by Lev Parikian
I wish I could say the same about the red-throated divers, but even armed with the most powerful optics and all the field guides at my disposal, these birds, flying over the sea in the far distance, would have gone unidentified, added to the pile of ‘don’t knows’ that litters my year. David draws my attention to them with succinct directions.
‘Four red-throated diver, flying right to left, just below the horizon.’
He moves out of the way, I look through the scope, and there they are, exactly as he says. I would have described them as minuscule dots rather than red-throated divers, but as he explains the identification points, I can indeed discern the low-slung head that helps set them apart from their close cousins.
This ability he has to conjure birds from thin air feels a bit like witchcraft, but that’s how the combination of experience, knowledge and skill often looks to the uninitiated. I think again of my father’s ability to draw the sweetest tone from any violin or Ilya Musin’s extraordinary grasp of orchestral sound – hard-won talents, earned over decades.
It’s not all plain sailing. Brilliant though he is, David is unable to summon a Richard’s pipit out of thin cold air, the single bird that winters in a specific area of the nature reserve staying stubbornly out of sight. And everywhere we go we seem to encounter birders who have just seen a short-eared owl, without any evidence of the birds themselves. But the huge flocks of waders, whether assembled in close-knit groups on the shore or making the sky sing as they fly round in mobile swirling flocks, are ample compensation, and with a species total nudging eighty for the day, three of them welcome ticks, it’s in high spirits that we return to the raptor viewpoint for our dusky vigil.
This viewpoint, a platform by the side of the road with panoramic views over marsh and farmland, with their wealth of small scurrying mammals, is fertile hunting ground for raptors. From reading about it I get the impression we’ll be fending the birds off from all points of the compass.
Reality couldn’t possibly live up to expectations. I’m delighted to see a barn owl quartering the reed beds in the middle distance, of course I am. The roosting birds at Rainham were gorgeous, but there’s nothing to compare with the wraith-like figure of a barn owl on the hunt, silent of wing, stealthy of attack. And the graceful choreography of a dozen marsh harriers, switchback swoops and languid glides intersecting for a mesmerising crepuscular ballet, never fails to take the breath away.
But where’s my hen harrier?
Hen harriers have been in the news this year. There are people who pay other people to kill them, the hen harriers, because they, the hen harriers, kill other birds that they, the other people, are paid to keep alive so that they, the first people, can charge a third set of people wads of cash to kill the other birds.
That sentence, by the way, makes more sense than the thinking behind the illegal killing of hen harriers.
Because of the aforementioned killiness, the hen harrier is now almost non-existent as a breeding bird in England, but they still come here from northern Europe for the winter, and dusk on Sheppey is as good a time to find them as any.
Half a dozen people gather at the viewpoint, wringing the last drops from the day. As I try to control my binoculars with arms that have reached the ‘shuddering uncontrollably’ stage of hypothermia, I almost suggest we huddle together for shared bodily warmth.
Watching the marsh harriers, I hear David’s voice, my cold-numbed brain taking a second to register and process the words.
‘Hen! Ringtail, below horizon, flying right to left.’
He has it in the scope, beckons me across, and I follow it closely as it quarters the marsh, disappearing behind some trees here, a building there, low over the ground. Its build and plumage are noticeably lighter than the marsh harriers behind it, the difference visible even in the gathering gloom.
A ringtail is a female or young hen harrier, predominantly brown and white where the male is blue-grey, the name deriving from the dark rings across the upper tail. More easily visible is the white band across the rump, and it’s this I now see, prominent against the brown of the bird’s body and the murk of the background.
The light has almost disappeared. I can no longer feel my head. Time to call it a day.
As I take my leave from David, trying to express through chattering teeth my gratitude for his time and expertise, one of the other birders turns to us and smiles.
‘Shame you didn’t get here five minutes earlier. There was a short-eared owl.’
Of course there was.
November ticks (11)
RSPB Cliffe Pools, RSPB Rainham Marshes, RSPB Dungeness, Isle of Sheppey
Black-necked Grebe Podiceps nigricollis, Water Pipit Anthus spinoletta, Barn Owl Tyto alba, Long-eared Owl Asio otus, Caspian Gull Larus cachinnans, Ring-necked Duck Aythya collaris, Common Scoter Melanitta nigra, Corn Bunting Emberiza calandra, White-fronted Goose Anser albifrons, Red-throated Diver Gavia stellata, Hen Harrier Circus cyaneus
Year total: 189
DECEMBER 2016
21 December 1987. I’m a second-year student at the Royal Academy of Music, home for the holidays. London is great, but it’s good to be back. Clean air, open spaces, good food, all the comforts of the family home allowing a brief retreat to childhood amid the turmoil of student life.
I’m listening to the radio. Bach. Brandenburg Concerto No. 3. There’s a short passage in it, an extended goosebump moment, the simplicity and perfection of which never fail to make me wonder. A series of descending scales in the bass, that’s all. Dry analysis fails to capture its heart; therein lies its genius. It’s coming up in about fifteen seconds.
My father, erranding about the place, pops his head in.
‘There’s the most marvellous bit coming up, Lev.’
We stand together for a minute, listening. Words aren’t necessary. That’s the thing about music – it picks up where words leave off.
The moment passes, the movement ends, and he goes about his business.
He has, did we but know it, three days to live.
The birds fill the sky, black as death, floating shadows against a backdrop of mist and winter half-light. They sweep up from the roost, describing a large arc across the reserve, their chacking calls spreading through the flock like snooker balls at the break. The light is draining rapidly, frost on the buds sharpening. In a few minutes these jackdaws, four, five hundred of them, will settle, like the rooks already at their posts in the trees in front of me. The fading light, the spiny fingers of winter trees reaching for the sky and the calls of a thousand birds combine for a simultaneously thrilling and sinister spectacle. I try not to think of Tippi Hedren.
The Bewick’s swans were easy. They come to Slimbridge every winter and show themselves willingly by the Peng Observatory, not fifty yards from the entrance, tame as pets. I think of the dangers they face on their long journey from the Russian tundra, the decline in their population thanks to the familiar combination of hunting, habitat loss and climate change, and I reckon they’re entitled to a bit of cosseting.
The swans are the point of this diversion, a cheap tick in a growing maelstrom of uncertainty; the jackdaws, and a bittern, slopping around in the reeds for twenty minutes while I keep my binoculars trained on it with the tenacity of a limpet, are a bonus. Such moments further my quest not an inch, but are bound to it with hoops of steel, encapsulating the reason for its existence.
I stay till closing time, milking the reserve for everything it’s got. Then I head for Somerset, where tomorrow I’m pledged to succumb to the romantic allure of the glossy ibis.
Striking and elegant large waders with a curlew-like decurved bill, the ibis have been at RSPB Ham Wall for a while – strays from southern Europe. But they’re wilful blighters, taunting twitchers with their mobility, and often lying low for days at a time. I might see them. I might not. It’s a happy coincidence that Ham Wall is home to one of the largest starling murmurations in the country, so at least I’ll have that if all
else fails, my appetite whetted by the accidental experience on Lindisfarne. And beyond that, who knows what may turn up?
As it happens, nothing. Or as close to nothing as makes no difference.
The barren scene from the new hide at WWT Steart Marshes is almost comical. A lone curlew patrolling the frozen mud isn’t just the highlight – it’s the only bird there.
Richard, my host for the trip, couldn’t be more apologetic. With the generous instinct that leads people to apologise for things they can’t control, he feels responsible for the dearth of Somerset birdlife, as if, had he been a proper host, he would somehow have been able to lay on a sumptuous array of sightings carefully curated to tally with my wish list. But I’m not worried. He’s good company. That’s all that matters.
We walk round the reserve, talking about our birding experiences, his far more extensive than mine. Sixty-five years of birding is a lot to draw on, but even that can’t conjure up a brambling in a flock of chaffinches. We scan them anyway, looking for the telltale flash of orange among the pale pinks and browns of the commoner bird, but without avail.
Steart on the coast and Avalon Marshes inland are linked by the lack of birds. It raises a simple question: where do they disappear to?
I get that it’s cold here. Maybe they don’t like it cold. But it’s cold everywhere else within easy reach, too. I’ve read that swifts sometimes take day trips as far as Germany if the British summer gets a bit chilly for their liking. Do wildfowl and waders do the same in the winter? Have they all trotted off to the Bay of Biscay for a romantic mini-break? Or are they hunkered down in the depths of the reed beds with a West Wing box set and a tub of cheesy nachos?
Ham Wall, in the afternoon, is better. There are herons and cormorants. There are teal and wigeon. There are great white egrets.
There are no ibis.
The volunteer assures me they’ve been seen on the reserve that morning. They won’t have gone far.
‘Try the Avalon hide.’
We try the Avalon hide. Ninety minutes later we’ve seen six juvenile ‘mule swats’ and a shoveler. If I were alone I’d be grumpy, muttering, railing against the iniquities of life. But I owe my host the courtesy of a cheerful but resigned demeanour, so that’s what I try to give him. When it becomes absolutely clear that the ibis are to remain memorable for their absence, we assemble our optics and leave.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, concludes your entertainment for the afternoon. Please kindly follow the stench of starling shit and make your way to the reed bed for the evening show. Those of you seeking 200 birds in a year, please ensure you take your shattered hopes with you.
Starlings and people alike trickle in. These gatherings have become spectator events, and even though it’s not yet prime murmurating season, the spectacle is enticing enough for there to be a steady stream coming in as I stroll back to the car, against the flow of traffic, to fetch an extra jumper.
I’ll never know what makes me look up. I’m the only one who does.
Two birds, in close formation, coming in to roost, silhouettes with decurved bills.
My first thought is, ‘That’s strange, those are the first curlews I’ve seen here.’ My second thought, on seeing the broad wings and trailing legs, is hauntingly similar to a line delivered by Steve Martin in Planes, Trains and Automobiles.
Those aren’t curlews.
The ibis, may the Lord bless their glossy purple plumage, go down within seconds, behind the reed bed, hidden from sight. They won’t get up again tonight. It was the briefest window of opportunity, and I flatter myself it’s only thanks to my developing birder’s instinct that I saw them.
Forty-five minutes and a quarter of a million starlings later, I’m on my way home, cherishing the memory of those two cagey but temporarily cooperative birds.
The starlings weren’t bad either.
Dungeness. Again.
It’s a long way to go not to see a cattle egret. If I want not to see a cattle egret, I can do so from the comfort of my own home.
The day is saved by the smew. Any day would be saved by a smew, that foxy little saw-billed diving duck fresh in from its breeding grounds in the north European taiga. Here there are two. Two smew, Barney McGrew, Cuthbert, Dibble, Grub.
I spend some time honouring my tradition of looking for black redstart around the power station.
We all know how that turns out.
Stupid birds.
Eight birds to get. Three birding days left. Squeaky bum time.
I scour the diary, but in all conscience I can’t squeeze anything more in and still call myself either a professional musician or a dutiful parent.
There’s the remote possibility something will turn up on the Isle of Wight, where we’re pledged to spend the last few days of the year. But I have the BirdGuides alert set to ‘Tell me the moment anything with a feather lands on the island’, and it’s been ominously quiet.
I consult Andrew, and we concoct a plan for a ‘mopping up’ day in north Kent. It’s an ambitious schedule. Waxwings in Strood at 9.00, cattle egret at Marshside around 10.30, Oare Marshes for the great northern diver at lunchtime, leaving the remaining short hours of daylight for Sheppey and short-eared owl. Oh, go on then, let’s have Richard’s pipit there as well.
Andrew’s well up for it. If the birds behave, it’ll be straightforward. If not, I’m depending on Norfolk to deliver.
A waxwing is a bird to put a smile on your face. Punky hairdo, pastel plumage, red flashes resembling sealing wax on the wings, and a narrow yellow bar on the tail. A waxwing winter will see an irruption of the birds from Scandinavia, driven by poor conditions at home to search for red berries further afield. This is a waxwing winter. I’ve been following their progress, the first sightings in Scotland followed by a trickle southwards. According to reports, the three we’re after have occupied a tree near a pub in Strood, conveniently close to the M2, for a couple of weeks.
The reports aren’t lying. They’re perching on a TV aerial on a house opposite the pub, basking in our attention. Damn fine birds, even in the murk of the early morning. I feel the easing of a tension I wasn’t aware of. 193.
Two men hanging around a residential area with binoculars at nine in the morning are bound to arouse comment, but nobody beats us up or reports us to the police, so we regard it as a win and make our escape.
The cattle egret is a different matter. Descriptions of its location are vague, citing merely a field beside a road not far from Canterbury. I’ve looked the road up. It looks rather longer than I’d like. All we can do is drive up and down it, examining the fields on either side. It bears the hallmark of a fruitless mission.
But the finger of fate, as fickle as a cat in search of a lap, is pointed firmly in our direction. No sooner have we arrived at Marshside and started up the road than we see two skulking figures, Persil-white, in the first field. They’re either egrets or members of the north Kent division of the KKK.
The pair, one cattle, one little, seem in no hurry to go anywhere. It’s interesting to see them side by side, the familiar little egret standing more upright, its cousin slouched in a way that is crying out for a remedial Alexander Technique course.
We admire them for a while, then remind ourselves of our strict schedule. We’re running late already, delayed by an inconvenient desire to spend time looking at the birds we’ve gone to such lengths to find.
Oare Marshes next, scene of my encounter with the boparscull a few months earlier. But where that day was bright and warm and the marshes filled with birds, today is dull and grey and empty.
Our mission: a great northern diver, reported with irritating lack of precision as ‘on the water’.
It’s a marsh. By the sea. Water is all there is.
Nonetheless we plump for the seawatching hide as an opening bid.
There’s something strangely soothing about sitting in a wooden hut looking at an empty expanse of water. But soothing isn’t what I’m after. Not today.
The required frisson is added when we realise the water isn’t completely devoid of life.
It’s too distant to make out any markings with the naked eye, but even from afar the flat-bottomed boat shape and heavy head are visible, and when it dives with barely a ripple, Andrew gives a little nod.
‘Divers are so smooth going down.’
He prepares the scope while I play a couple of rounds of ‘Guess where the bird will surface’, and then we have good views of it as it floats around, diving occasionally, fishing grounds all to itself. Its markings and general demeanour confirm it as the bird we’re after. I only twig as I see it that this is the realisation of a forty-year ambition, the romance of the Arthur Ransome book Great Northern? implanting the idea that this bird is impossibly rare and to be sought out if at all possible.
I have a sudden desire to hear its call, familiar from any film wanting to establish a scene of lonely wilderness in the forests and lakes of North America. It’s a pipe dream, of course. It’s deep winter in southern England. Wrong time, wrong place.
Our thirst for the diver slaked, we take a moment to consider our next move. It’s 2.00. We have two hours of daylight.
A single long-tailed duck has been reported on the estuary on the way to Sheppey. Looking for it will take valuable time out of our day, but it might also be worth it if we can find it quickly. Andrew contacts a birding acquaintance for inside knowledge. The reply is swift.
