This Birding Life

by Stephen Moss

  And they’re not the only ones. Mild, spring weather has encouraged all the local birds to start forming pairs and defending territories for the breeding season to come. March gives the resident species a chance to get a head start on their migrant counterparts, and by the end of the month the first chicks should have begun to fledge. Early spring is a great time to practise your skills at identifying birdsong, especially while the foliage isn’t yet fully grown, so you can still see the singing birds. If you’re really keen, then you can get hold of tapes or CDs to help you practise.

  But if you want to learn the call of the Ring-necked Parakeet, you won’t find it on any of the usual recordings. Fortunately, that’s not really a problem – like everything else about this new arrival, its high-pitched screeching is, quite simply, unforgettable.

  A bird’s-eye view

  JUNE 1995

  Last month, after ten days birdwatching in Hungary, I passed over south-west London on the approach to Heathrow. Looking down, I caught sight of my local patch, hugging the bank of the River Thames alongside the Boat Race course between Hammersmith and Chiswick. For a moment I had, quite literally, a bird’s-eye view of the place. A little strip of fresh water, surrounded by the lush greenery of spring. If I’d been a passing bird, instead of an airline passenger, I think I would have been tempted to drop in and see what was on offer.

  But if it hadn’t been for a small group of dedicated people and a far-sighted local council, all I would have seen would have been a housing estate or playing fields. A few years ago this disused reservoir was derelict, vandalised and under threat from development. Fortunately the local people got together with Richmond Council and created a nature reserve, preserving the site for newcomers like me to enjoy.

  On most visits, I come across one of the people who campaigned for the reserve. For almost 30 years, Violet Hoare has taken a daily walk around the banks of Lonsdale Road Reservoir. She feeds the ducks, picks up litter and, despite failing eyesight, still manages to see most of the local birdlife. Violet regards the birds as ‘hers’ and protects them with a fierce determination.

  Fortunately for Violet and the rest of the regular visitors, it’s been a good breeding season. Despite the usual disturbance from the kids who use the place as an adventure playground, a pair of Mute Swans has once again managed to raise young – five well-grown cygnets. Two Common Terns have returned from Africa, and with luck will breed on one of the artificial islands in the middle of the lake. Meanwhile Coots, Moorhens and Mallards are producing chicks like they’re going out of fashion.

  Britain is full of wonderful places like this: surrounded by suburban sprawl or what passes for ‘countryside’ in these days of intensive agriculture. Sadly, many of them are now under threat of development. Not far away in south London, the former sewage farm at Beddington faces destruction, because of Thames Water’s plans to turn it into a waste landfill site.

  It’s not only the human residents who are concerned about this. For years Beddington has been a welcome haven for migrating and wintering birds, especially waders, ducks and the declining Tree Sparrow. Even as you read this, localised breeding species such as Yellow Wagtail and Lapwing are raising their young there.

  Of course in a decade or two, when the site is full of rubbish and has been landscaped, there will still be birds at Beddington. But they’ll be those species that thrive in the company of humans, such as gulls and crows. The variety of species, which is what makes Beddington so special, will have gone, never to return. Another local patch will have been lost forever.

  A more sympathetic development is going on elsewhere in the capital, at Barn Elms Reservoirs, near Hammersmith. There, on the site of four disused reservoirs, the Wildfowl and Wetlands Trust is creating its first urban wildlife centre. By the turn of the new century west London will hopefully have a site to rival anywhere in southern England, with purpose-built wetland habitats to attract a variety of breeding, migrating and wintering birds. It doesn’t take much to see the educational possibilities of somewhere like that in the very heart of the city – a place for birds and people alike.

  Fortunately, Beddington was saved from the developers and remains one of the foremost birding sites in London.

  One year on

  JULY 1995

  It’s almost a year since I first went to Lonsdale Road Reservoir and began writing about its birds. I can still remember the excitement of that very first visit – when I turned off a busy road to discover a little patch of green in the heart of the London suburbs. Since then I’ve made almost a hundred visits: at different times of the day, during different seasons, and in all kinds of weather. I’ve recorded 66 species of birds, a modest total compared with more extensive or better-placed sites, but still impressive for a limited habitat on the edge of London.

  Of these 66 species, more than 35 have bred – underlining the importance of sites like this for conservation. A further dozen or so species are predominately winter visitors, including good numbers of duck, and a large flock of roosting Cormorants. Some are summer migrants, like the Swifts and House Martins which nest nearby. The rest are casual visitors, either dropping in to feed for a few hours or passing overhead.

  The best season to visit Lonsdale Road is undoubtedly late winter or early spring – not least because with the leaves off the trees, you can get a good view of the water. On a typical early morning visit, before the birds have been disturbed too much, you should see a good variety of species.

  As you’d expect, the bias is heavily in favour of waterbirds, with two species of grebe and several species of duck, as well as the ever-present Mute Swans, Moorhens and Coots. There is also a good selection of songbirds in the trees and bushes around the lake. Wintering Chiffchaffs, Blackcaps, Goldcrests and Long-tailed Tits are all regular, and often amazingly tame. And there’s always a chance of seeing some of the more interesting residents, including Kestrels and Sparrowhawks, Great Spotted Woodpeckers, and a recent arrival – the Ring-necked Parakeet.

  For most birdwatchers who visit the patch, the year’s highlight was the roosting Tawny Owl, discovered in November, and more or less constantly present until the end of March. Other unusual visitors included a Common Sandpiper in August, a party of Pintails in January, and the occasional Kingfisher – a welcome sight on several autumn mornings.

  From a mammal-lover’s point of view, the patch is less rewarding: Grey Squirrels and Brown Rats being the two most prominent residents. However, the colony of Red-eared Terrapins, basking on the branches of a fallen tree trunk, is a sight worth seeing.

  In the past year, I’ve met all sorts of people during my visits: birdwatchers, dog-walkers, joggers, courting couples – and just curious passers-by. Some visit every single day, others call in just once in a while. But for all of them, this little place is somewhere special.

  Environmentalists are always banging on about the need to conserve places like this for future generations to enjoy. Well, they happen to be right. Knowing that there is somewhere I can escape for an hour or so before work or at the weekend is really important to me. And I’m sure I’m not alone.

  Violet

  NOVEMBER 1995

  It’s finally happened. The leaves have turned golden-brown, the temperature has dropped and, at last, autumn has arrived. And with the change in the season, the birds make changes, too. Tiny Goldcrests come together in flocks to feed, their peeping call barely audible to the human ear; wintering gulls noisily scavenge for food; and, as their young reach full size, the resident Great Crested Grebes begin to lose their breeding finery and take on a more muted plumage in preparation for the coming winter.

  But as I take my journey around the footpath that encircles the patch, there is something missing. The birds know it, especially the ducks, which are no longer fed each morning. The people – at least those like me who are regular visitors – know it, too. The redoubtable Miss Violet Hoare, the woman who more than any other saved Lonsdale Road Reservoir from development, wi
ll no longer take her daily pilgrimage around its banks.

  I heard the news back in late September. Violet had died peacefully in her sleep, having never missed a day’s visit to the place that became her second home. Every morning for almost 30 years, she took her walk and greeted familiar faces and strangers alike with the same cheery smile.

  Violet knew the patch long before it gained official status as a local nature reserve. She knew its comings and goings – the regular seasonal changes of personnel as birds departed south or arrived from the north. In her later years she became deaf, and felt keenly her inability to hear birdsong, though perhaps she didn’t miss the accompanying sounds from jumbo jets passing overhead on their way to land at Heathrow.

  We would meet at the little bay along the eastern bank, where the ducks, geese, coots and swans competed for Violet’s attention as she distributed the day’s food. She was always keen to know of any unusual sightings, and often pointed out particular birds to me, such as the three Pintails that dropped in during a cold spell last winter.

  At her funeral service, held on a bright, warm day at the end of September, we learnt that Violet had, like many people, a past life that few of us knew about. She had been a senior manager for a French firm in London, and for her services to the Free French during the war had been awarded a medal of honour. No doubt the ducks, swans and others that she kept fed and safe would award her a medal, too, if they could. After the service I wandered across the road to the patch and sat quietly for a few minutes. Everything was as it should be: the grebes fed their ever-hungry young, Robins and Wrens sang in the undergrowth, and a more recent arrival, a Ring-necked Parakeet, screeched in the branches overhead.

  I reflected that without Violet, and the other dedicated people who worked so hard to save the reservoir, this place would probably now be under tons of concrete. It seems a fitting memorial to an extraordinary woman.

  Two years on

  AUGUST 1996

  Can it really be only two years since I first visited my local patch? Some mornings, as I walk or cycle along the narrow path around the reservoir and watch the bird activity, it seems as if I’ve been coming here forever. This is partly down to the comforting familiarity of everyday landmarks. There’s the little reedbed at the north end, summer home for a couple of pairs of Reed Warblers. The patch of sallows at the southern end, where I always hope to come across some scarce migrant, but never do. And the row of old Black Poplar trees, so late to come into leaf this spring.

  Every birdwatcher enjoys coming across the unexpected. But one of the best things about making regular visits to your local patch is the usual birds: the resident pair of Mute Swans, the arrival of the first Swifts in spring or the flocks of wintering Shovelers in autumn. Even the customary flock of Carrion Crows, squabbling noisily in the trees by the gate, are a welcome sight.

  I suppose it’s not really surprising that I find the sights and sounds of this place familiar. I have, after all, made almost 200 visits there since July 1994. Why? What’s the point in going to one place so many times, especially when it is just one of thousands of ordinary sites up and down the country? Well, apart from the fact I enjoy being out in the fresh air (always the standard birder’s excuse), it’s because even a small, land-locked location like this can turn up a surprising number of different kinds of birds.

  So far, I’ve recorded 80 species at Lonsdale Road – either resting on the water, feeding in the surrounding bushes and trees or simply flying overhead. In the past year, I’ve added just over a baker’s dozen to my list – 14 species I didn’t see during my first year on the patch.

  Some of these are commonplace birds elsewhere – but locally rare in this particular part of the London suburbs. They include sightings of Jackdaws and Wigeon – hardly likely to cause a mass twitch. Nevertheless, to me they were as exciting as any storm-driven rarity. For these were my birds.

  There were also a few more memorable sightings, such as the female Wheatear I almost ran over on the road outside, one sunny April morning. The Water Rail I saw on Boxing Day, which scuttled into the reeds when it caught sight of me, never to be seen again. And no fewer than three species of woodpecker – the entire British contingent – all of which attempted to breed in the poplar trees alongside the River Thames.

  The year’s ‘purple patch’ came in late April and early May, when despite the chilly weather I added no fewer than ten species to my Lonsdale Road list, including an acrobatic Hobby. During the course of the spring I also recorded seven different species of warbler, each filling the morning air with song, as if to celebrate a safe return from their African winter-quarters.

  In the end, the real joy in patch-watching is the knowledge that I am helping to create a permanent record of the birdlife of one tiny corner of the British Isles. It may not be a famous place for birds, like Minsmere or Cley, nor a remote or majestic one, like Fair Isle or the Cairngorms. But it is still a place where birds come and go, act out the dramas of their daily lives, and continually enthral at least one person passionate about birdwatching.

  New Year again

  JANUARY 1997

  The other day, as I was cycling along the riverfront at Barnes, I caught sight of a blue plaque on the front of a terraced house – ‘Gustav Holst, Composer, lived here: 1908-1913’. I have no idea how many birds Holst would have seen from his front window, during a quick break from composing. Nowadays there are usually a few gulls, a Mallard or two and perhaps a Cormorant drying its wings at the water’s edge.

  But this winter has been different. As ponds, lakes and reservoirs froze right across the south-east, the tidal Thames has been a welcome refuge for hungry birds. Although harsh winter weather is usually bad news for birds, it’s often good news for birdwatchers, and the recent cold spell was no exception.

  My car broke down on Christmas Eve, and for the whole of the holiday period I was reliant on bus and bicycle, and confined to local birding. So I took advantage of both to visit the riverfront regularly.

  One bright, cold day, on a visit with six-year-old James and his classmate Sam, we counted a thousand gulls feeding on the exposed mud at low tide. Most were winter-plumage Black-headed, sporting a small black dot behind the eye instead of the dark hood of their breeding dress. There were also good numbers of plump Common Gulls (once described to me as ‘looking like they’d be better to eat than the Black-headed’) and a handful of predatory Lesser Black-backed and Herring Gulls. The other contender for most numerous bird was the ubiquitous Canada Goose. As a flock of several hundred flew honking over my head at dusk one evening, I could almost imagine myself on a windswept, lonely estuary. Well, almost.

  Among the usual flock of Mallards were a score of Teal: Britain’s smallest duck, and with its rich chestnut and green head markings, one of our most attractive. Along the riverbank itself there were some unexpected visitors: a splendid male Goosander, and a small flock of Redshank and Dunlin, refugees from the coast.

  On New Year’s Day, Neil McKillop and I continued our long tradition of rising before dawn to race round the London suburbs – in search of birds, of course. We didn’t quite break our all-time record of 71 species, but still managed a very respectable 69, including Smew, Black-necked Grebe, and two introduced aliens, Mandarin Duck and Ring-necked Parakeet.

  The best bird of the day came at an unlikely spot: the railway station at Wraysbury. We’d just got back to the car and were enjoying a warming drink, when I noticed a fellow birder watching intently from a tiny bridge over the frozen stream. I wandered over, and he pointed just below the bridge. About ten yards away, a Bittern stood motionless, with its bill pointing in the air. This was probably a bird from the Continent, forced to flee westwards in search of milder weather. Sadly for the Bittern, it had so far failed in its quest.

  We watched for a minute or two, when suddenly the bird took a couple of steps forward and disappeared swiftly into a tiny clump of reeds. At that moment, another birder appeared, and we had the unpleasant d
uty of breaking the news of what he’d just missed.

  You always feel better after seeing a bird like a Bittern, and for the rest of the day we walked around like the Ready Brek kids, cocooned in an aura of warmth and well-being.

  The wonder of gulls

  OCTOBER I997

  Almost five years ago, I wrote my very first ‘Birdwatch’ column on the subject of gulls. Not, perhaps, the most glamorous or exciting group of birds – until, that is, you take a closer look. In fact, gulls are among the most fascinating, intelligent and adaptable of all wild birds.

  They are often labelled with the convenient but inaccurate term, ‘seagulls’. A century or so ago, when gulls were mainly marine birds, that would have been perfectly acceptable. But since then, things have changed dramatically. Nowadays gulls spend much of their lives inland, finding rich pickings among the discarded refuse from our own wasteful lifestyles. During the spring and summer most head north to their breeding colonies. But by early autumn, they begin to return and are a familiar sight in most towns and cities throughout the winter months.

  One Sunday morning last month I took my son James and his friend Sam to have a look at the gulls on my local patch. I was showing them how to tell a Black-headed apart from a Common Gull, when another bird flew down to land on the mud. Even at a glance, something wasn’t quite right – it was noticeably darker than either of the other two species and had a black mask and a heavy, drooping black bill. I raised my binoculars and to my surprise realised it was a first-winter plumage Mediterranean Gull.