By the time I left Cambridge University in the summer of 1982, I’d more or less given up watching birds. Along with stamp-collecting and kicking a football about in the park, I suppose I felt it belonged with childhood pastimes and should now be left behind.

  After graduating with a mediocre degree in English Literature, I felt I deserved a holiday, but everyone else was either working or broke. So I decided to give the birds one last try, and headed north to the Shetland Isles. For those of you who think that Shetland is stuck in a box somewhere off Aberdeen, let me put you straight. The island of Unst – the northernmost inhabited place in the British Isles – is as far from London as Prague, and a great deal harder to reach.

  The cheapest (though certainly not the quickest) route involved taking the train to Aberdeen, followed by an overnight boat to the islands’ main town of Lerwick. I chose not to pay extra for a cabin, so at 6 a.m. I awoke to a cricked neck and the sound of the ship’s engine slowing down. I dragged myself up on deck to find that we were passing through a tunnel of rock, between two dark, forbidding crags. I had finally arrived.

  I took the bus north, as the only passenger. For the first time I saw the beauty of Shetland: stark, windswept, treeless – and full of birding promise. Two hours later, I reached the village of Baltasound.

  I don’t know what I’d been expecting – perhaps an ancient croft, with Mrs McMiggins standing at the gate to welcome me with a hot toddy and an open fire. What I actually found was a three-bedroom semi, uncannily like the one I’d grown up in, but with better wind-proofing. Inside, one perfectly normal family, sitting round the gas fire (the weather can be treacherous in Shetland, even in July).

  Next morning, I set off for the legendary seabird colony of Hermaness. Generally, when you visit one of Britain’s best-known bird sites at the height of the season, you come across fellow birders. But for six hours I didn’t meet a soul. For someone who, having been brought up in London, used to get nervous on a half-empty bus, this was seriously remote.

  As I wandered across the open country, I felt a rush of air past my head. It was a Great Skua, whose breeding territory I had inadvertently entered, engaging in behaviour quaintly known as ‘mobbing’. I now know that the best antidote is to raise a stick above your head to provide a focus for the skua’s attack. But not having brought a stick or any other long, hard implement, I did the next best thing and ducked.

  The bird swept past – close enough for me to feel a brief flurry of wings. I turned away, feeling remarkably calm. But coming towards me out of the sun was an Arctic Skua, whose streamlined shape and manoeuvrability are to its larger relative what a Phantom jet is to a Wellington bomber.

  I did what any self-respecting birdwatcher would do. I ran. Fortunately I stopped before I got to the cliff edge, where I collapsed in a shuddering heap. Before I could get my breath back, I took in the awesome sight. The sky was filled with thousands and thousands of Gannets. As well as being one of the experiences of a lifetime, this also presented me with a problem. Somewhere among the wheeling throng was a unique bird: Albert, the only albatross in the northern hemisphere (Albert Ross – get it?).

  I never did get to see Albert. He was supposed to be perched on the cliff-face, guarding a nesting-site in the hope that a passing Alberta would come by. Despite searching for an hour or more, I just couldn’t see him and reluctantly turned for home.

  The day didn’t end quite as well as it had begun. I sat with the McMiggins clan, watching England play an uninspiring 0–0 draw with Spain, which put them out of the 1982 World Cup. The only comfort was that Scotland had been knocked out, as usual, in the first round. But despite missing out on the albatross, the combination of beautiful scenery, thousands of Gannets and a skua attack had fortunately convinced me that birding was something I still wanted to do.

  CHAPTER 2

  Spreading my wings

  1983–1997

  Having decided that birdwatching was not just a passing phase, but something I wanted to do throughout my adult life, I spent much of the 1980s drifting aimlessly around Britain in search of new birds to add to my ‘British List’.

  Looking back, it is hard to recall just how insular and parochial the pastime of watching birds was in those days. Birdwatchers (not yet transformed into ‘birders’) were either solitary individuals or went around in tight cliques, rebuffing any approach from an outsider. My lack of nostalgic reminiscences from that decade reflects my sense of isolation and also that my new job as a television producer with the BBC and a young family were taking up much of my time.

  I don’t miss the 1980s, but as the 1990s got under way things took a turn for the better. On a rare foreign trip to Israel in 1989 I met an amiable chap called Neil, who lived a few miles around the M25 from me. As often happens, we swapped addresses but never quite got around to getting in touch. Coincidentally, the following year we bumped into each other on a seabird-watching trip out of Penzance, and decided to team up. Since then we have enjoyed many memorable birding experiences together and have become great friends.

  Another piece of the jigsaw fell into place in 1
995 when, after more than a decade trying, I finally persuaded the BBC to commission a series on birdwatching, with me as the producer. Birding with Bill Oddie was not only a critical and ratings success, it also changed my life. From then on, my lifetime’s passion was also my job, and although I initially had some misgivings about these two areas of my life converging, I was proved wrong.

  Working with Bill for the past decade has been a privilege and a pleasure. As this and subsequent chapters reveal, we have been fortunate to travel all over Britain – and indeed much of the world – in search of birds. To paraphrase a recent advertising campaign: ‘If Carlsberg made jobs, mine would probably be the best in the world.’

  Petrel puzzler

  SEPTEMBER 1996

  We’ve all had the frustrating experience of a brief glimpse of ‘something different’ – a bird that looks unusual, but which you don’t see well enough to identify. Generally it’s best just to put the episode down to experience. But once or twice in a lifetime, a birder may experience the ultimate frustration: seeing a bird that you know is something good, but whose identity you just can’t pin down.

  My own ‘one that got away’ happened back in September 1983. I fancied a few days off work, so I drove my battered Ford Cortina up to north Norfolk. The next morning, my companion and I wandered along to the beach at Cley, which as every birdwatcher knows, can be a great place for passing seabirds. However, mid-morning on a bright, clear, windless day is hardly likely to produce an avalanche of unusual sightings.

  So it proved. Despite watching for an hour or so, we didn’t see much more than a few of the local gulls flapping along the tideline. Apart, that is, from the petrel. We’d only just got ourselves comfortable on the shingle, next to two or three other optimists, when I caught sight of a small, dark bird ‘shearing’ over the waves just beyond the tideline. I was about to yell ‘shearwater’ when someone else called ‘Leach’s Petrel – flying left!’

  We watched for a minute or two, until the bird was out of range. Then we looked at each other in delight and congratulated ourselves on our good fortune. We were so elated that I committed the birder’s cardinal sin: I failed to take any field notes. After all, we had all agreed it was a Leach’s – and for me it was a new bird as well!

  It was only when I got home, and leafed through a few field guides, that I began to have my doubts. According to the experts, Leach’s Petrel is supposed to have a dancing, tern-like flight, a pronounced kink in the wing, a forked tail and an indistinct, V-shaped rump. The bird I’d seen had none of these characteristics, at least as far as I could recall. So I assumed it must be a Storm Petrel, with a typical all-dark plumage and plain white rump.

  Two problems. First, Storm Petrels are a very rare sight off the north Norfolk coast, almost always being sighted in poor weather, when they are driven close inshore. Second, I have seen numerous Storm Petrels since, and though their plumage fits my mystery bird, their ‘jizz’ (or general appearance) certainly doesn’t.

  Every Stormie I’ve watched has a weak, fluttering flight, more like a bat than a bird. In contrast, the flight of the Norfolk petrel was strong and direct, on long, straight wings. So what was it? A Leach’s, which somehow managed to conceal all its distinctive field marks? Or a Storm, flying differently from normal owing to the unusually calm conditions?

  Or could it have been something else? That straight-winged look, that broad, white rump, that shearwater-like flight – they all point to the rare Wilson’s Petrel, straying round the coast from its usual haunts out in the Atlantic.

  Of course, now I will never know. A few years later my companion on that day died, tragically, from heatstroke while birding in Australia. The other observers? Who knows – but if you’re reading this, and you’ve got a dodgy Leach’s Petrel on your list, do get in touch!

  The moral of this sorry tale? Never assume. Never go along with the crowd if you have a shred of doubt. And always, always take detailed field notes. You can use a notebook, tape-recorder, palmtop computer or back of an old envelope – it doesn’t matter. Just do it, or, like me, you will live to regret ‘the one that got away’.

  The Scilly season

  OCTOBER 1995

  Few birdwatchers lucky enough to be on the Isles of Scilly in mid-October 1985 are ever likely to forget the experience. It was one of those rare autumns during which the birds appeared to come from all points of the compass to make landfall on these delightful islands off the south-west of the British Isles.

  I arrived by helicopter from Penzance, weighed down with the weatherproof clothing I’d worn to combat the worst of the British weather. As I disembarked, I was met by an extraordinary scene: a crowd of birdwatchers, most in shirt-sleeves, staring intently at what appeared to be a small patch of scrubby grass.

  It was a small patch of scrubby grass, but being on the Isles of Scilly in autumn, it concealed a rare bird. This was a Bobolink, a North American species which looks like an anorexic Corn Bunting. This was just one of several American vagrants which had managed to cross the Atlantic Ocean during the westerly gales of the week before.

  Getting a good view of the Bobolink meant I had missed the bus to the islands’ capital, Hugh Town, so I shouldered my rucksack and began the long but pleasant walk. I soon realised that a thick jumper and waterproofs were a mistake. The sun shone high in the sky, and temperatures were up in the seventies – great weather for tourists, but not so likely to produce a crop of rare birds.

  Or so I thought. In fact, October 1985 proved to be the best ever for rare vagrants on Scilly, with birds turning up from west, south and east. As well as the obliging Bobolink, there were up to 15 American land-birds of six species on the islands. These included both Yellow-billed and Black-billed Cuckoos – the latter posing exhausted on the lower branches of a tree for a crowd of almost a thousand contented birders, in full view of a hungry-looking cat. The next day, the cuckoo was nowhere to be seen.

  Transatlantic vagrants are more or less annual on Scilly, though their numbers vary from year to year depending on the timing and intensity of westerly gales. More unusual was a crop of visitors from southern Europe, presumably due to the spell of light southerly winds that had brought such good weather to the islands. These Mediterranean wanderers included a stunning Bee-eater, which posed for all-comers on the island of Tresco.

  As if this wasn’t enough, in mid-October birds started to arrive from the east, too. Yellow-browed Warblers, an annual visitor from Siberia, seemed to be everywhere, and on the 15th a Booted Warbler was discovered in a clump of bushes on Penninis Head, St Mary’s. These birds had travelled thousands of miles in the wrong direction across Asia and Europe, due to a combination of bad navigation and the right weather conditions. Where they went after leaving the islands, nobody knows.

  Café society — Norfolk-style

  SEPTEMBER 1995

  It’s not far from the truth to say that good weather for birdwatchers is bad weather for everyone else. To put it another way, wind and rain often bring the most interesting birds to our shores – especially in autumn, when migrants on their first journey may go astray during bad weather. But it doesn’t always have to be like that. Once in a while, glorious autumn sunshine and soaring temperatures can be accompanied by fantastic birds.

  Back in late September 1986 I planned a trip to East Anglia with a couple of friends – both relatively novice birdwatchers. As we set out from London I looked at the clear blue sky and reflected that even if we didn’t see any birds, at least we’d get a decent suntan. I was right about the weather, which stayed warm and sunny throughout. Fortunately, I was wrong about the birds.

  We started off at the RSPB’s best-known reserve – Minsmere, in east Suffolk. There, we came across the first rarity of the trip: a juvenile Red-backed Shrike, perched on bushes near the sluice. We also saw an unseasonal Red-necked Grebe, moulting out of its gaudy breeding plumage.

  Heading round the coast towards north Norfolk, we stopped off at Cley Marshes. A quic
k seawatch produced a variety of commoner seabirds, including passing Gannets, Red-throated Divers and a very obliging Arctic Skua. This bird lived up to its piratical reputation, chasing terns up and down the beach in order to persuade them to regurgitate their food.

  After an enjoyable and productive morning, we headed towards the legendary Nancy’s Café for lunch. This establishment, alas now closed, was located in the back parlour of a tiny terraced cottage in the middle of Cley. For a few years, before the advent of hi-tech bird information services, this humble eatery was the centre of the twitchers’ ‘grapevine’. People phoned Nancy’s from all over the country, leaving messages about rare bird sightings, or more often, wanting to find the latest ‘gen’ on what had been seen elsewhere.

  This made the uninterrupted consumption of food well-nigh impossible. No sooner had you lifted a forkful of baked beans to your mouth, than you had to answer the phone to yet another anxious caller, demanding to know if the latest rarity was still present on Scilly or Fair Isle.

  As we approached Nancy’s, smacking our lips at the thought of our well-deserved meal, another birdwatcher ran out. His rather flustered appearance suggested that he might be in a hurry. Sure enough, as he passed us, he blurted out the words: ‘Citrine Wagtail. Just been found. Blakeney Harbour.’

  His rapid departure presented us with a dilemma. Did we forgo the prospect of lunch, leap in the car and follow him to see this rare and unexpected Siberian vagrant? Or did we stick to our original itinerary?

  It was a foregone conclusion, really. So it was not until an hour or so later, fortified by poached eggs and copious cups of tea, that the three of us wandered up to the small crowd of people by the harbour at Blakeney. There, we asked the usual question, heard at every twitchers’ gathering. ‘Still showing?’