This Birding Life (20 page)

As regular readers of this column will know, sometime in early January I usually try to devote a whole day to go out and enjoy our local birds. True to form, this year I took a jaunt around west London, enjoying the scenic beauty of its gravel-pits, reservoirs and other man-made bird haunts. As always, I was accompanied by my birding buddy Neil, whose laid-back attitude fortunately matches my own.

Neil and I do not favour the dawn starts on which many keen birders insist. Indeed, the sun was well up when we set off from my home in Hampton, heading towards our first location, the ornamental lake at Virginia Water. On the way we ticked off the usual suspects: various gulls, pigeons and crows, though not, as yet, any House Sparrows.

Despite the mild weather, Virginia Water was more than usually productive. Its local speciality, the stunning Mandarin Duck, proved surprisingly easy; while in the woods we saw Nuthatches, Siskins, Redpolls and Goldcrests. Little flocks of Redwings flew overhead, a constant feature of the day in a winter when these charming Scandinavian thrushes seem to be everywhere. We did, however, miss out on Tree-creepers; just one of several species we never quite managed to catch up with during the day.

By mid-morning, we had reached one of my childhood haunts, Wraysbury Gravel Pits. There, we bagged the winter duck trio of Goldeneye, Goosander and Smew, before moving swiftly on to another location from my youth, Staines Reservoirs. There we really noticed the mildness of the weather: normally a visit to Staines requires at least ten layers of clothing, but we hardly needed a coat. The birds still performed, however, and by the time we left, just before one o'clock, we had seen a total of 57 species.

From this point it often becomes difficult to add new birds to the list, so we decided to go for the big one – a flock of a rare northern invader reported near Bracknell. Our directions were sketchy, so we wasted half an hour driving around the outskirts of the town, before we finally caught sight of a flock of Starling-shaped birds on the edge of a housing estate. Fortunately they were not Starlings, but Waxwings – another bird which has arrived in large numbers this winter, gorging themselves on berries in suburban locations throughout Britain.

We saw an unexpected Buzzard on our way back along the M3; while an hour at the London Wetland Centre in Barnes brought a
Water Rail and Snipe – the latter spotted by an eight-year-old girl, much to the chagrin of the assembled birders.

By now, we were still missing one bird we used to take for granted: the humble House Sparrow. Just as we had almost given up, as we stopped at traffic lights in Teddington we heard a familiar chirp: sparrow finally ticked off. As the light faded, a rapid visit to Bushy Park gave us Egyptian Goose and the roosting Tawny Owls, together with spectacular fly-pasts of Ring-necked Parakeets on their way to roost.

We added the 70th and final bird of the day, Yellow-legged Gull, in almost total darkness at Hampton filter beds. A short drive home for a welcome cuppa, and a quick discussion of what we missed – Sparrowhawk, Grey Wagtail and that elusive Treecreeper. Still, there's always next year …

1994–2005

I
had reached the age of 29, and had been watching birds for more than a quarter of a century, before I finally did any serious birding abroad. The occasion was a ‘birding package holiday' to Israel run by the tour group Sunbird, and it blew my mind. At the end of a week I had not only seen close to 200 species, a third of which were ‘lifers'. I had also reinvigorated my passion for birds.

Another, even more crucial event occurred on that trip. Having spent two hectic days in the Negev Desert with the legendary Israeli birder Hadoram Shirihai, I offered to write an account of the trip for the magazine
Birding World
. This duly appeared in print, and my career as a writer on all things ornithological had finally begun.

Since that first trip, I have travelled to six of the world's seven continents in search of birds. Many of these trips were courtesy of the
BBC licence-payer and accompanied by a film crew: I have been with Bill Oddie to Florida, Trinidad & Tobago, Israel, Mallorca, Poland, the Netherlands, New Jersey, Iceland, California and Patagonia; with Michaela Strachan to Antarctica; and with the
Big Cat Diary
team to the Masai Mara. Others were simply for pleasure, including our honeymoon to The Gambia.

What they all have in common – apart, of course, from the birds – are the people we met, who helped us in our travels, many of whom have become lifelong friends. This chapter is dedicated to them.

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.

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.