by Stephen Moss
It was, and we enjoyed excellent, close-up views of the wagtail, the first ever seen in Norfolk. OK, so it didn’t look all that different from our familiar Pied Wagtail, but it was a humbling experience watching a bird that had flown thousands of miles off course, impelled by some mysterious form of wanderlust.
Nevertheless, I must confess to a certain satisfaction that, unlike the other observers there, we had the satisfaction of a full stomach. After all, as even the most dedicated twitcher must accept, man cannot live by birds alone.
Dream birds
NOVEMBER 1996
When you start birdwatching, there are some birds you always dream of seeing. But when you do finally manage to find them, it can sometimes be a bit of a disappointment. Once in a while, though, your dream bird is as wonderful in real life as you hoped and imagined.
The Waxwing has always had an air of mystery about it. Waxwings are birds of the far north, breeding in the pine forests of Scandinavia and Siberia. In autumn, they become nomadic: roaming far and wide in search of their favourite food, berries. But if the berry crop fails in northern Europe, Waxwings head south and west, in what ornithologists call an irruption. Most years, only a few Waxwings are recorded in the British Isles, but in a good year, there may be thousands.
When they do turn up, they can often be surprisingly easy to see. Their berry diet means that they frequently visit gardens, where they usually stay until they have stripped a bush bare, before moving on in search of the next free lunch. The 1970s, the period when I began serious birding, wasn’t a very good decade for Waxwings. There were one or two minor invasions during the 1980s, but I still never managed to catch up with them. Then, in autumn 1988, the birders’ grapevine buzzed with welcome news: large flocks of Waxwings had been sighted up and down Britain’s east coast. An irruption year was under way.
One dull day in November, I had to visit Norwich on business. The meeting dragged on and on, and I didn’t get away until mid-afternoon. But instead of taking the All back to London, I headed east, to the little village of Sutton.
Like several Norfolk villages, Sutton has a small pond as its centrepiece. According to the telephone information service Birdline East Anglia, a flock of about 30 Waxwings was supposed to be regularly visiting the trees around the pond. I parked my car alongside, got out and waited. And waited. There was still no sign of my quarry, though there were several false alarms: a group of Starlings; the usual resident sparrows. I was beginning to feel a little out of place, as curtains began to twitch, and passing villagers gave me suspicious looks.
As dusk approached, I was just thinking about giving up. Then, at last, my faith was rewarded. A flock of birds flew up into the branches above my head. Surely they weren’t yet another bunch of Starlings? I tentatively raised my binoculars to my eyes and gasped at the vision of beauty before me. A small, plump bird, with a plumage of a colour so subtle that I can hardly begin to describe it. Basically brown, yes, but with hints and tints of pink, ochre and sepia; black wingtips edged with yellow and red; and the delicate wispy crest above a black highwayman’s mask.
I watched in quiet delight as the birds began to gorge themselves on bright red berries, then launched themselves into the late afternoon air, flycatching for passing insects. A few minutes later, guided by some unseen signal, they took off and flew away. I wanted to shout out loud, knock on doors, accost passers-by – have you seen them? Aren’t they beautiful? Don’t you realise what fantastic visitors you have?! But being British, I simply got back into the car and drove off to have a quiet, celebratory drink in a country pub.
All at sea
AUGUST 1993
Most birdwatchers are landlubbers at heart. But for one special breed of enthusiast, the call of the sea is just too strong to resist. ‘Seawatchers’, as they are known, often do just that. They spend their time on a windswept coastal headland, gazing out to sea, waiting for seabirds to pass by. It can be a lonely and frustrating pastime: truly oceanic species such as petrels and shearwaters rarely come near land, and when they do, views are often distant and brief.
Fortunately for the sanity of seawatchers, help is at hand. Sometime during the 1980s, the penny dropped. Rather than sitting on some godforsaken cliff, waiting for the birds to come to you, why not go to the birds themselves? This insight resulted in the first of many pelagic trips, in which the birdwatchers charter a boat and sail far out to sea to discover these ocean-going birds on their home ground.
I went on my first pelagic trip in August 1990, sailing at dawn from Penzance on the passenger ship Scillonian, with 300 keen birders aboard. Our destination was the Western Approaches, out in the Atlantic some hundred miles or so beyond the Isles of Scilly. Our aim was to do what the seabirds do, and follow the fishing boats. By listening on a shortwave radio, we soon tracked down a fleet of small craft from the Spanish port of Bilbao.
Seabirds have an extraordinary sense of smell, which enables them to locate a source of food from several miles away. When we approached the fishing boats the sea was virtually devoid of birds, apart from the usual flocks of gulls. But, as the trawler’s crew threw the gutted fish-offal overboard, the birds began to appear over the horizon as if attracted by some invisible signal.
The first arrivals were yet more gulls, accompanied by a skua or two. Then, straining our eyes, we saw a flicker of tiny wings in the far distance, signalling the approach of the first Storm Petrels. These minuscule birds, hardly bigger than a House Martin, have a superficially similar appearance, with a black body and conspicuous white rump. They feed on fluttering wings, plunging down to pick morsels of food off the surface of the water.
Seasoned pelagic voyagers have dispensed with the need to find a fishing fleet, by following the ‘bring-your-own’ philosophy. They spend the night before a trip visiting the local fish-quay, collecting up any remains they can find. They place their ‘catch’ in barrels, and add popcorn or Rice Krispies, to provide an added visual stimulus for passing seabirds. The resulting ghastly concoction is called ‘chum’, and the action of spreading it on the water is known as ‘chumming’.
Chumming requires a strong stomach, though fortunately on this trip we enjoyed perfect sunny weather, with hardly a breeze to ruffle the waves. Our final tally included six Sabine’s Gulls, a high Arctic species en route to spending the winter in Africa; several magnificent Great Shearwaters, cruising low over the water like a pod of airborne sharks; and even a bogus ‘albatross’ – which turned out to be a young Gannet. We returned to port late in the evening, sunburnt yet satisfied.
The interesting thing about pelagic trips is their sheer unpredictability. One time you may see thousands of birds, the next you can draw a complete blank. But a pelagic always gives you a unique insight into the lives of some of our most mysterious birds.
Big day in the suburbs
JANUARY 1994
If you were planning a winter day’s birdwatching, the outskirts of west London might not seem the best place to start. Surely the Norfolk marshes, Solway Firth or one of the south coast estuaries would be more productive? Perhaps. Yet it is quite possible to see as many as 70 different species in a single day in the London suburbs, even with a New Year hangover to contend with. For the past few years, my birding companion Neil and I have shrugged off the excesses of New Year’s Eve and, along with thousands of other birdwatchers throughout Britain, spent I January out in the field.
In fact this year we cheated, waiting until 2 January. By first light (around 8am) we were ticking off some familiar birds on Neil’s bird-table. Ten minutes later, we discovered local specialities Grey Wagtail and Green Sandpiper in nearby Cassiobury Park. Just a mile or so from Watford town centre, this damp, wooded park plays host to a fine selection of woodland birds, including Siskins, Treecreepers and two species of woodpecker.
Leaving the park, we travelled along the M25 to Virginia Water. A quick search failed to produce the expected Mandarin Duck, but during a walk around Wraysbury Gravel Pits we got goo
d views of a pair of wintering Smew, the males looking as if they had been pieced together from a precious vase that someone had dropped and tried to repair. These lakes, close to Heathrow Airport, are one of the main British haunts of this attractive duck. As we watched, Concorde passed low overhead, momentarily shattering the peace.
By noon we had amassed a total of 50 species. It’s from now on that the going gets tough, with each new species a bonus. One year we took until early afternoon to see House Sparrows, and even common wintering birds such as Redwings and Fieldfares can be surprisingly elusive.
This year, Staines Moor was too flooded for waders, but the vast basins of Staines Reservoirs brought a surprise. They’d been drained: bad news for the duck, but good for us. Despite the distance from the coast, they provided refuge for six species of wader: thousands of Lapwings, a hundred or so Dunlin, and a few Redshank, Ruffs, Golden Plovers and Snipe.
Another walk around Wraysbury, and we flushed a pair of Kingfishers, one fleeing along a muddy path – a brilliant flash of blue and orange in the late afternoon light. We’ve seen Kingfishers at different places four years in a row, but it’s still one of the day’s highlights.
Finally, with less than an hour’s daylight remaining, we headed for Magna Carta Lane, Wraysbury. There, amidst a quintessentially English scene of fields and hedges, we caught up with three ‘alien’ species. A cock Pheasant, whose ancestors were brought here by the Romans, strutted along a field edge. A Little Owl, originally introduced in the Victorian era, squealed in the dusk. And most extraordinary of all, as we gazed across the Thames to the site of the signing of the Magna Carta, a high-pitched series of shrieks pierced the sky: a flock of six bright green birds, more streamlined than any native British species. They were Ring-necked Parakeets, going to roost on an island in the Thames at Runnymede.
Among birdwatchers, this bird divides opinion. Some detest them, believing that, like the Canada Goose and Ruddy Duck, they will eventually overrun our native avifauna. Others thrill to the sight of wild parakeets adding a splash of colour to the drab winter scene. As dusk fell, Neil and I agreed that we fall firmly into the latter camp, and that the Ring-necked Parakeet has a deserved place among the 71 species on our Big Day list.
150 not out
MAY 1994
Friday, 13 May might not be the best day to rush around chasing birds, but that didn’t put us off. We were taking part in a charity bird race, run by BirdLife International. The idea was to raise sponsorship cash for Project Halmahera in Indonesia, while undergoing an endurance test that would put the SAS to shame.
The rules are simple. You have 24 hours in which to see (or hear) as many species of bird as possible, in a single county. We chose Norfolk, which generally produces the highest total, and where the British record of 159 species was set in May 1992. Our aim was more modest – to reach 150 species if possible.
At 2.48 a.m. we chalked up bird number one – a cacophony of Nightingales, singing their hearts out on Salthouse Heath. We didn’t actually see them, as it was pitch-dark, and stayed that way for the following couple of hours. But this didn’t stop my sharp-eared colleagues Sacha, Jo and team-leader Mark from totting up more than 20 species by first light, on song and call alone.
Mark is the local expert, so we followed his directions inland, towards a dawn chorus in the Norfolk Brecks. On the way, we added Tawny Owl (on a roadside post) and a ghostly Barn Owl, dazzled by our headlights as it floated across the road. Before dawn we were at Lynford Arboretum, one of the few large mixed woodlands in Norfolk. We found the usual range of songbirds, along with a couple of unexpected species such as a Golden Pheasant croaking in the undergrowth. For the rest of the day we followed a long and winding route around the county, dropping in on known sites for hard-to-see species, and famous hotspots like the RSPB reserve at Titchwell.
The key to a successful bird race is the weather. Beforehand, it should be bad enough to blow in some interesting birds. But on the day itself, wind and rain drive birds under cover and make the bird-racers themselves thoroughly miserable. We were fortunate. A run of easterly winds had deposited a selection of unusual visitors, while to our relief, the weather on the 13th was sunny and warm.
The day’s highlight came at an unlikely spot – a road junction in the village of Narborough. A flock of Jackdaws flying overhead, with one larger bird, caught our eye. Binoculars revealed an unfortunate Osprey being mobbed by its smaller companions. This may have been one of the Scottish Ospreys, but was perhaps more likely to have drifted off course while on the way from its African winter-quarters to Scandinavia. Either way, it had the desired effect of providing a surge of much-needed adrenaline.
In contrast, some quite familiar species can be hard to find. Kingfishers are scarce in Norfolk, and predictably, we failed to see one. We also missed out on migrant songbirds, which were very thin on the ground. However, during the course of the day we did tot up 13 species of duck, 29 different waders and 9 warblers.
As darkness fell, we had managed to log 148 species, frustratingly short of our target. Fortunately, Mark’s local knowledge paid off, when we came across a Little Owl in the grounds of a stately home. Then it was back to where we started, the Norfolk Naturalists’ Trust reserve at Cley. A quick stagger across a darkened marsh, and we heard the distant but unmistakable sound of a booming Bittern. We’d reached 150, and it was time to adjourn to the George for a well-earned pint.
Belfast birds
JUNE 1994
The words Belfast and birdwatching don’t often get mentioned in the same breath. Yet last month, on a hill overlooking the city, I watched the aerial acrobatics of a pair of Peregrine Falcons. I caught sight of the first bird as I reached the top of a steep slope, above a sheer cliff-face. It was holding something in its talons – probably one of the ubiquitous Meadow Pipits that breed on the grassy moors and are the Peregrine’s staple diet during the breeding season. As it called its shrill, repetitive call, it was joined by the second bird, a smaller male. The two twisted and turned on stiff, powerful wings in the updraughts by the cliff.
We sat on the summit, caught our breath, and enjoyed the view, while the falcons performed their gymnastic display against an incongruous urban backdrop. From this side view they looked like fighter jets, cruising effortlessly through the air, and changing speed with the barest flicker of a wing.
When hunting, Peregrines tower high into the clouds, then fold back their wings before plunging headlong towards their oblivious prey. This spectacle is known as a ‘stoop’, during which the bird may reach speeds of 180mph. The Belfast birds seemed content to ride the air-currents – perhaps they just weren’t hungry …
The Peregrine is one of conservation’s rare success stories. In the last two or three decades it has truly come back from the brink – after a double whammy threatened to wipe out the British and Irish populations. Before the Second World War Peregrines were fairly common throughout the northern and western parts of the British Isles, especially on high ground and near coasts. But when war broke out, the falcon fell victim to a systematic campaign waged by the Ministry of Defence, who believed Peregrines were killing thousands of homing pigeons used to carry vital messages. More than 600 pairs – a third of the prewar population – were shot, and the bird was eradicated from many of its former haunts.
Then, just as the species was beginning to recover from one disaster, a second struck. During the late 1950s, it was discovered that Peregrine egg-shells had become far thinner and more prone to breakage than before. Numbers began to drop dramatically, and it seemed the species might finally disappear from the British Isles. But after some brilliant detective work by scientists at the Nature Conservancy, the culprit was discovered. Organochlorine pesticides such as DDT were entering the food chain and accumulating in lethal levels in the Peregrine, via its prey. After a campaign by conservation organisations, these pesticides were banned, and the recovery began.
Since the 1960s, the Peregrine population has ri
sen steadily, with a recent survey estimating almost 1500 breeding pairs. Though still in danger from unscrupulous falconers and egg-collectors, the species has now begun to recolonise its former haunts. Sometimes, in autumn and winter, it can be seen at coastal marshes, where it preys on waders and wildfowl. But for me, it’s hard to beat that sight of a pair of Peregrines in their mastery of the steel-grey skies above the Belfast skyline.
Purple patch
MAY 1995
I used to live in north London, about as far from the English countryside as you can get. I only knew summer had come when I heard the sounds of screaming as I walked to the tube station. Not the agonies of the city commuter, but the cries of a bird – the Swift, one of the latest summer visitors to return to Europe. They arrive in southern England in late April or early May, and in northern counties a week or two later. With their cigar-shaped bodies and scythe-like wings, they are one of the most typical sights – and sounds – of summer in the city.
This year, despite the fine weather at the end of April, the Swifts didn’t appear – at least not in my little corner of suburbia. May Day came and went, still with no sign of their return. Impatient to see them, I headed to the RSPB’s reserve at Minsmere in Suffolk.
The weather could hardly have been better – for the birds, at least. I soon caught up with the Swifts, screaming across the blue skies above the village of Westleton. Unfortunately the same cloudless skies had encouraged many migrating waders to press on north to their Arctic breeding grounds, rather than stopping off to refuel on Minsmere’s lush lagoons.