This Birding Life (4 page)

And what birds! A flock of Snow Buntings by the Coastguards' Café, their wings flashing white as they flew. They were accompanied by a few Lapland Buntings – a much scarcer visitor, and one that I have struggled to see since. On the marsh, a lone Whooper Swan sat regally among the lesser wildfowl, while a tiny Grey Phalarope could be seen from one of the hides. Even the beach produced new birds: including George, a Glaucous Gull. This particular individual turned up at Cley every autumn for many years, until he eventually died, to be replaced by a younger bird – named, inevitably, ‘Boy George'.

On that first visit to Cley I saw no fewer than nine new species. And these were quality birds – ones that any birdwatcher, novice or not, would be pleased to see. Of course, having faithfully read our ‘Bible', this was no more than we had come to expect. Yet since that first visit, despite having returned to Cley dozens of times, I have never again experienced such a wealth of unusual birds.

But the very best sighting came not at Cley, nor indeed at any other well-known site. On a rare occasion when we couldn't persuade Daniel's parents to give us a lift anywhere, we decided to take a walk inland, just to see what we could find.

We were wandering aimlessly along a footpath near the hamlet of Edingthorpe when a bird swooped out of the hedgerow and perched on a twig right in front of us. It sat like a sentinel, resplendent in its smart black, white and grey uniform. Despite never having seen one before, we immediately knew it was a Great Grey Shrike, a scarce winter visitor from Scandinavia. It sat for a few moments, then flew
away, never to be seen again. But what made the experience really special was that we had found the bird ourselves, away from the classic birding sites and without the guidebook.

Ross's Gull is one of the world's most mysterious birds. It breeds in the remote Siberian tundra and winters in the Arctic Ocean, rarely venturing further south. Which doesn't explain what one was doing at an English south coast holiday resort back in the summer of 1974. But that's birds for you – always unpredictable.

I was on my first ever ‘go-it-alone' holiday with my classmate and birding companion Daniel. In those days, despite only just having turned 14, we were allowed to get on our bikes and head vaguely in the direction of Hampshire. Loaded down with tents, primus stoves and other camping equipment, our plan was to spend a week away, discovering the ornithological delights of the New Forest.

Things went pretty well at first, and we managed to avoid the juggernauts and speed maniacs, and survived to pitch our tent. Too young to pass for 18, the local pub was out of bounds, so after cooking a meal bordering on the inedible, we retired to the tent for a night's sleep.

We spent the next two or three days in an agreeable routine of getting up, having breakfast and birdwatching until we became too tired or darkness fell, whichever came first. On the third or fourth day, we were wandering around the coastal marshes at Keyhaven, and not seeing very much, when we met a fellow birder.

‘Anything about?' we enquired, in the time-honoured manner.

‘Not really – except the gull, of course,' he replied.

‘The gull?'

Remember, this was long before the days of rare-bird phonelines,
personal pagers and all the other hi-tech aids to modern twitching. It turned out that a Ross's Gull, only the eleventh ever recorded in Britain, was still present about 20 miles along the coast, at Stanpit Marsh near Christchurch.

There was nothing else for it. We got on our bikes and went for the bird. Unfortunately, being a sunny summer Sunday, a large share of the population of southern England had also decided to visit Stanpit Marsh, which as well as being a good birding spot also boasts a beach.

We waited. And waited. And eventually gave up, and endured the 20-mile ride back to our campsite – tired, hungry and frustrated. But we weren't the sort to give up that easily. Next morning we remounted our bikes and made the long trek back to the marsh. Once again we joined the small band of eager observers perched on a sandbank.

At five past eleven, just as my stomach was beginning its usual protests, the guy sitting next to us asked quietly: ‘Is this it?' We turned and looked. On the water, a hundred or so yards away, sat a small, delicate gull, its pearl-grey back contrasting with a pure white head and neck, bisected by a thin, dark line. As I focused the bins, it flew – a creature of rare grace and beauty among its commoner cousins. It was the Ross's Gull.

Twenty years later, on an unusually mild February morning, I stood with a group of twitchers by the sewage outfall at Inverness, watching another Ross's Gull. In those intervening decades, twitching has become a popular participation sport, with thousands of people racing up and down the country in search of rare birds.

I don't begrudge their enjoyment but do feel that perhaps they've taken some of the magic out of birding. I have occasional pangs of nostalgia for the days when you only heard about a rare visitor by being in the right place at the right time. And when catching up with the bird itself really meant something.

Incidentally, in our euphoria at seeing the Ross's Gull we forgot to fulfil an important promise: to phone home from time to time. When
we finally returned, caked with a week's worth of dirt, our parents weren't impressed by our excuse. That's adults for you – no sense of priorities.

To many people, the phrase ‘bird observatory' conjures up a picture of a purpose-built, space-age building, with an array of hi-tech optical equipment trained on the skies, ready to observe and record each passing bird.

The reality is rather different. Some observatories are in disused lighthouses, others in dilapidated shacks, held together with rusty nails and bits of rope. In terms of comfort, Dungeness Bird Observatory falls somewhere between the two, being the last in a line of old naval cottages, almost in the shadow of the nuclear power station.

I first visited Dunge, as the regulars call it, in late October 1974. At the start of the October half-term, Daniel and I rode off on the long journey from west London, he on his small-wheeled Moulton Mini, me on my five-speed Coventry Eagle. In those days, as now, the observatory provided basic accommodation for a dozen or so people, though at this late stage in the autumn only a hardy few were actually staying there.

We had an unforgettable week, although our staple diet of toast sprinkled with granulated sugar left something to be desired. Despite the late date, there were all sorts of interesting migrants, including a flock of 70 Firecrests in the area behind the observatory. We trapped a couple of these tiny, jewel-like birds, and were able to observe them at close quarters as they were ringed by the experts. We also saw a stunning Rough-legged Buzzard, an Arctic-nesting bird of prey which occasionally turns up in eastern England in autumn.

But the most memorable sighting of all occurred early one morning, when we were inside the observatory itself. The night before had brought high winds and rain, and we were lingering over our breakfast, wondering whether or not to brave the elements.

Then the door opened to reveal a man carrying what looked like a cardboard shoebox. In fact, that's exactly what it was – but inside it contained a small bundle of black-and-white feathers huddled among some newspaper. It was a Little Auk – victim of a ‘wreck', during which strong winds sometimes drive these tiny sea-going birds onshore. It had been picked up somewhere along the coast and brought along to the observatory's warden, Nick Riddiford.

After nursing the bird back to consciousness and giving it food and water, the decision was taken to release it back into the wild. As two 14 -year-old schoolboys, Daniel and I were flattered to be charged with this awesome responsibility.

We took the shoebox carefully down to the beach, let the bird go at the water's edge and watched as it began to float out to sea. Then, the inevitable happened. A watching Great Black-backed Gull, noticing the Little Auk's passive state, swooped down and grabbed it – and our precious cargo turned into an early lunch.

We trooped dejectedly back to the observatory to face the wrath of our colleagues. I consoled myself with the thought that the bird was obviously far too exhausted to survive, and looked forward to seeing Little Auks again in happier surroundings. Yet amazingly, I never have. Even though each autumn they pass along the east coast in their hundreds, sometimes thousands, I always arrive too early or too late.

In the last few years, thanks to better communications, Dungeness has become little more than a half-day trip from London. As a result, very few people actually stay at the observatory any more. Looking back at what we saw that week in autumn 1974, I think they're missing out.