by Bill Oddie
By the way, the reason I know such details about the annual Great Gorilla Run is that I am a regular attendant. Indeed, I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Nor of course would I dream of actually taking part. Such exertion would almost certainly prove terminal, and then I wouldn’t be able to attend the following year, to send them off at the start and – even more fun – allow them to collapse on me at the finish, where I also adorn them with their well-earned gold medals. No silver, no bronze; they are all winners to me! That’s what I tell them every year. Those who are still able to utter any coherent sound – apart from gasping, retching or weeping – usually greet that line with a howl of derision, signifying that, despite nearly killing themselves, their sense of humour is alive and well. The returning runners are molested by news cameras and reporters searching for statements of the obvious: ‘Why do you do it?’ ‘Why is it important to save gorillas?’ ‘Aren’t you tired?’ In reply, the clichés also abound: ‘Tired but happy’. ‘No pain no gain’. ‘Well, it’s for a good cause isn’t it?’ I heartily agreed with the young lady who was both draped and dripping all over me, which wasn’t surprising since she was dressed up as an elephant. As she flirtatiously nuzzled the tip of her trunk in my left ear, I was tempted to quote my old Python chums: ‘This is getting silly!’ Indeed, and all the better for it.
Alas, it is also getting serious for the gorillas. Please help.
chapter thirty-eight
Crimes Against Nature
How do you kill a bird of prey? Shoot it. Trap it in a cage, then shoot it. Poison it, by putting out bait laced with a deadly chemical. Or wipe out a potential family by destroying the eggs or stealing them, and selling them to egg collectors or to foreign breeders who will hatch them and rear the birds for falconry. All these activities are – and have long been – illegal. All have been going on for many years. All are still rife.
In the majority of cases the crime is committed by a gamekeeper. His job is to protect the ‘game’ birds that are also, of course, destined to die, bagged by ‘sportsmen’ who will pay handsomely for the privilege. Not even the most myopically sentimental nature lover could deny that the diet of some birds of prey does include gamebirds and their chicks and even eggs. Predators are of course part of the ‘natural balance’ of things, but on a shooting estate the aim is to maintain an unnaturally large population of – literally – ‘target’ species. Therefore, we could hardly contradict a gamekeeper who argues that he is … just doing his job.
But there could be some aspects of the way he is doing the job that would make him a criminal, and if caught he would be liable to a fine, or possibly even a prison sentence. He may or may not lose his job, but if he does it would be iniquitous indeed, since whoever fires him, probably hired him and instructed him to ‘control’ – i.e. kill – raptors. He could certainly plead … ‘I was only carrying out orders.’
But he is still guilty as charged, and criminal justice is often rough. The street pushers are imprisoned, while the drug barons stay free. The ‘hit men’ take the rap, while the ‘Godfather’ is immune. On some estates, the gamekeeper gets caught, while the landowner feigns innocence or indignation. The truth is that it is he who should be facing prosecution.
It is generally agreed that the most productive wildlife locations are those where the land literally belongs to an owner with a genuine environmental ethic. It is why RSPB appeals are so often concerned with land purchase. Fortunately, there are many private landowners who are knowledgeable, conscientious, enterprising and generous. Unfortunately, there are still… a lot who are not. Some of them even regard the RSPB and other environmental NGOs as a sort of traditional enemy, as if they are engaged in some kind of deep-rooted sectarian war. It is the same mind-set that regards any bird with a hooked bill as ‘vermin.’ It is on or near those estates that you will hear the gunshots, or see the poison bait or snares, and witness the corpses, not just of birds of prey, but any other bird or mammal that might conceivably take a gamebird.
Many wildlife protection laws exist. Others, however, have been mooted, and yet have mysteriously stalled. The intention to criminalise possession of various poisons was announced five years ago, but as yet the names have not been specified. Why not? Everyone involved knows what they are. The police and the NGOs are doing a terrific – and often dangerous – job. There is widespread public approbation and cooperation. Offenders are being caught and punished. And yet the cruelty continues. Why? Because people with money are offering money and making money. Gamekeepers know they are not above the law, but there are landowners who may think they are. They must be named and shamed. A tabloid cliché perhaps, but it is what I believe should happen, even if the social status of some of the names may cause controversy and embarrassment.
When I first started birdwatching more than 50 years ago, many of Britain’s birds of prey were very scarce. Red Kites were down to a few pairs, restricted to Wales. There were even fewer Marsh Harriers, only in East Anglia. Peregrine Falcons could only be found on craggy sea cliffs and were not common. Neither were Golden Eagles. And Hobbies and even Buzzards were a rare sight. There was a single pair of Ospreys at Loch Garten, and White-tailed Eagles were unknown as a breeding bird, although I did see one sitting in a field in Norfolk in 1958. (The eagle was sitting in the field, not me.)
The scarcity of these species had been caused by widespread DDT poisoning, though it was not specifically aimed at them but was an ingredient in various pesticides used by farmers. No doubt there was also some intentional poisoning, and certainly much gamekeeping ‘control’. Fortunately, outrage, research and legislation began to get the situation under control and slow down the declines. RSPB schemes, creating habitats, pioneering reintroductions and tirelessly pursuing criminal elements, not only increased the numbers of birds, but also seemed to encourage some species to immigrate in larger numbers. Ospreys are now almost as ubiquitous in Britain as they are around the world. Marsh Harriers are now to be found building nests in tiny patches of reeds or crops, illustrating the principle that when a species increases its numbers it can’t afford to be so fussy about its habitat. Peregrines have moved into cities. Of course, the once extremely rare species that most people have now seen, even if it’s only swooping over a motorway, is the Red Kite. In parts of Scotland you are probably more likely to see a White-tailed Eagle than a Golden Eagle, or possibly both species circling on a thermal.
Alas, though, you are almost equally likely to find one dead. The battle continues.
chapter thirty-nine
Talking About your Generation
Letter to my grandchildren, as requested by the Wildlife Trusts on their 100th anniversary (not to be opened for 50 years, unless you can’t wait).
My dearest grandchildren
I am writing this in 2012. I am 70. Not as old as the Wildlife Trusts, but old enough to have seen a lot of changes. Throughout my teenage years and beyond, I was an obsessive birdwatcher. If you had asked me then: ‘What is the state of the British countryside and wildlife?’ I would have said: ‘It seems OK to me.’ I saw lots of birds on farmland, flowers in the meadows, frogs and fish in the streams, marine life in the rock pools, seabirds on the cliffs and so much more, and it all seemed fine. Looking back now, I was surely dwelling in blissful ignorance. I wasn’t the only one. The principal agenda of a naturalists’ club was to enjoy fun and fascination, not to fret over problems and dilemmas.
Then, in the 1970s and 1980s, I – and everyone else – had to learn a whole new vocabulary. ‘Nature study’ became ‘environmental studies’. Surveys and analyses begat figures and facts, which spawned such ominous words as ‘declining’, ‘threatened’, ‘endangered’, and – gloomiest of all – ‘extinct’. The grim truth was emerging that there was nary a species nor habitat that was not cause for concern. Knowing this, it was inevitable that for many naturalists their hobby became a crusade.
Now kids, at this point you are probably expecting me to apologise on behalf of my generat
ion, but I am not going to. The state of the wild nation wasn’t our fault, except in so far as we might have been a bit slow to notice. But that is often how it is with change. Like Joni Mitchell sang: ‘You don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone.’ She was singing about woodland (‘they’ve taken all the trees and put them in a tree museum’) but the same could apply to heathland, downland, wetland, or any kind of land, or to any of the creatures that live there. At least we realised what we’d got. Maybe just in time.
People of my age are apt to comfort themselves and try to impress young folk by revelling in the (almost) unarguable achievements of the 1960s and 1970s. Ah, to be a teenager with The Beatles and The Stones, to witness the birth of satire, to be buying records during the decade of the great seminal LPs, and to be a viewer during what will likely be judged as the golden age of television. Frankly, kids, we never had it so good – and you certainly haven’t – and I am proud to have been part of it. But we old folk have one more claim to fame. Or is ‘fame’ too ephemeral, too frivolous? ‘Satisfaction’ is a nobler sensation. Yes, the sixties and seventies gave us magical music and terrific telly, but it also saw the proliferation of environmental awareness. Knowledge.
No longer could polluters, poisoners or desecrators claim that they didn’t realise that what they were doing was wrong, or that they didn’t know how it could be put right. It continues to be true today. Even on a massive global scale, we are aware of both the problems and the solutions. Whether knowledge leads to action depends on the resources – the money! – the will and the passion, and above all the power.
Now, kids – and your kids if you have any (two maximum please) – I don’t know if you care about the natural world, but if you do and you want to actually get things done rather than just have an opinion, then please never forget those two words: ‘passion’ and ‘power’. The power can refer to ‘people power’, public opinion and protest. Never let it be underestimated, but its limitation is that while we punters may influence the lawmakers, we do not draft, pass or enforce the laws. You – and I – have the passion, but not the power. What the world needs are more people with both. Genuinely, honestly. Not a pretence, the real thing.
Do you get my drift? I am trying to give you a little career guidance. Not just to you kids, but to anyone. Assuming you love and care about wild things and wild places, what kind of job should you aim for? A warden of a nature reserve? No. In the PR Department of an NGO? No. A farmer? Mm, better. Prime Minister? Yes! Minister for the Environment. Now you’re talking. The minister of anything? Any MP? Yes. A housing developer? A town planner? CEO of a multinational oil company? Richard Branson? Rupert Murdoch? Simon Cowell?
Or am I just being silly? Well, all that lot have the power. If any one – or better still three or four – of them had a passion for wildlife, I think it would help. Don’t you? Oh, I don’t suppose you remember any of them! Lucky!
Keep it natural.
Love,
The Green Grandad
PS Did they ever build HS2?
PPS Did they ever reintroduce Wolves?
PPS Did they ever have to cull the kites?
Falling off a Blog
This is a message to anyone who used to follow my blog on my website – I am sorry that I gave up doing it, but at least I hope the rest of this book brings back pleasant memories, so you won’t mind reading it again. If you didn’t enjoy these ‘posts’ the first time, I can only plead that you give them a second chance. If you are not aware that I ever had a blog, that is good, because this means that these pieces will be entirely new to you. I hope you enjoy them.
By the way, the reason – or excuse – for giving up blogging was not because of laziness, forgetfulness or lack of interesting incident in my life. It was simply that it got too much for me once I started writing a monthly page for BBC Wildlife, providing quotes for NGOs’ press releases, tweeting about everything from badger culls to Manchester United, and discovering that fans of Reading Football Club sing ‘Bill Oddie, Bill Oddie, rub your beard all over my body!’ When I heard this, I was flattered yet fearful. I warned them it could be a curse. It was. They were relegated. But they will be back. And some day, so will I.
Meanwhile, here is a selection of what I called News of the Wild. Note the often slightly salacious headings to each paragraph. They were intended as a tribute to the Rupert Murdoch school of journalism.
Blog one
News of the Wild
Unnatural urges
I have a small dilemma (ooh, missus!). The title of this blog, ‘News of the Wild’, is, of course, a deft and ironic reference to a recently defunct Sunday newspaper famed for featuring smut and scandal undiluted by accuracy or truth. It rarely covered wildlife or the environment; hence the irony. However, as I hinted in last month’s blog (still available on archive) I am developing a tendency to become more diversified myself. To put it bluntly, less wild and more news, whatever the topic. I confess I feel a bit as if I am rejecting the religious in favour of the secular, but it’s a decision brought about by two things: first, I now have my very own page each month in the unarguably authoritative and sumptuously illustrated magazine BBC Wildlife, which satisfies my ‘natural’ urges, as it were. Second, I feel justified in making this and future blogs as random, as frivolous or as contentious as I like. Hence, my dilemma is should I now call it ‘News of the World’?! Am I allowed to? Or would I be in trouble with Rupert Murdoch? Actually, he might well be grateful to me for taking the name off his hands. But then I’d probably get investigated for phone tapping. I think I’ll stick with ‘News of the Wild’. Apropos of which…
Dig
I have been conducting a little Grey Squirrel experiment. Don’t worry, nothing unpleasant. We all know that Grey Squirrels (and Red ones) gather up acorns at this time of the year and then bury them all over the place – especially in my lawn – so that if the winter gets harsh and food gets short, they can dig up their hidden stash. I am sure all of us have wondered whether or not they are clever enough to remember exactly where the acorns are buried, or do they just scamper around digging more holes until they get lucky? The answer is ‘no’ and ‘yes.’ No, they don’t remember and, yes, it’s just potluck if they find any acorns, which is why they bury so many.
Lovely acorns
Nevertheless, I have to agree it is a pretty enterprising strategy that benefits many hungry squirrels and plants a few new oak trees at the same time. Which brings me to my experiment. The nearest oak tree to my house is about half a mile away, and to get to and from it entails crossing two or three busy roads, whether you are a human or a rodent. I decided to make life easier for my garden squirrels. Thus, I returned from my morning saunter on Hampstead Heath having collected a bulging pocketful of acorns. I went out into the back garden – causing two squirrels to panic and fall off the bird feeders – and I placed the acorns carefully and conspicuously on a dilapidated birdtable that I have not thrown away in case it comes in handy for scientific experiment, like this one. I uttered a lilting cry, such as was once used by cockney street vendors: ‘Get your lovely acorns. Sweet and succulent, straight from the oak tree!’
Tails atwitching
Even as I retreated indoors, there were two curious squirrels peering over the garden fence with tails atwitching. I peeped out through the back window. Squirrels on the fence. Acorns on the table. How long would it be before they descended on their personally delivered breakfast? I waited half an hour. Squirrels on bird feeders. Acorns still on table. I went up to my office and did a couple of hours’ writing. I came down again and looked out of the back window. Squirrels gone. Acorns hadn’t. I went outside and counted them: 35. One more than I put out! I recounted: 34. OK, the same as I put out. Later in the day, there were still 34. As dusk fell, the same. Next morning: three squirrels now, but still 34 acorns. Two days later, and the pile appeared still intact, though my count revealed that two acorns were missing. I found them on the floor.
Repugnant
This morning, after four days, about half of the acorns have gone, been disturbed, or in some cases slightly nibbled. I suspect Jays. So what do I deduce from this experiment? That Grey Squirrels don’t like acorns at all? Indeed, the very aroma of them is so repugnant that they bury them rather than tolerate it. Only as a very last resort, in winters when starvation is nigh, will they dig them up and endure the ghastly taste of emergency rations.
Or is it that Grey Squirrels prefer good-quality bird food? I could help them there!
Marketing ploy?
Talking of bird food, I was in my local garden centre the other day when I happened to accidentally peruse the range of bird foods produced by a company whose brand name shall remain unrevealed, but wasn’t Haith’s or me. What caught my eye was the fact that nearly every one of a large number of bags bore a picture of a different species and that the claim on the bag was that the food therein would attract the species depicted. There was a specific food for Robins, Blackbirds, Song Thrushes, Blue Tits, Great Tits, Goldfinches, ‘finches’, swans, ducks (what happened to geese?) and sparrows (meant to be House Sparrows but the picture was of a Dunnock). Now, I am not insinuating that this is some kind of marketing ploy, and certainly not that the product is below par, but let me assure you that you don’t have to purchase a dozen or more different foods to attract a good selection of birds. There are certain groups: ground feeders, seed-eaters, soft-food eaters, but beyond that, put it this way: Blackbirds, Song Thrushes and Robins have much the same tastes. As do Greenfinches and Chaffinches, and so on.