This Birding Life Read Online Free Page B
Author: Stephen Moss
rugby team, the undisputed British Bulldog champion. âWhy donât we go birdwatching?â As recollections of teenage life go, this isnât quite in the same league as âwhy donât we bunk off school and go to a twenty-four-hour rave?â Then again, we didnât really go in for that sort of thing. So in the Whitsun half-term, Mick, Daniel and I packed our bags and set off for Stodmarsh, in east Kent.
It was my first real experience of birdwatching in spring, and I was, to put it bluntly, gobsmacked. Reed and Sedge Warblers were everywhere we looked. Whitethroats sang from any available perch, swaying in the breeze. And every few minutes, a Cuckoo flew past.
Itâs probably nostalgia that creates this rose-tinted picture of delight. But one bird will stay in my memory until I finally hang up my binoculars. A Little Bittern. Not a âlittle Bitternâ, but a Little Bittern: the Bitternâs rare and elusive southern European relative.
The day was Sunday, 25 May, and it was a scorcher. By lunchtime, my stomach was in a state of open rebellion. Daniel and Mick seemed happy to survive on the bowl of cornflakes weâd had for breakfast, but I wasnât. They put up with my whingeing for a while, and then gave in, so we walked back to the pub. Following in that great British tradition, in those days the Red Lion stopped serving food at 1.30 on a Sunday afternoon. We made do with a couple of packets of beef and onion crisps, and a lemonade. As we wandered back, we werenât in the best of moods. Then, we met a man with the look of someone with urgent news to impart.
âIâve just seen a male Little Bittern,â he gasped. So did we. Weâd just missed the bird of a lifetime. And it was my fault â or at least, my stomachâsâ¦
But the great thing about Stodmarsh is that you can only go in two directions, unless you want to get your feet wet. So we strode forward along the footpath. I was just beginning to have my doubts when I noticed a bird flying alongside, low above the reeds, with trailing legs, yellow underparts and huge, pink wing-patches.
I canât even begin to describe the feeling as I watched my first Little Bittern passing by in the afternoon sun. What a bird! It stayed another two days, during which we got another couple of fleeting views, as it briefly rose from the reeds, before plunging back out of sight.
The next afternoon our peace of mind was disturbed by a manic figure carrying a battered pair of binoculars. At first he couldnât speak, having run all the way from the car park. Fighting for breath, he managed to gasp a question: âDid ⦠Did ⦠Didnât you ring anybody? Donât you know anyone on the grapevine?â
We didnât, and hadnât. We were blissfully unaware that such a shady organisation, by which news of a rare bird was spread among Britainâs twitchers, even existed. Thereâs a word for it now â suppression â one of the deadliest sins a birdwatcher can commit. But we hadnât suppressed the Little Bittern â we just hadnât got any two-pence pieces for the phone. Eventually our interrogator calmed down, and settled down to wait for the birdâs appearance. But despite sleeping out overnight, he never did get to see it.
Two decades later, part of me is sad that the Little Bittern remains a very rare bird in Britain. But less charitably, I rub my hands with glee at the thought of all those twitchers who still havenât got it on their British list.
It remains one of the greatest moments in my birdwatching life, and it probably always will. Like Cup Finals and Wimbledon, ice cream and summer holidays, some things are never quite as good as when you were 15 years old â¦
Albert memorial
JULY 1996
By the time I left Cambridge University in the summer of 1982, Iâd more or less given up watching birds. Along with stamp-collecting and kicking a football
It was my first real experience of birdwatching in spring, and I was, to put it bluntly, gobsmacked. Reed and Sedge Warblers were everywhere we looked. Whitethroats sang from any available perch, swaying in the breeze. And every few minutes, a Cuckoo flew past.
Itâs probably nostalgia that creates this rose-tinted picture of delight. But one bird will stay in my memory until I finally hang up my binoculars. A Little Bittern. Not a âlittle Bitternâ, but a Little Bittern: the Bitternâs rare and elusive southern European relative.
The day was Sunday, 25 May, and it was a scorcher. By lunchtime, my stomach was in a state of open rebellion. Daniel and Mick seemed happy to survive on the bowl of cornflakes weâd had for breakfast, but I wasnât. They put up with my whingeing for a while, and then gave in, so we walked back to the pub. Following in that great British tradition, in those days the Red Lion stopped serving food at 1.30 on a Sunday afternoon. We made do with a couple of packets of beef and onion crisps, and a lemonade. As we wandered back, we werenât in the best of moods. Then, we met a man with the look of someone with urgent news to impart.
âIâve just seen a male Little Bittern,â he gasped. So did we. Weâd just missed the bird of a lifetime. And it was my fault â or at least, my stomachâsâ¦
But the great thing about Stodmarsh is that you can only go in two directions, unless you want to get your feet wet. So we strode forward along the footpath. I was just beginning to have my doubts when I noticed a bird flying alongside, low above the reeds, with trailing legs, yellow underparts and huge, pink wing-patches.
I canât even begin to describe the feeling as I watched my first Little Bittern passing by in the afternoon sun. What a bird! It stayed another two days, during which we got another couple of fleeting views, as it briefly rose from the reeds, before plunging back out of sight.
The next afternoon our peace of mind was disturbed by a manic figure carrying a battered pair of binoculars. At first he couldnât speak, having run all the way from the car park. Fighting for breath, he managed to gasp a question: âDid ⦠Did ⦠Didnât you ring anybody? Donât you know anyone on the grapevine?â
We didnât, and hadnât. We were blissfully unaware that such a shady organisation, by which news of a rare bird was spread among Britainâs twitchers, even existed. Thereâs a word for it now â suppression â one of the deadliest sins a birdwatcher can commit. But we hadnât suppressed the Little Bittern â we just hadnât got any two-pence pieces for the phone. Eventually our interrogator calmed down, and settled down to wait for the birdâs appearance. But despite sleeping out overnight, he never did get to see it.
Two decades later, part of me is sad that the Little Bittern remains a very rare bird in Britain. But less charitably, I rub my hands with glee at the thought of all those twitchers who still havenât got it on their British list.
It remains one of the greatest moments in my birdwatching life, and it probably always will. Like Cup Finals and Wimbledon, ice cream and summer holidays, some things are never quite as good as when you were 15 years old â¦
Albert memorial
JULY 1996
By the time I left Cambridge University in the summer of 1982, Iâd more or less given up watching birds. Along with stamp-collecting and kicking a football
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