This Birding Life

by Stephen Moss

  Precious ivory

  JANUARY 2000

  Few birds on the British list have quite the same air of mystery about them as the Ivory Gull. This is a bird of the true Arctic: breeding among the pack-ice of Spitzbergen and Novaya Zemlya, and surviving by scavenging the remains of Polar Bear kills. Even in the long, dark winter it rarely ventures south of the Arctic Ocean.

  So when I heard the news that an Ivory Gull had taken up residence in the Suffolk seaside town of Aldeburgh, my reaction was a mixture of astonishment and glee. The bird had probably followed a fishing trawler south from the Arctic Ocean, and was now spending its time on the beach, feeding on scraps donated by friendly local fishermen.

  On a visit to East Anglia the weekend before Christmas, we decided to drop in on the bird. As we arrived, a small group of birders stood with their telescopes pointing up at the roof of a building. It was the usual story. Apparently the gull had been ‘showing well’ a minute or so before we got there, but had just flown away.

  So in the gathering gloom of a winter’s afternoon, we braved the bitter northerly wind and strode along the beach. At first, there were only Black-headed, Herring and Great Black-backed Gulls, but then I caught sight of a blinding flash of white. We walked around the corner of a fisherman’s hut, and there it was: my first ever sighting of an Ivory Gull.

  Despite its name, this species is not ivory coloured at all. A better name might be ‘Persil Gull’: its plumage is almost whiter than white, apart from dark legs, a pinkish bill, and little black spots along the wings and tail. At first sight, with its suitably funny walk, it looked more like some exotic pigeon than a gull. Its pristine appearance was marred by what can only be described as a dirty face, the result of a life spent sticking its head inside a carcass in order to feed.

  Living in the high Arctic, birds face a simple choice: eat or die. This bird had decided to eat, attacking a dead fish with gusto, while the accompanying Black-headed Gulls simply looked on bemused. If one did attempt to muscle in on the new arrival’s territory it got pretty short shrift from the Ivory Gull.

  As we stood and watched, I became aware of the incongruity of the situation. Here we were, standing around on a Sunday afternoon in a genteel English seaside resort, watching a bird which until recently had never even seen a human being. From time to time curious passers-by stopped and asked what we were doing, then took a look through our telescopes, made non-committal remarks and wandered off. I imagined them returning to their homes and greeting their spouses with: ‘You’ll never guess what I saw down on the beach, dear…’

  For me, however, seeing this bird fulfilled a long-held ambition. I first became aware of the Ivory Gull in the early 1970s, when one turned up unexpectedly somewhere in north-east England, prompting one of the first examples of a ‘mass twitch’. Since then, I had always wanted to see one, and now the bird was making short work of a fish just a few metres in front of me. It appeared to be very much at home in the freezing conditions.

  With dusk rapidly advancing, I only had one remaining desire: to see this ethereal wanderer in flight. My wish was granted, as the gull took off and floated around our heads, uttering a surprisingly high-pitched cry. As it dropped down onto the beach to roost, the first flakes of snow began to fall.

  Forty years on

  MAY 2000

  Coming just a few days after my fortieth birthday, the first May Day of the new millennium seemed like a good time to revisit an old haunt – Stodmarsh in Kent. The aim was to reacquaint ourselves with a host of summer visitors, newly returned from Africa. We decided to make a day of it, so seven adults and four children met up to walk across the reserve, in the Stour Valley just east of Canterbury. Our ultimate destination was Grove Ferry, where a pint of local ale and a pub lunch awaited us.

  At first, things didn’t look too promising. Mist, low temperatures and a biting wind conspired to keep the birds out of sight, so although we could hear several species singing, there was not a lot to see. The first hide produced very little apart from distant Common Terns, Mallards and a few Great Crested Grebes. Outside, as the mist began to lift, we saw our first Whitethroat and Reed Bunting, typical inhabitants of the reedbed and its surrounding scrub.

  As we wandered along the path the children soon lost interest in birds and began to play traditional games, such as Pokemon, hitting each other with sticks and jumping in muddy puddles. We stuck to our guns, however, and were rewarded with stunning views of a singing male Sedge Warbler, two Reed Warblers fighting (and almost drowning in the process) and a glimpse of Stodmarsh’s loudest inhabitant, Cetti’s Warbler. An even more elusive resident, a Water Rail, squealed like a stuck pig but never revealed itself.

  After about a mile the path becomes more wooded. Almost immediately, we heard a rapid, tuneful phrase, uttered by a Garden Warbler. Easily overlooked, this is one of the most nondescript of all our warblers, with no diagnostic features apart from its beady, black eye. Fortunately my partner Suzanne caught a glimpse of the bird to confirm its identity. By the time we reached the other end of the footpath our stomachs were rumbling, though a Willow Warbler still managed to make itself heard above the din. Seven species of warbler by lunchtime – not bad!

  After lunch, we took the alternative route back, through the new English Nature reserve at Grove Ferry. This already has an excellent reputation among birders, and it certainly lived up to expectations. By now the sun was out, along with thousands of Sand Martins, hawking for insects while uttering their trilling call. Some came so close we could almost feel the air from their wingbeats as they passed. Then, out of nowhere, came the bird we were hoping to see: a Hobby, scything through the sky like a giant Swift. It was soon joined by several others, and we watched as they grabbed insects in midair, barely interrupting their progress as they passed food from claws to beak in one flowing movement.

  More migrants appeared: Yellow Wagtails looking like flying lemons, little flocks of Swifts, and an elegant Greenshank feeding in a flooded field. Our entrance to the next hide was blocked by a quagmire, and we considered giving it a miss. Fortunately one of our party was wearing wellies and was willing to trudge through the mud. Almost immediately he beckoned us inside. To our delight there was a Common Crane feeding only a short distance away. This bird had been around the Stour Valley for a week or two, but was nevertheless an unexpected treat. Even my son James was impressed.

  As the afternoon heat sapped our strength, we strolled back to the car park, pausing only to listen to a Blackcap in full song, our eighth and final species of warbler for the day. A day in which we had seen some wonderful birds, had a lovely walk, enjoyed a pub lunch and, most importantly of all, tired out the kids.

  Perfect day

  FEBRUARY 2001

  There are some days that make you realise why you took up bird-watching in the first place. The last Sunday in January was one of them. It wasn’t the scenery that made it so memorable: we spent the day around Dungeness, whose views – dominated by shingle and the nuclear power stations – are something of an acquired taste. In the end, it was a combination of good company, great birds, lovely weather and the freshest fish and chips in Kent, at the Pilot Inn.

  We didn’t even start until nine, after a leisurely breakfast with our friends Nigel and Cheryle, at their cottage in Sussex. Toast and marmalade were accompanied by close-up views of a Nuthatch and Marsh Tit, regular visitors to their birdtable.

  Once we got going, our first stop was a gravel-pit near Rye, to look for a rare Ferruginous Duck. It proved elusive, but we enjoyed four Smew in compensation. A few miles further on, we reached Scotney Gravel Pits, home to huge numbers of Wigeon and Pochard, and thousands of gulls. We had just poured some coffee when Suzanne noticed a large, grey bird heading low over the water. It was a young Peregrine, causing panic among the ducks. Peregrines are always a fine bird to see, and this one seemed to bring us luck. Nigel immediately spotted a Black-necked Grebe among the dabchicks, and we finished our coffee in excellent spirits.


  A few miles further on, we reached the coast, where we took a short walk across the shingle to Lade Gravel Pits. We failed to see the drake Canvasback, a rare North American duck which has taken up semipermanent residence. But we did see a Kittiwake, at least a dozen Smew, including five splendid males, and a Dartford Warbler. This little bird kept popping up in the gorse bushes right in front of us, giving superb views.

  Indeed, it was a day of excellent views, due to fabulous light and Nigel’s powerful new telescope. We enjoyed the Smew; a cracking Slavonian Grebe, seen from the comfort of the RSPB visitor centre; and a flock of 50 White-fronted Geese among their feral Canada and Greylag cousins on Denge Marsh.

  By now it was mid-afternoon, and time to head west for an evening spectacle that promised to top off the day. On the way, I tuned into Radio Five Live to hear that West Ham, the team I have supported almost as long as I have been birding, were leading 1-0 against the mighty Manchester United in the FA Cup.

  Now I faced a dilemma. We had arrived at Rye Harbour, and my companions were eager to get going. I pleaded with them to wait until the match was over, to which they reluctantly agreed. Five minutes later, we headed down the path to join a small crowd of people. The story was a familiar one: ‘You should have been here five minutes ago – a Bittern flew right into the reedbed!’ As you can imagine, I was not the most popular member of our party.

  Fortunately, things soon began to look up. First, a distant Barn Owl quartered the marsh, and two Kingfishers flew up and down in front of us. Then, a dozen Little Egrets came in to roost in the trees. Finally, to my great relief, two Bitterns flew in low, then plunged down into the reedbed, before one reappeared for a brief encore. As the sun set, even the sky turned claret and blue. Perhaps God is a West Ham fan after all.

  Dragons and damsels

  JULY 2001

  Wicken Fen is not only Britain’s oldest nature reserve, but also one of its very best. An oasis of wildlife in the agricultural desert of Cambridgeshire, it boasts a greater variety of creatures than almost anywhere else in the country. On a week’s visit earlier this month I enjoyed views of Woodcocks and Hobbies, Marsh Harriers and Reed Buntings. But although Wicken is excellent for birds, it was the other wildlife that really caught my eye: especially the smaller creatures. And of all the beetles, bees, bugs and other insects I saw, by far the most fascinating were the dragonflies.

  Until now, I have barely given dragonflies a second glance. I have occasionally noticed them as they cruise up and down on sunny days, and enjoy watching the delicate blue damselflies (though I must admit that for years I thought they were called mayflies). Last year I got to know one or two of the commoner species, including the Four-spotted Chaser, which confusingly has two spots on each of its four wings, making eight in all; and the Emperor, which, at four inches long with a whopping six-inch wingspan, is the biggest insect you are ever likely to see in Britain.

  My visit to Wicken really opened my eyes to these beautiful creatures. I saw at least 15 different species and, with a little help from an excellent new field guide, even managed to identify most of them for myself. Just like birds, dragonflies have their own ‘jizz’, that indefinable quality that enables you to tell them apart even on brief views. So Emperors cruise along as if surveying their kingdom, while the Brown Hawker flies up and down constantly but hardly ever lands. In flight, jizz is the best way to identify most species, but when they land you can get great views, especially with modern close-focusing binoculars.

  During my stay I learnt to distinguish between Ruddy and Common Darters, looking for the pinched abdomen of the former, and to tell Black-tailed Skimmer by its fat blue body with a black tip. Red-eyed Damselfly was dead easy, as its name suggests, while Large Red and Blue-tailed Damselflies were not too hard to pick out. But when it came to identifying three very similar damselflies — the Common Blue, Azure and Variable — I lost my patience. Checking each segment of their bodies for diagnostic markings was not my idea of fun, so I gave up and let the experts point them out.

  But one damselfly really did stand out from the crowd. Along one of the ‘lodes’ — narrow drainage ditches — I came across several Banded Demoiselles, an absolutely stunning little insect with a dark green body and bright blue bands on its wings. How I have failed to see these gorgeous creatures in the past I just don’t know.

  So on sunny days for the next month or two, I shall be venturing to dragonfly hotspots such as the Wetland Centre in Barnes and Thursley Common in Surrey to search for dragons and damsels. And if by setting my binoculars to permanent close focus I miss some of the birds flying over my head, so be it. Now that I have discovered this new and magical world, I can’t wait to explore it.

  In search of the Corncrake

  AUGUST 2001

  I first visited the Outer Hebrides in the mid-1980s, on a cycling holiday with my best mate Rob. We took the low road along the western side of the islands, as opposed to the more hilly eastern side – our excuse being that in those days we didn’t have mountain bikes, and so had to stick to the tarmac.

  My abiding memory of the trip is of the grating sound which assaulted our ears every morning, noon and night – a repetitive noise which has been compared to the sound of a steel comb being drawn across a piece of wood. It came from a small bird, about the size and shape of a Moorhen, whose scientific name, Crex crex, derives from its bizarre call. Known by the poet John Clare as the Landrail, these days its common name is the Corncrake.

  Corncrakes are the Scarlet Pimpernel of the bird world. You seek them here, you seek them there, you seek those damned Corncrakes everywhere. But you never actually see them. I remember standing and staring at patches of vegetation for hours on end, willing the noisy bird to appear, even for a brief moment – just so I could say I had seen it.

  It never did. I had to wait another six years before I finally saw a Corncrake, at the RSPB reserve at Balranald on North Uist. Even then it was hardly what you would call a classic view. Just a small, rat-like creature scurrying along the edge of a field, then disappearing from sight.

  So when I returned to North Uist with a film crew earlier this year I was not all that confident. Sure, I had been told that a particularly obliging bird was performing to all and sundry – virtually dancing a jig on top of some rocks, according to one observer. It had even been filmed by one of my colleagues, who gleefully rang me up to tell me of his triumph.

  Of course, when we turned up the bird had a sudden attack of stage fright, and although it continued to deliver its incessant craking call, it would not show itself, on camera or otherwise. Things were not helped by the strengthening breeze, or the fact that the vegetation in the field was even longer than usual thanks to a warm, sunny spring.

  After a while, when you listen to a Corncrake you go into a kind of Zen-like trance. Every now and then there was a little movement – the bird or just a gust of wind blowing the grass? As I stood and waited, I recalled Clare’s wonderful description of the bird as ‘a sort of living doubt’. Was I the victim of an overactive imagination? Did the bird exist at all? Should we just give up and go home?

  And then it appeared. First a beak, then the whole head, a quick look left and right, and a scurry – and it had gone. We held our breath, waiting for the bird to show itself again, but in vain. We turned to John, our cameraman, and I raised my eyebrow in beseeching enquiry. He nodded and smiled. Not exactly a classic portrait, but as we later agreed, ‘a birder’s view’ – one that would be instantly familiar to anyone who has ever looked for this frustrating and elusive bird.

  Journey to St Kilda

  AUGUST 2002

  We set sail from the Scottish port of Oban in bright, warm sunshine. The sea was not quite as smooth as a millpond, but certainly calm enough to suggest an easy voyage to come. Our destination was the island group of St Kilda – the remotest, wildest, and most inaccessible place in Britain.

  Some 50 miles or so to the north-west of the Outer Hebrides, St Kilda is
best-known for being home to what naturalist Sir Julian Huxley called ‘the bird people’. They lived there for centuries, harvesting the seabirds, until they were finally evacuated in 1930. Since then, apart from visiting scientists and contractors, the islands have remained uninhabited.

  On our voyage, although the sunny weather lasted, the calm, flat seas did not. Next day, our yacht Silurian hit the Minch, and the Minch hit back. Winds forecast at force four to five turned out to be force five to six, gusting force seven. The seas rose and fell, and the boat pitched and rolled with them – already our goal of filming on St Kilda was looking doubtful. Things became even worse when, mid-morning, presenter Bill Oddie emerged from his cabin, muttered a few well-chosen oaths against the sea, his producer and life itself, and returned groaning to his bed.

  Meanwhile I was beginning to feel a little green myself, so to counter the boat’s roller-coaster motion I stared firmly at the horizon. Five minutes later, what looked like a giant sardine shot out of the water, hung briefly in mid-air, and crashed back beneath the waves. ‘Whale!’ was the only possible response. And indeed it was: a young Minke Whale, breaching into the air in what looked like pure enjoyment.

  Both boat and camera crews mobilised immediately: the former recording details of the sighting for the Hebridean Whale and Dolphin Trust; the latter capturing the moment on video. Three more jumps, and the whale disappeared beneath the waves for the last time. It was a great cure for seasickness.