by Stephen Moss
But a couple of hours later, things really took a turn for the worse. I awoke from a nap to discover that, because of rough weather, we had diverted eastwards to the Isle of Skye. As Bill so succinctly put it: ‘Twenty-four hours sailing and we’re still on the flippin’ mainland!’
More to the point, we were still at least a day’s sailing from our destination. After a good night’s sleep, we held a summit meeting to discuss the contingency plan, which involved cutting short our trip and pottering around the Inner Hebrides instead. At this point, our skipper Alan intervened. In a calm, measured Irish brogue he pointed out that the weather forecast was improving, the seas were calming down, and we had a real chance to fulfil our quest. Like Cortez’s men, we stared at each other with a wild surmise, and made the decision: we would give it a go.
The journey across to North Uist was uneventful, the Sound of Harris calm, and the weather perfect. After dinner, we retired to our cabins, leaving the crew to sail through the night in shifts. I awoke at 5 a.m., struggled out on deck and found myself enveloped in dense mist. According to the ship’s instruments we were only a mile or two from our destination, but all I could see was the bow of the boat. I was reminded of the pioneering explorer Martin Martin, who in 1697 sailed right past St Kilda before realising his mistake, and turning round just in time.
Then, as I stared into the fog, it appeared. A vast, grey cliff face, and thousands of swirling seabirds, looming out of the mist above me. After 60 hours sailing, we had finally arrived at the fabled islands of St Kilda. The journey was over, and the real adventure was about to begin.
St Kilda: fantasy island
SEPTEMBER 2002
It had always been my ambition to visit St Kilda – surely the most inaccessible and wildest place in Britain. So when, after two and a half days sailing, we finally arrived, I was prepared for disappointment – surely the reality could not live up to my imagination. But I was wrong. St Kilda really is the most incredible place I have ever been.
As our yacht dropped anchor in Village Bay, the fog cleared, and Kilda revealed itself at last – vast cliffs and rocky stacks looming over our tiny boat. And there, high on the hillside overlooking the bay, I saw the legacy of its former inhabitants.
For hundreds, possibly thousands of years until their final evacuation in 1930, the islanders lived almost entirely on seabirds: Gannets, Fulmars and Puffins. Having captured them by scaling the cliffs and clambering up steep stacks, they dried them in stone cairns known as ‘cleits’. Today, these massive structures are one of the most striking features of the St Kilda landscape – a Scottish version of the famous Easter Island statues.
Our first day on the island turned unexpectedly fine and sunny. We lost no time in filming the scenery and its wildlife: even getting attacked by a pair of Arctic Skuas, which also harassed one of the island’s three specialities, the Soay sheep. Lower down, the cleits and dry stone walls are host to St Kilda’s two other unique creatures: the island races of the wren and field mouse. Both are larger than their mainland cousins, and the wren is noticeably darker and greyer. The wrens live up to their scientific name of ‘troglodytes’, nesting in cracks and crevices. The field mice prefer the houses, emerging at dusk each evening to search the path for morsels of food.
Later on, as I walked along ‘Main Street’ at dusk, I felt as though I was walking back in time. It may be over 70 years since the people of St Kilda finally abandoned the island, but at times like this it can almost feel as if they have left their ghosts behind.
I tried to imagine what it must have been like to have lived, as generations of islanders did, on the very edge of the world. What did they think when cruise ships full of sightseeing Victorians came sailing into their little harbour? Did they resent being the objects of tourist curiosity, much as a remote tribe in the Amazon rainforest might do today? And how did they feel as they boarded the evacuation boat in August 1930, and left their home behind for the very last time?
Next morning, we set sail for home. As we left, I stared at the retreating landmass until it finally vanished into the mist. I felt mixed emotions: a sense of awe, privilege and wonder, as well as sadness that I may never see St Kilda again. But even if I never go back, I will always have the memories of visiting one of the most incredible places, not just in Britain, but in the world.
New Year in Norfolk
JANUARY 2003
The New Year saw us back in one of our favourite haunts, north Norfolk, with three whole days to enjoy its many delights. Apart from fine pub food and the county’s magnificent churches, these included exactly 100 species of bird – not bad for the middle of winter.
On the very first afternoon, I confess that I broke my ‘no twitching’ rule. The bird in question was a Pallid Harrier, and although I have watched these in their more usual surroundings of Israel’s Negev Desert, I decided that any bird this far away from home deserved the courtesy of a visit. Unfortunately, after we had tramped along a muddy track and joined several dozen nervous twitchers, the bird itself failed to appear. As the mist closed in and dusk fell, we retreated to the comforts of a local hostelry for a meal the size of a small horse, though considerably more tasty.
Next morning dawned cold and wet, but we headed off in high spirits. First stop was the RSPB reserve at Strumpshaw Fen just east of Norwich, where after a slow start we caught a glimpse of Britain’s loudest songbird, Cetti’s Warbler. Great views of Marsh Harriers were followed by the discovery of a flock of Siskins, among which two Bullfinches were an unexpected and welcome sight.
In some years, hundreds of Waxwings visit our shores in search of winter food, but this year there must be plenty of berries in Scandinavia, because only a single bird has been reported. Rather foolishly, we attempted to find it, following precise instructions from Birdline East Anglia, which directed us to the nearest bush. Or at least they would have, had I not misheard them. So after a consolatory cup of coffee we headed off to the Broads, in search of easier birds to see.
And we found them. A Barn Owl, performing beautifully just outside the village of Hickling; at least a dozen Marsh Harriers, and two or three Hen Harriers, coming into roost at nearby Stubb Mill; and the pièce de résistance, three cranes flying overhead in the gathering gloom.
On Saturday, we followed the well-trodden path of the north coast, the highlight being a flock of 50 Shore Larks in a blizzard on Holkham Beach. Another try for the Pallid Harrier produced distant and deeply unsatisfying views, and the spectacle of mass doubt among the gathering hordes of twitchers – could they count it or not? Dinner with friends at the George in Cley fortified us for our final morning at Titchwell, though a diversion to see several thousand Pink-footed Geese feeding in a beet field meant that our first priority on arrival was lunch. Our hunger satisfied, we enjoyed close-up views of a variety of waders, including Snipe, Spotted Redshank and the resident Black-winged Stilt (rumoured to be an escape from a nearby bird collection), before being drawn back to the pleasures of the reserve’s café.
So, a stone or two heavier, we headed home, suitably relaxed and prepared to return to work on Monday morning. By the time I reached Bristol, Norfolk – and its pubs, churches and wonderful birds – seemed a million miles away. It took a solitary Blackcap, gorging itself on mimosa berries outside the BBC canteen, to remind me that you can enjoy watching birds almost anywhere.
Heaven in Devon
FEBRUARY 2004
If you want to see lots of different birds in winter, you could do a lot worse than head down to Devon. A mild climate, a range of habitats and plenty of food attract large numbers of wintering birds, most of which are pretty easy to see.
A great place to start is Bowling Green Marsh, by the River Exe at Topsham. I have a soft spot for this little riverside town, as my grandmother was born and brought up there, so it was good to sit in the plush RSPB hide and watch the action. As it was still low tide, this mainly consisted of ducks such as Wigeon, Teal and Pintails – some already displaying to each other in the
first week of February. Two unexpected bonuses were a Spoonbill, and the even rarer Glossy Ibis, both of which have been here for some time now, to the delight of local birders.
For another local speciality, Cirl Bunting, we headed down to a National Trust farm south of Brixham. Conservation work and a return to traditional farming methods have brought this species back from the brink of extinction as a British breeding bird, and we saw at least half a dozen, including some splendid males. It seemed fitting to be watching Cirl Buntings so close to the home of the man who first found them in Britain, the nineteenth-century ornithologist George Montagu.
You can’t go to Devon without visiting the seaside – even in February! A walk along the beach at Broadsands produced several Mediterranean Gulls, as well as a motley collection of birds on the sea, including Razorbills and a Black-necked Grebe.
Away from the coast, we dropped in on some friends, who have moved down from London to a splendid Edwardian house surrounded by woods and paddocks, on the edge of Dartmoor. Their garden produced a wonderful free show: Blue, Great and Coal Tits; a Nuthatch and Treecreeper; and dozens of Chaffinches and House Sparrows – all coming to the well-stocked feeders. Seven-year-old twins Donald and Hattie eagerly pointed out the different species, and I was able to add Marsh Tit to their burgeoning ‘garden list’.
For an unexpected spectacle, we visited the unlikely location of a pedestrianised shopping precinct in the town of Newton Abbot. Just as the shops closed, and people headed home, we could hear the sound of birds calling to each other in the sky above. At first they seemed reluctant to come down; then one or two landed on the shop roofs, confirming their identity as Pied Wagtails. As dusk fell, dozens of them plunged down into a couple of trees outside Marks & Spencer’s, where they spend the night huddling up against each other for warmth, safe from any predators beneath the neon lights. With at least 400 individuals, it was like a benevolent version of Hitchcock’s The Birds.
The experience was a timely reminder of the true wonder of birding. For no matter how long you have been watching birds and how many rare vagrants you see, the real thrill comes from seeing a common and familiar species in an unexpected setting. So next time you’re wandering through a shopping centre at dusk, listen out for the telltale sounds of a wagtail roost.
Wild in Wiltshire
AUGUST 2004
One of the great advantages of birdwatching – compared with most other forms of watching wildlife – is that there is always something to see, no matter what the time of year. Nevertheless, there are still quiet months, and August can be one of them, especially away from the coast.
Fortunately, August is a great time to check out other flying creatures, such as butterflies, moths, dragonflies and damselflies. And for the birder who wants to extend his or her horizons, watching butterflies or dragonflies is a good place to start. There are about 60 different kinds of butterfly breeding in Britain, and fewer than 40 different dragonflies, so it’s not too daunting – especially if, like me, you have spent most of your life ignoring anything that doesn’t have a full set of feathers.
Recently I’ve spent some time in Wiltshire, one of the best counties in Britain for a wide range of flying insects. Sunny mornings and afternoons are the best time for ‘dragons and damsels’, and fortunately my visits coincided with fine weather. At Cotswold Water Park almost every piece of vegetation was festooned with Common Blue Damselflies, their bodies glowing in the sunshine. Nearby, larger dragonflies such as Emperors, Southern Hawkers and Brown Hawkers cruised up and down, patrolling their territory like First World War biplanes. All three are easy to identify: the Emperor has a bright blue abdomen, while that of the Southern Hawker is emerald green. The Brown Hawker lives up to its name: not only is its body brown, but the wings are a sort of yellowish buff.
But this summer, for me at least, the butterflies have been the real stars of the show. Like most people, I’ve always been able to identify obvious ones such as Red Admiral, Peacock and Small Tortoiseshell; and over the past few years I’ve made an effort to learn other common species such as Meadow Brown and Gatekeeper. But this is the first time I’ve gone in search of more specialised butterflies: in this case, those found on the chalk downlands of southern England.
I started off by learning to identify the most obvious kinds, such as the exquisite Small Copper, and the striking Marbled White. Then, as I gained in confidence, I managed to tick off Common Blue, Ringlet and Brown Argus – the latter with the help of my colleague Mike, who is a real expert at butterfly identification.
Then, as we searched the ramparts of the Iron Age fort at Barbury Castle, I had a moment of pure beginner’s luck. Scanning through my binoculars, I caught sight of a butterfly with strikingly pale under-wings, marked with a scattering of spots. As it opened up, revealing delicate, pale powder-blue upperwings, I heard myself call out ‘Chalkhill Blue!’ Fortunately my instant identification was correct, and for the next hour or so we watched these beautiful insects as they fluttered back and forth to feed.
In that moment, I remembered what it was like to be a novice birder again: to see a special bird for the very first time and, by a combination of luck and judgement, to put a name to it. Now I’m well and truly hooked, and can’t wait until next spring, when I shall go in search of more beautiful British butterflies.
Big winter’s day
FEBRUARY 2005
As regular readers of this column will know, sometime in early January I usually try to devote a whole day to go out and enjoy our local birds. True to form, this year I took a jaunt around west London, enjoying the scenic beauty of its gravel-pits, reservoirs and other man-made bird haunts. As always, I was accompanied by my birding buddy Neil, whose laid-back attitude fortunately matches my own.
Neil and I do not favour the dawn starts on which many keen birders insist. Indeed, the sun was well up when we set off from my home in Hampton, heading towards our first location, the ornamental lake at Virginia Water. On the way we ticked off the usual suspects: various gulls, pigeons and crows, though not, as yet, any House Sparrows.
Despite the mild weather, Virginia Water was more than usually productive. Its local speciality, the stunning Mandarin Duck, proved surprisingly easy; while in the woods we saw Nuthatches, Siskins, Redpolls and Goldcrests. Little flocks of Redwings flew overhead, a constant feature of the day in a winter when these charming Scandinavian thrushes seem to be everywhere. We did, however, miss out on Tree-creepers; just one of several species we never quite managed to catch up with during the day.
By mid-morning, we had reached one of my childhood haunts, Wraysbury Gravel Pits. There, we bagged the winter duck trio of Goldeneye, Goosander and Smew, before moving swiftly on to another location from my youth, Staines Reservoirs. There we really noticed the mildness of the weather: normally a visit to Staines requires at least ten layers of clothing, but we hardly needed a coat. The birds still performed, however, and by the time we left, just before one o’clock, we had seen a total of 57 species.
From this point it often becomes difficult to add new birds to the list, so we decided to go for the big one – a flock of a rare northern invader reported near Bracknell. Our directions were sketchy, so we wasted half an hour driving around the outskirts of the town, before we finally caught sight of a flock of Starling-shaped birds on the edge of a housing estate. Fortunately they were not Starlings, but Waxwings – another bird which has arrived in large numbers this winter, gorging themselves on berries in suburban locations throughout Britain.
We saw an unexpected Buzzard on our way back along the M3; while an hour at the London Wetland Centre in Barnes brought a Water Rail and Snipe – the latter spotted by an eight-year-old girl, much to the chagrin of the assembled birders.
By now, we were still missing one bird we used to take for granted: the humble House Sparrow. Just as we had almost given up, as we stopped at traffic lights in Teddington we heard a familiar chirp: sparrow finally ticked off. As the light faded, a rapid vis
it to Bushy Park gave us Egyptian Goose and the roosting Tawny Owls, together with spectacular fly-pasts of Ring-necked Parakeets on their way to roost.
We added the 70th and final bird of the day, Yellow-legged Gull, in almost total darkness at Hampton filter beds. A short drive home for a welcome cuppa, and a quick discussion of what we missed – Sparrowhawk, Grey Wagtail and that elusive Treecreeper. Still, there’s always next year …
CHAPTER 5
Birding abroad
1994–2005
I had reached the age of 29, and had been watching birds for more than a quarter of a century, before I finally did any serious birding abroad. The occasion was a ‘birding package holiday’ to Israel run by the tour group Sunbird, and it blew my mind. At the end of a week I had not only seen close to 200 species, a third of which were ‘lifers’. I had also reinvigorated my passion for birds.
Another, even more crucial event occurred on that trip. Having spent two hectic days in the Negev Desert with the legendary Israeli birder Hadoram Shirihai, I offered to write an account of the trip for the magazine Birding World. This duly appeared in print, and my career as a writer on all things ornithological had finally begun.
Since that first trip, I have travelled to six of the world’s seven continents in search of birds. Many of these trips were courtesy of the BBC licence-payer and accompanied by a film crew: I have been with Bill Oddie to Florida, Trinidad & Tobago, Israel, Mallorca, Poland, the Netherlands, New Jersey, Iceland, California and Patagonia; with Michaela Strachan to Antarctica; and with the Big Cat Diary team to the Masai Mara. Others were simply for pleasure, including our honeymoon to The Gambia.
What they all have in common – apart, of course, from the birds – are the people we met, who helped us in our travels, many of whom have become lifelong friends. This chapter is dedicated to them.
