by Lev Parikian
His response doesn’t inspire confidence.
‘Happy to see what we can find, but can’t promise anything. July’s pretty quiet. We call it the doldrums! Might see a wheatear or two.’
I’ve arranged to meet him on Sunday morning on the downs above Ventnor. I’m looking forward to it. But for now I’m staving off a tedium-induced coma.
I’ve met some lovely people while birding. Kind, helpful and generous people, prepared to share their time and knowledge with a perfect stranger. My companion in this hide is among their number, but, ungenerously, I wish that one of us were elsewhere.
‘And in the afternoon we had green sandpiper and spotted redshank. And plovers. Golden, grey…’
A pause in the flow, a nanosecond, a golden opportunity to interject, to stem the tide.
‘…ringed, little ringed…’
Bugger.
This early-morning trip to a small nature reserve on the east of the island, two days into our holiday, hasn’t been a write-off. Far from it. The barnacle goose staring me in the face as I entered the hide was a feral one,* but I’ve long since squared the counting of feral birds with my conscience. I’ve counted feral pigeons and greylag geese. What’s one more between friends?
The goose was quickly followed by the bobbing backside of a common sandpiper and the slim elegance of a greenshank, close enough for me to see the fractional upturn of its bill as it sifted the water, and to study the fine barrings of its plumage.
But what use are three ticks in half an hour if the ensuing tedium makes my head explode?
I should leave, just get up and go.
But I want to see the kingfisher.
I know there’s a kingfisher around because my companion told me about it. He hasn’t seen it himself, but he was informed of its presence by an earlier occupant of the hide. I have no reason to disbelieve him. He might be boring, but he seems honest.
‘It’s good for wildfowl, too. We had garganey, gadwall, tufties of course, shelduck…’
I’ve seen several kingfishers this year. I could just leave. But somehow, having stayed this long I can’t dip out now. And a kingfisher is always worth it.
My companion’s telescope stands neglected while he mans his camera, complete with monstrous lens, ready for the fleeting appearance of the kingfisher. He’s made clear his desperation to get a photograph of it, expanding on the subject at length some time in the early millennia of our friendship.
Time is a funny thing. So far it’s been stretched to its limits, but now, all at once, everything happens in a flash.
I see the kingfisher, a rainbow dart in the corner of my vision, fly across from the right and land on the reeds in front of me. The click and scrape of the opening door behind us distracts my companion from his recital, and he turns his head as I say the magic word.
‘Kingfisher.’
His head whips round, he fumbles with the camera, trains it on the spot.
Too late. The bird has disappeared into the depths of the reeds.
I vacate my space on the bench, leave the hide, and take a deep breath of the warm summer air. It tastes disturbingly like Schadenfreude.
If you stand on Ventnor Esplanade on the south coast of the Isle of Wight, facing the sea, do a 180-degree turn and walk upwards until you can walk upwards no more, you will at some point arrive at the top of St Boniface Down with aching calves and a strong feeling you should have brought the car.
A kestrel perches on the chain-link fence protecting the site that used to be Ventnor radar station, a crucial strategic part of the Chain Home network that gave early warning of Luftwaffe attacks in World War II. Decrepit pillboxes provide a link with the past and somewhere to hide from the roaming cattle, should the need arise. But mostly the place is views. From one side you look out to sea, even if it’s sometimes engulfed in fog; on the other the vista stretches across the island – even, on a clear day, as far as the Spinnaker Tower at Portsmouth.
There are five of us. Me; Chris, who is tactful enough not to raise the subject of my skylark-related idiocy; Dylan, his younger brother, with the concomitant cheeky smile and healthy disrespect for seniority;* Jonno, tall, loping, with a droopy moustache and a sing-song north-eastern accent I could listen to all day; Neil, taciturn in a camouflage jacket and hat. Four lads, long friends, birding every Sunday morning together, an opportunity for catching up and indulging their shared enthusiasm. To be part of the group, even briefly, feels like a privilege, but also a little like an intrusion, disrupting the established balance of their group dynamic. But they’re nothing but welcome and smiles and chat.
We walk in a loose group, held together by the general direction of the walk, someone occasionally breaking off in search of a bird. Chris and Dylan catch up on family news. Jonno tells me about their friend, dead three years now, who was an integral part of the group. Behind us, Neil wordlessly scans the landscape through his binoculars.
As if on cue, a skylark appears on our left and begins its ascent. The loop of repetitive song rippling and eddying above us instantly triggers memories of the larks soaring above the field next to the bus stop in the eternal sunshine of my childhood.
I give Chris a sidelong glance. He says nothing.
They’ve lived here for years, fleeing the unemployment-ridden north-east in the 1970s for occasional summer work, and finding island life to their liking. Employment was the driver, way of life the clincher. Music festivals played their part, too. Now they seem to know every inch of birding territory on the island’s 148 square miles. St Boniface Down is their starting point every Sunday, conveniently local and often thronging with birds.
Chris is keen for me not to come away from the trip empty-handed. Every time we see something, he asks if I have it on my list. I’ve done a bit of research into what’s about, and can give him one target bird I reckon we have a chance of seeing.
‘If we can get a Dartford warbler today, I’ll be happy.’
We set off, heading east along the path, keeping the downs to our left and taking in absurdly picturesque views across Luccombe Chine to the sea and cliffs beyond. We talk intermittently, mostly about birds. Dylan is pragmatic about my chances of hitting 200.
‘It depends how much you want to travel, doesn’t it? Have you been to Scotland?’
‘Next month.’
‘Well, that’ll help. I tell you, though, when I lived in Bulgaria we’d have had that 200 in a week. Right on a migration point, we were.’ He tells me about Bulgarian birds, the relish dripping from his lips. ‘Wor, Lev man, those birds. Six kinds of eagle in a day. We had them over our garden.’
The conversation isn’t wildly dissimilar from the one attempted by my erstwhile friend in the hide at Hersey. But the difference is the engagement. Dylan comes alive when talking about birds, and listens to what I say; Hersey guy ignored my every word and killed all sentient creatures within a hundred-yard radius stone dead with one blow of his larynx.
I ask Dylan how his interest in birds started. He gives me a sidelong look and a knowing smile, as if deciding whether to tell me.
‘We’re like poachers turned gamekeepers, I suppose. We used to go egging as lads.’
Egg collecting. Normal in Victorian times, illegal since 1954. Egg collectors are now universally reviled, and the knee-jerk reaction is to disapprove of such cruel and unnecessary activity, until you discover that David Attenborough used to do it. Not only that, he would be in favour of a change in the law to allow responsible egging as a way of sparking young people’s interest in nature.
If it’s good enough for Attenborough, it’s good enough for me.
I picture Chris and Dylan, fifty years ago, cheeky lads sneaking out, up to no good, climbing a tree and taking an egg, just one, from a blackbird’s clutch. No harm done to the bird, which will still rear a healthy brood, and a lifetime’s interest taking root. Not so bad, on the whole.
We come to a patch of long, reedy grass. Dylan whips out his phone.
‘
We had a gropper here last week.’
And now there’s the sound of a grasshopper warbler coming from his phone. Using playback to lure a bird is another contentious issue, although not in the same league as egging. Traditionalists argue it’s not the done thing, unfair to other birders, and especially that it might be harmful to the birds, making them think their territory is under threat from a competitor or distracting them from essential tasks like feeding their young. Proponents of responsible use of the technique argue that using playback at a suitable volume is often less harmful and disruptive to the bird than thrashing around in the undergrowth looking for it.
Dylan is using the playback subtly enough. Too subtly perhaps, because there is no sign of the bird, and after a couple of minutes he admits defeat and we move on, soon coming to an extended patch of gorse, prime Dartford warbler territory.
I feel Chris at my elbow.
‘Dartford warbler!’
Well, whaddaya know?
I follow his pointed finger towards the clump of gorse ahead of us. It trembles, and then an indistinct blur whizzes round to the other side, too fast for certain identification, for me at least. We all know what it is, but this fleeting glimpse merely whets our appetite. That’s the thing about birding: you always want that little bit more.
We skirt the bush, hoping not to scare the thing off. Chris moves stealthily, me less so. I lose my balance avoiding an exposed root, and stumble on a clump of earth while recovering. I somehow manage not to fall over, but am acutely aware that my movements, more interpretive dance than walking, might disturb the bird.
‘There’s three of them.’ Dylan, off to my right, ten yards up the hill. ‘An adult and two young ’uns.’
I hardly dare join him for fear of falling on my backside, but slowly pick my way through the gorse, the spikes tickling my legs through my trousers. Now I’m by Dylan’s side, and training my binoculars on the bush. It’s quivering with invisible activity, as if populated by the cast of Dad’s Army on a camouflage training day.
‘They’re hiding from you, Lev.’
Chris, a wry smile on his face, appears next to me. I return the smile.
‘I do have that effect, I’ve noticed.’
He’s alert again, pointing.
‘Can you see it?’ He wants to be the one to show me. ‘There it goes!’
Indeed it does. My eye catches the flitting flight of the bird as it hops up onto the neighbouring bush, still close, and now directly in our sightline. Through the binoculars I’m able to drink it in, this small bird, no bigger than a robin. It’s slate-grey on top, vinous red underneath, tail bobbing up and down, standing upright and proud on top of the bush, looking towards us, seemingly unafraid. Fifty-four years ago a harsh winter nearly wiped them out in Britain. Now their status seems assured, but you still have to seek them out, a sighting not to be taken for granted. And they hold a totemic place in my mind, one of those birds from my childhood, the ones that burrowed their way into my memory and stayed there. With this sighting, another piece slots into place.
Chris turns to me, eyes bright.
‘There you go, Lev. A nice Sunday-morning tick for you.’
I’m touched by his pleasure for me. It occurs to me that maybe he feels some sort of responsibility for the absence of birds and wants to discharge his duties as a good host. But I just feel privileged to be a temporary part of this close-knit and private group. For me, the Dartford warbler is a bonus.
We’re back where we started. The four friends leave the path and head for a bench under a tree, lighting cigarettes and sitting in companionable silence.
A kestrel perches on a tree to the left.
‘Do you always end up here?’ I ask.
Chris doesn’t answer directly.
‘We’ve seen some birds from here, haven’t we, lads?’
‘Our friend’s ashes are scattered here,’ says Jonno. ‘He came with us every Sunday for years. Three years ago now.’
We sit in silence for a few moments.
‘Kestrel’s on the move.’
It flies unhurriedly across our sight line and then away to the valley below.
I do a scan across the valley. A whitethroat is in a tree near where the kestrel flew, jinking in and around it. Another bird joins it, small, greenish.
Chris has his binoculars up quicker than you can say ‘willow warbler’.
‘Willow warbler.’ He lowers them again. ‘Aye, we’ve seen some birds from this seat.’
It’s time for me to go. They’ll move on somewhere else, maybe Brading Marshes or Newtown Nature Reserve. Next Sunday they’ll meet again, probably relieved to return to their routine, just the four of them, lapsing into familiar rhythms and cadences without the disruption of an outside force. I’m grateful to them for shifting along and allowing me to perch on their bench even for a short while.
I thank them and take my leave. Chris gets to his feet.
‘We’re here ten o’clock every Sunday if you want to see some birds, Lev.’
I might just take him up on it.
It’s dark in the forest. Dark and creepy. It’s the kind of place you might find lions and tigers and bears,* were it not for the inconvenient fact that those animals aren’t found in the same habitats, let alone in Britain. But the phobia remains. I expect at any moment to be whisked away by flying monkeys, or at least nibbled to death by a red squirrel.
My quest for the nightjar (24–28 cm) has led me to Parkhurst Forest (395 hectares). Despite my best efforts, I’ve been unable to find reference to a specific spot where they can be found. While it can be helpful for birders to put their sightings online, sometimes they’re frustratingly vague. ‘One female still by the gate.’ ‘Two males on common.’ ‘A juvenile in usual place near river.’ You either have to know the patch they’re talking about so you can go directly to the place in question without passing Go, or be prepared for a bit of detective work and a lot of walking.
In some cases there are good reasons for this. The precise nesting locations of scarce breeding species need to be protected. The nightjar, while not close to British extinction, is uncommon enough for people to be careful about sharing sensitive information. So while I know that Parkhurst Forest is a place where they might be found, I have no alternative but to tramp round it in search of the most likely spot, using my best judgement and expertise. I know to eschew the denser areas in favour of clearings, but that’s about it.
There are several paths leading from the car park. I feel as if I’m in one of those ‘tangled string’ puzzles – can Lev find the right place for the nightjar before dusk falls? To the right, a paved path leads into the forest, a locked single-bar gate barring the way to vehicles. To the left, a selection of small footpaths, marked trails to help people find their way around. I reject the path to the right as too large and obvious, and strike out on one of the winding trails to the left. It’s easy terrain, leading through thick forest, trees looming, their shadows exaggerated by the angle of the descending sun.
The plan is to do a brisk walkaround of as much of the forest as possible for an hour or so, then choose the most likely spot and wait. As I cover more and more ground without finding a single clearing, my heart sinks. This was an idiotic idea. If faced with a choice of turnings, I invariably take the one that leads to even thicker forest. More than once I find myself striding out in what is obviously the wrong direction, but unable to turn round and retrace my steps for the usual reasons of stubbornness, blind hope, and a masculine refusal to admit any kind of mistake whatsoever.
As dusk approaches I realise I’ve strayed quite a way from the car park, and am not certain I could find my way back. There are marked paths through the forest, trails of varying lengths designed for family walks, but I’ve long since abandoned them in favour of the complex network of smaller byways, a decision I’m beginning to regret.
Luckily I have my phone with me, although I have to be careful how much I use it, because the battery’s a bit flak
y and currently stands at 45 per cent, no hold on, 33 per cent, ah sod it 22 per cent, shit wait what 5 per cent?
As I try to work out the best way to retrace my steps, I’m assailed by the feeling that things could turn suboptimal at any moment, that it could be a while before I find the car, and that I might have to abandon all hope of seeing a nightjar. I’m not at the ‘foraging for survival’ stage, but it’s only a matter of time.
The sun’s gone now, and the forest is beginning to darken ominously. What were trees are now indistinct shadows, each one poised to turn into a monster at any moment.
I never liked monsters. Not for me the argument that inside every monster there’s a fluffy bunny waiting to be released. The one lurking in the lavatory, waiting to drag me screaming into the sewers if I didn’t sprint out of the bathroom the moment I flushed, wasn’t fluffy; nor was the one that impersonated my dressing gown and hung on the back of my bedroom door biding its time until I fell asleep, when it would jump across the room and stick pins into my eyelids. Those childhood demons remain vivid. I can laugh about them now. Sort of. But my adult mind, while fundamentally rational, is still quite capable of conjuring them and their cohorts out of nowhere.
There are noises, too. Animal life is settling down for the night, and I hear rustlings and shufflings from everywhere, each one specifically designed to sound exactly like an escaped prisoner skulking through the undergrowth.
Oh, did I say there’s a prison at Parkhurst? There’s a prison at Parkhurst.
Things I’m afraid of: the dark, unidentified noises, criminals. I’m lost in a forest at dusk within half a mile of a prison. Which part of this did I think was a good idea?
Under normal circumstances I’d walk faster and make exaggerated noises to buck up my spirits and keep the frights at bay, maybe even singing a jaunty tune to the words:
I’m not scared,
No, I’m not scared,
I certainly don’t fear being attacked by a deranged lunatic with an IQ of thirty-six and an irrational hatred of binoculars,
