This Birding Life

by Stephen Moss

  In compensation, various warblers were proclaiming their newfound territories with song. Every bush, it seemed, contained an acrobatic Whitethroat; every reedbed a Sedge Warbler; every patch of trees a Chiffchaff, Willow Warbler or Blackcap. Even the picnic area by the car park played host to a Garden Warbler, belting out its rapid burst of song.

  But the sovereign of songsters was more elusive. Half-way round the reserve I finally heard the unmistakable sound of the Nightingale, pouring a medley of rich, mellow notes into the morning air. While I waited for the bird to emerge from the dense thicket, I could hear the most famous summer sound of all – the call of the Cuckoo.

  Minsmere is best-known for three rare breeding species. Its greatest success, and the emblem of the RSPB itself, is the famous Avocet. A hundred or so pairs of this elegant wader nest on the ‘scrape’, the lagoons and islands in the centre of the reserve. I watched as they waded waist-deep in the brackish water, dipping in their long, upturned bills to catch their tiny prey. From another hide, I enjoyed the spectacle of Marsh Harriers, quartering the reeds on their long, broad wings. Occasionally the male would rise high in the air, then plummet down to pass food to his mate.

  Minsmere’s third speciality, the Bittern, was once widespread in East Anglia, but the draining of the fens confined it to a handful of sites. Bitterns are normally so elusive that you doubt their very existence, but this day was a welcome exception. Perhaps encouraged by the warm weather, they emerged from the reeds: two in flight, and one feeding right in front of the hide.

  The icing on the cake was a sighting of an even rarer bird. Returning from Africa, a Purple Heron had overshot its intended destination and had been carried across the sea to Minsmere by light, southerly winds. After a long wait, I was rewarded when it flew up and perched momentarily on a tree, showing its deep, purple plumage and serpent-like neck. Minutes later, it flew back into the reeds, never to be seen again.

  And when I finally got back to the London suburbs, there were the Swifts, screaming across the skies above my head as if they’d never been away.

  Back at Minsmere

  MAY 2006

  Ten years ago this month, I found myself braving bitter winds on a grey day at the RSPB’s Minsmere reserve in Suffolk. Not particularly good weather for birding, and even worse for filming. For we were attempting to make the very first episode of the television series Birding with Bill Oddie, and the weather was against us.

  Despite this inauspicious start, things did hot up, in terms both of weather and birds. By the end of the three-day shoot we had assembled a series of sequences which fulfilled our ambition of conveying what birding is really like to a mass television audience, most of whom had never even picked up a pair of binoculars.

  We began the programme with a dawn chorus, which in early May meant leaving our hotel at 3 a.m., in order to be in place when the first bird sang. Fortunately there was a full moon, which added to the aesthetics of the scene, and that morning the gods were kind to us, and the chilly wind dropped to a light breeze. As the sun came up, we trudged back to Minsmere’s newly opened tearooms for breakfast, knowing that we had captured something really special.

  From then on, fuelled by a combination of adrenaline and a fry-up, we just kept going. Breakfast itself was interrupted when Bill caught sight of the Sand Martin colony in the reserve’s old car park; after which we followed the time-honoured route around the ‘Scrape’, a lagoon surrounded by strategically placed hides.

  We soon realised that Bill had a natural ability to respond brilliantly to whatever he saw – or in the case of singing Reed and Sedge Warblers, didn’t see. These elusive songbirds stayed hidden in the reeds, prompting him to perform a memorable monologue on how to separate the two species by their song.

  After a spot of seawatching, we headed back into the woods, which are usually rather quiet at this time of day. But we had reckoned without the birds’ ability to surprise us. Coming across a little huddle of people staring up into the trees, we posed the obvious question: ‘Anything about?’ There was: four baby Tawny Owls, looking like giant feather dusters. Despite our combined total of more than 80 years birding between us, neither Bill nor I had ever seen such a sight before.

  Fortified by this unexpected encounter, we paid a visit to the Island Mere Hide. Apparently growing out of the surrounding reeds, this high-rise structure gives excellent views over the surrounding lagoons. When I first visited Minsmere, back in 1973, the three Marsh Harriers I saw from this hide represented the entire British breeding population. Thanks to the conservation work of the RSPB, the harriers are now doing very well, but it is always a thrill to see them. They performed beautifully for the cameras, the male chasing the female low over the water in a display flight.

  The day and the programme were rounded off by a real bonus: four Common Cranes coming into roost as the sun set. And although I have made dozens of programmes with Bill Oddie, that first episode will always be my favourite.

  A wild goose chase

  FEBRUARY 1997

  There are an awful lot of geese on Islay – around 45,000 of them, in fact. They spend most of the day eating grass, munching away like contented cows. Occasionally they stop for a moment or two, to bathe, defecate or fly around a little. Then they start eating grass again. Finally, as dusk begins to fall, they take to the skies in a flurry of wings, before going to roost, falling to earth like a team of drunken parachutists.

  Two-thirds of Islay’s geese – around 30,000 birds – are Barnacles, with almost all the remainder being Greenland Whitefronts. This represents a substantial proportion of the world population for both species, making Islay one of the most important bird sites in north-west Europe.

  According to legend, Barnacle Geese are so-called because they are supposed to hatch from tiny shellfish. Perhaps whoever thought that one up had been sipping a little too much of the local water – after it had been turned into Lagavulin, Laphroaig, or another of the many kinds of malt whisky made on the island. This gets its celebrated taste – and golden-brown colour – from the peat in the island’s streams. Indeed the whole place is bathed in a golden-brown light from a sun which barely manages to drag itself above the horizon, even at midday. It’s the kind of light TV producers pray for, as it makes every shot look as if it were painted by Rembrandt.

  Because of the short amount of daylight during midwinter, Islay’s birds form flocks around every available source of food. We came across vast groups of Rooks and Jackdaws, with smaller numbers of Ravens, Hooded Crows and the rare and comical Chough. Best of all, in the dunes below Ardnave Point, we stumbled upon a tight little flock of Snow Buntings. These lived up to their name by swirling around in the sky like animated snowflakes, before returning to earth, where they continued to feed.

  Islay is also the home of a population of genuine, wild Rock Doves – ancestors of the much-reviled Feral Pigeon. In contrast to our familiar city birds, they are very wary, and when we emerged from the car we were using as a mobile hide, they flew away immediately.

  But despite these rivals, Islay’s star attraction just has to be the geese. You can hardly drive more than a few hundred yards along the road before you come across a flock of them, plucking at the grass with their powerful bills. A few years ago, the geese were the cause of an unholy row between conservationists and local farmers, who understandably resented the destruction of their precious crops. Thanks to a far-sighted scheme, however, farmers are now compensated for the presence of feeding geese on their land, and as a result the goose population is increasing – a welcome success story.

  Among the vast flocks there were even a couple of unexpected visitors, both from North America. Somewhere in Arctic Greenland, a Canada Goose and a Snow Goose had managed to get themselves caught up with flocks of Barnacles and Whitefronts respectively, ending up on the wrong side of the Atlantic.

  The Snow Goose likes the island so much it has returned to the same farm above Port Charlotte for the past four winters. It isn’
t too hard to see – standing out like a white flag among its dark-brown companions in the late afternoon gloom.

  A wandering beauty

  JULY 1997

  I first heard the news one Sunday evening last month. I was enjoying a quiet drink with two birding friends, Clive and Audrey. Audrey comes from Shetland, so I mentioned that I was about to go filming there for the new series of Birding with Bill Oddie. Overhearing this, Clive put down his pint, and enquired: ‘Do you know what’s been found on Shetland today?’ I did not. He leaned forward, and in a low voice simply said: ‘Blue-cheeked Bee-eater’.

  Only a hard-core birder can really appreciate the significance of those four little words. Of all the 550 or so species on the official ‘British List’, Blue-cheeked Bee-eater is just about the most exotic. With its long, slim body and iridescent green plumage, it is, quite simply, stunning. If there were a beauty contest for birds, it would walk it.

  If you’d asked me what I was hoping to see in Shetland, I might have mentioned the vast breeding colonies of seabirds or Red-necked Phalarope, a rare and attractive wader. I might have added Arctic Tern or Arctic Skua, birds with appropriate names for these northerly latitudes. But never in a million years would I have thought of Blue-cheeked Bee-eater.

  As its name suggests, the species lives on a diet of bees, a fairly scarce commodity in Shetland. Fortunately, this particular bird had the sense to take up residence in one of the very few wooded gardens, at Asta House near Scalloway. Reports suggested that it was coping well with the chill northerly winds, while making short work of the local bumblebees.

  But how had it got there? After all, at this time of year it should have been breeding somewhere in North Africa or the Middle East. Clive summed it up perfectly, when he described bee-eaters as ‘wanderers’. This bird had ‘gone flyabout’, heading further and further north on high pressure weather systems, before finally landing on this rugged archipelago only a few degrees south of the Arctic Circle.

  I had wanted to see a Blue-cheeked Bee-eater for almost 30 years, when, as a boy, I first read Hilda Quick’s account of finding ‘a strange and wonderful bird’ on the Isles of Scilly. Since then, only a few have been seen in Britain, and none has stayed longer than three days. I knew that I couldn’t get to Shetland until Wednesday, by which time, no doubt, the bird would have flown away.

  Wednesday morning arrived, and Bill Oddie and I flew to Shetland. As we were waiting for the luggage at Sumburgh Airport, I rang Birdline to get the latest news. ‘In Shetland, the Blue-cheeked Bee-eater is still at Asta House, north of Scalloway…’ We leapt into the hire car and drove north, frantically trying to contact the camera crew, who were still filming on the island of Noss. The message got through, and we arrived at Asta just after they did. It was the usual story – the bee-eater had flown off 20 minutes before.

  So we set up the camera and waited, as the clock ticked by. We knew we had to leave by 6.30, to travel to the island of Mousa to film the nightly spectacle of Storm Petrels arriving back at their nests. As six o’clock came and went, we had just about given up hope.

  Then there was a movement at the top of a sycamore tree. I lifted my binoculars, and before my eyes was the most breathtakingly beautiful bird I have ever seen: a vision of rich, warm colours somehow out of place in this harsh, grey landscape. We stood and watched for 20 minutes, as it caught some of the biggest bumblebees I have ever seen. Then, as suddenly as it had arrived, it vanished.

  And yes, we did get it on camera.

  Down on the farm

  AUGUST 1997

  Who’d go birdwatching on a farm – especially at the height of summer, traditionally one of the quietest times of the year for bird activity? Well, at the end of last month I did – and believe me, it was well worth it.

  Once again, I was accompanied by a production team and film crew, shooting the new series of Birding with Bill Oddie. Our week in the heart of East Anglia coincided with yet another spell of warm, fine weather, with day after day of sunshine. Following the downpours earlier in the summer, this was welcomed by film crews, farmers and birds alike.

  We began by visiting a derelict barn at Mannington Hall, north Norfolk, with Mike Toms from the BTO’s Project Barn Owl. Wet weather is disastrous for Barn Owls, as they are unable to hunt in the rain, so their chicks starve to death. Fortunately, when Mike climbed a ladder to look into the nestbox he was able to confirm the presence of a female, brooding her new clutch of four eggs. I’ve never seen Bill move so fast – straight up the ladder to get his best ever views of a Barn Owl. We got some great shots, too – and only afterwards did I realise that I had not actually seen the owl myself. Still, I can always watch it on video afterwards.

  Next evening we were near Norwich, looking for another kind of owl. Little Owls are, as their name suggests, tiny – barely the size of a thrush, although their staring yellow eyes make them appear far bigger. Farmer Chris Skinner had given us a useful tip: Little Owls prefer to face into the sun. Using this advice, our researcher soon located the owl, which was sitting in the branches of a gnarled old oak. Wildlife cameraman Andrew got his usual ‘eyes and teeth’ views, and we retired to a local hotel for a well-deserved rest.

  But not for long. The sun rises early this far east, and we were soon out in the field again – literally. Chris Knights’ farm at Gooderstone is one of the largest in the whole of East Anglia, with acres and acres of carrots and other root vegetables destined for a well-known high street supermarket. Fortunately, Chris has found a way of balancing the needs of an efficient business with those of the birds. As a result, his farm is packed with Grey and Red-legged Partridges, Tree Sparrows, Linnets and Whitethroats, most of which are declining elsewhere. Here, thanks to Chris’s enlightened farming practices, they thrive.

  But the star bird of Chris’s farm is a real rarity. The Stone Curlew is the only European representative of an African family known as the ‘thick-knees’. It is mainly nocturnal, with large, staring eyes, long legs and a mournful cry reminiscent of its commoner namesake. We spent a fruitless hour or two trying to approach the birds close enough to film them, and in the end had to use one of Chris’s own photographic hides, which produced stunning results.

  On the hottest day of the week we found ourselves in the wide open country of the south Lincolnshire fens. With such vast fields and total absence of hedgerows you might think there wouldn’t be many birds to see. But first impressions can be misleading. Drainage dykes act as hedge substitutes, and a few patches of carefully planted set-aside create valuable pockets of breeding habitat.

  Nick Watts’ farm at Deeping St Nicholas supports thriving populations of all three farmland buntings: Corn, Reed and Yellowhammer. Their songs echo over the flat landscape: the ‘jangling keys’ of the Corn Bunting, the ‘one-two-testing’ of the Reed, and the classic sound of the Yellowhammer – usually written down as ‘a-little-bit-of-bread-and-no-cheeeeeese’. True to form, Bill came up with a saucier version, the reply of a young maiden about to lose her virtue to a horny-handed son of toil: ‘no-no-no-no-no-pleeeeeaaaase’.

  CHAPTER 3

  My local patch

  1994–1997

  Every birder needs a place they can call their own – somewhere they can visit on a regular basis and get to know the local birdlife. Until 1994 I lived in an area of north London where the only birds I saw were confined to the park pond; hardly inspiring even to the most dedicated urban birder. Having moved to south-west London, I cast my eye around for somewhere suitable – and when my car broke down on the way to work one day, I found it.

  While waiting for the AA to arrive I took a stroll down a narrow path leading down to the Thames in Barnes. Once a year, the towpath here is thronged with rowing enthusiasts, cheering the crews of the Oxford and Cambridge Boat Race. But on this day at the end of July it was quiet and peaceful, and I discovered one of London’s best-kept ornithological secrets: Lonsdale Road Reservoir.

  Over the next three years or so I was a faithful
visitor to what soon became ‘my local patch’. In that time I recorded a grand total of 89 species: nothing out of the ordinary, but including enough ‘goodies’ to keep me interested. All in all, I made almost 300 visits to Lonsdale Road, which given the relative lack of unusual birds may seem a trifle excessive. So what kept me going? The best way to describe a birder’s relationship with a local patch is that the more you go, the more you want to return. Somehow the very act of getting to know somewhere and its birds in minute detail reinforces the pleasure and interest you derive from each visit.

  It was the break-up of my marriage, and a move elsewhere, that took me away from my patch. Of course I missed the place, and felt the odd pang of regret at the ending of my visits there. But as the final chapter of this volume shows, I did eventually find another – even better – local patch, a few miles down the road.

  Looking back, it was a memorable three years: as much for the people I met as the birds I saw. As one of them told me, in a backhanded compliment: ‘I enjoy your articles; but remember, it’s not just your patch, it’s our patch too!’

  First visit

  AUGUST 1994

  A local patch can be anywhere. The top of a mountain, a coastal marsh, a city park – all have their own unique and fascinating birdlife. Of course, some patches are more productive than others, but wherever you choose, there’s always something interesting going on. And as the birds come and go, from day to day and from season to season, you are on hand to witness the changes.

  A recent move across London means that I have a new local patch. Lonsdale Road Reservoir lies alongside the southern bank of the River Thames, to the west of Hammersmith Bridge in south-west London. Built by the Victorians, it has long fallen into disuse as a working reservoir and is now a local nature reserve.