This Birding Life (10 page)

Who'd go birdwatching on a farm – especially at the height of summer, traditionally one of the quietest times of the year for bird activity? Well, at the end of last month I did – and believe me, it was well worth it.

Once again, I was accompanied by a production team and film crew, shooting the new series of
Birding with Bill Oddie
. Our week in the heart of East Anglia coincided with yet another spell of warm, fine weather, with day after day of sunshine. Following the downpours earlier in the summer, this was welcomed by film crews, farmers and birds alike.

We began by visiting a derelict barn at Mannington Hall, north Norfolk, with Mike Toms from the BTO's Project Barn Owl. Wet weather is disastrous for Barn Owls, as they are unable to hunt in the rain, so their chicks starve to death. Fortunately, when Mike climbed a ladder to look into the nestbox he was able to confirm the presence of a female, brooding her new clutch of four eggs. I've never seen Bill move so fast – straight up the ladder to get his best ever views of a Barn Owl. We got some great shots, too – and only afterwards did I realise that I had not actually seen the owl myself. Still, I can always watch it on video afterwards.

Next evening we were near Norwich, looking for another kind of owl. Little Owls are, as their name suggests, tiny – barely the size of a thrush, although their staring yellow eyes make them appear far bigger. Farmer Chris Skinner had given us a useful tip: Little Owls prefer to face into the sun. Using this advice, our researcher soon located the owl, which was sitting in the branches of a gnarled old oak. Wildlife cameraman Andrew got his usual ‘eyes and teeth' views, and we retired to a local hotel for a well-deserved rest.

But not for long. The sun rises early this far east, and we were soon out in the field again – literally. Chris Knights' farm at Gooderstone is one of the largest in the whole of East Anglia, with acres and acres of carrots and other root vegetables destined for a well-known high street supermarket. Fortunately, Chris has found a way of balancing the needs of an efficient business with those of the birds. As a result, his farm is packed with Grey and Red-legged Partridges, Tree Sparrows, Linnets and Whitethroats, most of which are declining elsewhere. Here, thanks to Chris's enlightened farming practices, they thrive.

But the star bird of Chris's farm is a real rarity. The Stone Curlew is the only European representative of an African family known as the ‘thick-knees'. It is mainly nocturnal, with large, staring eyes, long legs and a mournful cry reminiscent of its commoner namesake. We spent a fruitless hour or two trying to approach the birds close enough to
film them, and in the end had to use one of Chris's own photographic hides, which produced stunning results.

On the hottest day of the week we found ourselves in the wide open country of the south Lincolnshire fens. With such vast fields and total absence of hedgerows you might think there wouldn't be many birds to see. But first impressions can be misleading. Drainage dykes act as hedge substitutes, and a few patches of carefully planted set-aside create valuable pockets of breeding habitat.

Nick Watts' farm at Deeping St Nicholas supports thriving populations of all three farmland buntings: Corn, Reed and Yellowhammer. Their songs echo over the flat landscape: the ‘jangling keys' of the Corn Bunting, the ‘one-two-testing' of the Reed, and the classic sound of the Yellowhammer – usually written down as ‘a-little-bit-of-bread-and-no-cheeeeeese'. True to form, Bill came up with a saucier version, the reply of a young maiden about to lose her virtue to a horny-handed son of toil: ‘no-no-no-no-no-pleeeeeaaaase'.

1994–1997

E
very birder needs a place they can call their own – somewhere they can visit on a regular basis and get to know the local birdlife. Until 1994 I lived in an area of north London where the only birds I saw were confined to the park pond; hardly inspiring even to the most dedicated urban birder. Having moved to south-west London, I cast my eye around for somewhere suitable – and when my car broke down on the way to work one day, I found it.

While waiting for the AA to arrive I took a stroll down a narrow path leading down to the Thames in Barnes. Once a year, the towpath here is thronged with rowing enthusiasts, cheering the crews of the Oxford and Cambridge Boat Race. But on this day at the end of July it was quiet and peaceful, and I discovered one of London's best-kept ornithological secrets: Lonsdale Road Reservoir.

Over the next three years or so I was a faithful visitor to what soon became ‘my local patch'. In that time I recorded a grand total of 89 species: nothing out of the ordinary, but including enough ‘goodies' to keep me interested. All in all, I made almost 300 visits to Lonsdale Road, which given the relative lack of unusual birds may seem a trifle excessive. So what kept me going? The best way to describe a birder's relationship with a local patch is that the more you go, the more you want to return. Somehow the very act of getting to know somewhere and its birds in minute detail reinforces the pleasure and interest you derive from each visit.

It was the break-up of my marriage, and a move elsewhere, that took me away from my patch. Of course I missed the place, and felt the odd pang of regret at the ending of my visits there. But as the final chapter of this volume shows, I did eventually find another – even better – local patch, a few miles down the road.

Looking back, it was a memorable three years: as much for the people I met as the birds I saw. As one of them told me, in a backhanded compliment: ‘I enjoy your articles; but remember, it's not just
your
patch, it's
our
patch too!'

A local patch can be anywhere. The top of a mountain, a coastal marsh, a city park – all have their own unique and fascinating birdlife. Of course, some patches are more productive than others, but wherever you choose, there's always something interesting going on. And as the birds come and go, from day to day and from season to season, you are on hand to witness the changes.

A recent move across London means that I have a new local patch. Lonsdale Road Reservoir lies alongside the southern bank of the River
Thames, to the west of Hammersmith Bridge in south-west London. Built by the Victorians, it has long fallen into disuse as a working reservoir and is now a local nature reserve.

It may not rival more glamorous sites, but it still has a lot going for it. It is small – about half-a-mile long and a hundred yards wide – and self-contained. The lake itself is ringed by a footpath giving good views of the water, so you can cover the area thoroughly with just a pair of binoculars, instead of the vast array of optical equipment carried by some of today's birdwatchers.

Much favoured by dog-walkers, duck-feeders and courting couples, Lonsdale Road has another advantage: the birds are used to people, so are quite happy to sit still and be counted. This means that comparisons can be made and changes documented, providing a small but useful set of statistics in the battle for bird conservation.

So what birds are found here? Well, as you might expect from a former reservoir, waterfowl predominate. On my first visit at the end of July, Mallards, Tufted Ducks, Coots and Moorhens were all present with young. I also saw Great Crested and Little Grebes, along with a few Cormorants, drying their wings after fishing in the nearby river.

My first surprise was a family party of the notorious Ruddy Duck, including three males, sporting their russet plumage and bright blue bills. A few days later I discovered a female with no fewer than seven tiny chicks, obviously hatched only a day or two earlier. Whichever side of the Ruddy Duck debate you favour (and I am, I must confess, a defender of this alien upstart), it is hard not to enjoy such a sight.

At this time of year, of course, the place is full of young birds – from the Reed Warblers at the northern end of the lake, to the Song Thrushes and Blackbirds in the brambles along the footpath. However, after their young have fledged most birds stop singing, so the patch can appear rather lacking in birdlife, especially during the middle of the day.

But if I'm lucky, an early-morning visit may still be brightened up by the blue-and-orange flash of a Kingfisher, as it flicks from branch
to branch along the water's edge. And the evening sees flocks of House Martins and a few Swifts hawking for flies, with the occasional Common Tern passing through.

Despite the current heatwave, it won't be long before these birds travel south to spend the winter in Africa. As they depart, and the lush summer vegetation begins to thin out, the ducks will emerge from their dull ‘eclipse plumage' into their full finery, in preparation for the autumn and winter.

Over the coming year, in this monthly column, I shall be following the fortunes of this little patch of riverside suburbia. I aim to document the changes, the arrivals and departures, and with luck, perhaps tell you about a few surprises. In the meantime, I'd better wander over for my daily visit. I wonder what will turn up this morning?