This Birding Life

by Stephen Moss

  Despite his worldly success, Montagu was a deeply frustrated man. A few years earlier, he had written to his mentor Gilbert White, confessing that he had ‘delighted being an ornithologist from infancy and, was I not bound by conjugal attachment, I should like to ride my hobby into distant parts …’

  In 1799, he got his wish. Having begun an affair with a married woman, he was court-martialled and forced to leave military service. He and Eliza, his mistress, headed down to Kingsbridge in Devon, and spent the rest of their lives watching, cataloguing and writing books about birds. Not a bad result from what nowadays we might call a mid-life crisis.

  I thought of George Montagu when, on the way back from a recent birding trip, I called in at a secret site where a pair of Montagu’s Harriers was nesting. I say ‘secret’, but the birders’ grapevine is more efficient than most, and at least a dozen people were waiting for Britain’s rarest bird of prey to appear.

  Normally, when hoping to see such a special bird, I spend a fruitless hour or two gazing into the distance, before giving up and heading home. ‘You should have been here yesterday’ is a sentence I have heard more times than I care to remember.

  But not this time. Barely five minutes after I arrived, a shout went up from one of the watchers, and I focused my telescope on a bird on the horizon. It was a male ‘Monty’ in all its splendour: almost falcon-like on its long, narrow, pale-blue wings. Slimmer and more elegant than other harriers, a Montagu’s shares their ability to cruise low over the ground, with a buoyant and seemingly effortless flight action.

  As the male approached the nest the female flew up to meet it. Larger than her mate, she also has a very different plumage: mainly chestnut-brown, with a narrow white rump. The male was carrying food, and sure enough, they flew into the sky and performed the ‘food-passing’ ritual that cements their pair-bond – as well as providing the sitting female with much-needed nourishment. Two Marsh Harriers came over to investigate, but were promptly chased away by the male. After checking that there was no other imminent danger, he flew off into the strengthening northerly breeze, a vision of beauty and grace.

  CHAPTER 7

  Back home

  2001–PRESENT

  Things came full circle in August 2001, when Suzanne and I moved to Hampton: the place I went to school, and just a few miles down the road from where I grew up. This time it took me a little longer to find a new local patch, but when I did, it proved to be even more varied and enjoyable than the previous one. In two years I recorded just short of a hundred species and enjoyed some memorable experiences, some of which are documented in this chapter.

  I also discovered the joys of truly local birding: our modest suburban garden is in a great position to attract a wide range of visitors and fly-overs, and when a Song Thrush turned up recently we had finally totted up 50 species here. Mind you, when I lived round here in the 1960s and 1970s there was a Song Thrush singing from almost every rooftop — proving that not all change has been for the better. The real star of our garden avifauna is the controversial Ring-necked Parakeet – and I have to admit that I love them, screeching and all.

  The biggest life-change during this period has been the arrival of three children in rapid succession: Charlie in November 2003, and George and Daisy just 15 months later. No wonder my birding has been largely restricted to gazing out of the back window!

  Now, as this book goes to press, we are planning our biggest move of all: from suburban London to rural Somerset. We’re going to live in that mysterious place – half land, half water – known as the Somerset Moors and Levels. That’s ‘moor’ in the sense of ‘Moorhen’ – meaning mere, or shallow lake. To paraphrase Noel Coward: ‘Very wet, Somerset’.

  Although I’ll miss this area, I can’t help thinking that the richness of the birds and other wildlife down in Somerset will compensate for no longer being woken at dawn by a squadron of parakeets screaming overhead. Over the coming years, I plan to report on the birdlife of my new local patch in the pages of the Guardian.

  Until then, here is some more familiar fare …

  Welcome back to Hampton

  OCTOBER 2001

  If you asked most birders how their interest first began, they would probably say it was from watching birds in their garden. According to a recent RSPB survey, two out of three people in Britain regularly feed garden birds. Many of them also keep a list of what they see. The rules are simple: any bird which either lives in, visits or flies over your garden can be counted, providing you can see it from somewhere on your property.

  So when we moved home in mid-August, we had barely begun to unpack before we started off our new garden list: with a Collared Dove perched on the roof. After six weeks or so, the total stands at 34 species: pretty good for a small suburban garden on the outskirts of west London.

  Our new home is in Hampton, very close to the River Thames. The proximity of the river, together with some small reservoirs, makes the local birdlife much more exciting. Every evening hundreds of Black-headed Gulls stream overhead on their way to roost, along with smaller numbers of the larger gulls and a few Cormorants.

  Being on a flight-line, as this is known, brings all sorts of surprises. On our first evening, as we sat outside on the patio, a flock of Mistle Thrushes passed overhead – no doubt coming from nearby Bushy Park, where they feed during the day. A Grey Heron, Kestrel and Sparrowhawk have also made occasional appearances.

  But the one bird that really makes its presence felt is the latest arrival to the local avifauna. Regular as clockwork, at dawn and dusk, flocks of Ring-necked Parakeets appear, shattering the peace and quiet with their noisy calls. We have seen groups of up to 30 birds, presumably heading for their roost at Esher Rugby Club, just across the river. These so-called ‘aliens’ are now firmly established as a British breeding bird.

  The best sighting so far occurred in early September, on the day of our house-warming. As guests gathered in the back garden, I looked up at the flocks of House Martins gathering overhead. High above them, dark against the blue sky, was a familiar, streamlined shape: a Hobby. Thirty years ago, when I first came to school in Hampton, this would have been an extraordinary record. Nowadays, following a population boom, Hobbies are a fairly regular sight over the west London suburbs. No less exciting for that, though.

  Unfortunately, so far very few birds have graced our garden with their presence. Although we have put up several bird feeders, the only birds to venture within our boundaries are a couple of Blue Tits and a noisy, but elusive Wren. One of the problems is that the charming family next door owns two cats, which regularly prowl around our garden in search of food.

  If the cats ate spiders, they would be well satisfied, for these are the most prominent inhabitants of our garden. So we can only hope that in the coming months, as food gets scarcer, a few more birds will be tempted to visit. Meanwhile, as the chill winds of autumn begin to blow, and the House Martins head off to warmer climes, I look forward to some more surprises from our local birds.

  A surprising visitor

  JANUARY 2002

  It’s a cloudy, dull Sunday in the middle of January, and I’m looking out of my window. A Magpie chases another across the sky, a Wood Pigeon perches in a tree, and over the distant peal of church bells, I can hear the calls of Jackdaws as they pass overhead.

  Yesterday, as I looked out of the same window, a flock of tits passed through the garden: constantly calling to one another as they hopped to and fro, before launching themselves onto a feeder to grab a single sunflower seed at a time. The day before that, I heard a Blackbird calling. Looking across the roof of the neighbour’s garage, I saw a movement in a bush – a small, greyish-brown bird with a milk-chocolate-coloured crown. It was a female Blackcap, feeding voraciously on juicy berries before flying off to seek sustenance elsewhere.

  Three snapshots of the birdlife from my window, in a typical London suburb. Nothing out of the ordinary, you might think. Except that by the time you read this, some of tho
se small birds might have died through lack of food. Another could have been killed by a cat. On the bright side, the Blackbird may have begun to sing, staking out his territory for the coming spring.

  For however ordinary the birds you see from your own window, it’s worth remembering that from a biological point of view the struggle they face is no different from that of any wild creature. Take the Blackcap. This little bird, weighing barely as much as a pound coin, was born in central Europe, probably last year or the year before. In the autumn, along with its siblings and parents, it headed in a northwesterly direction towards Britain. After crossing the North Sea it ended up here, by the River Thames in Hampton, where a mild winter’s climate and plenty of food give it a better than even chance of surviving the winter.

  Even more extraordinary, this Blackcap is one of the best examples of evolution in action. Thirty years ago her ancestors migrated south-west, to spend the winter in Spain or North Africa. Then, by some random genetic mutation, a small proportion of the German Blackcap population began to head off in a completely different direction.

  In normal circumstances they would have perished and that would have been that. But because this random mutation conferred some tiny evolutionary advantage, they survived and returned to breed. Little by little, the process of natural selection increased the proportion of these birds in the general population. A couple of decades later, and they have taken over. Today the whole of this population of Blackcaps spends the winter in Britain and Ireland.

  For scientists, this is doubly fascinating. First, it shows the speed with which natural selection can act on living creatures. Second, it lends weight to the notion that our environment is changing as a result of global warming. The recent unprecedented run of mild winters – together with food provided by us – has enabled these Blackcaps to survive.

  So next time you look out of your window, don’t just take the birds you see for granted. Every one of them has an extraordinary life history, is worth watching, and will repay the benefit of close study.

  My new local patch

  JUNE 2002

  The Cuckoo shot across the island as if fired from a gun, hotly pursued by a frantic pair of Lapwings. Veering round, it passed right in front of the West Hide, giving wonderful views. Like all unexpected sightings, it produced a mixture of thrill and satisfaction. First, a shot of adrenaline as I realised this was something different; then, the excitement of watching it at close quarters; finally, as it disappeared, the satisfaction of having seen a new bird for the site. For this was not Cley, Minsmere or Stodmarsh, but a little nature reserve on the suburban outskirts of west London. Welcome to my new local patch.

  For seven years back in the 1970s, I took the train each day from Shepperton to school in Hampton. Along the way we passed some reservoirs at Kempton Park, though I don’t recall taking all that much notice of them. Thirty years later, Thames Water has turned one of these into a nature reserve, sandwiched between the racecourse, some allotments and a housing estate. Initial impressions are not very inspiring: first, you negotiate a narrow, muddy path favoured by dog-walkers and horse riders; then you go through what look like the gates to Colditz, presumably designed to keep out local vandals.

  But if you shut your eyes and listen for a moment, the experience takes on a much more pleasant feel. As soon as you leave the road you are serenaded by the local Blackbirds and Robins; further along the path the sound of Chiffchaffs and Blackcaps begins; and as you walk up the grassy bank towards the hide, Whitethroats and Willow Warblers add their voices to the chorus.

  On my very first visit, back in March, the highlight was the view from the West Hide. From its lofty vantage point on the banks of the old reservoir, I looked down upon a stage filled with frantic activity. Coots and Moorhens were building their nests, Great Crested and Little Grebes were diving for food, and the air was filled with the calls of Lapwings as they fought off every intruder, including Jackdaws, crows and foxes, with a brave and noisy assault.

  Since that first visit I have been back at least a couple of dozen times. There have been unusual sightings, such as a Buzzard flying lazily overhead on a bright spring morning; a Bar-tailed Godwit which stopped to feed for a few days on its way to the Arctic; and a male Garganey posing in front of the hide one evening in early May. But even when only the usual birds are present, there is always something to enjoy: from displaying Whitethroats to the pugnacious antics of the Canada Geese. And like all local patches, there is always the chance of something unexpected turning up, like that Cuckoo.

  After that first sighting, we strolled round to the East Hide, and had no sooner settled down when we spotted the Cuckoo again. He was sitting on a bush, feeding on hairy caterpillars, and giving fabulous views. We watched, enthralled, as he used his beak to remove the poisonous innards of the caterpillar before wolfing it down his throat. Not something I expected to see when I set out from home, an hour or so before.

  Natural rhythms

  JULY 2002

  My mother always used to say that when you buy a new house, you should live with the garden for a year or so before you make any major changes, so that you truly understand its seasonal rhythms.

  A local patch is a bit like that. When I first visited Kempton Nature Reserve back in March, spring was just around the corner, and the last few wintering ducks and waders could still be seen. Soon afterwards, summer visitors began to appear, and by the third week of April all four common warblers – Chiffchaff, Blackcap, Whitethroat and Willow Warbler – were singing constantly from dawn to dusk. The next week saw the first House Martins, while my birthday on 26 April coincided with the arrival of those true sentinels of summer, Swallows and Swifts.

  May was full of goings-on, the highlights being a fine male Garganey and a female Bar-tailed Godwit, both on their way north to breed. It always amazes me when a bird just drops in for a rest on its way from Africa to Scandinavia or the Arctic, but that’s just one of the things that make a local patch so special.

  May was also a time of frantic breeding activity: first, courtship and nest-building, then egg-laying, and finally the miraculous appearance of dozens of baby birds, which seemed to be everywhere. The most notable breeding species here are Little Ringed and Ringed Plovers, with their larger relative the Lapwing, whose frantic cries mean the place is rarely quiet.

  June continued in the same vein, with some chicks growing bigger by the day, while other, less fortunate, ones met an early demise through predatory crows or foxes. The foxes, too, have provided plenty of interest, whether swimming across to the island on yet another egg raid or simply playing with their cubs on the path near the hide.

  As the year goes on, the wildflowers have grown too: so that the path is now a bit of a jungle. Weeds produce seeds, so I’m not complaining — and neither are the Goldfinches and Linnets which have already arrived to feed. I’ve even seen a pair of Bullfinches, though they are often elusive – something which can’t be said for the many broods of Blue, Great and Long-tailed Tits flitting around the bushes.

  Now it’s July, which in the birders’ calendar means the start of autumn. Small flocks of gulls have begun to turn up, much to the distress of the local Kestrel, who mobs them whenever they get too close. Last week I saw my first Dunlin for the reserve, probably a returning migrant heading back south for the winter. Hopefully this will be the first of many migrating waders dropping in to feed during the next few weeks.

  So with less than a third of the year gone by since my first visit, I am beginning to understand the nature of the place: who lives here, who drops in from time to time to feed, and who just passes through on their way somewhere else. I’ve enjoyed the comings and goings of more than 75 different kinds of bird – and missed at least a dozen more. In the global, or even the national, sense, Kempton Nature Reserve may not be particularly important, but from a local point of view, it’s priceless. Like most people, I spend most of my time near where I live – so for me, this is one of the most important p
laces of all.

  Half-term report

  OCTOBER 2002

  It’s six months since I began visiting my new local patch, Kempton Nature Reserve – so it’s time to give the place a half-term report. Overall, it has more than lived up to my expectations, though as with any new location, there are birds which I didn’t expect to see, but have; and those which I did expect to see, but haven’t – at least not yet.

  For some species in the latter category, it can only be a matter of time. As summer gives way to autumn, I’m sure that a Great Black-backed Gull will drift overhead soon, while Goldcrests, Redwings and Fieldfares must also be on their way. I only saw my first Mistle Thrush last week, while other recent additions include Pheasant, Wigeon and Pochard. I was surprised not to see any Sedge Warblers this spring, and missed out on Lesser Whitethroat, Redstart and Yellow Wagtail, all of which were noted by other observers.

  Nevertheless, my current total of 84 species (out of 97 recorded at the site this year) is not too bad, considering that I only started in March. My aim is to reach a personal total of 100 species by the end of next year – a daunting, though far from impossible task.

  Of those 84, what were the highlights? It is always tempting to pick out the unexpected visitors – one-offs like the Bar-tailed Godwit that stayed for a few days in late April, the Cuckoo in June or the Little Egret in August. But although birds like these always set the pulse racing, a local patch is really about the regular species – and the subtle changes that occur as the weeks and months pass by.