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our euphoria at seeing the Ross’s Gull we forgot to fulfil an important promise: to phone home from time to time. Whenwe 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.
    Half-term at Dunge …
    OCTOBER 1996
    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.
    Once Bittern
    MAY 1996
    It was Mick Lane who suggested it. Mick Lane, the biggest boy in the fourth year, the captain of the