This Birding Life (7 page)

When you start birdwatching, there are some birds you always dream of seeing. But when you do finally manage to find them, it can sometimes be a bit of a disappointment. Once in a while, though, your dream bird is as wonderful in real life as you hoped and imagined.

The Waxwing has always had an air of mystery about it. Waxwings are birds of the far north, breeding in the pine forests of Scandinavia and Siberia. In autumn, they become nomadic: roaming far and wide in search of their favourite food, berries. But if the berry crop fails in northern Europe, Waxwings head south and west, in what ornithologists call an irruption. Most years, only a few Waxwings are recorded in the British Isles, but in a good year, there may be thousands.

When they do turn up, they can often be surprisingly easy to see. Their berry diet means that they frequently visit gardens, where they usually stay until they have stripped a bush bare, before moving on in search of the next free lunch. The 1970s, the period when I began serious birding, wasn't a very good decade for Waxwings. There were one or two minor invasions during the 1980s, but I still never managed to catch up with them. Then, in autumn 1988, the birders' grapevine buzzed with welcome news: large flocks of Waxwings had been sighted up and down Britain's east coast. An irruption year was under way.

One dull day in November, I had to visit Norwich on business. The meeting dragged on and on, and I didn't get away until mid-afternoon. But instead of taking the All back to London, I headed east, to the little village of Sutton.

Like several Norfolk villages, Sutton has a small pond as its centrepiece. According to the telephone information service Birdline East Anglia, a flock of about 30 Waxwings was supposed to be regularly visiting the trees around the pond. I parked my car alongside, got out and waited. And waited. There was still no sign of my quarry, though
there were several false alarms: a group of Starlings; the usual resident sparrows. I was beginning to feel a little out of place, as curtains began to twitch, and passing villagers gave me suspicious looks.

As dusk approached, I was just thinking about giving up. Then, at last, my faith was rewarded. A flock of birds flew up into the branches above my head. Surely they weren't yet another bunch of Starlings? I tentatively raised my binoculars to my eyes and gasped at the vision of beauty before me. A small, plump bird, with a plumage of a colour so subtle that I can hardly begin to describe it. Basically brown, yes, but with hints and tints of pink, ochre and sepia; black wingtips edged with yellow and red; and the delicate wispy crest above a black highwayman's mask.

I watched in quiet delight as the birds began to gorge themselves on bright red berries, then launched themselves into the late afternoon air, flycatching for passing insects. A few minutes later, guided by some unseen signal, they took off and flew away. I wanted to shout out loud, knock on doors, accost passers-by – have you seen them? Aren't they beautiful? Don't you realise what fantastic visitors you have?! But being British, I simply got back into the car and drove off to have a quiet, celebratory drink in a country pub.

Most birdwatchers are landlubbers at heart. But for one special breed of enthusiast, the call of the sea is just too strong to resist. ‘Seawatchers', as they are known, often do just that. They spend their time on a windswept coastal headland, gazing out to sea, waiting for seabirds to pass by. It can be a lonely and frustrating pastime: truly oceanic species such as petrels and shearwaters rarely come near land, and when they do, views are often distant and brief.

Fortunately for the sanity of seawatchers, help is at hand. Sometime during the 1980s, the penny dropped. Rather than sitting on some godforsaken cliff, waiting for the birds to come to you, why not go to the birds themselves? This insight resulted in the first of many pelagic trips, in which the birdwatchers charter a boat and sail far out to sea to discover these ocean-going birds on their home ground.

I went on my first pelagic trip in August 1990, sailing at dawn from Penzance on the passenger ship
Scillonian
, with 300 keen birders aboard. Our destination was the Western Approaches, out in the Atlantic some hundred miles or so beyond the Isles of Scilly. Our aim was to do what the seabirds do, and follow the fishing boats. By listening on a shortwave radio, we soon tracked down a fleet of small craft from the Spanish port of Bilbao.

Seabirds have an extraordinary sense of smell, which enables them to locate a source of food from several miles away. When we approached the fishing boats the sea was virtually devoid of birds, apart from the usual flocks of gulls. But, as the trawler's crew threw the gutted fish-offal overboard, the birds began to appear over the horizon as if attracted by some invisible signal.

The first arrivals were yet more gulls, accompanied by a skua or two. Then, straining our eyes, we saw a flicker of tiny wings in the far distance, signalling the approach of the first Storm Petrels. These minuscule birds, hardly bigger than a House Martin, have a superficially similar appearance, with a black body and conspicuous white rump. They feed on fluttering wings, plunging down to pick morsels of food off the surface of the water.

Seasoned pelagic voyagers have dispensed with the need to find a fishing fleet, by following the ‘bring-your-own' philosophy. They spend the night before a trip visiting the local fish-quay, collecting up any remains they can find. They place their ‘catch' in barrels, and add popcorn or Rice Krispies, to provide an added visual stimulus for passing seabirds. The resulting ghastly concoction is called ‘chum', and the action of spreading it on the water is known as ‘chumming'.

Chumming requires a strong stomach, though fortunately on this trip we enjoyed perfect sunny weather, with hardly a breeze to ruffle the waves. Our final tally included six Sabine's Gulls, a high Arctic species en route to spending the winter in Africa; several magnificent Great Shearwaters, cruising low over the water like a pod of airborne sharks; and even a bogus ‘albatross' – which turned out to be a young Gannet. We returned to port late in the evening, sunburnt yet satisfied.

The interesting thing about pelagic trips is their sheer unpredictability. One time you may see thousands of birds, the next you can draw a complete blank. But a pelagic always gives you a unique insight into the lives of some of our most mysterious birds.

If you were planning a winter day's birdwatching, the outskirts of west London might not seem the best place to start. Surely the Norfolk marshes, Solway Firth or one of the south coast estuaries would be more productive? Perhaps. Yet it is quite possible to see as many as 70 different species in a single day in the London suburbs, even with a New Year hangover to contend with. For the past few years, my birding companion Neil and I have shrugged off the excesses of New Year's Eve and, along with thousands of other birdwatchers throughout Britain, spent I January out in the field.

In fact this year we cheated, waiting until 2 January. By first light (around 8am) we were ticking off some familiar birds on Neil's bird-table. Ten minutes later, we discovered local specialities Grey Wagtail and Green Sandpiper in nearby Cassiobury Park. Just a mile or so from Watford town centre, this damp, wooded park plays host to a fine selection of woodland birds, including Siskins, Treecreepers and two species of woodpecker.

Leaving the park, we travelled along the M25 to Virginia Water. A quick search failed to produce the expected Mandarin Duck, but during a walk around Wraysbury Gravel Pits we got good views of a pair of wintering Smew, the males looking as if they had been pieced together from a precious vase that someone had dropped and tried to repair. These lakes, close to Heathrow Airport, are one of the main British haunts of this attractive duck. As we watched, Concorde passed low overhead, momentarily shattering the peace.

By noon we had amassed a total of 50 species. It's from now on that the going gets tough, with each new species a bonus. One year we took until early afternoon to see House Sparrows, and even common wintering birds such as Redwings and Fieldfares can be surprisingly elusive.

This year, Staines Moor was too flooded for waders, but the vast basins of Staines Reservoirs brought a surprise. They'd been drained: bad news for the duck, but good for us. Despite the distance from the coast, they provided refuge for six species of wader: thousands of Lapwings, a hundred or so Dunlin, and a few Redshank, Ruffs, Golden Plovers and Snipe.

Another walk around Wraysbury, and we flushed a pair of Kingfishers, one fleeing along a muddy path – a brilliant flash of blue and orange in the late afternoon light. We've seen Kingfishers at different places four years in a row, but it's still one of the day's highlights.

Finally, with less than an hour's daylight remaining, we headed for Magna Carta Lane, Wraysbury. There, amidst a quintessentially English scene of fields and hedges, we caught up with three ‘alien' species. A cock Pheasant, whose ancestors were brought here by the Romans, strutted along a field edge. A Little Owl, originally introduced in the Victorian era, squealed in the dusk. And most extraordinary of all, as we gazed across the Thames to the site of the signing of the Magna Carta, a high-pitched series of shrieks pierced the sky: a flock of six bright green birds, more streamlined than any native British species. They were Ring-necked Parakeets, going to roost on an island in the Thames at Runnymede.

Among birdwatchers, this bird divides opinion. Some detest them, believing that, like the Canada Goose and Ruddy Duck, they will eventually overrun our native avifauna. Others thrill to the sight of wild parakeets adding a splash of colour to the drab winter scene. As dusk fell, Neil and I agreed that we fall firmly into the latter camp, and that the Ring-necked Parakeet has a deserved place among the 71 species on our Big Day list.