by Stephen Moss
South-west London is a long way from the delights of the Med – so what was this bird doing here? In fact, despite its name, the Mediterranean Gull breeds in scattered locations throughout Europe – including France, Belgium and the Netherlands. In the last 20 years it has even managed to establish a small breeding population here in Britain, mainly among colonies of Black-headed Gulls.
So this bird could, I suppose, have come from almost any direction – north, west, east or south! If I could have got close enough to read the small metal ring around its left leg I might have discovered a clue to its origins. Unfortunately, I didn’t have my telescope with me, and when I came back later the bird had disappeared. With luck, however, it will return. Gulls are creatures of habit, and at this time of year they gather together in flocks, usually in the area where they plan to spend the rest of the winter.
By Christmas there could be as many as a thousand gulls down on the riverfront, but at the moment, there are only a hundred or so. Yet the day I found the Mediterranean Gull there were no fewer than seven different species to be seen. The vast majority were Black-headed, along with a few Common and Lesser Black-backed. But as I walked along the towpath towards Hammersmith Bridge, I noticed a couple of Herring Gulls, and an adult Great Black-backed – a massive, marine gull fairly scarce this far inland.
There were also two birds which until recently might have gone unnoticed. These were Yellow-legged Gulls: distinguished from the superficially similar Herring Gull by their smaller size, darker grey back and wings, and bright yellow legs. Despite their obvious differences, until recently the Yellow-legged Gull was considered to be merely a race of the Herring Gull. Today, however, most birders consider the Yellow-legged to be a separate species.
Like the Mediterranean Gull, it also breeds south of here, on the Atlantic coast of France, and disperses widely after nesting. In recent years it has become an increasingly regular autumn and winter visitor to southern England – and earlier this year I even saw a pair breeding at a secret site on the south coast. So over the next few months I shall keep a close eye on the gulls along the riverfront. Who knows, something even rarer might turn up.
CHAPTER 4
Birding Britain
1998–2005
By the late 1990s I had come through my mid-life crisis, and it was time to do some serious birding again. I’d also met (and in 2001 married) Suzanne, who came on a ‘Spring Birding’ course I was leading for the Field Studies Council. The cryptic reference at the end of the first piece in this chapter was her first appearance in a ‘Birdwatch’ column. Many of the accounts that follow reflect the new way in which I had begun to look at birds, with the aid of her fresh imagination, insight and enthusiasm.
Other things changed during this period, too. The annual British Birdwatching Fair became an ever more important event in our lives: a time of recreation and renewal, at which a global community of people come together for a three-day celebration of our shared passion for birds. A truly remarkable event: if you haven’t ever been, then make sure you do!
As well as recreational birding, I continued to travel around Britain while making programmes with Bill Oddie: at first for three series of Birding; then three more of Bill Oddie Goes Wild; and finally for How to Watch Wildlife and Springwatch. Making television programmes about birds isn’t always as exciting as it sounds: you spend more time with the camera crew than you do with the wildlife, and there’s an awful lot of what a colleague of mine calls ‘endless, pointless, hanging around for something to happen – God knows what!’
Nevertheless, during this period, I did manage to visit some of the very best of British wildlife sites: from Speyside to Shetland and Devon to Minsmere. I even managed a trip to the most remote — and surely the most incredible – place in Britain: the fabled islands of St Kilda. Thanks to the decision to broaden our approach to include other wildlife, I also began to take notice of other wild creatures: notably dragonflies and butterflies. Now I know what it’s like to be a beginner again!
Away from it all
JULY 1998
Few people in this overcrowded country have not some favourite heath or common or moor to which they retire when they need solitude, or unpolluted fresh air, the glimpse of wild life, or the sound of water falling over stones.
These words, by the English landscape expert W.G. Hoskins, are as true today as when he wrote them more than a generation ago. Hoskins understood that human beings will always need special places where they are able to contemplate the natural world.
One Sunday afternoon in June, I suddenly felt the need to escape from my busy urban surroundings and to get a dose of solitude, wildlife and unpolluted fresh air. So I got into the car and headed down the A3: through the suburban blight of Tolworth, past the horrors of the M25 and into deepest Surrey.
Despite being so close to London, Surrey is still quite rural, and you can usually get away from the madding crowd. Unfortunately, on this sunny summer’s evening, the madding crowd had brought their dogs, children and loud voices to the car park at Thursley Common. Fortunately, people who come in cars don’t usually go very far, and I only had to walk through the wood and out onto the open common to be alone.
Well, almost alone. Thursley isn’t always the easiest place to see birds, but in late June it is at its peak. Skylarks sang high in the sky above – do they ever stop for a rest? A Meadow Pipit launched into the air and parachuted down to Earth, singing as it fell. And a family of Stonechats clicked and whistled from the tops of the gorse bushes.
Thursley has its special birds, too, if you know where to look. I headed along the boardwalk, taking care not to step off into the boggy surroundings. Suddenly there was a sound of terrified quacking, and a dark object shot overhead. The noise came from a panicking pair of Mallards, and the dark shape was a pursuing Hobby.
Hobbies are far too small to catch a Mallard – but they can still give them a nasty scare. The slender, swift-like falcon whipped across the common, then rose high in the sky, where it attracted the attentions of a passing crow. The two birds made a few casual jabs at one another, before the Hobby disappeared as quickly as it had come.
Further on, a little copse of pine trees echoed to the sound of birds. Chaffinches sang, doing their usual impression of a fast bowler running up to deliver. Coal Tits and Goldcrests seeped their high-pitched calls, and in the distance, a Green Woodpecker lolloped off, laughing as it went.
By now it was almost seven o’clock, and the sun was low in the sky, bathing the gorse and heather in a golden light. I had one final quest: to see the elusive Dartford Warbler. Then I heard a short, unassuming song, like someone scratching the strings of an out-of-tune cello. I raised my binoculars just in time to see a tiny, burgundy-coloured bird dive into the foliage.
The song began again, and then stopped. The bird leapt out of the bush and bounded across to another, where for just a few seconds, it sat in full view. Unmistakably a Dartford Warbler, once one of Britain’s rarest breeding birds, but thanks to the recent run of mild winters, now quite common in its specialised heathland habitat. This cheeky little bird, with its dark magenta plumage and cocked tail, is always a treat to see.
It was time to go. For one brief moment I had shared the life of a bird. In some strange, indefinable way, I had also shared the experience with every other birdwatcher that has ever seen a Dartford Warbler. And with one other special person, whose being there made the evening one I shall never forget.
The Birdfair
AUGUST 1998
For many birdwatchers, including myself, the coming weekend sees the highlight of the birding year: the British Birdwatching Fair at Rutland Water. For three days, thousands of birdwatchers from all over Britain will converge on this tiny county in the heart of England. They’ll be joined by visitors from as far apart as Israel and Costa Rica, Uganda and Trinidad & Tobago, united by one simple thing: their shared love of birds and birdwatching.
So what will they find there? Well, there
are huge marquees with stalls selling everything from binoculars to exotic foreign holidays; lectures and quizzes; artists and photographers; and all sorts of local and national conservation groups. And when you’ve had enough, there’s even a beer tent!
In the unlikely event of becoming bored, you can always go off and watch the birds. For the Birdfair, as it is usually known, doesn’t take place in some vast, cavernous hall by a motorway junction, but on a really excellent bird reserve. By late August the autumn migration is well under way, and the place will be packed with birds: ducks and geese, grebes and Cormorants, and the tamest Tree Sparrows I’ve ever seen. At this time of year, almost anything can turn up: perhaps even an Osprey stopping off on its long journey south from Scotland to Africa.
The Birdfair has become so much a part of today’s birding scene that it seems to have been going for ever. Yet the whole thing began only a decade ago, when two local conservationists, Tim Appleton and Martin Davies, came up with a bright idea. It started small, but just kept on growing, and this year marks the tenth annual fair.
Their second bright idea was to donate the profits from the Birdfair to conservation projects around the world. Over the years, more than £300,000 has been raised for projects in places like Poland, Spain, Morocco and Ecuador. This year’s fair supports a project with a difference: the BirdLife International Threatened Birds Programme, which aims to create survival action plans for the world’s II II endangered bird species, as well as raising awareness of the plight of the 10 per cent of the world’s birds currently threatened with extinction.
But although it’s a good thing that the Birdfair supports such worthwhile causes, that’s not what makes it such fun. For me, the most important element of all is the human one. When I went to my first Birdfair, back in 1992, I only knew a handful of people there. In those days, birdwatchers tended to keep themselves to themselves, and there were few opportunities to socialise and get to know each other.
To a large extent, the Birdfair has helped to change all that. It has created a focal point: a place where any birdwatcher, however inexperienced, can chat to other enthusiasts, get advice, and above all ‘have a go’. Every year now, I meet people who’ve just taken up watching birds, yet who can come along to the fair and rub shoulders with experts such as Ian Wallace, Bruce Pearson and Bill Oddie, getting the benefit of their vast knowledge and experience.
It’s great for children, too. This year I’m taking along my son James, who has heard about the fair’s delights from his big brother David, and now wants to see for himself. Where else could you let an eight-year-old child wander around on his own, enjoying his freedom without the risk of danger? And where else can a child spend three whole days and still not say ‘Daddy, I’m bored!’
New Year in Sussex
JANUARY 1999
New Year’s Day is traditionally a time for renewal: for seeing the familiar, day-to-day world through new eyes. For birdwatchers, things are no different. We drag ourselves out of bed on the morning of I January, shake off the hangover from the night before, and head out to start our ‘year list’. The aim: to see as many different species as possible between the hours of dawn and dusk.
That, at least, is the theory. Unfortunately the dawn start didn’t quite go as planned, and it was just before nine when Suzanne and I began the drive down to Pagham Harbour in Sussex. Pagham is one of my favourite birding sites. It has great scenery, a wide variety of habitats and a good range of birds, with the potential for surprises.
Despite the recent run of wet and windy weather, conditions were sunny and warm, with blue skies and a brisk southerly breeze. The tide at Pagham village was higher than I’d ever seen it, lapping against the base of the sea wall, and forcing the birds to seek refuge in nearby fields.
Thousands of Golden Plovers and Lapwings were wheeling overhead, filling the sky as they twisted and turned, constantly calling to each other in a breathtaking spectacle. Hundreds of ducks were on the open water: mainly Wigeon, Teal and Pintails. There was also a lone, smaller bird, whose black-and-white plumage reminded me of an auk. It was a Slavonian Grebe, one of Pagham’s winter specialities. Then an elegant white bird flew past: a Little Egret, once very rare, but now a regular sight on many south-coast estuaries.
After a brisk walk, we drove round to the other side of the harbour, where the car park at Church Norton was filling up with birders, dog-walkers and worshippers at the little church that gives the village its name. As the tide rose to new heights, thousands of waders flocked together, flashing light and dark as their plumage caught the winter sun. But the real prize was away from the harbour, by the little gate at the entrance to the churchyard. Here, a small crowd of birders had gathered, watching an ivy-covered tree with more intensity than it appeared to deserve.
Then a tiny bird popped out, revealing a stunning black-and-white striped head, fiery orange crown and olive-green plumage, before plunging back into the dense foliage. It was a Firecrest, a rare relative of the Goldcrest, and just as small – 9cm long and weighing barely the same as a 20p coin. After a few frustratingly brief glimpses, the bird, which is spending the winter in this sheltered, balmy place, finally revealed itself in all its miniature glory, much to everyone’s relief and delight.
On leaving Pagham, the day’s total stood at a respectable 58 species. To boost it further, we stopped off on the way home, at the RSPB’s Pulborough Brooks reserve. As well as the attractions of a well-stocked shop and superb tearoom, Pulborough is a magnet for wintering birds, with large numbers of dabbling ducks on the flood plain and flocks of Redwings in the fields above.
The hide was so full we could barely get a seat. We soon found out why. A Barn Owl was quartering the marshes, hovering on its broad, pale wings in search of voles. After a few near-misses, it finally caught one, only for an opportunistic Kestrel to make a smash-and-grab raid and seize the prey. Bewildered, the owl flew up to perch on a fence-post, treating us all to a splendid view as we sympathised with its misfortune.
As we walked back up the muddy path to a well-earned cup of tea, the day’s final total stood at 65 species. But mere numbers tell nothing. Three very different images will stay in my memory: the Barn Owl floating on silent wings, flocks of Golden Plovers wheeling overhead in the pale blue sky, and that tiny jewel of a bird, the Firecrest. Happy New Year!
The unforgettable Farnes
AUGUST 1999
As a spotty teenager, I remember listening to the Newcastle-based band Lindisfarne. It wasn’t for another 20 years or so that I finally visited the stretch of Northumberland coast from which the band took their name. Since then, I’ve gone back as often as I can: lured by the cries of nesting seabirds on the Farne Islands nearby. Mind you, the racket made by several thousand Kittiwakes, auks and terns can easily outdo most rock bands. It starts as a distant hum, then, as the boat approaches the rocky cliffs, builds to a crescendo until the noise is almost deafening.
Then there’s the indescribable smell. In other parts of the world, seabird droppings, or guano, are harvested for fuel, bringing riches to the residents. Here, though, the only people making money are the local boatmen, whose canny monopoly allows them to charge a tidy sum for putting you off on Staple Island, picking you up a couple of hours later, then depositing you on Inner Farne.
Still, it’s worth every penny. There are very few places where I’ve been so overwhelmed by the sheer presence of living creatures. Grey Seals loll on the rocks, supremely indifferent to the passing boat. Common, Arctic and Sandwich Terns swoop overhead, plunging down into the water to pick up their prey. And Guillemots and Razorbills – truly the penguins of the north – perch like statues on the cliff face above the boat.
Then there’s the one we’ve all come to see: the Puffin. This comical black-and-white auk, with its multicoloured bill, must surely rival the Robin as Britain’s favourite bird. In late July there are literally thousands of them, hanging about outside their burrows as if challenging the photographer to come up wit
h an image which isn’t yet another tired cliché. Hundreds of rolls of film must be exposed here every year, all to produce more or less the same image – yet this knowledge still didn’t stop me taking a few dozen photos myself.
But despite the teeming birdlife and golden photo opportunities, all is not well on the Farne Islands. Although we searched diligently through the flocks on the beach, we couldn’t find any Arctic Tern chicks. One of the National Trust wardens explained why. Apparently it has been a disastrous breeding season, with the parents unable to find enough food for their hungry young. As a result, 200 pairs of Arctic Terns have only managed to raise a single chick between them.
Nobody knows why it’s been such a bad year for the terns. It may be that pollution on the surface of the sea has forced their prey – sand eels – to venture deeper than usual, out of the birds’ reach. Maybe overfishing is to blame. Or perhaps rising sea temperatures, due to global warming, have reduced the numbers of fish in the area altogether. Whatever the reason, in a month’s time 400 Arctic Terns will be making the long flight south to Antarctica – without their offspring.
Fortunately, other birds are having a more successful breeding season. Baby Shags, looking like fluffy children’s toys, savoured the regurgitated food served up by their parents. Kittiwake chicks perched on ledges, looking as if they were about to fall off at any moment. And the Puffins continued to loaf about, posing for photographs until the boat finally came to take us away.
Back on shore, it almost seemed like a dream. But that evening, on the beach by Bamburgh Castle, we looked over the narrow stretch of sea to the Farne Islands. In the air, above the distant rocks, there was a mass of wheeling seabirds. All that was missing was the sound – and, of course, that unforgettable smell…
