This Birding Life

by Stephen Moss

  Summer in the Vendée

  JULY 1994

  You have to get up pretty early in the morning to beat a Black Kite to its breakfast. Unlike most birds of prey, which wait until later in the day before taking to the air on rising thermals, kites launch themselves on their long, narrow wings well before sunrise. At this time of day, they have the place to themselves, which may explain why the Black Kite is the world’s commonest and, arguably, most successful raptor.

  But not in Britain – not yet, anyway. These daybreak hunters were a few hundred miles to the south, in the Vendée region of western France. To the English eye, the place seems strangely familiar – indeed you could almost be in Sussex, if it weren’t for the weather. For during the summer months, the Vendée enjoys blue skies and sunshine, broken only by the occasional thunderstorm. As a result, the mean July temperature is a couple of degrees higher than southern Britain.

  The region’s birdlife reflects this warmer climate. As well as the ever-present kites, there is at least one Little Egret in every pool – a bright, white apparition stalking its underwater prey. And every patch of trees seems to hold a singing Serin – a smaller relative of the domestic canary, whose song sounds like a bunch of jangling keys.

  Among the grazing cattle on the marshes south of the medieval walled city of Brouage, I discovered a wealth of birds: Purple Herons, Marsh Harriers and dazzling Blue-headed Wagtails on every fence-post. My ears were assaulted by the repetitive, jangling song of the Great Reed Warbler, which looks and sounds like a common-or-garden Reed Warbler on steroids. Almost the size of a thrush, it clings onto the bending reed-stems for dear life, while belting out its extraordinary song from a bright orange gape.

  Nearby, I came across a magnificent White Stork, knee-deep in the marsh, searching for its amphibian quarry. A few pairs of these statuesque birds breed here, on specially provided nesting platforms. Further along, a bird by the roadside proved to be a Cattle Egret. This species is currently spreading north at a rapid pace, and if events elsewhere in the world are anything to go by, might colonise Britain within a decade or two.

  And it may not be alone. If the latest predictions on global warming come true, and Britain experiences temperature rises of between one and two degrees Celsius by the middle of the twenty-first century, then many species currently found along the Atlantic coasts of France may find the more sheltered parts of southern England suitable for breeding.

  And what of the Black Kite? Well, large birds of prey are often reluctant to cross water, so the English Channel may present another barrier to this quirky but fascinating raptor. Or it may not. Earlier this spring, southern Britain experienced a minor invasion of kites, with as many as 30 wandering birds involved. Influxes like this are the result of ‘overshooting’, in which migrating birds returning from their African winter-quarters are encouraged to overfly their breeding grounds by the presence of an anticyclone to the south of Britain.

  In one sense, overshooting birds are lost, but I prefer to think of them as pioneers, exploring the potential of new breeding areas beyond their normal range. If global warming makes these new areas suitable for colonisation, then we could yet see future wanderers settling down to breed in southern Britain. A century hence, birdwatchers in Sussex and Kent may be so used to the Black Kite that they hardly give it a second glance, as it rises into the clear skies of a warm July morning.

  Birding with Donald Duck

  NOVEMBER 1997

  A trip to Florida gave me an ideal chance to get to grips with a whole range of American birds – and I don’t just mean Donald Duck. Although come to think of it, Disney World is as good a place to start as any.

  The first decision: should you take the boat or monorail to the fabulous Magic Kingdom? The monorail may be quicker, but for sheer spectacle the boat wins out every time. Not only do the kids get their first view of Tinkerbell’s castle, but dad can try out his bird identification skills.

  That snow-white apparition on the edge of the lake? A Great Egret. The flock of birds swimming on the water? American Coots. And that strange creature perched on the landing-jetty? An Anhinga, whose long, graceful neck makes it look more like a reptile than a bird. Once inside Disney World, it’s worth spending a bit of time watching the antics of the starling-like grackles, as they swoop down to snatch every crumb of spilt food. No wonder the place is so clean.

  The Kennedy Space Center is another must. As we drove across the flat, swampy land approaching Cape Canaveral, flocks of Turkey Vultures were already rising in the sky, on the heat generated by the early-morning sun. And yes, just like the Wild West movies, vultures really do circle overhead, as if they’re waiting for a cowboy to die.

  As I parked the car, I had an even greater surprise – the silhouette of a Bald Eagle, lifting its heavy body into the sky on broad wings. Bald Eagles once faced extinction in the eastern US, because of persecution and pesticides. But America’s national bird has made an astonishing comeback, and today eagles can be seen throughout Florida.

  Sanibel Island is worth a visit for all sorts of reasons: beautiful beaches, fine fish restaurants and, of course, birds. We took a bike ride around the famous Ding Darling Wildlife Refuge, home to alligators, ten different species of heron, and what my son James called ‘strawberry yogurt birds’ – the impossibly pink Roseate Spoonbills.

  Not that you have to make such an effort. You could just sip margaritas by the hotel pool, watching Brown Pelicans flap by on their vast wings, while Ospreys plunge into the sea for fish. That’s the great thing about Florida-it’s all so easy. OK, so I made a bit of an effort – taking a couple of half-day birding trips with my friend Bill Pranty, author of the essential Birder’s Guide to Florida. (And yes, for all you hard-core birders out there, we did see a Red-cockaded Woodpecker!) But to be honest, without really trying, even a newcomer to American birding can see well over a hundred species in a fortnight.

  So what was my most treasured memory? A boardwalk in the wood by Sanibel’s lighthouse, an hour or so before dusk. Once I was sure I was alone, I tried my hand at ‘pishing’, the bizarre method of bird-calling favoured by many American birders. At first, the trees stayed silent, as if mocking my amateur technique. Then, a single bird hopped out onto the forest floor beneath the boardwalk.

  It was a female American Redstart, a late migrant on its way south for the winter. For 20 minutes or more it flew around below me, twirling from side to side, constantly flicking its tail to reveal gorgeous yellow patches. Most of the time it was too close for me to focus my binoculars. So I simply stood and watched, marvelling at the beauty of this tiny creature.

  Its tameness was a humbling reminder that humans are relative newcomers here, and that not so very long ago this vast continent belonged exclusively to nature. What a contrast with a foggy dawn a couple of days later, as the weak November sun rose above the M25, and Wood Pigeons flocked in the frosty fields.

  The Promised Land

  JANUARY 1998

  If you ask any British birdwatcher where to go to see large numbers of migrating birds, one place they would certainly recommend is Israel’s best-known holiday resort, Eilat. Situated by the Red Sea, Eilat lies on a major crossroads for birds heading south from their European and Asian breeding grounds to winter in Africa.

  But not all birds go quite so far. Many millions spend the whole winter in Israel, in the verdant valleys of Galilee and the River Jordan. Northern Israel offers some of the most spectacular winter birding anywhere in the world, although to most British birders, it remains unfamiliar.

  In the last week of November, I spent six hectic days travelling the length of Israel, on a recce for the new series of Birding with Bill Oddie. The birding was superb: both in terms of the variety of species and sheer numbers.

  We began in the Hula Valley, deep in the heart of Galilee. It was one of those days when the birds just keep on coming, and it’s hard to know where to look next. First, a flock of White Pelicans, fishing in unison like a team of
synchronised swimmers. Then, the raptors: Black Kites, Marsh Harriers and Long-legged Buzzards, and the unmistakable shape of my first ever Greater Spotted Eagle, the first of five different eagle species recorded that day.

  We also visited the gorge at Gamia in the Golan Heights. Raptors are usually seen high in the sky, so watching vast Griffon Vultures soaring beneath us in the gorge itself was a novel experience. With them were flocks of Little Swifts: miniature, stubby-looking versions of our familiar species.

  Mount Hermon, in the extreme north, is quite unlike any other habitat in Israel, and as a result has birds found nowhere else in the country. Among the boulders, we searched for the aptly named Rock Nuthatch, eventually located by its piping call. In a nearby valley we also found two or three Sombre Tits, their black, white and brown plumage reminding me of a giant version of our Coal Tit.

  Next day we were at Kefar Rupim in the Jordan Valley, whose fishponds support incredible numbers of waterbirds. Kingfishers were everywhere: not just our common version, but hovering Pied and splendid White-breasted Kingfishers, too.

  Flocks of egrets and storks – Black and White – thronged the ponds themselves, attracted by the abundant food supplies. And deep in the reedbed we discovered a local speciality, Clamorous Reed Warbler —looking just like our own species, but about twice as big!

  Travelling south, we soon reached the Dead Sea. We stopped to watch flocks of Tristram’s Grackles, whose wolf-whistling calls echo round the gardens of the luxury hotels. We also saw Fan-tailed Ravens, possibly the very species sent out by Noah to search for dry land during the Flood.

  Winter is not the best time to look for birds in Eilat, although we did see a splendid Imperial Eagle, a flock of Greater Flamingos on the saltpans, and groups of dazzling Little Green Bee-eaters.

  But the experience which will stay longest in my memory came on our very first evening in Israel, as we stood by the side of a field in the Hula Valley. As dusk fell, the vast flocks of cranes feeding in the fields began to go to roost. Perhaps because of their huge size and upright stance, cranes have a special affinity with people. All over the world, they are threatened with loss of their vital wetland habitats, so it was comforting to see upwards of 20,000 birds in this one place. As they passed overhead, they filled the sky with their broad wings and deep, honking calls in an awesome spectacle.

  Trinidad: the silent forest

  FEBRUARY 1998

  Nothing stirred in the forest: no sound, no movement. Yet Kenny, our guide, had somehow sensed the presence of a bird among the leaf-litter on the forest floor. Quietly, he turned and gestured to a spot a few metres in front of us. I lifted my binoculars, adjusted the focus, and it was there. A tiny, wren-like bird, patiently picking through the carpet of leaves in search of food. Rufous back, black face and throat, and white underparts: a White-bellied Antbird. For a few moments, before it disappeared from view, we enjoyed the privilege of watching this secretive little creature going about its business. Then, it was gone, and we were back to reality.

  I say reality, but the sense of being in another world rarely went away. I was leading a small group of British birdwatchers on a fortnight’s trip to Trinidad & Tobago. T&T, as the regulars say, are two islands just off the north-east coast of South America. Their proximity to this vast continent means that the birdlife is very different from the rest of the Caribbean and has more in common with nearby Venezuela.

  For the newcomer to this region, T&T provide the perfect introduction to neotropical birding, without the difficulties found on the South American mainland. You can see species from most major South American bird families, without the bewildering variety you get in Peru or Brazil. The locals even speak English, play cricket and drive on the left!

  On Trinidad we stayed at the Pax Guest House, under the care and attention of the delightful Gerard and Oda Ramsawak. Sipping a Carib beer on the terrace at Pax, while ten different kinds of raptor soar overhead, is about as easy and pleasurable as birding can get. At Pax we also got to know the species we were to see every day: the beautiful Blue-gray Tanager, the noisy Great Kiskadee and the delightful Copper-rumped Hummingbird, which perched on a twig just by the terrace to give excellent close-up views.

  Later on the first morning we ventured into the jungle. Jungle birding is quite unlike any other kind. You walk in single file along a path, watching and listening intently. At first, it seems as if nothing is stirring, but suddenly you see a brief movement in the thick foliage. Nine times out of ten you fail to make contact with the bird itself, so when you finally do, you certainly feel you’ve earned it.

  We also spent a day in the wetlands, first at the Pointe-à-Pierre Wildfowl Trust, where we got fabulous views of a Green Kingfisher and the dazzling yellow Saffron Finch; then by the sea at Waterloo, where vast flocks of gulls, terns and waders were joined by Black Skimmers, living up to their name by dipping their beaks into the water to pick up morsels of food.

  But it was to the jungle that we kept returning, under Kenny’s expert guidance. The final day on Trinidad was the most memorable, as by now we knew which species would be hardest to find. Patiently, Kenny located one target bird after another: first a multicoloured Trinidad Euphonia, then the secretive Great Antshrike. But at this high altitude the real prizes are the trogons, the quintessential birds of the tropical rainforest.

  Time after time, Kenny mimicked the haunting call of the Collared Trogon. Time and again, the bird responded, although we could see no movement in the forest canopy. I was tempted to call it a day. But Kenny wasn’t going to be beaten, and at long last his faith was justified.

  As if from nowhere, a stunningly beautiful bird appeared perched on a horizontal branch. Bright green head, breast and back contrasted with vivid scarlet underparts. But it was the tail that caught the attention: impossibly long and delicately barred black and white. We stood and watched, hardly daring to speak, as the bird called a few times. It flew from branch to branch, before melting back into the rainforest. Followed by stillness. And silence.

  Teatime on Tobago

  MARCH 1998

  Visiting the island of Tobago is rather like going back 30 years or so. The people are well-dressed and courteous, the beaches are unspoilt and the sea is so clear you could have a bath in it. And every day, at 4.30 p.m. on the dot, you can take afternoon tea on the terrace of the Arnos Vale Hotel.

  If you do, you won’t be alone. Almost as soon as the neat plate of sandwiches and cake arrives at your table, you’re sure to be joined by an uninvited guest with an unforgettable name: the Bananaquit. This little bird is the House Sparrow of the neotropics. Ubiquitous, cheeky and always on the lookout for a meal, he and his companions may also join you for breakfast, where they flit from table to table picking out the choicest items from the buffet.

  Bananaquits aren’t the only birds to benefit from the open-handed generosity of the Arnos Vale and its guests. The hotel staff regularly fill a large plastic trough with leftovers, attracting a colourful cross-section of the island’s commoner species.

  First to arrive will be two or three Eared Doves, looking like a miniature version of our Collared Dove, but with the small dark mark behind the eye which gives the species its name. They’ll soon be joined by vivid Blue-gray Tanagers, one of the loveliest of all neotropical birds, along with their drabber cousins, Palm Tanagers. Occasionally a Red-crowned Woodpecker will attempt to hang on to the edge of the trough, desperately trying to raise itself up like an out-of-condition gymnast, before slipping away unsatisfied to feed elsewhere.

  A plaintive mewing sound, uncannily like that of a domestic cat, marks the arrival of the rather pathetic-looking Bare-eyed Thrush. And from time to time, a cracking little black-and-white striped creature known to the locals as the ‘jailbird’ will appear. It’s officially called the Barred Antshrike, but the local name is a far more evocative description of its pied appearance.

  But all these birds, attractive as they are, are overshadowed by two show-stoppers. The firs
t, the Blue-crowned Motmot, is simply one of the most colourful birds I have ever seen: a gorgeous mixture of green, chestnut, blue and black, with a hefty beak and long, twin-plumed tail. The local motmots are said to have developed a liking for cocktail cherries, something we failed to test out, owing to an inexplicable shortage of supplies.

  The other Tobago speciality looks, at first sight, like a cross between a turkey and a pheasant. Only a minute or two after the food has been put out, Rufous-vented Chachalacas arrive en masse at the feeding-station. As they do so, they squabble noisily among themselves, pushing and shoving each other aside in order to get to their supper.

  It’s only when things start to get nasty, and the pushing and shoving turns into out-and-out violence, that you recall what these peculiar birds really remind you of. Everything about their appearance and behaviour is uncannily reminiscent of those nasty little dinosaurs in the film Jurassic Park. The ones that hop up and down in a curiously engaging manner, before tearing your flesh into tiny pieces.

  Big Bird Diary

  SEPTEMBER 1998

  As I write, I can hear the deep, bass notes of a Ground Hornbill in the distant forest. Breakfast this morning was interrupted by a passing African Fish Eagle. And yesterday I came across one of the most extraordinary birds I’ve ever seen – the multicoloured Hartlaub’s Turaco.

  By now, you may have guessed that I’ve ventured a little further afield than usual. I’m in the Masai Mara, Kenya, filming the new series of Big Cat Diary. Kenya is one of the very best countries in the world to watch birds. More than a thousand species have been recorded here, and it is possible to see over three hundred in a single day! Yet after almost two weeks, I’ve barely topped the century mark.