by Stephen Moss
Several of the endemics are among the commonest birds, so from the first morning we enjoyed views of two delightful hummingbirds: the Red-billed Streamertail and the Jamaican Mango – both as beautiful as their names suggest. We also watched the antics of a pair of Vervain Hummingbirds. At less than two-and-a-half inches long, and weighing just three grams, this is the second smallest bird in the world (the even tinier Bee Hummingbird lives on Cuba). They look more like large flying insects than birds, and they buzz around from flower to flower like bumblebees, sipping nectar as they go.
Other endemic birds were much harder to find, requiring long treks into the famous coffee-growing area of the Blue Mountains; while we could bird at a more leisurely pace in the grounds of Hotel Mockingbird Hill, overlooking the resort of Port Antonio, on the north-east coast. Here, we saw both native species of cuckoo – the huge Chestnut-bellied and the smaller Jamaican Lizard-cuckoo. These are known as Old Man Bird and Old Woman Bird because their extraordinary calls sound like grumbling senior citizens!
Mockingbird Hill is also home to the island’s newest endemic species, the Black-billed Streamertail. This elegant hummingbird has recently been given full specific status, as its song, habits and plumage all differ from those of its commoner relative, Red-billed Streamer-tail. Both are known locally as ‘doctor bird’, because their long tails resemble the tail-coats once worn by medical men.
On our final afternoon, we visited Rocklands bird-feeding station, near Montego Bay airport. Here, Red-billed Streamertails and Jamaican Mangos took sugar solution from a feeder – but this time perching on our fingers to do so.
Edge of the Arctic
JULY 2003
The ferry journey lasted a shade under two hours, but took us back many years in time, to the little island of Flatey. Situated in a fjord which makes a major dent into Iceland’s west coast, Flatey is home to two Eider farmers, a handful of summer holidaymakers and some of the loveliest birds I’ve ever seen.
As we got off the ferry, Puffins and Black Guillemots were bobbing up and down by the quayside – the latter in their smart black-and-white dress. This delightful auk is known locally as ‘teista’ – close enough to the Shetland word ‘tystie’ to reveal the common linguistic heritage between the two places.
In Britain you have to venture to the very highest tops of the Cairngorms to encounter breeding Snow Buntings, but here on Flatey they have become a garden bird. Lena, the Eider farmer’s wife, regularly throws out home-baked bread and cakes for the buntings, which appeared to appreciate them as much as a hungry BBC camera crew did.
Another culinary treat on Lena’s well-stocked dining table was Eider eggs. Served warm, these tasted fresher than any I have ever eaten – probably because the nests from which they had been collected were only a few minutes away. Haffstein, Lena’s husband, collects the Eider’s soft down, too – which fetches a premium price from Japanese buyers keen to get the perfect night’s sleep.
After elevenses, lunch and afternoon tea we were ready to do some work, so we went in search of Flatey’s two star species. Both are members of the phalarope family – a word derived from the Greek meaning ‘coot foot’, which refers to their partly webbed toes. For unlike other waders, phalaropes spend much of their time swimming, propelling themselves along like a child’s clockwork toy.
Their other claim to fame is that the females are not only more colourful than the males, but take the initiative in courtship, too. Having laid their eggs, they leave the dowdier male to brood the clutch and look after the tiny chicks.
The commoner species of the two was the Red-necked Phalarope, with up to a dozen females congregating to bathe and squabble on the village pond each evening. With their steel-grey plumage and bright orange collars, they are a very handsome bird indeed.
But not quite as handsome as their cousin – the Grey Phalarope. If any bird has a really misleading name, then this one does. It’s true that in autumn, when they occasionally appear in Britain on their way south, they are predominantly grey and white. But here on Flatey, at the very southern edge of their Arctic breeding range, they truly deserve their North American name of Red Phalarope.
Haffstein rowed us across to a tiny offshore island, in the company of Iceland’s top ornithologist Dr Aevar Petersen. As the little boat approached the shore, we caught sight of what looked like two orange rugby balls floating in the seaweed. Phalaropes are notoriously tame, and they eventually allowed us to get within a few feet of them. Later on, we watched the sun finally dip beneath the horizon – a few minutes after midnight!
The youngest island
SEPTEMBER 2003
What was going on in November 1963? The Beatles were top of the hit parade, the Macmillan government was still reeling over the Profumo Affair and, in Dallas, President Kennedy was cruelly assassinated. Meanwhile, off the south coast of Iceland, a new island was emerging from the depths of the ocean.
Forty years later, historians continue to argue over the long-term impact of the events of that era. But the island of Surtsey – named after the Norse God of Fire, Surtir – is still there for us to marvel at and for a lucky few to visit. In June, I hitched a helicopter ride from the Icelandic coastguard, and fulfilled one of my lifetime ambitions: to set foot on a piece of land which did not even exist at the time of my birth.
I was afraid that the reality would not live up to my expectations, but I need not have worried. Surtsey is, quite simply, incredible: a lump of volcanic rock and ash, still bearing the scars of its extraordinary origins – the result of the eruption of an undersea volcano. From the air, shades of black and grey are relieved only by a single, dazzling patch of green.
As the sound of the helicopter drifted away towards the horizon, I looked up to see a Swallow hawking for insects over the black rocks. Swallows do not breed in Iceland, and this lone bird must have taken a diversion on its way from Africa to Scandinavia. As the sun shone, I wondered if it might decide to hang around until a mate arrived.
The next signs of life I saw were tiny plants, seemingly dropped directly onto the ashy ‘soil’. Right from the start, Surtsey has been a living laboratory, enabling scientists to observe at first hand how life colonises a new environment. The first life-forms here were midges, closely followed by plants whose seeds had washed up on the shore. Today, parts of the island are quite well vegetated, thanks to a group of visitors I could no longer ignore: the gulls.
Gulls are among the most adaptable of birds, and although they were not the very first avian visitors here (that honour is shared by the Black Guillemot and Fulmar), they have certainly been the most successful. The green patch I could see from the helicopter is the site of the gull colony, and its verdant colour is a result of the birds returning to the mainland to feed, picking up seeds and then depositing them on Surtsey via their droppings. Once the seeds germinate they are fertilised by the gulls’ guano, so that this part of the island resembles a rather bumpy lawn.
The feeling of being on the edge of Creation is accentuated by the noisy cries of the gulls as they defend their territories against incursion from their rivals. As I was watching them, I saw the Swallow again, taking advantage of the sun on its back to feed on the concentration of small flying insects attracted by the gulls.
After just two hours – far too short a time to explore this amazing place – the arrival of the helicopter signalled that my stay on Surtsey was over. The stay was so brief that it almost seemed like a dream – but in a way that is appropriate for an island that has only existed for 40 years.
The big one
OCTOBER 2OO3
I have a love–hate relationship with seabirds. I love them for their grace and beauty, and for their ability to survive in one of the world’s harshest habitats. But I hate the agonies you have to go through to see them, especially seasickness.
From time to time, my desire to see these wonderful birds in their natural habitat overcomes my fears. So this autumn I went not once, but twice, on the best-kn
own seabird-watching trip of all: off the coast of Monterey in northern California. It was led by the legendary Debra Love Shearwater, who is so obsessed by seabirds she changed her name to one!
Unlike the usual British experience, which involves long periods staring at an empty sea, we saw birds from the very start. Black Turnstones on the sea wall, Pigeon Guillemots in the harbour, and great rafts of Sooty Shearwaters just offshore. This is because unlike most coastal areas, Monterey is on the edge of a huge underwater canyon, with continual upwellings of cool water mixing with warm on the surface. This provides a perfect place for fish and other undersea creatures to thrive, in turn attracting thousands of seabirds from far and wide.
And I do mean far and wide: Buller’s Shearwaters travel from New Zealand, Pink-footed Shearwaters from Chile and Black-footed Albatrosses all the way from Hawaii. These majestic birds spend up to a fortnight flying to Monterey, where they stock up on food, before returning to feed their very hungry chicks.
Pelagics can be very hit or miss, but for a change I was in luck: my first trip, in mid-September, was the best of the year. We saw five species of shearwater, three different jaegers (skuas to you and me), and four different kinds of storm-petrel, fluttering over the waves like marine versions of a House Martin. All this, on seas as calm as a millpond.
So when we assembled for the second trip, in early October, I was worried that it would not live up to expectations – especially as we were filming this time. Birdwise, it was not quite as good, as the huge shearwater flocks had departed, and despite extensive searching, we could not locate the storm-petrels. But what it may have lacked in birds, it made up for with marine mammals. Risso’s and Pacific White-sided Dolphins rode the bows, while Humpback Whales appeared in the distance.
Then came the big one, in every sense. On the far horizon, what looked like a fire hydrant went off, then another, closer spurt. Over the intercom, Debra uttered the words: ‘We’ve got a Blue Whale!’ We held our breath as the whale did the same, and watched as it emerged momentarily above the waves. Then, as we waited for another sighting, what appeared to be a small island surfaced right beside us: a smooth lump of grey, like a rock exposed by the receding tide.
The whale was there for a moment or two, before disappearing beneath the waves. It was a moment of pure magic. Ever since I first visited the Natural History Museum as a child and saw the life-size model of the Blue Whale, I had wanted to see the largest creature to have existed on Earth.
Dawn in the desert
APRIL 2OO4
Dawn in the Sahara may sound romantic, but the reality was a chilly wind and temperatures more like England than Africa. Nevertheless, we set out early in search of one of Morocco’s most elusive birds, the African Desert Warbler. It was a quest which seemed likely to fail, with the stiff breeze keeping activity to a minimum. But after persistent searching, the bird finally performed, perching on top of a tiny bush to sing its scratchy but tuneful song.
I was on a tour of southern Morocco with Limosa Holidays, and the north-west African target species were coming thick and fast. In equally unpromising weather we found Tristram’s Warbler – similar in shape to a Dartford Warbler and named after Henry Baker Tristram, a Victorian country vicar who discovered the species while collecting birds in nearby Algeria. Later on we saw Egyptian and Red-necked Nightjars, Fulvous Babblers and, rarest of all, the Northern Bald Ibis – of which only a few hundred individuals survive in the wild, virtually all in Morocco.
This particular day we were on an expedition to look for the species which every visiting birder hopes to see: Desert Sparrow. As a close relative of our familiar House Sparrow, this is not a bird to set the pulses of non-birders racing. But for the connoisseur, it is a real prize.
We had ditched our usual minibus for a trio of Land Rovers and set off down the bumpy track like competitors in the Paris-Dakar rally. Deserts are not noted for their abundance of birds, and we travelled several kilometres without seeing anything. Then the leading driver stopped and indicated the area in front of us. There, beautifully camouflaged against the sand and stones, stood a Cream-coloured Courser – one of the most elegant of all desert birds. Aware of our presence, it ran forward on its long legs, paused, and finally flew, revealing distinctive black underwings contrasting with its sandy coloured body.
Delighted with this unexpected sighting, we travelled on to the Café Yasmina, at an oasis on the edge of the Sahara. Oases act as a trap for migrants, and this one was no exception. Subalpine and Olivaceous Warblers, Black-eared Wheatears and a Rufous Bush Robin foraged among the trees, while both European and Blue-cheeked Bee-eaters hawked for insects overhead. The latter is one of the most beautiful birds in the world – but we dedicated sparrow searchers would not be sidetracked from our task.
Then a small, pale bird flew up into a tree and delivered a chirpy little song. It was our first Desert Sparrow – a fine male. Sighs of relief all round. We then set off for a nearby lake – the temporary result of recent rainfall. Here Black-winged Stilts, Ruddy Shelduck and Greater Flamingos were all taking advantage of this sudden gift from the heavens.
Time to return to our hotel, but not before our sharp-eyed driver found a pair of Desert Sparrows nesting in a lone palm tree. Cue a frenzy of photography, led by David Cottridge, one of Britain’s leading bird photographers, and our co-leader, Dutch ornithologist Arnoud van den Berg.
Top garden birding
NOVEMBER 2OO4
British birdwatchers abroad are sometimes accused of being so single-minded in their pursuit of birds that they fail to notice the cultural wonders of the places they visit. Likewise, watching birds on an organised tour can insulate you from the very people through whose land you are passing. But sometimes you just can’t help noticing something other than birds: as I discovered earlier this month on a visit to Iguazu, on the border between Argentina, Brazil and Paraguay.
For a start, there are the famous Iguazu waterfalls themselves. Rated by many as one of the seven natural wonders of the world, the volume of water passing through the cataracts is unbelievable. Even so, I was momentarily distracted by flocks of Great Dusky Swifts, which literally fly through the streams of water, in order to reach their nests behind. Presumably they do so to avoid attack by predators, but their lifestyle choice brings other hazards: the morning after a cloudburst the extra rush of water appeared to have swept most of the nests away.
The rainforests around the falls are equally productive for birds, though as in all jungle habitats to see anything you need a combination of patience, luck and an ability to resist the attentions of mosquitoes. Our first walk, in the late afternoon, was fairly unproductive, although as ever we heard all sorts of intriguing sounds from birds we could not see.
Several dawn starts, especially when accompanied by Daniel, our expert local guide, were much more productive. We saw three species of toucan, including the huge version made famous by Guinness adverts; two trogons (one of which materialised out of nowhere in response to a tape recording of its song); and many other forest birds, including colourful tanagers, a tiny woodpecker-like piculet, and the extraordinary White-bearded Manakin, the males of which attract their mates by loudly clicking their wings.
But for an event which combined the very best of South American birding with a truly rewarding cultural experience, my colleague Mike and I travelled into the local town of Puerto Iguazu. There, we visited the Jardin de Picaflores – the garden of hummingbirds – owned by a local couple who have dedicated their lives to showing the beauty of these gorgeous birds to anyone who cares to visit.
Even before we could sit down we were assailed from all sides by the whirring of tiny wings. Just a few feet in front of us, plastic feeders filled with nectar were being visited by a constant stream of different birds, each of which hovered momentarily to feed, then flew off like a bullet.
Hummingbird identification is never easy: the birds rarely stick around for very long, and the males and females of each species are
often very different in appearance. But we took a deep breath, and with the expert help of the owners we gradually began to get our eye in.
An hour later, we had managed to identify no fewer than eight different species, including the iridescent Glittering-bellied Emerald, the splendid Black Jacobin, and the enormous (at least for a hummingbird!) Scale-throated Hermit. All the while, we had been joined by a procession of local mums, dads and children, all highly entertained at watching two slightly mad British birders having the time of their lives.
CHAPTER 6
Birds, places and people
In some ways, this chapter is a miscellany of odds and ends: pieces that don’t quite fit into neat categories elsewhere. But it has its own coherence: the same themes recur at different times, reflecting my continuing obsessions.
In no particular order, these are:
• birds I have seen — often triggered by a single sighting that in some way revealed something new in my mind about a familiar species;
• birds I have yet to see — a very long list, for which I selected my top eight for a piece loosely based on Desert Island Discs;
• people I have met — especially those involved in the development of birdwatching from a minority hobby into a global pastime, such as the late Max Nicholson;
• birding with friends – the often underrated social aspect of birding, and the wider benefits the pastime has for our emotional and spiritual lives;
• birds I love – all of them, really; but in particular my favourite bird of all, the Swift.