by Stephen Moss
At the time of my first visit, in late March, the first spring migrants had yet to arrive. By early May, the place had been transformed into a cauldron of birdsong, with residents and summer visitors competing for airspace. In mid-May, the young birds began to appear – dominated by ducklings, goslings and cygnets. Things quietened down a bit in June and July, though as the chicks grew larger the amount of squabbling increased. August saw an influx of Teal and Lapwings – with six new additions to the ‘patch list’ including Hobby, a bird I had managed to miss on several previous occasions.
The driest September for a long while has reduced the water levels considerably, and the past couple of weeks have been very quiet. There have been a few surprises, such as a new brood of Little Grebes, and one evening, a flock of a couple of hundred Jackdaws flying overhead. These must have come from their feeding grounds in Bushy Park, on their way to roost – but who knows where? They certainly showed no signs of landing as they continued westwards.
Meanwhile, Jays have just begun to arrive in good numbers, while the tit flocks, so quiet during late summer, are active again. Sound-wise, the spring chorus has given way to a single soloist – the Robin and its delightful autumn song.
In many ways, sights and sounds like these are the most satisfying thing about regularly visiting a local patch. During the next six months bird numbers will build up for the winter – and although the variety of species will no doubt decline, there will be the spectacle of hundreds of ducks, gulls and Lapwings. Something to look forward to as the long autumn nights draw in.
Sunny afternoon
AUGUST 2003
On the hottest day ever recorded, with the thermometer finally breaking the 100-degree barrier, the best place to be was the garden. But by early evening, as the temperature finally began to drop, I decided to take a walk around my local patch.
This long, hot summer has played havoc with the breeding birds: low water levels mean that just one pair of Lapwings has raised chicks, while the usual Ringed and Little Ringed Plovers have long since vanished. The Mute Swans have three healthy cygnets, and the chatter of Little Grebes is constant, but apart from the odd Robin or Dunnock there are few signs of young songbirds. I fear that it has been a poor breeding season all round, as seems to be the case all over the country.
To compensate for the lack of bird activity, I have been paying more attention to butterflies and dragonflies. Butterflies are also thin on the ground this year, though I usually see a Speckled Wood along the path, while Gatekeepers and Meadow Browns flit around the sunnier areas of the reserve. I’ve seen several Banded Demoiselles, identified by their distinctive wing pattern, and on the few remaining patches of water, the larger hawkers and Emperors cruise around like fighter pilots looking for the enemy.
Nevertheless, there are still a few birds to see. Some don’t worry about the heat, and there are plenty of Wood Pigeons and Stock Doves feeding on weed seeds on the sides of the reserve. Goldfinches, too, are plentiful – hanging onto thistles to extract the precious seeds. Some are juvenile birds, lacking the red face patch of their parents, giving them a rather baffled expression.
August is usually the time when a migrant or two drops in, but in the fine weather many seem to be passing overhead without landing. One exception is the Green Sandpiper, a couple of which have stopped off on their long journey south to Africa. It is one of the joys of birding at your local patch that birds like this, which breed no nearer to Britain than Scandinavia, pop in on their migratory travels across the globe.
Meanwhile, some of our own summer visitors are already on their way. We are still seeing the odd Swift over the garden, but most have now headed off to Africa, while numbers of House Martins are also beginning to drop. Soon it will be autumn, and it will be left to the resident birds to keep up the interest. On this particular visit, the star performer was a female Sparrowhawk, which pounced on an unwary Starling right in front of the hide where I was sitting.
Contrary to popular belief, Sparrowhawks do not always dispatch their prey with a single blow. So as the unfortunate Starling continued to struggle, she attempted to pin it down with her powerful talons. This activity soon attracted interest, and as the Sparrowhawk tried to pluck the feathers from her prey, she had to fend off the unwelcome attentions of a Magpie and a couple of young crows. Eventually, fed up with the interference, she flew off, the Starling still held tightly in her grasp.
A charming little bird
MAY 2005
‘A charm of Goldfinches’ is not a phrase you hear very often these days, but the collective noun for this delightful little bird could not be more appropriate. For of all our native songbirds, the Goldfinch has a good claim to be the most attractive and endearing.
When we moved to south-west London four years ago, we had all the usual garden birds to visit. Blue Tits and Great Tits, Greenfinches and Chaffinches, even the odd Ring-necked Parakeet would drop in to take advantage of our seed and peanut feeders. But for the first year or so, we saw no Goldfinches.
Nor did we hear them. For the first sign that you have Goldfinches in the neighbourhood is usually their sound: a tuneful, tinkling call often uttered in flight. But despite my best efforts, our garden and its surroundings remained resolutely Goldfinch-free.
Then, after a year or so, I tried a different strategy. I bought two new bird feeders: one, a monstrous metre-long creation of metal and plastic, which I filled to the brim with sunflower hearts. The second, a smaller and more modest affair, containing a special product called nyger – tiny, black, grain-like seeds which are reputed to attract Goldfinches as cheese attracts mice. I must admit that I was fairly sceptical. For a start, the tiny holes on the sides of the feeder looked too small to allow any bird to extract the contents. But I decided to give it a go, and so with my two new feeders primed for action, I retreated to the sitting room.
What I am about to tell you may make you think I am exaggerating. But it is the honest truth that within an hour I heard the telltale tinkle from the skies above, and there, on my nyger feeder, was a pair of Goldfinches. Minutes later, they were joined by another, and another, until a whole flock was enjoying a free lunch.
It was then that I realised that I had underestimated both the bird and the designer of the feeder. For the Goldfinch is the only species with a bill thin and pointed enough to be able to extract the tiny seeds from the slightly less tiny holes. Greenfinches give it a go but give up in frustration. Starlings and House Sparrows simply do not stand a chance.
Since then, we have enjoyed the presence of Goldfinches on virtually a daily basis, with flocks of a dozen or more regularly appearing. Sometimes, I take a closer look through the binoculars I keep by the back window and never fail to marvel at the sheer beauty of their plumage. Subtle shades of beige and cream; black wings emblazoned with the flash of yellow that gives the species its name; and the bright crimson face – said to be the result of the Goldfinch attempting to remove Christ’s crown of thorns and becoming wounded in the process.
And even when I don’t see them, I can hear that bubbling call as they fly overhead. A call that reminds me that in our eagerness to seek out the rare and exotic, we can all too easily overlook the common and familiar. For the Goldfinch is, in every sense of the word, a charming little bird.
Out of the woods
APRIL 2006
On a fine spring evening – and there haven’t been many of those so far this year – I love to sit on the little patio at the back of our house and listen to birdsong. By April the chorus is well under way, with the tinkling notes of the Goldfinch, the delicate tones of the Robin and the impossibly energetic trill of the Wren all competing for my attention. But the sound that I most enjoy hearing is the leader of the orchestra: the fluty tones of a male Blackbird, belting out his song as if his life depended on it.
Which in many ways, it does. For this bird certainly isn’t singing purely, or even partly, for my benefit. His song may be beautiful – and may have inspired ge
nerations of poets, musicians and writers – but that Blackbird perched on the nearby roof is engaged in a battle as serious as any in the natural world. Before the summer is over, he must win a mate, fend off rivals to his territory and raise as many young as he can. The race to reproduce is on – and given that most songbirds only live for a year or two, this may be his last chance.
This springtime battle is at its most intense in my suburban neighbourhood, here on the outskirts of London. Studies have shown that town Blackbirds breed at densities up to ten times greater than their country cousins. So, even as I listen to ‘my’ Blackbird, I can hear an answering song from two or three others nearby. The reason for this incredible breeding success is that gardens are ideal for Blackbirds to nest and raise a family: providing plenty of food, places to nest and song-posts from which they can serenade the neighbourhood.
Yet it goes without saying that these built-up areas are not the Blackbirds’ original habitat. Like so many of our garden birds, they evolved as creatures of woodland, living in the dense, leafy canopy and feeding on the forest floor. Only in the past couple of centuries have they discovered that our towns and cities, with their leafy avenues and intensively managed gardens, provide the perfect place to feed, drink, rest and nest. They moved in and have never looked back.
But like all living creatures, Blackbirds cannot hide their evolutionary origins. Even if they no longer lived in woodland, we would know that they originally came from there, for one simple reason: their song. Those deep, fluty tones, which make its song so appealing to the human ear, must have evolved to allow the sound to carry as far as possible through the dense foliage. Leaves soak up high-frequency sound, but the deep, baritone notes of the Blackbird penetrate this green barrier, allowing my bird’s ancestors to defend their territories and win mates.
Not that any of this concerns the fine male Blackbird sitting on the roof opposite me and keeping a close lookout with that beady, black eye. Once he is happy that I present no immediate threat, he relaxes, opens his beak and sings, to his – and my – heart’s content.
Charlie and birds
AUGUST 2005
At almost two years old, my son Charlie has already mastered the art of identifying some of our common birds. Hardly surprising, really. After all, when I brought him back from hospital when he was just two days old, one of the first things I did was to hold him up against the window and show him the birds on our garden feeder.
His first bird? A Goldfinch – one of my favourites, and I hope someday one of his. Since then I have taken every possible opportunity to point out birds, and he has learnt to identify ‘dove’ (a category that includes Wood Pigeon as well as Collared Dove); ‘parrot’ (the ubiquitous and noisy Ring-necked Parakeets) and ‘Robin’ (almost any small bird). If he fails to identify a particular species, he can always fall back on the general category of ‘bird’, which includes every living thing to visit our suburban garden, apart from the odd cat or squirrel.
My greatest achievement so far has been to teach him the identity of my favourite British bird. Earlier this summer we spent a very pleasant week in the Dorset market town of Beaminster, whose old houses support a healthy population of low-flying Swifts. After a day or two of me pointing them out as they whizzed overhead, Charlie finally got it. From that moment on, every small bird flying across the sky is, to give it his distinctive pronunciation, a ‘wift’. Even if it’s a House Martin. Or indeed any other species.
All very charming, but will it make him interested in birds as he grows up? Some might consider that with two parents already converted, he has little choice in the matter. But I am not sure whether you can ‘teach’ a passion like birding or whether there is some kind of innate factor that makes someone gravitate towards birds, as opposed to, say, music or sport.
With my older two sons, now in their teenage years, I opted for a softly-softly approach. The result was that they have never taken more than a passing interest in birds, to put it mildly. So this time I have decided to be a pushy parent. Given that Charlie already has two younger siblings, six-month-old George and Daisy, I am hoping that at least one of them will follow in my footsteps.
But why am I so determined to get my children interested in birds and birding? Is it just so I can have someone to carry my telescope on long walks or talk to in my old age? I would like to think that I have a more altruistic motive. For I have gained so many benefits from my passion for birds – both professionally and personally – that I would love my children to share in the joy of birding.
Soon I shall be getting them their first bird book, then a pair of binoculars. In a few years we will go on trips to bird reserves, where they can annoy the ‘serious’ birders in the hides by talking too loudly. Eventually, I hope, I shall instil in them a passion for birds – and indeed other wildlife – that lasts their whole life long.
Epilogue
MAY 1997
My mother was never really interested in birds. But she still encouraged me in my new-found hobby. At first, this meant trailing after me and my classmate Roger, as we walked around the local gravel-pits in search of Great Crested Grebes. I can still remember the excitement when we finally saw a pair of these beautiful birds.
Family holidays were spent at Milford-on-sea in Hampshire. This was close to the wonderful Keyhaven Marshes, where for the first time in my life I watched wading birds such as Oystercatchers, Redshank and Dunlin.
But things got really serious when, for my thirteenth birthday, I became the proud owner of a pair of Carl Zeiss binoculars. My first chance to try them out came at Minsmere, where my mother sat patiently in hide after hide as I marvelled at the Avocets, Marsh Harriers and multitude of other birdlife at that fabulous reserve.
1974 was, I suppose, my annus mirabilis. That summer, I cycled off to the New Forest on a camping trip with my friend Daniel, blissfully unaware of my mother’s terror at letting her only child go off on his own at the tender age of 14. Somehow we managed to survive unscathed, although on reflection, I wouldn’t let my own children loose on the roads at that age.
That September, she took me to the Isles of Scilly, even allowing me two weeks off school, to the outrage of my teachers who for some strange reason thought that O-levels were more important than autumn migration.
Our final birding trip together came the following summer, when we visited the hills and valleys of mid-Wales in search of Choughs, Dippers and the magnificent Red Kite. I particularly remember one hot August Sunday, when we drove for miles and miles along steep, twisting roads, stopping every now and then to scan the skies for this rare and elusive creature.
We were just about to give up, when I noticed a Buzzard flying overhead. As I glanced through my binoculars, a second, smaller bird passed by in the blue sky above. My first Red Kite, and one that I’ve never forgotten. We decided to celebrate with a visit to a local pub, but had forgotten that in those days, most of Wales was ‘dry’ on a Sunday. The pub was well and truly shut. I don’t think my mother ever forgave them.
That trip was the end of an era. By now I no longer needed my mother’s services as a chauffeur and guide, and I was old enough to travel on my own. Following university, I joined the BBC, and earlier this year fulfilled a long-held ambition by producing a television series on birdwatching, Birding with Bill Oddie. My mother was overjoyed and telephoned every one of her friends and neighbours to tell them the good news.
I last saw my mother on a fine, sunny afternoon in early April. We sat in her back garden in Shepperton, listening to the singing of Greenfinches, while the sparrows raided the peanut feeder. A week later, while I was on a birdwatching trip to Jordan, I heard the news. My mother had died, suddenly, of a heart attack.
It is impossible to put into words how you feel about the loss of a parent. But after the grief and the sorrow, comes the gratitude. Thanks to her early encouragement, I have enjoyed the benefits of a lifetime’s passion for birds and birdwatching. Now, I’m passing on her legacy to my younge
r son, James, who carries his granny’s binoculars on our regular Sunday morning birdwatching trips.
So mum, for all this and for much, much more, thank you.
Acknowledgements
For some, birding is a solitary activity; for others, including me, a sociable one. As a result, the list of people I should like to thank for their companionship, guidance and support is a long one. To each of the individuals mentioned here, I am truly grateful.
My late mother, Kay Moss, without whom I might never have become interested in birds in the first place; the forgotten relative who bought me The Observer’s Book of Birds; my teacher in form 2H, Saxon School, Mrs Threlfall; my classmates Alan Higgs, Glyn Goodwin, Rob Lightowlers, Ian Hyde and Roger Trent; Robert Elliott (YOC leader); the late Dr Drew Thompson, who kindly lent me his Zeiss binoculars; the late Bert Axell; Daniel Osorio, my longest-standing birding companion; his parents David and Martine Osorio; Nick Riddiford; Mick Lane; Franco Maroevic; the late Alan Turner; Ron Bloomfield; Neil McKillop; Sacha Barbato; Jo Hemmings; Mark Golley; David and Marta Sharrock; Suzanne Levy; Anthony Wood; Simon Ware; Andrew McClenaghan; Bill Oddie; Clive and Audrey Byers; Graham McAlpine; Anne Varley; Mike Toms; Chris Skinner; Chris Knights; Nick Watts; everyone for whom Lonsdale Road Reservoir was ‘their patch’; the late Violet Hoare; Sam Moloney; Tim Appleton and Martin Davies; Tony Marr; Jackie Follett; Juliet Rix, Rod Standing and their sons Daniel and Luke; Nigel and Cheryle Redman; Rob Childs; John Aitchison; Chris Watson; Rita Aspinall; Lucy Meadows; the crew of the Silurian; Fiona Pitcher; Chris and Barbara Kightley; Richard Porter; Martin and Barbara Woodcock; Nick and Judy Comer-Calder; Mike Dilger; Robin Riseley; Scott Tibbles; Andy Hawley; Martin Hayward-Smith; Bill Pranty; Hadoram Shrihai; Chris and Helen Padley; the late Peter Grant; Killian Mullarney; Steve Rooke; Jucha Engel; Dan Alon; Barak Granit; Qusay Ahmad; Derek Moore; Gerard and Oda Ramsawak; Kenny Calderon; Susan Ramrattan; the production team and crew of Big Cat Diary; the staff of Governor’s Paradise Camp, especially Colin Wellensky; Arnoud van den Berg; Richard North; Tim Hunt; the late Graham Hearl; Marek and Hania Borkowski, Nigel Bean; Richard Crossley; Pete Dunne; Sheila Lego; Marleen Murgitroyde; Joan and David Sibley; Pat and Clay Sutton; Ib Huysman; Solomon Jallow and Bubacarr Daffeh; the crew of the Kapitan Dranitsyn; Michaela Strachan; Ruth Flowers; Dirk Harmsen; Shireen Aga and Barbara Walker; Adam Chapman; Lena and Haffstein, the Eider farmers of Flatey; Dr Aevar Petersen; Debra Love Shearwater; Rob Yeoman; John A. Burton; David Cottridge; Steve Roberts; the late Jose Antonio Valverde; Cristina Lago; David Wilson; Eileen Goodwin; Martin Hughes-Games.