This Birding Life (3 page)

As the years went on, and I ventured further afield in search of birds, I visited Staines less and less. A quick hack up and down the causeway on New Year's Day in search of species to boost my ‘year list', and the odd trip to see a rarity were about the limit. Perhaps it was the sense of familiarity, or the excitement of exploring other, more picturesque sites, but I just found I couldn't get excited about the place anymore. But it was great while it lasted.

As we set off on our family holiday to the south coast in July 2005, I had an unexpected flashback to the first time I visited the area, more than three decades ago. It was the summer of 1970, and at the age of ten I had just discovered the delights of birdwatching.

I was clutching my very first pair of binoculars, purchased for fourteen pounds, nineteen shillings and sixpence, and a pristine copy of the famous ‘Peterson, Mountfort & Hollom' field guide. My mother and grandmother might have been looking forward to a relaxing rest on the beach, but I was determined to spend the whole fortnight in search of birds.

As soon as we arrived at the quiet little Hampshire resort of Milford-on-Sea, and had checked into our boarding house (imaginatively named ‘Sea Walls'), I was badgering my mother to take me for a walk. Fortunately Milford is situated next to some of the best tidal mudflats in the county, so as the sun began to set I found myself gazing with delight at Oystercatchers, Dunlin, Redshank and Curlew – all new species to me, and the start of my continuing passion for wading birds.

Within a couple of days we had graduated to the nearby Keyhaven Marshes, which held even greater prizes, including Bar-tailed and Black-tailed Godwits, and my first Blackcap and Stonechat – both singing out in the open, conveniently allowing me to identify them with certainty.

When not playing crazy golf or ruining my teeth with toffee apples and candy floss, I spent the holiday happily adding new birds to my ever-growing ‘life list'. Unfortunately having a field guide that included all the birds of continental Europe as well as Britain led to a few errors: such as the time I misidentified a small flock of Linnets on the lawn of our boarding house as Britain's first Bar-tailed Desert
Larks – a species confined to the arid deserts of North Africa and the Middle East.

We also visited the New Forest, where I correctly identified a Marsh Tit in the woods and a Grey Wagtail on one of the streams. But my favourite outing was a little further away, to Brownsea Island off the Dorset coast. We were given a guided tour of this delightful place, which seemed like a little piece of the Mediterranean in southern England.

This turned out to be even more appropriate. As we entered one of the hides overlooking a lagoon the warden gave an exclamation of surprise, for a hundred yards away, perched on a tree overhanging the water, was a snow-white apparition of a bird, glowing like none I had ever seen before. It was, of course, a Little Egret – a common enough bird nowadays, but at that time a true rarity. I later found out that the summer of 1970 saw a mini-invasion of these lovely birds, a foretaste of the permanent colonisation that occurred 20 years or so later.

No doubt this summer I shall see a few egrets, perhaps at Radipole Lake in Weymouth, or just on one of the pools along the coast. But nothing can take away the wonder of that very first sighting.

If you want to spend a spring day birdwatching anywhere in the British Isles, you'd be hard pushed to beat the RSPB's showpiece reserve at Minsmere, on the Suffolk coast. So when at the age of 13, I had the chance to visit, I couldn't wait.

It was the Easter holidays, as my mother and I headed up the A12 for the unknown reaches of East Anglia. I remember stopping off somewhere in suburban Essex – not to watch birds, but to buy my birthday present, a pair of old-fashioned Zeiss binoculars. They may
look like antiques now, but these East German optics were absolutely superb, opening up a whole new world of birding experience.

I was dying to try them out and didn't have long to wait. If I remember correctly, we actually visited another RSPB reserve, Havergate Island, before making the pilgrimage to Minsmere. It was there that I saw my first Avocets.

For anyone who hasn't seen an Avocet, it is one of those birds where pictures just can't do justice to the real thing. Perched on long blue legs, with their black-and-white plumage and bizarre, upcurved bill, they look like something out of an avant-garde design competition.

I watched as one bird strolled right past our hide, utterly unconcerned at our presence. It was so close I wanted to reach out and touch it. When the RSPB adopted the Avocet as their logo they really knew what they were doing – it truly is a fabulous bird.

Next day, we finally got to Minsmere itself. I had read about it in countless books; envied those lucky enough to go there; probably even dreamt about the place. I could hardly contain my excitement.

It was a wonderful day. If my memory serves me correctly, I saw at least a dozen ‘lifers' – birds I had never set eyes on before. But one still eluded us. In those days, the Marsh Harrier was on the brink of extinction as a British bird, with only a couple of breeding pairs. But it still nested on the reserve at Minsmere.

The best place to see the harriers was (and still is) the Island Mere Hide, so that's where we went. Along with a large party of loud, upper-class women, we sat in the hide and waited. Everyone scanned the reeds, but in vain. Then my mother, who didn't even have a pair of binoculars, asked no one in particular: ‘What's that big bird over there?' A large man with an air of authority took a look, and in a booming voice announced: ‘Well spotted Madam – it's a Marsh Harrier!'

We left the hide. Realising that this was none other than the warden, Bert Axell, I caught up with him. As youngsters do, I plied him with question after question, chattering away about the Avocets, harriers
and everything else I'd seen that day. I was only dimly aware of one of the women tugging my mother's sleeve and hissing: ‘This is a private party – get that child away from Mr Axell.'

Finally, after I'd exhausted my almost bottomless curiosity, Bert Axell wished me well, and we parted – he relieved, me proud and pleased to have spoken to the great man. It was only years later that I discovered that H.E. Axell, as he was better known, had a fearsome reputation. Not only had he almost single-handedly made Minsmere what it is today, but he was famous for not suffering fools gladly – even, dare I say it, for having a shortish temper. All I can say is that despite the woman's protests, he listened to me with patience, generosity and good humour.

Childhood enthusiasm is a vital commodity in all areas of knowledge – but especially in birdwatching. An unkind word or lack of encouragement, and a young person can rapidly lose interest. But when someone takes time to listen, even for just a few minutes, it rekindles the spark into what has become, for me at least, a lifelong passion.

When I was a young birdwatcher, there was nothing I enjoyed more than visiting new places and seeing new birds. But unlike previous generations, who had to find their own birding sites, we had a useful tool to help us.
Where to Watch Birds
, published in 1967, was the bird-finding equivalent of
The Good Food Guide
, telling us where we could enjoy five-star service and cordon bleu birds.

The author, John Gooders, had a nice line in hyperbole, describing the reserve at Cley next the Sea in north Norfolk as ‘a Mecca for birdwatchers'. Even at the age of 13, I knew that this promised a feast of birds. So when Daniel and I found ourselves spending the October
half-term holiday a few miles along the coast at Mundesley, we were determined to make the pilgrimage to Cley.

One of the drawbacks of
Where to Watch Birds
was that we naively treated the contents as Holy Writ, believing that we only needed to turn up to see every species mentioned in the text. This led, I recall, to some disappointing moments over the years. But not this time. For once, the book was absolutely spot-on: as we wandered around the reserve the birds were everywhere.