This Birding Life (8 page)

Friday, 13 May might not be the best day to rush around chasing birds, but that didn't put us off. We were taking part in a charity bird race, run by BirdLife International. The idea was to raise sponsorship cash for Project Halmahera in Indonesia, while undergoing an endurance test that would put the SAS to shame.

The rules are simple. You have 24 hours in which to see (or hear) as many species of bird as possible, in a single county. We chose Norfolk, which generally produces the highest total, and where the British record of 159 species was set in May 1992. Our aim was more modest – to reach 150 species if possible.

At 2.48 a.m. we chalked up bird number one – a cacophony of Nightingales, singing their hearts out on Salthouse Heath. We didn't actually
see
them, as it was pitch-dark, and stayed that way for the following couple of hours. But this didn't stop my sharp-eared colleagues Sacha, Jo and team-leader Mark from totting up more than 20 species by first light, on song and call alone.

Mark is the local expert, so we followed his directions inland, towards a dawn chorus in the Norfolk Brecks. On the way, we added Tawny Owl (on a roadside post) and a ghostly Barn Owl, dazzled by our headlights as it floated across the road. Before dawn we were at
Lynford Arboretum, one of the few large mixed woodlands in Norfolk. We found the usual range of songbirds, along with a couple of unexpected species such as a Golden Pheasant croaking in the undergrowth. For the rest of the day we followed a long and winding route around the county, dropping in on known sites for hard-to-see species, and famous hotspots like the RSPB reserve at Titchwell.

The key to a successful bird race is the weather. Beforehand, it should be bad enough to blow in some interesting birds. But on the day itself, wind and rain drive birds under cover and make the bird-racers themselves thoroughly miserable. We were fortunate. A run of easterly winds had deposited a selection of unusual visitors, while to our relief, the weather on the 13th was sunny and warm.

The day's highlight came at an unlikely spot – a road junction in the village of Narborough. A flock of Jackdaws flying overhead, with one larger bird, caught our eye. Binoculars revealed an unfortunate Osprey being mobbed by its smaller companions. This may have been one of the Scottish Ospreys, but was perhaps more likely to have drifted off course while on the way from its African winter-quarters to Scandinavia. Either way, it had the desired effect of providing a surge of much-needed adrenaline.

In contrast, some quite familiar species can be hard to find. Kingfishers are scarce in Norfolk, and predictably, we failed to see one. We also missed out on migrant songbirds, which were very thin on the ground. However, during the course of the day we did tot up 13 species of duck, 29 different waders and 9 warblers.

As darkness fell, we had managed to log 148 species, frustratingly short of our target. Fortunately, Mark's local knowledge paid off, when we came across a Little Owl in the grounds of a stately home. Then it was back to where we started, the Norfolk Naturalists' Trust reserve at Cley. A quick stagger across a darkened marsh, and we heard the distant but unmistakable sound of a booming Bittern. We'd reached 150, and it was time to adjourn to the George for a well-earned pint.

The words Belfast and birdwatching don't often get mentioned in the same breath. Yet last month, on a hill overlooking the city, I watched the aerial acrobatics of a pair of Peregrine Falcons. I caught sight of the first bird as I reached the top of a steep slope, above a sheer cliff-face. It was holding something in its talons – probably one of the ubiquitous Meadow Pipits that breed on the grassy moors and are the Peregrine's staple diet during the breeding season. As it called its shrill, repetitive call, it was joined by the second bird, a smaller male. The two twisted and turned on stiff, powerful wings in the updraughts by the cliff.

We sat on the summit, caught our breath, and enjoyed the view, while the falcons performed their gymnastic display against an incongruous urban backdrop. From this side view they looked like fighter jets, cruising effortlessly through the air, and changing speed with the barest flicker of a wing.

When hunting, Peregrines tower high into the clouds, then fold back their wings before plunging headlong towards their oblivious prey. This spectacle is known as a ‘stoop', during which the bird may reach speeds of 180mph. The Belfast birds seemed content to ride the air-currents – perhaps they just weren't hungry …

The Peregrine is one of conservation's rare success stories. In the last two or three decades it has truly come back from the brink – after a double whammy threatened to wipe out the British and Irish populations. Before the Second World War Peregrines were fairly common throughout the northern and western parts of the British Isles, especially on high ground and near coasts. But when war broke out, the falcon fell victim to a systematic campaign waged by the Ministry of Defence, who believed Peregrines were killing thousands of homing pigeons used to carry vital messages. More than 600 pairs – a third of
the prewar population – were shot, and the bird was eradicated from many of its former haunts.

Then, just as the species was beginning to recover from one disaster, a second struck. During the late 1950s, it was discovered that Peregrine egg-shells had become far thinner and more prone to breakage than before. Numbers began to drop dramatically, and it seemed the species might finally disappear from the British Isles. But after some brilliant detective work by scientists at the Nature Conservancy, the culprit was discovered. Organochlorine pesticides such as DDT were entering the food chain and accumulating in lethal levels in the Peregrine, via its prey. After a campaign by conservation organisations, these pesticides were banned, and the recovery began.

Since the 1960s, the Peregrine population has risen steadily, with a recent survey estimating almost 1500 breeding pairs. Though still in danger from unscrupulous falconers and egg-collectors, the species has now begun to recolonise its former haunts. Sometimes, in autumn and winter, it can be seen at coastal marshes, where it preys on waders and wildfowl. But for me, it's hard to beat that sight of a pair of Peregrines in their mastery of the steel-grey skies above the Belfast skyline.

I used to live in north London, about as far from the English countryside as you can get. I only knew summer had come when I heard the sounds of screaming as I walked to the tube station. Not the agonies of the city commuter, but the cries of a bird – the Swift, one of the latest summer visitors to return to Europe. They arrive in southern England in late April or early May, and in northern counties a week or two later. With their cigar-shaped bodies and scythe-like wings, they are one of the most typical sights – and sounds – of summer in the city.

This year, despite the fine weather at the end of April, the Swifts didn't appear – at least not in my little corner of suburbia. May Day came and went, still with no sign of their return. Impatient to see them, I headed to the RSPB's reserve at Minsmere in Suffolk.

The weather could hardly have been better – for the birds, at least. I soon caught up with the Swifts, screaming across the blue skies above the village of Westleton. Unfortunately the same cloudless skies had encouraged many migrating waders to press on north to their Arctic breeding grounds, rather than stopping off to refuel on Minsmere's lush lagoons.

In compensation, various warblers were proclaiming their newfound territories with song. Every bush, it seemed, contained an acrobatic Whitethroat; every reedbed a Sedge Warbler; every patch of trees a Chiffchaff, Willow Warbler or Blackcap. Even the picnic area by the car park played host to a Garden Warbler, belting out its rapid burst of song.

But the sovereign of songsters was more elusive. Half-way round the reserve I finally heard the unmistakable sound of the Nightingale, pouring a medley of rich, mellow notes into the morning air. While I waited for the bird to emerge from the dense thicket, I could hear the most famous summer sound of all – the call of the Cuckoo.

Minsmere is best-known for three rare breeding species. Its greatest success, and the emblem of the RSPB itself, is the famous Avocet. A hundred or so pairs of this elegant wader nest on the ‘scrape', the lagoons and islands in the centre of the reserve. I watched as they waded waist-deep in the brackish water, dipping in their long, upturned bills to catch their tiny prey. From another hide, I enjoyed the spectacle of Marsh Harriers, quartering the reeds on their long, broad wings. Occasionally the male would rise high in the air, then plummet down to pass food to his mate.

Minsmere's third speciality, the Bittern, was once widespread in East Anglia, but the draining of the fens confined it to a handful of sites. Bitterns are normally so elusive that you doubt their very
existence, but this day was a welcome exception. Perhaps encouraged by the warm weather, they emerged from the reeds: two in flight, and one feeding right in front of the hide.

The icing on the cake was a sighting of an even rarer bird. Returning from Africa, a Purple Heron had overshot its intended destination and had been carried across the sea to Minsmere by light, southerly winds. After a long wait, I was rewarded when it flew up and perched momentarily on a tree, showing its deep, purple plumage and serpent-like neck. Minutes later, it flew back into the reeds, never to be seen again.

And when I finally got back to the London suburbs, there were the Swifts, screaming across the skies above my head as if they'd never been away.