by Alex Horne
The year 2006 ended in foggy fashion in the UK. In fact, there was so much of the blurry stuff over Heathrow in the run up to the new year that British Airways ‘lost’ thousands of passengers’ bags, including Duncton’s, in the gloom. The two sets of parents (and Chip) arrived safely in Accra, but several bags (including Duncton’s) and several vital holiday items (including his binoculars) didn’t. So Duncton (and Mum and Chip and Morri’s parents) had to stay in Accra for an extra twenty-four hours until the bags arrived.5 Duncton only had two days before our Big Year ended. Now he had to spend one of them in an airport, without his binoculars.
With far too much time on his hands, Duncton composed a series of texts to keep me up to date. The first, in capitals but otherwise flawless, read:
ARRIVED IN ACCRA. TWO HOURS LATE. BAGS STILL ON THEIR WAY. YOU CAN PROBABLY RELAX – SO DO SO! LOVE TO ALL THERE. D.
31 December
Chip isn’t a birdwatcher. In fact he’s more opposed to the hobby than I have ever been. While I often wondered why Duncton spent so much of his (now copious) free time watching birds, Chip simply dismissed it without wasting his own (less copious) free time thinking about it. So knowing that I could trust him not to get distracted by any brightly coloured African birds, I had given Chip my microphone and mini-disc player and asked him to record the final hours of Duncton’s birdwatching bid.
On the morning of the last day of the year, they finally clambered into a minibus and left the airport for the eighty-mile drive west along the coast. Once more, however, they were thwarted. Seizing the opportunity of another delay and throwing himself into the role of official documentary maker, Chip interviewed Duncton by the side of the road:
‘So, it’s about 1 p.m. and we’ve just had our second puncture,’ he began. Listening back I can picture the scene perfectly: Chip, amused by pretty much everything, Duncton, stoically frustrated. Sorry Chip, you were saying …
‘A second puncture meaning that our tyre had already been replaced by the spare. And for some reason the spare was very small,’ (he now started laughing hysterically) ‘much smaller than the other ones,’ (still laughing) ‘but we put it on and now that one’s got a puncture too, so we’re standing by the road looking at birds. And Duncton,6 where exactly are we?’
‘Well …’ Duncton, I noticed as I transcribed the tapes later, begins almost every sentence with this word. It seems to be a useful tactic, adding an element of composure to what might otherwise be an outburst. ‘… we’re probably just over halfway between Accra and the Hans Cottage Botel7 and as you say we’re just experiencing our second puncture, which is holding us up, and it’s jolly hot out here and we’ve seen about three or four birds on the way over – well, three or four identifiable birds – several birds that were non-identifiable without being able to stop and use binoculars. And I think the sands of time are gradually running out …’
They were indeed, and Duncton had suddenly found himself a fish out of water floundering on those fast flowing sands. There were birds all around him, but he couldn’t tell what they were. He was in the same position I’d been in at the beginning of the year.
Except that Duncton did have his basic birdwatching skills.
‘So Duncton,’ Chip continued, ‘what birds have you actually spotted so far over here?’
‘Well, I’ve seen black kite, red-eyed dove, hooded vulture and a Senegal coucal, but that’s about it. So we’ve seen a few extras but it’s a bit of a measly tally so far and I think Alex can remain confident that he’s going to claim his victory. Although we’re just at this moment looking at two rather nice little birds and a pigeon on the wires over there.’
‘What are the little birds?’
‘They’re … unidentified at the moment.’
(Chip laughs again.)
‘What do you think they might be?’
‘Well, I think they’re a bit small for bee-eaters, they’re the sort of bird that sits on wires. I might be able to work it out but it’d be nice to get some sort of colour on them – with the sun behind they’re just silhouettes at the moment. There’s also a pigeon to one side which is probably, hopefully, either a speckled pigeon or an African green …’
‘How can you tell the difference between the pigeon and the two small birds – ooh, two of them have just flown away, which one’s left?’
‘Well the pigeon’s left. It’s obviously the pigeon. It’s got the jizz of a pigeon.’
‘It’s got what?!’ (Laughing more heartily than ever now.)
‘It’s got the jizz of a pigeon. The general impression of shape and size.’8
‘Is that what jizz stands for?’
‘Yeah – from the American Airforce … jizz jizz.’9
‘I had no idea.’
‘And there’s a nice black kite flying right over it which you can tell from its forked tail. It’s got to be a kite – ah, there’s a very big black butterfly here …’ ‘Butterflies don’t count do they?’
‘No, butterflies don’t really count … we might be able to make a case for them if we’re really desperate. There’s quite a few birds around but what we need is an expert ornithologist – which we had in Romania and which made life very easy, just to say exactly what was what – which I think Alex had in South Africa.’
‘Oh there’s another big bird over there!’ That was Chip, actually noticing a bird all by himself.
‘And what do you think that is?’
‘Oh, is it another black kite?’
‘Yes, you see the forked tail …’
‘Yes, and that’s what makes it a kite!’
Brilliant. Despite his unfortunate surroundings, Duncton had somehow got Chip birdwatching too. And I bet Chip never forgets that kite.
Duncton summed up this exchange with the following text:
SEEN A COUPLE OF SPECIES BUT STILL NOT AT BOTEL. CHIP AND I HAVING FUN THOUGH. HOPE YOU ARE TOO. LOVE. D.
Two hours later, he followed this up with:
WE’VE FINALLY REACHED MAT AND MORRI – AND THEY’RE ENGAGED. MAT PROPOSED ON CHRISTMAS DAY ON A BEACH! LOVE. D.
Over in the Alps my heart melted (as had most of the snow, but it was New Year’s Eve, so we weren’t worrying about that). My brother was getting married. Marriage, I knew from personal experience, was brilliant. So is Morri. This was terrific news.
I felt a tiny bit left out of the celebrations. They’d had a nightmare journey down, but were now with Mat and Morri who were engaged. And it was New Year’s Eve. They had to be having a fantastic time. I decided to text Duncton a message of goodwill:
That’s tremendous news! Send them my love and a big hug. And if you want to have an extension till midday tomorrow that’s fine. Call it injury time for the Heathrow stoppage… Love, A.
Yes, it was a magnanimous gesture. Well, sort of. There was also an element of me not wanting our challenge to fizzle out just yet. I wanted Duncton to have a fair crack at my total, not just for him, but for me. I suspected that so far he’d been kind to me, too kind almost. A part of me wondered if he’d been letting me win. That is, after all, what dads do. This was what Grandpa had done with the piece of pottery, and look how that had ended up. This time I didn’t want to be given any special treatment. I wanted Duncton to at least have the chance to catch me.
Back in Ghana, Duncton embraced the opportunity. He needed thirty-eight more species. He needed an expert. And with Mat’s help, he found the phone number of the area’s top naturalist, a man called Robert. On Chip’s recording you can only hear Duncton’s side of the conversation so I’ve had to guess at Robert’s words:
‘Hello, is that Robert?’
‘Yes, it is, how can I help you?’
‘Well, the thing is, I was just wondering if you’re around tomorrow. You see I’m trying to see rather a lot of birds.’
‘Of course, no problem.’
‘What? Well, ah, well great, thank you!’
‘What time would you like to set out?’
�
�Well, I would think we’d be ready to leave at around 10 a.m. or so …’
‘How about 6 a.m.?’
‘6 o’clock?’
‘Yes, 6.’
‘Well, OK, 6 o’clock in the morning.’
‘That’s the best time.’
‘That’s the best time. OK, right, sure, fine – I’ll try not to have too late a night tonight!’
‘And what’s your name?’
‘It’s Hugh.’
‘It’s what?’
‘It’s Hugh – H-U-G-H …’
‘Can I just call you Duncton?’
‘Yes, that’s fine. Thank you, bye!’
‘Well done Duncton! Six o’clock on New Year’s Day!’
Those last words were Chip’s, no longer quite so amused. Just as in South Africa on the morning after our wine tour, this was to be another ‘early start not welcomed by all’ for the sake of birdwatching.
1 January
‘Morning Duncton!’
Chip can be annoyingly chirpy in the morning.
‘Ah, well, good morning.’
Duncton was as calm as ever.
‘What day is it?’
‘It’s still the 31st of December … in Alaska.’
Duncton, of course, was right. He may not quite be omniscient, but he’s not too far off. It wouldn’t be New Year’s Day in Alaska till midday. I may have bent our rules, but I hadn’t broken them.
Robert was taking the sleepy group to Kakum National Park, a tropical rain forest about twenty miles north of Brenu, home to more than 300 species of birds. Duncton had to see just thirty-eight of them to win. Unfortunately, and quite ironically for him, visibility wasn’t great. They were too early. It was foggy.
‘The mist will lift as the sun comes up,’ bluffed Duncton.
Thankfully for him, Robert knew exactly what he was doing. This was his patch and he knew every inch of it. What’s more, he’d guided twitchers before. He knew the score.
Before long, he’d wowed the group – not just Duncton, but the future mothers-in-law and Chip too – with an African green parrot, a fire-bellied woodpecker and a yellow-casqued hornbill. Despite the mist, he pointed out violet-backed hyliota, black-winged oriole and even some splendid glossy starlings. On Chip’s recordings I can hear genuine (if still slightly groggy) oohs and ahs, accompanied by an earnest ‘Oh, that’s rather nice,’ and ‘Oh, gosh yes,’ and an ‘Oh, that’s a handsome bird,’ from Duncton.
He was having quite a morning. These may not have been as hard-earned as the Romanian birds, but it’s difficult not to be impressed by the likes of velvet-mantled drongo, yellow-billed turaco or, by all accounts the best of the day, a Congo serpent eagle.
But Duncton was not content merely to tick these birds off. He wanted to learn. ‘These birds are completely new to me, Robert,’ he said, ‘all these greenbuls and malimbes. It’s great, but they’re just so different …’
Chirrup.
‘What’s that one?’ Duncton was keen to recognise the calls of the birds as well as their markings.
Chirrup chirrup chirrup.
‘Mmm,’ Duncton pondered. ‘Is that a weaver?’
‘No,’ said Robert. ‘That’s a frog. It’s a small tree frog. Yes, that’s a frog. You can actually see it if you come over here …’
‘Hey, that’s great!’ said Mum.
‘Yeah, that is quite cool,’ said Chip.
Robert clearly registered the general appreciation of a creature that wasn’t a bird.
‘And that noise there?’ he pointed up, ears cocked. Another shriek echoed round the canopy above them.
‘Is that a kite?’ guessed Duncton, somewhat desperately.
‘No, that’s a monkey.’
‘Yes, I can see it!’ cried Mat, a traitor to Duncton’s cause.
‘Wow,’ cried everyone else. ‘Did you see it jump?’
‘Yes, that’s a Diana monkey. They occupy the uppermost leaves. We have five species of monkeys here, including the spot-nosed …’
This was what most of the group wanted to see and hear on New Year’s Day. In fact, having spent the first couple of hours looking exclusively at birds, it seemed anything else was becoming markedly more interesting.
‘What’s the tallest tree?’ asked Chip, for presumably the first time in his life.
‘Well,’ said Robert, adopting Duncton’s usual tone, ‘the tallest trees are the Kantun trees. They grow up to 260 feet. And the squirrels love them. We have more than twenty species of squirrel here, including the biggest flying squirrel – that’s like a fox. It’s very large …’
The tour finished just before midday and the group made their happy, but still quite sleepy way, back to the camp for a nap. But Duncton was too wound up to sleep. He texted me instead:
HAD A FANTASTIC MORNING. SEEN LOADS OF SPECIES. FINISHED ON 243. HAPPY NEW YEAR! LOVE, D.
Back in the northern hemisphere we’d woken late, feeling almost exactly how we had on New Year’s Day morning the year before. While heavily washing up in the kitchen, I noticed a small grey bird sliding down a tree outside the house and instinctively shouted ‘nuthatch’. I even tapped the window with my knuckle like Duncton always did when spotting kestrels while driving (despite the hot water, my action was carried out in a safer situation). Rachel and her parents peered through the glass and eventually saw the bird too.
‘So that’s a nuthatch?’ they asked.
‘Yes it is,’ I replied. ‘They’re fairly common round here.’
Rachel looked at me and smiled. While she must have been pleased my birdwatching year was over, and I wouldn’t have to ruin any more weekend lie-ins with dawn trips to meet strange men from the internet, I think she liked the fact that I could now identify at least some of the world’s birds. Just as I like to imagine Mum feels about Duncton’s birding, I hoped her occasional well-hidden exasperation at my obsessive behaviour was outweighed by some pride in the fact that her husband could now point at a small grey bird and tell everyone what it was called.
Mostly, though, I think she saw that I enjoyed being able to tell everyone what that small grey bird was called. And because she’s perfect and I’m a very lucky (and soppy) man, she mainly just loves me being happy.
*
By the time Duncton’s text arrived, we were finally out on the slopes, attempting to banish our anniversary hangovers in the mountain air. My attempt hadn’t been entirely successful yet and I had to read it twice. On the first occasion I thought he meant he’d seen 243 species that morning alone and felt like a fool for so generously offering him the extra morning.
But then I remembered the small amount of birding common sense I had gained. Even Duncton couldn’t see 243 species in one morning, even in Africa. He’d seen 243 species in a year. I’d seen 257. I’d won.
‘I’m going to le pub.’
1 Come to think of it, if you’ve been trying to construct a mental image of Duncton while reading about him, imagine an older version of Wally: an older version of Wally who decided to grow a beard in his early forties and is now approaching his sixties but is still as full of beans and enthusiasm as he always was. That’s pretty much what Duncton looks like.
2 And, I should say, just avoiding the ‘Kensal Green Tornado’ that struck just two streets away from ours on 7 December.
3 She also helped me to find all the scrapbook entries and all my old writing books. ‘I don’t know why I keep them,’ she told me. ‘I just can’t throw them away.’
4 The first box, I remembered now, had contained things we’d deemed unworthy of keeping years before, but which Mum, again, could not bring herself to chuck out.
5 Duncton was one of the lucky ones. Morri’s parents weren’t reunited with their bags for another two months. A lot has been written about BA’s incompetence but that’s not going to stop me joining in. They lost everyone’s bags for ages! They didn’t give them back for two months! That’s amazingly rubbish! I’m fairly disorganised, but it would be like te
lling the set-up line for a joke then forgetting to say the punchline for eight weeks!
6 I am doing my best to make everyone call him Duncton. It’s a fine name.
7 Where they were all staying for the first few days of the trip. A ‘botel’ as you may have guessed, is a cross between a hotel and a boat. It’s a boat hotel in the same way that a motel is a motor hotel and a gotel is a hotel for goats.
8 Clearly ‘jizz’ should be spelled ‘giss’, but that’s not how it’s pronounced or written by birdwatchers. They definitely call it ‘jizz’. I promise.
9 And yes, I do still have the recording of Duncton saying ‘jizz’ twice in rapid succession – undeniable proof that I’m still not very mature.
EPILOGUE
Why Did the Chicken Cross the Road?
‘Not only is this the opening chapter of my story, but also the opening of a new and exciting chapter in my life.’
– Adrian M Riley, prologue to Rivals and Arrivals
What happened next …
I sent our complete year lists to Lee G R Evans for verification (David wasn’t deemed quite neutral enough).
‘Hi Alex, I’ve studied your year list submissions for the year 2006 and make the following comments,’ he replied with appropriate gravitas. ‘By UK400 club rulings,1 feral pigeon is not a valid taxon and is therefore not countable … nor is monk parakeet … I see too that most birds listed are from outside of Britain and the Western Palaearctic so outside of my jurisdiction.’
Fair enough, I thought. He’s never claimed to be expert on every bird in the world. No one is expert on every bird in the world.
Evans concluded that my 2006 British Year list total was 152 species. Subtracting a nightingale and a tawny owl that he’d heard but not seen (we were still sticking rigidly to our three rules) Duncton’s 2006 British Year list total was 136 species (the birds we’d both seen in County Cavan had been approved without question, so maybe Paul Murphy had finally got round to moving that border).