by Stephen Moss
But today, almost 80 years later, the achievements of these pioneers have lasted far longer than those of their pleasure-seeking contemporaries. In 1928 Nicholson and his fellow birdwatchers carried out the first-ever survey of a breeding bird, the Grey Heron. During the following three-quarters of a century Britain’s birds have been surveyed, counted and watched more than any other comparable avifauna in the world. We still have a lot to learn, but much of what we do know is down to the vision and lifetime’s work of Max Nicholson.
Sadly, Max died last month, just over a year short of his own century. I was fortunate to meet him several times, and always felt as if I were travelling back in time. He would refer to some of the greatest figures of twentieth-century ornithology as ‘young Peter Scott’ or ‘that young fellow James Fisher’. He would casually mention ‘a book I wrote in 1926’ or the time he met Edward Grey — Britain’s longest-serving Foreign Secretary, author of The Charm of Birds, and the man who coined the famous phrase: ‘The lights are going out all over Europe; we shall not see them lit again in our lifetime.’
Max lived a full and varied life outside ornithology, too: as private secretary to Herbert Morrison, and with Churchill at the postwar peace conferences at Yalta and Potsdam. He also told me of a visit to the remote islands of St Kilda, inspiring me to go and see this remarkable place for myself.
Most movingly of all, he talked of his memories of 1914, when as a ten-year old boy in Portsmouth he watched the columns of young men going off to war. As we now know, so many of them were never to return. This tragedy shaped the entire course of his life, making him determined to make up for their loss by helping to create a better world. As the father of modern conservation he certainly did his best.
In the same week as the passing of Max Nicholson, another colossus of twentieth-century ornithology also died. Guy Mountfort had packed almost as much into his 97 years. He led the first great birding expeditions to Europe, told in his inspiring series of Portrait books; was co-author (with Roger Peterson and Phil Hollom) of the legendary Field Guide to the Birds of Britain and Europe; and set up Operation Tiger, which helped prevent the extinction of this magnificent beast.
Max Nicholson and Guy Mountfort were truly great men, who fought against the destruction of the world’s wildlife and inspired succeeding generations to do so too. But for me, their most important legacy is their simple enthusiasm for watching birds. For all their work on committees and at conferences, organising expeditions and writing books, neither Max nor Guy ever forgot one thing – that ultimately we watch birds for the joy and pleasure they give us.
A trip with Tono
JUNE 2OO3
As I was reading the obituaries of Max Nicholson and Guy Mountfort in this month’s Birdwatching magazine, a brief paragraph caught my eye. It announced the death of another, less well-known figure in the birding world. Less well-known, perhaps, but just as sadly missed.
At 77 years old, Jose Antonio Valverde was a generation younger than the two British nonagenarians, but their lives were nevertheless closely linked. As a young man in the late 1950s, ‘Tono’, as he was known, was the only Spanish ornithologist on Guy Mountfort’s pioneering expeditions to the Coto Doñana in southern Spain – Europe’s last great wilderness.
He made an immediate impression, both for his deep knowledge of local birds and his patchy command of English. On one occasion, he and James Ferguson-Lees were out horse riding when they heard a strange sound. Unsure of its identity, Ferguson-Lees asked Valverde what was making the noise. Struggling for the correct word, Valverde’s face suddenly brightened, and he pronounced his verdict: ‘Adult tadpole’!
As a child, I remember reading about this adventure in the great bird photographer Eric Hosking’s autobiography An Eye for a Bird, and wondering if I might ever get to visit the magical Coto Doñana for myself. In 1986, almost 30 years after the first expedition, I finally did – in the company of Tono Valverde.
At the time I was making a BBC television series teaching Spanish, and a colleague had tracked him down for me. He let us into his tiny apartment, a broad smile on his kindly, suntanned face. The conversation soon turned to my interest in birds, and Valverde’s eyes lit up. To my astonishment, he grabbed his car keys and announced: ‘Vamos! Let’s go to Doñana!’
We left Seville in his battered car, stopping every few miles to scan the skyline with a pair of borrowed – and equally battered – binoculars. But Valverde was not happy. It was clear that intensive agriculture was ruining a unique habitat. Much of what had once been natural wetland, formed by the flooding of the Rio Guadalquivir, had been drained, ploughed and planted with crops. In an absurd irony, the authority responsible for this damage, the European Union, was simultaneously financing a project to pump water back into the damaged land.
Finally, however, we reached a crossroads, overlooking a vast area of water covered with wildfowl and wading birds. As the sun set, Valverde told me the story of how Doñana had been saved for posterity by the newly formed World Wildlife Fund. He recalled drinking a bottle of wine to celebrate, then in a minor act of eco-vandalism, throwing the bottle into the water to commemorate their victory.
As if on cue, two Greylag Geese and two Greater Flamingos flew past in formation across the glowing sky. Valverde watched them pass and said in a quiet voice: ‘Geese and flamingos. North meets south. That is why this place is so special.’ Later, he presented me with an inscribed copy of his book on the Coto Doñana, which I still treasure to this day.
The following year, I was in Seville once again and received a message from Valverde inviting me to go with him to look for vulture nests in the Andalusian mountains. The birth of my first son was imminent, however, and I had to decline his offer and return home to England. I greatly regret that I never went birding with Tono Valverde again.
My favourite bird
MAY 2004
This year, I saw my first Swift on 21 April, a week or so earlier than usual. As always, it was a moment that defines the coming of summer and makes me realise that the natural world is still functioning as it should. Others, including former Poet Laureate Ted Hughes, have shared this view. He once penned these lines on the birds’ miraculous annual return:
They’ve made it again,
Which means the globe’s still working, the
Creation’s
Still refreshed, our summer’s
Still all to come …
But what is it about Swifts that inspires us so? Well for a start, their ability to fly here non-stop from Africa, homing in on the urban skyscape that will be their summer home. Then, once they get here, their extraordinary morning and evening display flights, as dozens of them chase each other across the sky like racing drivers entering a chicane, screaming as they go. It was this extraordinary sound that earned them the folk name ‘devil bird’, along with dozens of other related epithets including ‘devil screamer’, ‘swing devil’ and even ‘devil’s bitch’.
Yet despite their association with Satan, most people regard Swifts with affection and admiration rather than fear. This may be because if you live in the centre of a city, the Swifts’ arrival is often the first indication that the long dark days of winter are finally over, and summer has finally begun.
I also like to think that we recognise athletic prowess when we see it. For as their name suggests, Swifts are the ultimate flying machines: capable of staying airborne for months on end, sustaining themselves by grabbing small insects in their huge gapes as they fly.
They even sleep on the wing. Watch as dusk falls on a fine summer’s evening, and you will see the Swifts rise higher and higher into the heavens, eventually disappearing from view. It is here, high in the sky, where they choose to rest: though catnapping might be a better description.
For such an aerial bird, landing is the exception rather than the rule. Indeed the only time Swifts perch at all is when they visit their nest, usually under the eaves of a tall building. One of the most famous colonies is in
Oxford, where they breed, appropriately enough, in the tower of the university’s Museum of Natural History. Half a century ago, the great Oxford ornithologist David Lack wrote about this colony in his book Swifts in a Tower, still one of the best popular scientific accounts of a British breeding bird.
But as Lack noted, if a Swift lands on the ground, it is in big trouble. Aerodynamically designed for flight, with huge wings and tiny legs (its generic name Apus actually means ‘no feet’), once the bird is accidentally grounded it finds it almost impossible to get airborne again.
I remember getting a phone call many years ago from a friend’s mother, who had discovered a Swift on her back lawn after a heavy thunderstorm. When I arrived the bird was a shivering mass of dark feathers and looked close to death. But we picked it up and dried it off, then as the rain cleared, took it outside to be released. I can still remember the feeling of joy as I watched it take off from my outstretched palm and fly off into the grey skies, back where it belonged.
Why watch birds?
JUNE 2004
Gardeners have always known about the therapeutic value of their hobby; now, it seems, they can be even more pleased with themselves. For they are not only healthier and happier than their counterparts without green fingers, they actually live longer as well.
The fact that close encounters with plants makes for a well-balanced way of life comes as no surprise to me. The same is true, after all, of anyone with a passion for nature. Over the years I have come to know a very varied bunch of wildlife enthusiasts, and although they come from a wide range of backgrounds, they have one thing in common: a zest for life. It is easy to assume that this comes from being out and about in the fresh air, maintaining their physical fitness, but there is much more to it than that. In my view, the mental, emotional and spiritual sides of wildlife watching are at least as important as any physical benefit.
Talk to anyone who has gone through a major life-changing event – redundancy, divorce or bereavement, for example – and ask them how they came to terms with the change in their lives. Of course, family and friends are the first people you turn to, but if you have a passion for watching wildlife you have another vital means of support.
At its most basic, nature offers you a way to escape. In times of crisis, being able to get away from it all is a great help, and you are probably better taking a country walk than drowning your sorrows in the local pub. Then there is the sense of perspective you get from wildlife. Watching a wild animal go about its daily business really does put human affairs into context. It helps you realise that whatever is happening to you, the world is still turning and other living things are carrying on with their daily lives.
If you have a local patch – a place where you regularly go to watch and enjoy wildlife – then you are in touch with the passing of the seasons, and the comings and goings of birds and other creatures. In a world where it is all too easy to get things out of context, this is by far the best way to re-engage with reality.
Seven years ago this spring my mother died, and soon afterwards my marriage broke up. From being confident, happy and successful I was plunged into a mood of doubt and despair. Fortunately I had the support of my friends and family, and the love of my life, Suzanne. But I also had a place to think, to reflect on life and to escape.
Now, I can look back on that difficult time with something approaching equanimity. And I can take my young son Charlie around my local patch and point out the birds – though being just seven months old he has not quite learnt how to use binoculars yet. As we watch fox cubs gambolling on the grassy bank, listen to the chorus of marsh frogs and enjoy the antics of nesting Lapwings, I can affirm that being close to nature really does make you feel better.
Year listing — a century on
DECEMBER 2OO4
One hundred years ago, on I January 1905, a young man living on the borders of Kent and Sussex decided to keep a list of the number of different birds he saw on New Year’s Day. Horace Alexander only managed 17 species, so the following year he enlisted his brother Christopher in the quest. This time they were more successful, tallying a grand total of 33.
Looking back almost seven decades in his autobiography Seventy Years of Birdwatching, Horace Alexander recalled how relaxed he and his brother had been. They did not even leave the house until after breakfast, returned home for lunch and travelled everywhere on foot.
But a tradition had begun, and despite excuses, hangovers and the call of the January sales, thousands of birders will keep it going on 1 January 2005. Why we do so is hard to explain: but there is something about the freshness of the New Year that brings hope to the heart of even the most jaded birder.
In North America, this obsession with listing finds its outlet over the whole of the festive season. The Christmas Bird Count began in 1900, when a young ornithologist named Frank Chapman persuaded about two dozen people to go out and log not just the species they saw, but the number of individual birds as well. Nowadays the Christmas Bird Count is a national tradition: with 2000 different events involving about 50,000 participants, from Alaska to Hawaii and California to Florida. Counters use every possible method to log birds, including dog-teams, canoes, hang-gliders, hovercraft and even golf-carts!
At the BBC Natural History Unit, we indulge in a rather more leisurely contest, organised by my colleague Martin Hughes-Games. With a silver cup at stake, the birders among us count the total number of species we see during eight days, from midnight on Christmas Eve to the end of New Year’s Day. In the past, some contestants have considered sending themselves on a filming trip to some exotic location in order to snatch the prize, but this was thought to be contrary to the spirit of the contest, and all participants must now remain within the borders of the UK.
Attitudes to the contest vary between the laid-back and the fanatical. Some people hire cottages on the north Norfolk coast to be as near to the birds as possible, while others have the advantage of living near Chew Valley Lake, with its wintering Bitterns. If you want to win, an early start is essential: last year one participant heard both Tawny and Little Owls during the first half an hour after midnight – despite, as he put it, being ‘very, very drunk’.
True to the amateur ethos of the contest, I shall take a couple of walks around my local patch, gaze out of the back window and tick off Ring-necked Parakeet – safe in the knowledge that this exotic creature has not yet reached Bristol, where most of my colleagues live. Horace and Christopher Alexander would, I am sure, have approved.
The hit list
JUNE 2006
A few years ago, I wrote about my all-time favourite birds in this column. Now it’s time to come clean and give you the top five birds I could, to put it politely, do without. If my choice upsets you, I apologise, but sometimes you just have to get things off your chest.
At number five on my list, Meadow Pipit. Not that there’s anything offensive about this little bird; just that, as the archetypal ‘little brown job’, it defines the word ‘nondescript’. Sometimes you catch a glimpse of an odd-looking bird out of the corner of your eye and imagine for a brief moment that it is something rare and interesting. Almost always, it’s just another Meadow Pipit.
At number four, Greenfinch. Actually it was a toss-up between this and Herring Gull, but as so many people have a downer on gulls I feel it behoves me to stand up for them. So Greenfinch it is. Maybe it’s that annoying wheezy call or the fact that they monopolise bird feeders most of the year round, but I just can’t get that excited about them.
At number three, Wood Pigeon. Surely I must mean Feral Pigeon, the famous ‘rats with wings’? In fact Feral Pigeons are amazing birds, with an extraordinary history, having mutated from the wild Rock Dove into the ultimate city slicker we know today. The Feral Pigeon has been scandalously ignored both by professional ornithologists and amateur birders, with the honourable exception of Eric Simms, whose book The Public Life of the Street Pigeon taught us most of what we know about them. So instead I hav
e gone for the Feral Pigeon’s big brother, the Wood Pigeon. There’s just something about these birds that annoys me – I’m sure they do have interesting habits, but they are just too big and gaudy for my liking.
At number two, and jostling for the top spot, is Greylag Goose. The late Konrad Lorenz, who pioneered the study of animal behaviour known as ethology, would doubtless disagree, but this bird is surely the most aesthetically challenged of all our native birds. It used to make up for this deficiency by living in remote and beautiful parts of Scotland, but in the past couple of decades there has been a boom in the feral Greylag population, and today it can be found all over the place, still looking gormless.
And which species occupies the coveted number one spot in the league table of birds I wouldn’t miss if they disappeared tomorrow? I’m afraid it’s another goose species, and this time I’m not alone in my choice. Canada Geese may look good as they migrate south from their native home, filling the air with their haunting cries, but their presence on virtually every pond, lake and river in the country is a crime against nature. It’s not just that they are foreign – I have often admitted a soft spot for the equally alien Ring-necked Parakeets – but that they simply have no redeeming features, and enough unpleasant habits to fill a book. If only they were good to eat…
Remembering George Montagu
JULY 2006
Of all the people who have influenced the history of birdwatching, my personal favourite is the eighteenth-century ornithologist George Montagu. He was the first to classify several British species, including the bird that still bears his name – Montagu’s Harrier.
Yet for the first forty years of his life Montagu had very little to do with birds. Instead, he pursued a career path typical of men of his class and background: joining the army and reaching the rank of lieutenant-colonel, before settling down with his wife and six children in his home county of Wiltshire.