This Birding Life (25 page)

It was here in the Biebrza Marshes, on a wet and windy morning, that I finally managed to get good views of this elusive little bird. We were driving along in an old Chevy van with top Polish bird guide Marek Borkowski, when he stopped by the side of what looked like an overgrown, weedy field.

Our first reaction was surprise: why would one of Europe's rarest birds choose to live in this undistinguished looking habitat? Once we ventured closer, though, we could see why Marek had insisted we wore Wellington boots. The ‘field' was in fact submerged under almost a foot of water, out of which protruded rank grass and sedges, along with a few scattered, stunted bushes.

It didn't look as if any bird could survive in such a bizarre, watery environment. But then, above the sound of Skylarks and Meadow Pipits, we heard a short but distinctive song, described by my companion Derek as sounding like a cross between a rattle and a canary. We stopped to listen, hampered by the rain and wind. I gazed over the distant sedges, straining to see a buff-coloured bird against buff-coloured vegetation. Suddenly, I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye. Just a few metres in front of us, on a stem barely
protruding above the water, was our prize: a singing male Aquatic Warbler.

One challenge had already been achieved: to see the bird. Now we faced an even greater one: to capture it on video. Immediately we went into action: I jammed the heavy tripod into the swampy ground, Derek used his ample frame and an umbrella to shield the camera from the wind, while cameraman Andrew adjusted focus and exposure and pressed the ‘on' button. The tape began to run.

We held our breath, not daring to ask if the image passed Andrew's seriously high standards. A minute or so later the bird ducked down out of view, and he gave his verdict: ‘Stonking. Eight out of ten'. High praise indeed: and quite possibly the first time Aquatic Warbler has been captured on video.

Once the breeding season is over, Aquatic Warblers take a rather unorthodox migration route westwards, through the Low Countries and France, to their winter-quarters somewhere in western Africa. Each year, a few birds cross the Channel, turning up at south coast sites such as Radipole Lake and Marazion Marsh. It was here, almost ten years ago, that I caught a brief glimpse of three tawny-yellow juveniles, my first encounter with the species.

Of all the regular visitors to our shores, Aquatic Warbler is surely one of the least known. Its skulking habits don't advertise its presence, and it lacks the appeal of other, more glamorous, endangered species. But the very existence of this little bird at the end of the twentieth century represents a triumph of biodiversity over human interference. It has evolved to live in one of Europe's most unusual habitats, and despite a long-term decline, continues to hang on by a thread in its marshy home. For this feat alone, Aquatic Warbler deserves to survive.

Last month I took my son James on a trip to a Victorian seaside resort. We swam in the sea, played crazy golf and had breakfast at a beachfront café. During the trip I also managed to get a dozen lifers, including two waders, a woodpecker, a tit, a swallow, a warbler, a sparrow and a finch. But despite the familiar ring to these birds, we weren't visiting Brighton or Blackpool — or anywhere on this side of the Atlantic-but Cape May, New Jersey, USA.

I love birding on the other side of the Atlantic. American birds are a mirror image of European ones, with instantly recognisable families, but a very different selection of species. As well as the everyday gulls, terns and waders, we also saw waxwings, ibises, and even hummingbirds. The US gives you the best of both worlds: the birds aren't as confusing as in the tropics, but they can be just as rewarding.

Take those hummingbirds. There was something surreal about watching a Ruby-throated Hummingbird feeding from a nectar dispenser barely a couple of metres away, while I was sitting on a porch drinking cranberry juice, in what looked like an English country garden.

Pat and Clay Sutton's garden is justly famous as a haven for breeding and migrating birds. So while James curled up in a comfy hammock, I enjoyed views of a nesting Carolina Wren. Meanwhile, a Carolina Chickadee called from the trees above, sounding uncannily like a Great Tit. A sudden shower in this drought-parched landscape brought a flurry of activity, with Yellow Warblers, American Redstarts and a Cedar Waxwing – nothing out of the ordinary for the locals, but exciting birds for me.

Meanwhile, the holidaymakers thronged the beaches, oblivious to the presence of hundreds of Laughing Gulls, still sporting their dark-hooded breeding plumage. A hundred years ago this was a rare bird on
the New Jersey coast, but thanks to its ability to live alongside people it is now one of the commonest.

Further along the shore, a thousand Sanderlings raced along the tideline, frantically feeding at this pit stop on their long journey from the Arctic to South America. James dug a trench in the wet sand, while I watched a single Piping Plover, a rare and vulnerable species which still nests in small numbers along this coast.

I finally managed to drag James away from the beach, and we walked through one of Cape May's best-known birding sites, the meadows. As virtually the only remaining wetland in the current drought, the meadows act as a magnet to migrant waders, or ‘shore-birds', as they are known on this side of the pond.

The next day I took a guided walk around the meadows with Pete Dunne, director of Cape May Bird Observatory. Tall, good-looking and with a quiet air of authority, Pete is arguably the man most responsible for encouraging the growing popularity of birding in the US. He is also author of some of the best books ever written on the subject of why we watch birds.

This was the perfect opportunity to get to grips with difficult species such as Greater and Lesser Yellowlegs, Least and Semi-palmated Sandpipers, and the ultimate identification headache, Long-billed and Short-billed Dowitchers (no, the length of the bills isn't the best way to tell them apart…).

Later that day we called in at the bird observatory. James added a Bald Eagle to his collection of fluffy toys, while I got the latest birding info from observatory staffers Sheila and Marleen, as they answered an endless stream of telephone enquiries about birding. They told me what I already suspected: that although the birds were good in August, they would be even better in September, when I'll be back in Cape May. As they regaled me with tales of warbler, wader and raptor migration, I couldn't wait to return.

In the north of Holland, the sky and land and water melt into each other, and on a clear day the view seems to go on forever. There were lots of clear days in late August, when I visited the very first ‘Top of Holland Bird Festival'. It was held in a field on the edge of the Lauwesmeer, a huge expanse of lakes and marshes by the North Sea. This is a great area for birds all year round, with vast flocks of geese in winter, singing Bluethroats in spring and hordes of migrants passing south in autumn.

From the festival site itself, we watched flocks of Spoonbills passing overhead, and Buzzards above the nearby wood. On a walk nearby we saw Caspian Terns, Spotted Crakes, and more than a dozen species of wader. Because the Netherlands are that little bit further east, Dutch birdlife is markedly different from back home: the commonest waders were Little Stints and Wood Sandpipers, and there wasn't a Dunlin to be seen.

A couple of miles up the road there stood a modern corporate building, all glass and steel, surrounded by a lake. There was a small crowd of cars, so we stopped and enquired if there was anything about. There certainly was: two minuscule Red-necked Phalaropes, stopping off on the long journey from the Arctic to their wintering grounds in the Arabian Sea. True to form, these peculiar little birds swam around in tight circles, frantically picking insects off the water surface with their needle-sharp bills.

Like its big brother, the British Birdwatching Fair, the festival itself boasted a mixture of the local and the global. Dutch birders mingled with visitors from five continents, as far away as Trinidad & Tobago, Jordan, Syria, Costa Rica and New Zealand.

After leaving the festival we headed south, stopping off to watch birds along the way. Despite being one of the most heavily populated
regions on Earth, the central Netherlands is an excellent birding area. Flooded bulb fields were a magnet for more migrating waders, including large flocks of Curlew Sandpipers that look a bit like long-billed, oversized Dunlin. They undertake one of the most extraordinary journeys of all migrants: from their breeding grounds on the Siberian tundra, south and west through Europe, to spend the winter in Africa. Some autumns thousands pass through Britain; other years hardly any at all. Judging by the numbers we encountered, this has been a good breeding season.

As a final Continental fling before returning home, we stopped off at Le Portel, a seaside resort just outside Boulogne. This is one of the best places in Europe to get close-up views of Mediterranean Gulls – providing you've brought something to get their attention. Having forgotten to bring a loaf of bread, I improvised with a bar of chocolate. Gulls are nothing if not adaptable, and they soon developed a sweet tooth, flying up to grab the offering while giving feather-by-feather views.

Mediterranean Gull was once quite a rare bird in Europe, mainly confined to southern and eastern parts of the continent. Since the 1930s, however, it has spread north and west at a rapid rate, and has even begun to breed in the British Isles. So next time you see a flock of gulls, look for one with a blood-red bill, dark black hood and white wing-tips – and try offering it a piece of chocolate.