by Bill Oddie
‘So were you?’ asked the director.
‘What?’
‘Scared.’
Before I answered, the soundman took off his earphones and handed them to me. I put them on. There was a noise like the gasping of a pair of industrial bellows, accompanied by a thumping drumbeat that would have filled a dance floor. ‘That’s you,’ said the soundman. ‘Breathing and heart beat.’ The sound of fear.
I had never been so scared in my life. I still haven’t.
LET’S FACE IT
chapter thirty-one
Down on the Farm
When I was a kid my dad used to read me bedtime stories about friendly old Farmer Giles who was rosy-cheeked, straw-chewing, always cheery and above all caring and loving to not only the farm animals but also to the wildlife which he welcomed to his land. ‘Good morning, Mr Badger, have a nice day.’ The message in children’s books was clear: farms are great for wildlife and that’s how farmers wanted it.
However, as I grew into a young birdwatcher, I soon suspected that Farmer Giles had become extinct, if indeed he had ever existed. The farmers I was encountering on the outskirts of Birmingham were anything but rosy-cheeked and cheery. Some were blatantly belligerent, even physically violent. I once got clouted over the head with my own telescope while being ejected through a barbed wire fence. When I protested that I was only birdwatching, he clobbered me again. I tried explaining that his farm’s sizeable pond with its miniature reedbed was something of a wildlife haven. His response was to bring in the bulldozers and fill it in.
This was not an isolated incident. Over the years, examples of some farmers’ almost psychotic hatred of birdwatchers have passed into ornithological legend. Perhaps most notorious was the farmer whose fields were graced by the presence of an extremely rare bird with the pleasingly daft name of Black-winged Pratincole. It naturally attracted an ever-increasing audience of twitchers. The farmer was not welcoming. For a few days he tried to scare the bird and its admirers away by bellowing abuse in his Brian Blessed voice, followed by sporadic gunfire (presumably blanks), but the pratincole was too weary to move on – it should’ve been in Turkey or somewhere – while twitchers never give up unless things get really dodgy. Which they did. The farmer drove his tractor straight at them and sprayed them with what resembled – and probably was – raw sewage. A small price to pay for ticking off a Black-winged Pratincole.
For years, I considered the image of farmers to be possessive and paranoid. I admit I was often guilty of climbing fences or crawling under barbed wire, but this was what schoolboys did. What farmers did was yell at you and chuck you off. So much for Farmer Giles.
However, as I got older, I became aware of an escalating animosity that was – and continues to be – much more serious. There was clearly considerable friction and suspicion between farmers and conservationist organisations, particularly the RSPB. Probably because it had the highest profile, the largest membership and the most ideas about what was needed to conserve or create good wildlife habitat. Alas, its ideas were sometimes viewed with suspicion and construed as interfering, invasive or even threatening. They were met with the retort: ‘I’m not having anyone telling me what to do with my land.’ There was one farmer in Kent who every year defiantly damaged a small SSSI on his farm and every autumn spent two weeks in jail! As an isolated case, it might be amusing, but as a widespread attitude it is a disaster.
Maybe it was unavoidable. Those Farmer Giles books really didn’t help. There is more to running a farm than chatting to the animals. What about the stuff about budgets and subsidies, and discussions with accountants, let alone the traumas of failed crops or diseased livestock. In a sense, farmers got lumbered with responsibilities maybe they didn’t want, expect or realise. The accepted concept is that wildlife mainly lives in the countryside. Most of the countryside is farmland. Hence farmers become the custodians, whether they like it or not.
One of the most unfortunate results of the Badger cull has been the apparent taking of sides. The Government (Defra) is supported by the NFU that is ‘protected’ by the police. They line up against the NGOs that are largely supported by the public. This all too easily feeds a public perception of farmers as Badger killers (cullers). The truth is that some farmers support the cull, some don’t. Similarly, while there certainly are farmers who are disinterested or even hostile towards wildlife and ‘wildlife people’, there are others who are willing to farm sympathetically, but need advice and a financial contribution. Worth their weight in gold are the farmers who know and love their wildlife, create special habitats, and even open their land for farm holidays including nature study.
It is often said that the only way of being 100 per cent certain that an area is totally wildlife-friendly is to own it. Hence the nature reserves owned and managed by such as the RSPB, the Wildlife Trusts, Wildfowl & Wetlands Trust, etc. Most of our countryside is owned by farmers. The way they manage it is absolutely crucial to the state of British wildlife. Does this government know that?
Or care?
chapter thirty-two
Protecting What from Whom?
A friend of mine had just come back from a weekend in Scotland. He was excited but not totally confident, hence the question: ‘Could we have seen a Golden Eagle?’
‘Well, yes you could have done. Whereabouts in Scotland were you?’
‘In the Cairngorms.’
‘Well, there certainly are Golden Eagles in the Cairngorms. What was it doing?’ ‘We were driving. It flew across the road.’
‘Are you sure it wasn’t a Buzzard?’
‘It was really big.’
Buzzards are big, but not as big as an eagle. Birdwatchers say that if you see an eagle but you are not sure, it is a Buzzard. But when you do see an eagle, you know! In Scotland they call Buzzards ‘tourist eagles’. My friend was deflated; his wife said: ‘Never mind, dear’, and his daughter said: ‘Told you so!’
That was about seven or eight years ago. Since then my friend has seen a lot of Buzzards, and he didn’t have to go to Scotland. He lives about 20 miles north of London and he sees Buzzards nearly every week. He doesn’t mistake them for eagles, though he is getting confused by the ever-increasing number of Red Kites. It is not many years ago that both species were in trouble. In the late 1950s there were only half a dozen pairs of Red Kites and they were all deep in the Welsh Valleys. Buzzards were not as scarce as that, but they were very much birds of hills, mountains and moorlands. So much so that we assumed they needed such specialised habitat to survive.
Then, about 10 years ago, I went to the Netherlands. The polders in winter. The very epitome of flat farmland, with nary a hillock in sight. There were thousands of wild geese, and lots of Buzzards. Perched on posts, dawdling along dykes and most incongruously shuffling around in the grass feeding on earthworms. The conclusion was obvious: Buzzards needn’t be confined to moors and mountains. The rhetorical question was inevitable: if they are happy in the Netherlands, why not in England?
And thus it has come to pass. Thanks to diminished use of poisons and pesticides, and less prejudice and persecution of raptors in general, ‘tourist eagles’ are proliferating. One of the secrets of maintaining what one might call their natural numbers is that they are not fussy eaters, which is just as well because they are hardly impressive hunters. They are not capable of the deadly dives of a Peregrine, or of the lightning interceptions of a Sparrowhawk, and their attempt at impersonating a Kestrel is more of a lollop than a hover. It is testament to their lack of skills that much of their ‘live’ food (rabbits, ducks, pigeons, etc) is already ill, or injured. Not surprisingly, Buzzards are prepared to risk their own lives by swooping on roadkill along with other scavengers such as crows, Jackdaws, Red Kites and Magpies.
So Buzzards are booming. So much so that I feared they would become victims of their own success. It is what often happens when a species becomes noticeably numerous. They will inevitably be blamed for the demise of other species, guilty or
not. It happened to Magpies and Sparrowhawks – ‘killing all our songbirds’. It is happening to parakeets – ‘stealing all the nest holes’, and now it is happening to Buzzards – accused of taking Pheasants!
Frankly, I could not believe it when the Government announced that it was sanctioning the destruction of Buzzard nests, by blasting them with a shotgun. How much blasting does it take to demolish a large platform of tightly woven twigs? And how do you make sure you avoid hitting the birds? Estate owners would also be allowed to ‘remove’ birds (how?) and commit them to captivity (where?).
I was not at all surprised that, within a couple of days, an enormous lobby of protest had been organised by individuals and the pertinent organisations, such as RSPB, the Wildlife Trusts and the League Against Cruel Sports.
I was surprised when, only a couple of days later, the Government announced that plans for the Battle of the Buzzards had been withdrawn. The fastest U-turn so far?
So what does this imply? That Defra – a department that has so much affect on our countryside and wildlife – bows to the wishes of the shooting lobby? Or that the Government really does take notice of public opinion?
Or, is it a cunning strategy? First, the Government comes up with some plan that is unthinkably absurd. Second, the public is outraged. Third, the PM makes a U-turn and drops the idea, which was so silly it would never have happened anyway. Fourth, the PM claims: ‘See, we do listen!’
But where does that leave the wildlife? The Buzzards seem safe, for the time being. Meanwhile, the Pheasants – millions of them – are captive-bred to become living targets, to be blasted out of the sky in the name of ‘sport’. Many of the birds can hardly fly and will inevitably be splattered and crushed on the road. What’s left may well end up as ‘Buzzard food’.
I will leave the last word to my friend: ‘If they want to save Pheasants, ban traffic!’ Look out for another U-turn!
chapter thirty-three
Meet us, Don’t Eat us
It is no secret that much of British wildlife is endangered. Fortunately, we – and our birds and mammals – are blessed by having several organisations working to conserve and protect them. Of course, this costs money, and much time and effort are inevitably spent on fundraising. However, recently I have been thinking that the wildlife benefits, but it doesn’t contribute. So how’s this for an idea to make wildlife pay for itself? First, you watch it, then you eat it! Let’s face it; it happens already – Rabbit pie, venison, Pheasant. Wild creatures fulfilling two roles – entertainment and food. One does not detract from the other. Just because its parents are succulent doesn’t mean a baby bunny is less cute, or a ‘Bambi’ less lovable, or even a male Pheasant less handsome. Most nature reserves have a café attached, so why not specialise in fresh local food. Very local. No transport costs, and much-needed income for conservation. Of course it needs a zappy publicity slogan. How about: ‘View ’em, then chew ’em?’
I am, of course, joking. Bidding to become conservation’s answer to Frankie Boyle perhaps? No, this outburst of satirical black humour was brought on by a recent visit to Iceland.
Within an hour of landing, we were taking a stroll around Reykjavík harbour. I literally could not believe what I saw. All along the quayside were kiosks and posters advertising whale-watching trips. Some of them even promised: ‘If we don’t see a whale, we will give you another trip – free.’ There were also guarantees of sightings of porpoises, dolphins, and – arguably the northern hemisphere’s most desirable bird – Puffins. Icelandic eco-tourism was obviously flourishing, which pleased me greatly since, only about 10 years ago, I had filmed, with the BBC on board, what was then the very first whale-watching boat. At the time, as one would have hoped, the commercial whaling industry seemed to be defunct, although there were rumours of its revival. But surely that was unthinkable? Whale-watching and whale butchering side by side? That must be a joke. A very sick joke.
However, less than a month ago, as I walked along Reykjavík waterfront, I realised that the ‘joke’ has become a reality. There were eight large ships moored side by side. The first six proudly bore the logo and name of whale-watching companies. The decks were fitted out for optimum viewing, with chairs, binocular and camera rests, and conspicuous identification charts. However, at the end of the row were two more boats, unmarked, and ominously functional. Each had a harpoon mount on the prow, a chain winch for hauling a wounded animal on board, and a big featureless grey open deck, space enough to butcher the whale. It was all too easy to picture it flooded with blood, intestines and body parts. Right now, the whaling ships were empty and silent, and some of the machinery was even a bit rusty. I even wondered if they were out of commission. Maybe the whalers had given up. Next morning, they were gone. Half an hour later, we found them again, moored even more conspicuously on the other side of the harbour. It was almost as if they were warning us: ‘Oh yes, we can move, and we can kill whales. If we want to.’
The juxtaposition of whale-killing boats alongside whale-watchers was more than ironic. Iniquitous, more like. But it became almost surreal when I read the menu board outside a harbourside café. Halfway down the main dishes, it was recommending ‘Whale Steak’. A rather swisher-looking restaurant was more specific – ‘Minke Whale Steak’. Another one urged you to sample a sort of nautical hors d’oeuvre: a platter of ‘Shag (like a Cormorant but smaller, and, I’d imagine, tougher!), Whale and Puffin’! I ask anyone who has been charmed or excited by these birds, and spent hours photographing them on the Farne Islands, or in Shetland, or indeed in Iceland, was your afterthought: ‘Mmm, very cute, but I wonder what they taste like?’ I think not.
But maybe I am being naïve. Maybe I should play devil’s advocate. There was, of course, a time – and not that long ago – when a considerable part of people’s staple diet was ‘wildlife’. For thousands of years, that is all there was! Different geographical areas and different communities had their ‘specialities’. Everyone knows that Iceland has always been a nation of seafarers and fishermen. Surely they have been whaling for centuries, and whale meat is a widely eaten traditional food? Well, the answer is ‘no, they haven’t, and no, it isn’t.’ Iceland only began commercial whaling in 1948, and a recent poll found that no more than 5 per cent of Icelanders regularly eat whale meat. It is certainly not considered to be a delicious ‘local delicacy’. That is ‘restaurant speak’ to lure in the gourmets, or perhaps more likely the curious tourist rising to a dare. ‘I bet you won’t order blubber.’ Or ‘I believe in eating what the locals eat. You can’t go to Iceland without eating whale, or Puffin, or Shag!’ You can, actually.
I don’t want to be a spoilsport, but I am afraid that seemingly frivolous attitude fuels some awful atrocities, involving willful slaughter and appalling cruelty. Order pâté de foie gras anywhere in Europe, including England, and you are condoning unspeakable torture to geese. In Cyprus, if you are offered ambelopoulia, just say ‘no’. It looks like a jar full of pickled walnuts but its production is one of the reasons that Cypriot hunters annually slaughter literally millions of small songbirds, most of which are migrants. As indeed are many species of whale.
As it happens, Minke Whales (hunting of other species is illegal in Iceland) are thought not to be major travellers, but, like any creature that swims the oceans, they cannot be said to ‘belong’ to any particular country. At present, they are not endangered, but possibly only because there ‘isn’t much meat on them’ compared to the really big ones, so they weren’t considered to be worth hunting.
So are they worth hunting now? Only if there is a market for their meat, and that market is Icelandic restaurants. The demand comes largely from tourists. They have been drawn to a unique country of extraordinary landscapes, sea cliffs, bays, volcanoes, waterfalls, lakes and fresh clean air, where they can trek, ride, cycle, drive or sail, enjoying wildlife, watching birds and, of course, watching whales. If you see one surface, roll or dive, it will lift your heart. If you think of how it might die
, it will break it.
There is no quick and painless way to kill a whale. It can’t be dispatched with one ‘good clean shot’. It will be pierced by several harpoons, dragged through the water gasping, writhing and unable to breathe. It is likely to have died through drowning before the final ignominy of being hauled out of the sea and onto that deck, soon to be awash with its blood.
As I wandered around Reykjavík, photographing menus and shop windows stuffed with literally hundreds of fluffy Puffins, I was overtaken by a couple of whales! Well, half whales actually. Both top halves. The legs belonged to young volunteers from IFAW (International Fund for Animal Welfare). They have a presence all over the world, wherever animals are in trouble. The job of this team is to intercept tourists who are returning from a whale-watching trip, explain the present situation in Iceland, ask whether or not they have tasted or intend to taste whale meat, and finally to get a signature on a ‘postcard of protest’, which will be added to the ever-growing pile already delivered to the government by IFAW. As the tourists return to their hotels (maybe to change their dinner order!), they are serenaded by the volunteers with a little whale song or rather ‘whale chant’: ‘Meet us, don’t eat us. Meet us, don’t eat us.’
It is one of those moments that confirms my pet theory that care and kindness to animals brings out the best in humanity. Especially because the young volunteers are such a cosmopolitan bunch: French, Dutch, German, Croatian, Finnish, British, Swedish and a pair of Poles! Mind you, to be honest, everyone looks the same inside a whale costume!
My final fact-finding cruise was a day and a night on board IFAW’s research vessel, a very handsome yacht called Song of the Whale. She sails the world with her small crew of scientists, fully equipped with the latest technology for recording whales both at and below the surface, collecting data, and anticipating and investigating potential problems. The researchers enjoy the full trust and cooperation of the whale-watching companies, unlike the early days, when the initial response was to refer to IFAW personnel as ‘terrorists’, an unfortunate legacy of past anti-whaling protests that had involved a rather more buccaneering approach. No judgement, but that is not IFAW’s way. On board the Song of the Whale, the atmosphere is anything but militant. The team are working almost non-stop, day and night, scanning with binoculars or cameras, checking video feeds and peering at computer screens. Every now and then a cry goes up, and so does a Minke Whale. It’s a graceful animal. It moves with a glide rather than a leap, surfacing three or four times before sliding down to deeper waters, where the fish are. The sea is glassy calm. There is an air of concentration and contentment. This is another of those moments. The best of wildlife and the best of people.