This Birding Life (34 page)

Next, Great Crested Grebe: partly because it is such a beautiful bird, but mainly because it was the local speciality on the gravel-pits at Shepperton, where I grew up. I remember spending hours watching them, especially during the breeding season, when adults carried the humbug-striped young on their backs.

Third, another bird of my youth, Little Bittern. This is an elusive, reed-dwelling species of heron, which hardly ever shows itself, and is a rare vagrant to Britain. Its presence in my pantheon of all-time greats rests solely on the efforts of one wandering individual, which turned up at Stodmarsh in Kent in May 1975, when my teenage companions and I enjoyed brief but close-up views of this skulking beauty.

I did not get out birding much in the 1980s, mainly as a result of the demands of career and children. So I was always grateful to my fourth choice, the Swift, for reminding me that there was a world out there, beyond the city. Every May, regular as clockwork, screaming packs of Swifts would arrive in whatever part of London I was living, and tear across the sky like demons. Even today, I still await their arrival with a child-like eagerness, as they seem to sum up the hopes and dreams of the coming summer.

My fifth and sixth choices are birds which, in different ways, gave me memorable experiences while I was making the television series
Birding with Bill Oddie
. The first of these, Blue-cheeked Bee-eater, was a lost and lonely individual catching bumblebees in the unlikely setting of a Shetland garden. The other, Common Crane, was in northern Israel, where I watched thousands of these majestic birds flying into their winter roost at dusk, calling as they came. Simply unforgettable.

If I were to pick a desert island to spend the rest of my life, then it would be Little Tobago, which lies just off the coast of its larger neighbour. Little Tobago plays host to one of the world's finest seabird colonies, with boobies and frigatebirds soaring around its cliffs. It is also the home of my seventh choice, arguably the most beautiful bird in the world: Red-billed Tropicbird. Watching these angelic creatures waft through the air against a topaz-blue sky is a fabulous experience.

And my final choice? A bird that I had to travel to the ends of the Earth to see: Wandering Albatross. Tragically, like all the world's albatrosses, this magnificent seabird is in danger of extinction because of deaths caused by longline fishing in the southern oceans. Seeing it, as with any albatross, is a privilege.

Oh, I almost forgot. What about my book and luxury item? Choosing a single bird book from so many is tough, but for comprehensive coverage of birds on any desert island, and indeed everywhere else, I would have to pick the multi-volume
Handbook of the Birds of the World
. And my luxury item? Yes, you've guessed it: a pair of binoculars!

A little while ago, I devoted this column to ‘Desert Island Birds': my eight all-time favourites. They were all birds that bring back special memories: Coot, Great Crested Grebe, Little Bittern, Swift, Blue-cheeked Bee-eater, Common Crane, Red-billed Tropicbird and Wandering Albatross.

I have been fortunate to have seen all these in the wild, but there are another 8000 or so species I have still not caught up with. So here is my wish list, the birds that I can only dream of seeing, some time in the future.

I have picked one bird from each of the world's eight great birding regions. My first choice, representing Europe, is Gyr Falcon, a bird that epitomises the stark beauty of the frozen north. To see it, I would travel to Varanger Fjord at the northern tip of Scandinavia, one of Europe's last truly wild places.

Crossing the pond to North America, I would love to join the forthcoming expedition in search of the Ivory-billed Woodpecker. Last seen
back in the 1980s, this huge black-and-white bird is now almost certainly extinct, though there is just a chance that a pair or two may be clinging on in the swamps of Louisiana.

Alternatively, I could head for Cuba, where Ivory-bills have also been reported in recent years. If I failed in my quest, the consolation prize would be my third choice, Bee Hummingbird. At less than 6cm long, and weighing just 1.8 grams, this Cuban endemic is the smallest bird in the world.

For my fourth species, I would travel south to the world's most bird-rich continent, South America. With almost half the world's birds to choose from, it is not easy to pick just one, but the world's largest parrot, Hyacinth Macaw, would be hard to beat.

East now, to Africa. Last year we visited The Gambia on honeymoon, when the only disappointment was that we did not manage to see Carmine Bee-eaters. Of all the world's bee-eaters, this is arguably the most stunning, with its elegant shape, decurved bill and deep-red plumage.

My sixth and seventh birds both come from regions I have yet to visit: South-east Asia and Australasia. In Asia, the birds of paradise are unbeatable, and the one I would most like to see is the bizarre yet beautiful Wallace's Standardwing. Australasia is full of equally unusual birds, including a stunning range of parrots, kiwis and the amazing lyrebird. But I would travel a little further, to New Zealand's South Island, to look for the Takahe. This giant relative of the Moorhen was once thought to be extinct, until it was rediscovered in a remote valley during the 1950s.

For my eighth choice, I shall simply pick the next new species I see, whatever it is. Whether I am in Britain or some distant corner of the globe, seeing any new bird is always a thrill. And knowing that there are well over 8000 species out there I haven't seen is the only motivation I need to go out and look for them.

I know it's not the sort of thing you're supposed to admit in the
Guardian
, but I like car parks. Please don't misunderstand me. I'm not talking about the multistorey variety or those vast concrete spaces at out-of-town shopping centres. My favourite car parks are in rather more rural settings: at places such as Stodmarsh, Titchwell and Minsmere, some of Britain's best-known hotspots for birds.

The reason is simple. Sometimes the best views are those you get the moment you open your car door, or when you're about to turn the key in the ignition and leave. It may be the constant presence of human activity, but birds in car parks often seem tamer and allow closer views, than those on the actual bird reserves.

Last November, my partner Suzanne and I went out for a Sunday afternoon walk at Stodmarsh, in the Stour Valley in Kent. The car park was full of bird activity, with flocks of Goldcrests and Long-tailed Tits foraging in the surrounding bushes, calling to each other as they went. In contrast, the reserve itself was deathly quiet. Six months later, at exactly the same place, a Cetti's Warbler competed with a Wren and a Whitethroat to see who could sing loudest. No prizes for guessing that the Cetti's won.

If you want to catch up with another loud songster, the Nightingale, just visit Minsmere in the last week of April or the first week of May, and stand on the edge of the car park. You'll soon hear the song of the poets' favourite bird, and if you hang around long enough, you have a good chance of seeing it as well.

Another RSPB car park, at Pulborough Brooks in Sussex, provided me with fabulous views of a nesting Nuthatch. I was leading a beginners' birdwatching course for the Field Studies Council, during a particularly wet spring weekend. As the rain finally stopped, the bird popped in and out of its nest hole, just a few feet above our heads.

Supermarket car parks can be just as good for birds. Flocks of Ring-necked Parakeets regularly fly over the Richmond branch of Waitrose on their way between the River Thames and Richmond Park, while Asda, on the Norwich ring road, occasionally plays host to flocks of Waxwings, winter invaders from the north.

But these are eclipsed by the rarest bird ever seen in a supermarket car park: Britain's first and only Golden-winged Warbler, discovered next to Tesco's in Maidstone, back in February 1989. This tiny bird, hardly bigger than a Blue Tit, had presumably arrived from North America the year before, swept across the ocean by autumn gales. Why it chose to make its home in such unusual surroundings we'll never know, but it was much appreciated by a crowd of several thousand avid twitchers. Unfortunately, I never got around to seeing it.

The magic of car parks works on the other side of the pond, too. This spring we visited Cape May, North America's finest spot for migrating songbirds. At least, that's what we were told. In fact, migrants were few and far between, but one did perform beautifully: a fine male Prairie Warbler, singing its heart out in, yes, the car park.

And my most memorable car park sighting? Probably the flock of Tristram's Grackles at En Gedi, Israel, last January. These sooty-black birds were drinking from a leaky hose, the only fresh water for miles around. When startled by a car horn or engine, they would fly a short distance, revealing bright orange linings to their wings, before returning to their little oasis in the sand.