by Alex Horne
All I could see inside was rugby, on about eight separate screens. Below this the sort of men you’d expect to be watching rugby in a pub stood about in various masculine poses. Large men in large groups. There were a couple of stag parties there too, warming up for their own scrummage later on. Surely these weren’t the London Birders? I circled the room, but saw no binoculars, no khaki, no fleeces and no walking boots. I was secretly relieved that no one but me had shown up. I’d been let off.
Then, behind a particularly sturdy supporter, I noticed some stairs. That must be where they were. I tried to psych myself up again: I can do this, I’ve done this before, you’re fine, everything’s OK. I climbed the stairs, practising my opening line on the way; ‘Hi, I’m Alex and I’m very nearly a birdwatcher …’
But there was nobody on the second floor. No rugby groups, no stags, no birders, nobody. Again I felt a surge of relief. I’d been stood up, but I’d done my best. Now I just had to go and make a roomful of strangers laugh. I fled.
To my surprise and delight, David came to my gig. He’d thought about going to the birders’ drinks but, like everyone else apparently, decided he liked the remoteness of the hobby and wasn’t quite ready to turn it into something else. ‘To me,’ he’d said during our first outing together, ‘a lot of birdwatching is about solitude. I do go with other people occasionally, but mostly I’m on my own. It’s often the only chance I get to be alone …’ I felt honoured and touched that he hadn’t minded meeting me.
20 May
Turning on my computer the next morning, I was confused to see photos of what looked like a highly successful first London Birders’ outing. I scrolled through the banter to see what had happened. Surely these weren’t the rugby fans in the pub? Or had they just hidden when they saw me coming up the stairs?
It was my mistake. The day before the event someone had changed the venue to the Metropolitan Bar on Marylebone, having heard about the televised rugby match in The Globe. It seemed that proper birders check the forum even more regularly than me, and the ensuing night was indeed a triumph. London’s birdwatching community had amassed after work and stayed in the pub till closing time. The pictures showed a joyful band of normal, sociable people. I imagined them, sharing stories, comparing equipment, singing birdsongs, generally having a very nice time, and I kicked myself.
A phone call to Duncton, who had arrived back from Romania that morning, did little to improve my mood. He’d seen a total of eighty new species for his year list, fifty-five of which were lifers. He was full of stories about the red-footed falcons, hobbies and little bitterns he’d seen from the deck of the boat. ‘There was no engine!’ he told me with inexplicable excitement. ‘We were pulled along by a tug so we could all just sit there with our binoculars. It was amazing.’
They’d walked up into the Carpathian Mountains and tried and failed to see bears, but that didn’t matter to Duncton. He was Charlie, just back from the chocolate factory, full of stories and high as a kite. More interesting to me, however, was Mum’s perspective. This was also her first birdwatching holiday. And while Duncton knew he’d have an amazing experience, Mum had been worried both that she might not have quite as much fun – and that this might become a regular occurrence.
‘I did enjoy it,’ she told me, with that intonation that leaves you in no doubt that a ‘but’ is lurking just round the corner. ‘But it was a bit too much. It was OK. But I got extremely bored by some of it. Sometimes we’d only walk ten yards before the tripods went up because they’d seen something or heard something, and was it this kind of warbler or that kind of warbler? And I didn’t really care to be honest. Some of the basic stuff was great, I was really pleased to finally see a cuckoo – we saw a cuckoo every day which I loved. But the finer details and the notching up of numbers just wasn’t my scene really. And there wasn’t an awful lot else. I do enjoy birdwatching to an extent, but not to that extent.’
It seemed an ornithological holiday was where the birdline was drawn between my parents. He had loved it, she had not. She was more than happy for him to go on another trip like it in the future, as long as she didn’t have to go too.
I understood how she felt. Despite my determination to win the competition, I had already lost patience with the warblers and thrushes that, to me, looked identical. To be trapped on a boat that stopped every twenty yards in front of yet another small brown trilling thing wouldn’t be much fun if you weren’t really into that small brown trilling thing. Maybe I was more like Mum than Duncton in this respect. My interest in birds might always be superficial. I liked them, sure. Some of them were brilliant. But I didn’t love them. I loved other things – football like my brothers, jokes by myself and words like my mum. I might just be able to become a birdwatcher, but I doubted I could ever be a true birder. Perhaps it was a good thing Duncton hadn’t taken me to Fair Isle.
26 May
After ten days of trying to sweet-talk a robin on to my hand, I gave up. I had a lot of time to think while sitting uncomfortably, arm outstretched, still as a statue, and had decided that ten days was enough of a trial period. It had dawned on me gradually that this may not be a good way to experience birdwatching. I do, after all, have a perfectly adequate set of binoculars that would allow me to see a robin close up without being stuck in one spot. Spending more time walking round rather than sitting in my garden might also mean I saw other species of birds.
The final straw came when I talked to someone who’d actually had the experience of feeding a bird by hand. It was Tom, the merlin man from the stag and he was more than happy to share his bird-handling experience. Birds, by the way, were now dominating nearly every conversation I had. If, like me, you find social situations tricky, it’s great to have something you can talk about with nearly everyone. After all, everyone has a bird story. And recently, somewhere out in the country, Tom had fed a robin from his hand.
‘Do you want to know what it feels like?’ he asked me.
‘More than anything,’ I said.
‘OK, well hold your hand out like this …’
If you’re reading one-handed feel free to join in at this point. I stretched my hand out, hand upturned, just as I had been doing every day for the last ten days.
‘OK,’ continued Tom, ‘that’s what it feels like to hold a robin.’
‘What?’ I asked, puzzled.
‘That’s what it feels like. They’re so light, you can’t actually feel them at all.’
Hmph, I thought, tremendous. In theory, a robin might have landed on my hand while I was dozing or looking up at my Italian neighbour. Well, at least now I would avoid the anticlimactic moment by calling a halt to the experiment on my own terms.
29 May
I turned my back on those pesky weightless red-breasted tease-balls, and the end of the month heralded a brand new favourite bird. Not some shallow, insubstantial airhead either, but a good, honest bird: a pigeon. A woodpigeon, to be precise. To be even more precise, it was the woodpigeon that lived on my street corner. For the first time this year, my favourite bird was an individual rather than a particular species.
Every day on my way to the shop or the tube I’d pass this particular chubby pigeon, distinguished by a bizarre white vertical stripe down his forehead, strutting about on someone’s hedge or pecking away at the fag ends at the entrance to Kensal Green station with all the confidence of a drug dealer who knew he was king of his turf. I’d always found the pigeons in my gardens amusing, particularly when they started attempting to mate in the spring. Despite feeling that I shouldn’t really be watching, I couldn’t take my eyes off the bizarre ritual. First, the female would walk meaningfully back and forth along the wall, completing about five or six lengths under the steady gaze of her partner, before stopping on what I imagine she considered the most romantic spot. Facing away from the male she would then hop twice and crouch down. At this cue, the male would clamber enthusiastically on top of her then sit perfectly still for ten seconds. Without warning,
he would then twitch. Without fail, he would then fall off. This happened pretty much every day in March at 10 a.m.
On this particular May morning, the drug-pushing Harry Potter lookalike wasn’t in any of his usual spots. I felt disappointed. But as I came down onto the station platform I saw him sitting by one of the benches, calmly preening, as if waiting for the train. I sat down beside him. We waited for the train. After mis-measuring the window the first time, I was returning to John Lewis for a new set of blinds.
To my great satisfaction, when the train pulled up Harry followed me on. In fact, it was almost as though he politely let me go on first: ‘No, after you – humans first.’
Of course, the atmosphere in the carriage was instantly charged. Normally a dreary London trek into town, for once the commuters smiled at one another, spoke even! For the pigeon is a mood-enhancing bird. A humble pigeon can make everyone feel better. Think of Wimbledon. Even if the crowd has had to sit patiently through rain-break after rain-break, the sight of a pigeon landing on the net will cheer up every single person on centre court. ‘Look! It’s a pigeon!’ someone will cry. The players will laugh. One of the quirkier ones might do an impression of a chicken. ‘This is wonderful!’ the commentator will say, and everyone will agree. ‘It’s a pigeon on a tennis court,’ people will sigh as if trying to convince themselves it might possibly be true. ‘We paid to watch tennis. But now we’re watching a bit of tennis and a pigeon! Wonderful!’
All these thoughts and more buzzed about the carriage. We all knew this was a story we could dine out on for days. But then, at Queen’s Park, the very first stop, the pigeon calmly hopped out again. The mood in the tube reverted to its normal gloom. People looked back at their free papers and tutted at celebrities. Everyone was miserable again, except for Mr Potter-Pigeon, whom I could see through the window cheerfully looking about, pleased that he’d made such good progress without any effort, let alone having to pay. When I returned home that evening, Harry was back under his normal lamppost, touting for business.
I wondered if I could share this pigeon story with members of the London Birders’ Forum. It seemed relevant, but I knew they were more into rare bird sightings than anthropomorphic adventures. Still, I was further cheered by two items of particular interest in that month’s RSPB newsletter. The first, a typically quaint letter from a lady who wrote to say that while gardening, ‘A robin landed in my garden hat!’ I presumed someone had pointed this out, since there was no way she’d be able to sense the slight bird’s presence, but either way I liked the image, even if I had no idea what a ‘garden hat’ was like.
The second was news about Oddie. ‘For two weeks from 30 May,’ the article read, ‘Bill Oddie will be presenting this year’s BBC Springwatch programme.’ Perfect, I thought, a chance to take my mind off the World Cup and maybe pin down Oddie. ‘And for all you Goodies fans,’ it continued, ‘they will be performing at this year’s Edinburgh Festival, so book your tickets now!’
Ah ha! More good news. I would have at least two bites at this cherry, surely more than enough bites, considering the size of an average cherry.
1 In thirty seconds I was able to list eight famous gardeners. To my shame, I could only name seven Prime Ministers in the same period of time. Have a go and see the back of the book for my answers.
2 For me, the word Look evokes both the weary instruction and excitable enthusiasm of Duncton as a youthful father: ‘Look! Will you just calm down!’ or ‘Look! It’s a chaffinch!’
3 ‘Bill Oddie, Bill Oddie, put your hands all over my body.’
4 A rival to Bananaman in my affections, The Mysterious Cities of Gold was a typically epic 1980s cartoon featuring a young Japanese-looking Spanish boy called Esteban who was searching, much like me, for his dad – and the lost Inca cities of gold. It all ended quite tragically, but on the way Esteban discovered an enormous solar-powered Golden Condor which could travel considerable distances under the sun’s power alone and was referred to as an ‘ornithopter’.
5 Thanks to several references by Bill in books and on TV this is common knowledge. I don’t want to be held responsible for a spate of copycat Oddie Watchers. He’s already something of a cult figure, with no less than twelve people at the time of writing impersonating him on MySpace. That’s twelve people (one of whom may, admittedly, be Bill) spending their time pretending to be the bearded birder! That’s even weirder than me spending my spare time trying to find him. Isn’t it?
6 According to the official website, ‘An annual celebration of the world’s oldest wake-up call – the dawn chorus – and the beauty of birdsong. Throughout the UK, people are encouraged to wake up early, just after 4 a.m., and hear the dawn chorus from their bedroom window.’ As an annual event it’s a bit like Easter, in that the date moves around a bit, and a bit like World Aviation and Cosmonautics Day (12 April) in that it’s not necessarily the most important day in most people’s years.
7 Both of which are sensible, accurate names for birds, as well as being suitable for pirates with similar attributes.
8 I thought I should probably put you out of your misery and reveal my favourite ten. So, in reverse order, we have at 10: Trowell (M1, jct 25-6 – particularly well-stocked W H Smith). 9: Fleet (M3 jct 4A-5 – excellent pedestrian footbridge). 8: Leigh Delamere (M4 jct 17-18 – the last stop before Mark’s stag; we enjoyed the Postman Pat ride there). 7: Norton Canes (M6T jct 6-7 – I love everything to do with the toll road). 6: Clacket Lane (M25 jct 5-6 – Mum and Duncton bought me a fry-up there on my first journey up to university). 5: Heart of Scotland (M8 jct 4-5 – most ironic name). 4: Newport Pagnell (M1 jct 14-15 – according to The Smiths song ‘Is It Really So Strange’, Morrissey lost his bag here). 3: Scotch Corner (A1(M) jct 57 – the final stop before Edinburgh). 2: Woolley Edge (M1 jct 38-9 – I had a wash in the five-star, loo-of-the-year, award-winning shower there). And, you’ve guessed it, at No.1, it’s Toddington (M1 jct 11-12 – I had my haircut at the incongruous barbershop there).
9 They ended the season with a 3–1 win away at Portsmouth, but Man Utd were busy thrashing Charlton 4–0, so took second place behind Chelsea by a single point. Liverpool had made it into the Champions League once more, but had still finished below the top two. Not good enough.
10 Clearly a funny name. The bird itself, however, sports more of a moustache than a beard – a long, drooping Chinaman-style tash. I particularly like it because on the same page there’s a bird called a sombre tit, which doesn’t look amused at all by the facial hair.
11 Trescothick and Pieterson both got centuries in a rain-ruined match that was eventually drawn, while Sevilla beat Middlesborough 4–0.
12 Team Bath eventually beat Loughborough Lightning. They also eventually beat pretty much everyone else and won The Super League both that season and the next. I got quite into Team Bath in much the same way as I had once got into Liverpool.
13 Actually, thinking about it, my ability to watch any sport on TV is a talent (yes, a talent) learned independently of Duncton. He can’t. A couple of months before I got married he suffered a detached retina. It was as painful as it sounds, but it did mean he got to lie on a sofa for a week while a big snooker tournament was on BBC2. I would have watched every ball struck. He said he couldn’t watch more than two minutes before getting bored. Birdwatching, however, is a whole different ball game.
14 Despite being at the top of the knowledge tree, scientists can, of course, make mistakes, as demonstrated by a certain Scottish (or, more likely, Icelandic) swan.
15 I’ve used it there but the statement: ‘I’ve started, so I’ll finish’ has always struck me as quite illogical. Just because you’ve started something, that doesn’t mean you must finish it. If you’ve started eating a meal and realise you’ll be sick if you eat it all, you don’t have to finish it and then be sick. There is always the option to pull out. It’s just that being stubborn men, the eating it all and being sick option is often the only one we see.
16 This was parti
cularly frustrating as the book in question was that rare thing, an ornithological thriller: Pelican Blood by Chris Freddi. It’s a murder mystery about birdwatchers. Like I say, everyone’s got a story about birds; this one’s the bloodiest I’ve encountered so far.
CHAPTER 6
Football Crazy
‘My total was on 308, and it was now becoming obsessively the most important thing in my life.’
– Adrian M Riley
Alex:
137 species
Duncton:
203 species
6 June
FOR MOST OF the year, I tried to go on birdwatching trips either in my local area or near where I was working. Like most people with ears, eyes and a brain, I’m all too aware of my carbon footprint, and didn’t want this vaguely green project to turn into one enormous gas-guzzling road trip. Duncton’s patch-birding is clearly the most sound, both in environmental and birdwatching terms. He spends most of his time in his own county, caring for and about the birds around him; he’s never tempted to charge up the M1 to join in the latest mega-twitch. He’s more like the supporter of a local Sunday league side than one of the best teams in the Premiership.
I, however, have always supported Liverpool1 and do occasionally travel a long way to see a big match and probably have a lower ethical threshold with regards to the odd unnecessarily long journey. So when Mum emailed me to say she’d read in the Radio Times2 that Bill Oddie was going to be filming Springwatch on a farm in Hatherleigh, Devon, just a hundred-mile round trip from a gig I was doing in Taunton, I didn’t think twice about making the detour.