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- Herausgeber: Merlin Unwin Books
- Kategorie: Lebensstil
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022
No need to travel halfway round the globe to spot iconic wildlife – it's right here on our doorstep in the UK and Steve Wright, keen amateur naturalist, travels from the Isle of Man to Norfolk, to the Orkneys, Northern Ireland and everywhere in-between on his various short holiday expeditions, clutching his specific wildlife wish-list for each trip. The result is an inspiring and engaging diary of his personal encounters with white-tailed eagles, otters, bottlenose dolphins, fulmars, puffins, osprey, sand lizards, even red-necked wallabies. And the characters he meets on the way. He hears snipe drumming, watches a shrew in Wales, admires pilot whales off Lewis. Steve's wildlife travel diaries give excellent practical tips, such as bird-hide etiquette, how to identify birds on the wing, how to consult local wildlife rangers about what might be spotted on each outing and where to find that species. But most importantly his highly-readable wildlife travels are a call to others to book themselves in to pubs and small hotels the length and breadth of Britain and follow his example, for a series of fun British wildlife safaris.
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Contents
Author’s Note
Being a wildlife enthusiast has genuinely made me a more altruistic person. In my twenties I was detached from nature, but since I re-engaged in my thirties, I’ve become more relaxed and happier. Generally, I’m a better person. Fresh air, walks in the countryside and participating in multi-sensory hobbies is scientifically proven to aid mental wellbeing – my personal experience supports the evidence.
Having a close connection to nature is a gift which gives me great comfort. I’d always choose the countryside in preference to any city. To me, waterfalls are more joyful than ornamental fountains, wildflower meadows more beautiful than manicured lawns, and the excitement of a thunder storm surpasses any firework display.
I have acquaintances I know very well, we have a close understanding, and I’m able to grasp their mood by interpreting facial expressions and body postures. These tiny signals from friends are only understood by myself and those close to them: it creates a more intimate bond and strengthens our relationships. I now have a similar connection with the natural world – I can interpret wildlife behaviour and anticipate its subsequent actions (and occasionally get it right). Just like my feelings towards friends, I now care for the wildlife around me very deeply.
If you share my enthusiasm for wildlife, then please promote it to others. We need more people to join us; we are obliged to protect our environment for future generations. It’s also crucial right now for our own personal wellbeing.
If you have an adventurous spirit you too can share as much joy and excitement as I’ve experienced. Wildlife enthusiasm is one of the cheapest, personally rewarding and most entertaining pastimes for anyone. Go out there, respect nature and enjoy exploring. Have fun! And try not to slip down any hills, get stung, get soaked or eat anything poisonous.
Map showing where my wildlife safaris have taken me
To Mum & Dad
Introduction
Imagine yourself in a busy Parisian café and the locals are chatting – but you only understand English. Then envisage the same scene if you are fluent in French and how your surroundings become more interesting. A proficiency in nature’s language will also widen your senses.
Like learning languages, there are many stages to becoming a fluent wildlife watcher and my journey has novice beginnings. If you want to be more connected to nature, then I hope that by following my adventures you will learn a method that’ll help you see dolphins, eagles, snakes and otters.
Some friends think I witness an abundance of wildlife because I’m lucky. It won’t take you many pages to realise I’m not overly blessed with luck. Instead I rely on building experience, learning field skills and being inquisitive. I don’t claim to be an expert, I’m fascinated by everything and haven’t specialised in any particular field. There’s great complexity and diversity in British nature, and there are considerable gaps in my knowledge. I’m able to identify 200 British bird species, but there are more than a thousand moths and that’s too challenging! I like the fact there’s always something new, whether it’s the first sighting of a species, habitat, behaviour… or a new, to me, moth.
As a youngster I was intrigued by all manner of wildlife and occasionally enjoyed great encounters. One autumn day an exotic bird landed in a hedgerow beside me and tucked into the hawthorn berries. I stared at this colourful creature and after it flew off, consulted my battered bird-book. I incorrectly thought the bird was a hoopoe and was convinced for many years I’d seen one. When older, and with somebody wiser, we saw a waxwing and my acquaintance highlighted my mistake.
My friend Kirsty once spotted a large brown bird sitting on a country path and thought she’d discovered an exotic partridge with cascading plumes of feathers. Once closer, she realised it was a pile of horse muck. It happens to everyone. Although it does seem to happen to Kirsty more than most.
Some twitchers get agitated by misidentification – I think it’s a fun part of the hobby. Spotting a new species is always great, even when initially misidentified. However, the pinnacle for me has always been watching animal behaviour, such as predators chasing prey, territorial battles and courtship.
Like most people I don’t have the luxury of a full-time job in nature conservation, but in my spare time I’m a wildlife tour guide and cameraman. Whenever I go for a walk or stare out of a window, I look for wildlife – never to the detriment of other pursuits – it just embellishes my daily life.
My adventures as a wildlife enthusiast have taken me across the world and most importantly to remote locations around the British Isles. What is so special about British wildlife? I once took a Russian on a guided tour and promoted our wildlife to him and he replied dryly, ‘Back home we have bears and wolves.’
True, Britain lacks the megafauna of Russia or the ‘Big Five’ of the Serengeti. Whale watching around Britain never guarantees a sighting and our largest land mammals are red deer – tiny in comparison to African elephants. Our largest land carnivores are foxes (small dogs) and badgers (who eat worms, not zebras). I researched Britain’s most dangerous creature and the overriding consensus was… a wasp. Fair enough if you are at risk of anaphylactic shock – for everybody else it’s a small insect which can be trapped in a glass of orange juice. Further down the list of ‘dangerous’ British beasts were seagulls (I will debate the term ‘seagulls’ later.) I’ve often feared for my lunch around gulls, but never felt in personal jeopardy. I weigh eighty kilos and a herring gull weighs about one and a half, so I fancy my chances, even against a flock. From personal experience the British creatures most likely to cause you harm are horseflies, midges and customers of late-night takeaways.
Canada has bears, India has tigers and Australia has venomous snakes. It’s a big positive that Britain presents little risk of lion attack or being bitten by a deadly spider whilst on the toilet. It’s always best to start with modest subjects and work your way up. If your first waterfall is the Angel Falls, subsequent waterfalls might disappoint. We Bristish start with foxes and badgers, so we can get excited if we see leopards elsewhere in the world.
The British weather is often a source of criticism. Sure, winters are dark and gloomy, summer is over in a matter of weeks and where I live, trees grow at a slant because of the prevalent wind. However, the wet climate rewards us with lush green landscapes, fast-flowing rivers and species-rich woodlands. Some people peer outside and decide not to venture into horizontal rain – I’d rather go out and get soaked than spend a day indoors.
The changing seasons mean new things are poised to happen on the British calendar. After New Year I search for snowdrops or listen for song thrushes. When I get a phenological fix, the moment brightens my day. I’ll then look for the next seasonal event – wood sorrel in flower, tadpoles, and birds carrying nesting material.
Across Britain there are regional specialities – eagles above mountains, snakes in southern heathlands and abundant seabird colonies around the coast. Britain has hundreds of nature reserves, each with something special to celebrate. There are 140,000 miles of public footpaths and nearly 20,000 miles of coastline. I have explored locations all around the British Isles and this book features the highlights.
There is excitement and danger in our untamed wild. Nature can be a ruthless, dirty and unpleasant place and I’m not going to hold back on the grisly realities. My adventures include me being bitten, stung, pecked, covered in crap and even farted on. To me, wildlife watching is definitely not cute and cuddly. Creatures thrive in hostile environments; they fight each other, avoid being eaten while trying to consume enough to survive, and if they’re very lucky they might procreate. I’m fascinated by the fact that while I’m sat inside my centrally heated house, clashes for survival are happening outside. Could you withstand a life in the wild? I’m not sure I could. I enjoy visiting the battlefields and returning to my creature comforts.
By learning from my experiences, you can enjoy sights you might otherwise miss, your life will become more exciting and you’ll have an increasing passion for nature. You can learn from my successful tricks and tactics – and hopefully avoid my mistakes.
How to Begin with Birdsong
Everyone can increase their basic knowledge significantly with only a little time and effort. Just ask yourself the question, ‘What’s that?’ and look for the answer.
Birds are the main source of study for British wildlife watchers, because most of our large diurnal mammals have been hunted to extinction by our ancestors (I’m not criticising them – my generation has succeeded in doing much worse).
Anyone who’s learned birdsongs will already know it’s a valuable and rewarding skill. I genuinely think it’s achievable for anyone with reasonable hearing who appreciates the countryside. If New Year resolutions are your thing, January is the perfect month to begin – in May the summer migrants arrive and make it more complicated; it’s like either learning to drive in an empty car park or a ring-road during rush hour.
Start by going for a relaxing walk, preferably on a sunny day in a park or woodland. Stop and listen to the surrounding bird calls; you can use the voice recorder on your phone to capture unfamiliar songs, then check them later online, or use one of those new-fangled mobile phone apps.
Birds often heard in January include song thrushes, robins and wrens, then later in March you might also hear blackbirds. Websites can help you learn their calls (it’s much easier to hear them, rather than follow written descriptions). You will undoubtedly hear lots of short chirps and tweets – I suggest you only concentrate on the longer songs at first. Also, some birds have a wide range of vocalisation and their full repertoire will only become familiar with experience.
Once the above four songbird species are mastered, you can move onto the rest. These include great tits which sing, ‘Teacher teacher teacher’, and dunnocks who attempt to warble but lack high-pitched notes; like me emulating Michael Jackson.
Beginners can initially group two sets of birds together and separate them later. The chirps of blue tits and coal tits are similar, so too are the repetitive calls of song thrushes and mistle thrushes, so for the moment just class them as tits and thrushes.
A British bird you often hear, but rarely see, is the goldcrest. It sings a very high-pitched song which reminds me of the cavalry bugler in cowboy movies such as Stagecoach. Goldcrests love conifers, because their slight weight and thin beaks allow them to catch tiny morsels hidden between pine needles. So, if you hear a tiny bugler and you are near evergreens, it’s probably a goldcrest and you’ve just encountered Europe’s smallest bird.
With all those nailed, you can add more birds which sing later in spring; such as blackcaps, chaffinches, goldfinches and greenfinches. Of these, blackcaps are my favourite; they have a jaunty ditty which is the most beautiful song in my woodlands during April and May (nightingales are sadly absent from my local patch). Other migrants arrive soon afterwards and depending where you live, these will include warblers. Warblers rarely visit bird-tables and therefore are often unseen – so it’s a special gift when you begin to listen to the countryside and realise warblers are plentiful. There’s the willow warbler with its cascading notes and chiffchaff calling its name: ‘Chiff chaff, chiff chaff’. Experienced birders might be able to identify a warbler by its legs and plumage. For the novice birdwatcher, warblers tend to look similar, so their songs are your best guide.
After learning all the above, you should be able to recognise the majority of British bird calls you’ll hear – congratulations, you’ve done most of the hard work! Your dawn choruses will never be the same again and most importantly you can pick out rarities. One example of how this is beneficial happened during one of my autumnal riverside walks. I identified the singular chirps of chaffinch and the loud brisk song of a wren – then I heard a single high-pitched note. It was like someone blowing down a recorder (not playing a recorder, as everyone knows that sounds bloody awful). My knowledge of common bird songs enabled me to separate this unusual noise from the familiar and I turned in its direction. If I was unable to eliminate the other calls, I would’ve never investigated and would have missed seeing a kingfisher.
I enjoy the fact that my hobby is challenging and even if I don’t see anything new, I’ve had fun rambling around the countryside. I always look, listen and stop for anything curious. If I’m joined by friends, I prefer to go with fellow enthusiasts. It is difficult to see wildlife in the company of unruly dogs, noisy talkers and feral children. You’ll also miss out if you racewalk, have a phone in your face or blast music into your ears.
Try and create as little disturbance as possible; you ideally want to discover wildlife before it sees you, because if it’s unaware of your presence, you’ll have a greater chance of seeing something special. Avoid bright clothing; try and blend into the landscape rather than be a beacon. I went through a phase of wearing a camouflage jacket until a child asked, ‘Are you in the army?’ On a separate occasion someone else commented, ‘Oh, I didn’t see you there, I thought you were a shrub.’ Maybe don’t wear camouflage clothing for those reasons, but I still wear a foliage patterned floppy hat to the despair of my fashion-conscious friends. The rest of my attire is usually beige or green which works just as successfully as camouflage.
There are great benefits in having membership to conservation clubs. My local Wildlife Trust has enabled me to join an eclectic range of events; wildflower identification, owl pellet dissection, bat detecting and fungi foraging. Trust reserves also provide opportunities to meet other enthusiasts and they’ll usually delight in sharing their knowledge.
I watch natural history documentaries and have a wide collection of field guides which I’ll carry if I’m searching for something specific. Websites can yield additional support in tandem to this book, especially if you want to hear or see any of the mentioned species. You can also use local websites for recent sightings in your area.
Childhood
As an infant in the 1970s, home was in a landlocked corner of Cheshire in north-west England. Wildlife watching was the second most interesting subject in my life (after dinosaurs, of course). Basic knowledge included the call of cuckoos, starlings and house sparrows, plus insects such as ladybirds, red ants and common butterflies. However, I struggled with plant names (the pace of their lives was too slow for a child), but I knew some species including dandelions, buttercups and nettles (usually after I’d been stung).
One of my most notable childhood encounters happened after a thud on our patio window. On the ground outside there was an unconscious male bullfinch. I approached and bent down. Once gently cupped in the palm of my hands he felt warm and fluffy. I was surprised by his lack of weight and how small he was close up. A red-pinkish chest, sturdy beak and black wings with a silvery band. Beautiful. Within seconds of him being safely in my hands he awoke and blinked an eye. Although I longed to curl my fingers around him and keep this treasure, I knew he should be free. It was a difficult dilemma for a child. I opened my hands flat and after a flurry of wing beats, he disappeared over my neighbour’s fence. A week later he returned to the garden, and yes, I am convinced he was the same male bullfinch. He perched for a breath and looked directly at me, before he vanished forever. He gave me a memorable connection with nature and made me want to be good to wildlife and learn more.
Spring in my youth brought the cascading song of skylarks and the dancing flight of peewits – a local name for lapwings. I revelled in the summer migrations of darting swallows and calling cuckoos. I helped at a farm, herded sheep, fed pigs and got chased by geese. I hid amongst the tall lush grass of hay meadows, climbed trees and built dens. In the autumn I would scrump apples, forage field mushrooms and harvest blackberries. I witnessed some spectacular wildlife events including murmurations of starlings above wetlands surrounding Farndon and salmon leaping the River Dee’s weir at Chester.
Adults were constantly questioned by my inquisitive mind and a walk in the countryside would often provoke me shouting, ‘What’s that?’
My parents would humour me; often through exasperation.
I would find berries and ask, ‘Can we make a pie out of these?’
‘No, that’s deadly nightshade,’ my mother would snap (as a child I had a vivid imagination – prior to that moment I thought deadly nightshade possessed vine-like hands which would grab your throat and throttle you; probably a result of watching too much Dr Who).
My mother was an arachnophobe, so I used to enjoy the phrase; ‘Mum, look at the size of this spider.’ Another favourite question was; ‘Can I take this home?’
I always got a negative response to that one too; ‘Put down the dead rabbit!’
Dead things had a special fascination and I’d happily spend half an hour with a stick prodding a dead hedgehog. I was equally intrigued by the lifecycles of butterflies and frogs. Tadpoles were a reliable source of study and their collection became an annual event. One February my dad presented me with a large clear plastic tank, which I filled with pond weed and tadpoles. At first, I was hypnotised by the little creatures moving inside, but like most children I had a short attention span, so went searching for other beasts to add to my microcosm. I returned to the pond at the bottom of the field with my hunting gear; a length of bamboo stick with a plastic net. This net had been successfully deployed in Devonshire rockpools the previous summer.
It wasn’t long before I ensnared a large water boatman, popped him into my bucket and headed home. He seemed to thrive in his new environment, swimming between the tadpoles before settling. Over the course of a few days the tadpoles became more difficult to spot. I assumed they were hiding amongst the algae while my water boatman swam around with energetic bursts of speed. The following day, I checked my indoor pond again and saw the water boatman eating one of the tadpoles. It wasn’t a vegetarian water boatman – it was a carnivorous backswimmer! Ten minutes later I was striding down the field with my bucket – containing a well-fed backswimmer – back to the pond to quench his murderous appetite on the poor critters in there.
It is only now when I reminisce about my childhood, I realise how fortunate I was to have such experiences.
Adulthood
In 1992, I was twenty and moved to the Isle of Man because I was skint and required work. At first, I was completely unaware of the island’s wildlife biodiversity – I was too busy being self-absorbed and partying. Over the years, I developed a great fondness for island life and rediscovered my wildlife watching hobby. One of the main triggers was the loss of both my parents. The Manx countryside was the perfect medicine for my grief. I grasped the fact that life was short and losing what I loved gave me impetus to have a more meaningful existence.
The Isle of Man has recently become a UNESCO World Biosphere Region and we have lots of sealife with occasional dolphin, whale and basking shark sightings. A basking shark boat trip helped rekindle my love for nature at that point. Very few experiences can beat bobbing in a small leisure boat while a ten-metre-long leviathan sidles up to starboard. I was also proud of the fact it wasn’t me that said, ‘We’re going to need a bigger boat,’ because someone else beat me to it.
I started to develop my wldlife knowledge as I explored and filmed things of interest. I gathered enough footage to produce a wildlife DVD called Wild Mann which sold successfully to the Island’s residents.
Every local patch has its limitations and mine has some which might be surprising. Many small islands are bereft of mammals – the Isle of Man is no exception. There are no squirrels or deer. No moles, badgers, foxes, weasels, snakes or toads, but we do have common lizards. There are British birds which are currently absent or rare on the Isle of Man, such as bullfinches, jays, nuthatches and red kites, although we have good populations of choughs, hen harriers and black guillemots.
It was due to the limitations of island wildlife that I decided to travel back to Britain and expand my knowledge. Over the last fourteen years I’ve crossed the length and breadth of the British Isles for a diversity of experiences. I will tell you where I’ve been, what I’ve seen and how it was achieved. You can learn from my mistakes (there are plenty of those) and hopefully share some of my triumphs.
Chapter 1
Norfolk(2006)
It was late spring 2006 when I had my first holiday specifically for wildlife watching. The information online was limited back then, but I read somebody’s blog featuring their trip to Norfolk and it sounded good, so decided to try it myself. Over three days I planned to visit RSPB sites at Snettisham and Titchwell, plus other venues. There were no specific creatures to search for; it was primarily a relaxing break and perhaps I’d stumble across some wildlife. In short, I was going to wing it.
It was evening when I arrived at Blakeney. I’d booked a room in a rustic pub; the bar was snug with an open fire and low ceiling. It was the hub of the community and locals heaved together at the bar in a mass of bellies and beards. Every time the door opened several of the crowd would turn. If the new arrival was from their clan their appearance would be greeted with a cheer. However, if the person was a visitor, the crowd would just turn back quietly and continue their conversations. I experienced that treatment. Another way to identify locals from strangers was if they were tall. Any visitor above 5’10” would invariably crack their foreheads on one of the numerous low beams; which the locals learned to duck beneath.
The next morning, I awoke fresh and ready. Thankfully I suffered no signs of a headache; a benefit of being 5’9”. I began my adventures by driving to Snettisham RSPB. It was cold and grey on arrival, yet the fresh air was invigorating. Snettisham is well known as an excellent site for winter waders when high tides send huge flocks of knot from The Wash into the lagoons. Now in late spring, the bulk of the waders were at their Arctic breeding grounds.
Nature seemed subdued on this cold spring day with only the distant song of a chaffinch. Chaffinches blast out a short tune and to me (but possibly not everybody) it sounds like a speeded-up version of the guitar riff on the White Stripes track Seven Nation Army.
One objective of my holiday was to purchase a pair of binoculars. My previous pair of bins were cheap, fared poorly in rain and filled with water. I dried them on a radiator and this caused evaporation and thick condensation inside, which made them even worse. The budget bins were eventually chucked in the bin.
Some unfamiliar bird calls came from a thicket beyond a fence. Feathery dots were moving between distant unreachable shrubbery; indistinguishable by human eyesight alone. They might have been bearded tits – without binoculars I’d never know.
The path crossed between two large lagoons – the southerly one was Stanton’s Lake – and in the middle was a cormorant. Cormorants wash salt off their feathers by beating their wings in fresh water, but this was flapping more wildly than usual. My concern grew as I studied the bird – it seemed to be struggling. Perhaps it was tangled in fishing line or had oiled feathers. I strode off to find somebody and a moment later was relieved to meet a reserve manager. I asked for his opinion and we headed back to Stanton’s Lake. The cormorant was still there, although now looking perfectly happy, paddling on the water, enjoying its day out at Snettisham. As if to demonstrate my allegations were a figment of my imagination, it flew off. I apologised to the manager for wasting his time while I cursed the cormorant under my breath.
A line of prefabricated chalets blocked all obvious routes to The Wash. I contemplated climbing through somebody’s back garden, but decided not to ruin the start of my holiday by being arrested for trespass. Another option could have been to ask advice from the nearby reserve manager, but he already thought I was an idiot. So I retraced my steps back through Snettisham and saw a white goose, which had presumably dodged somebody’s oven. The wildlife this morning was decidedly low key. That happens, particularly if you turn up at a reserve without binoculars at the wrong time of year. Being a wildlife enthusiast rarely provides instant gratification or reward, especially for the beginner. If you have expectations of immediately seeing a dolphin or eagle, this isn’t the recreational choice for you. Maybe try a zoo instead.
I preferred to try Titchwell RSPB. The coast road wove through a flat landscape, with glimpses of the sea regularly appearing on the left. Titchwell’s leafy car park was reached after midday; it was surprisingly busy, there were more people here than I’d seen all morning. I never considered birdwatching as a mass participation sport. My first stop was the RSPB shop to belatedly buy binoculars. I stood beside a well-stocked shelf, before noticing people carrying telescopes and tripods. I wanted to fit in, so I bought a telescope and tripod. With the assistant’s help we unpacked the telescope and fitted the new tripod. It was pricey but I deserved a treat. I proudly balanced the shiny new kit on my shoulder, walked out of the shop and clanked the telescope against the top of the door frame. I convinced myself that nobody else noticed. The cackle of laughter behind suggested otherwise.
A short distance down the path, loud birdsong came from a bush right next to me. It was different to any song I’d heard before. In fact, it would be incorrect to describe it as a song. It was more like somebody coming up and shouting in my face in a high-pitched voice, ‘Oi, what are you doing!’ I studied the thick undergrowth, but there was no sign of the culprit.
I asked a couple approaching, ‘What caused that noise?’
‘Cetti’s warbler,’ replied the lady.
Here for five minutes and I’d already discovered a new species – most importantly it was an experience. Never before had a warbler yelled at me. I felt as though my wildlife adventures had eventually begun. I moved further down the track and behind me the Cetti hollered at someone else. The shrubs and trees ended and I strode into an open expanse of reedbed. The feeling of emerging from shady undergrowth into light was pleasing. A noticeboard listed local species, including marsh harriers. The Isle of Man is blessed with hen harriers, but I’ve never witnessed a marsh harrier. A marsh harrier would be fabulous. I suddenly possessed a holiday wish-list of one.
Down the track I approached a line of camouflage-wearing birders carrying tripods, telescopes and expensive-looking cameras. I successfully dodged a tripod-jousting competition before pondering over the weight of the new kit – binoculars would’ve been more comfortable resting over my shoulder.
A very large bird hide stood beside the path. This was the first time I’d enter a large edifice for the purpose of wildlife watching. All the bird hides I’d previously visited were little more than converted garden sheds. The interior was lit by natural light, cascading through wide windows spanning one side. It was full of people who were seated and noticeably quiet; like entering a church during Sunday service. The obvious etiquette was to be quiet. Therefore it was a mistake to assume the door would gently close behind me unaided. Instead it slammed shut with a BANG. The boom reverberated throughout the interior. From a nearby window, waterfowl flew away with fright. Two men turned and delivered me an unfriendly sneer – I’d scared off their birds.
I shuffled to the farthest corner to an available gap on a bench. I stretched one leg across and clumsily jostled with the tripod and telescope. It was like trying to cradle a baby giraffe; legs all over the place. I managed to avoid slapping a lady with the tripod, pulled it back and nearly knocked a guy behind with the telescope. I gave him an apologetic, ‘Oops.’ He nodded and inched further down the bench, giving me and the flailing telescope more room. I am a naturally clumsy person – I could create a racket in a mound of cotton wool.
I eventually felt safe from further embarrassment and pointed the telescope out of the window. I was about to peer through when I realised it was completely unnecessary. Only a few metres away on the other side of the glass was an avocet. The bird strutted down the muddy bank and stopped. A big smile grew on my face and I turned to the lady next to me and whispered, ‘Wow, an avocet.’
‘Yes, they are one of my favourites too,’ she smiled and glanced at the tripod with concern, as though I was in possession of a dangerous weapon. She bent down, rummaged in her bag and a moment later lifted a neatly wrapped parcel and said, ‘Do you want some lemon drizzle cake?’
‘Yes please,’ I beamed.
My first introduction to an avocet was equivalent to meeting a much-loved celebrity. An elegant bird, upturned beak, no fancy colours, just perfect black and white lines.
The man on my other side spoke to his wife in a soft whisper, ‘Shall we have coffee?’ She nodded enthusiastically and produced a thermos flask. The bird hide became a picnic area; I chomped cake, they shared coffee and further away a large man ate a pork pie.
I adored watching the avocet for several minutes, but it was time to unleash the telescope for its inaugural outing. I focused on the opposite bank where a dozen godwits stood. Britain has two main species of godwit, although the names bar-tailed and black-tailed have never given me much guidance, as both have black markings on their tails. I whispered to the chap beside me as he slurped his coffee, ‘Which type of godwit are they?’
He shrugged, ‘Probably black-tailed.’
‘How can you tell?’
‘In Norfolk there are more black-tailed godwits.’
Fair enough. I often identify birds quickly by assuming they are the expected species for a habitat or area. If I’m at the Manx coast and someone asks if a bird is a cormorant or a shag, before I look, I’ll usually say ‘shag’, as they are ten times more frequent.
The lady interjected, ‘Bar-tailed godwits are slightly smaller.’
I digested this nugget of information and realised it wasn’t particularly helpful – unless both species were beside one another. I left them to sip their coffee and withheld my grievance. I then returned to the alleged black-tailed godwits and focused on the bum of the nearest, but couldn’t notice any significant black markings. I gave up and aimed at a nearby avocet; I could see remarkable detail, the crisp lines of feathers, twirled beak and a black stripe down the nape of its neck. Further subjects were identified around the pool; redshanks, teals, coots and the ubiquitous mallards, while above the reedbed vista fly-pasts were performed by lapwings and greylag geese.
A couple of benches away a conversation could be overheard; it related to something which happened yesterday. Apparently, a marsh harrier swooped over the pool, which caused the resident birds to scatter and generate cheers from the onlooking birders. Sadly, no marsh harriers were swooping today and the hide remained quiet. Someone new entered and she gently closed the door behind herself.
After an enjoyable hour I decided to explore the rest of the reserve. I granted the avocet a nod of thanks, took control of the unruly tripod, headed outside… and closed the door tentatively and quietly. A linear track led towards the North Sea and I stopped for regular peeks into the undergrowth. Other visitors paused when they noticed things, so I joined them to see what piqued their interest. This ploy rewarded me with dunlins, shelducks and oystercatchers.
The path ended at a ridge of marram grass where birders gathered, most of them armed with telescopes and binoculars. Fifty metres of beach separated us from the turbulent waves of the North Sea and a brisk wind scattered sand across my face. A brief fight ensued with the tripod, before it was grounded without injuring bystanders. Everyone was staring at a specific point in the distance, so I turned to the nearest guy and asked what was grabbing everyone’s attention.
‘There’s scoters out there,’ he replied excitedly.
I was glad he pronounced it first as I would have said scotter, rather than scoter – the bird’s name apparently rhymes with voter. Scoters are a type of seaduck and there are two principal types around the British coast; common and velvet. I peered through the telescope and scanned the horizon like a pirate seeking a treasure island. A dozen black blobs bounced on the waves. I would’ve never distinguished the species from this distance, so I turned to the guy beside me again for extra help.
‘What type of scoter?’ I asked, ensuring the correct pronunciation.
‘Common,’ he replied.
I was tempted to enquire if that was because common scoters were more frequent around Norfolk. The birds disappeared and emerged on each wave and, to be honest, seeing distant ducks bobbing on the North Sea did little for me. I felt detached from the far-flung common scoters – I couldn’t see them clearly or watch their performance. Some of the gathering people were taking photographs with long lens cameras. Even with powerful optics, I suspect they were capturing images of black blobs on grey waves. One chap was jubilant because this sighting was a new tick on his bird list. Other birders were apparently talking in a coded language, one said something ‘dipped out’ while another claimed he’d seen a LBJ vanish into a bush. I didn’t ask what that was.
After ten minutes I’d had enough of the North Sea and the distant ducks, so returned south while continuing my search for marsh harriers – without joy. Just before the Cetti’s bush, a different bird caught my attention as it clutched a swaying reed. I clumsily grounded the telescope and focused on the small bird; it was the size of a chaffinch with a black crown. It presented a good view and once again this was something new and unknown. A lady was walking towards me so I asked the stock opening question – could she identify that bird?
She was incredibly obliging, halted and peered through her binoculars. She replied instantly, ‘Reed bunting, male.’ I guessed from her casual reply this was a common bird around these parts.
In all my years watching birds, this species had previously eluded me. ‘It’s a first for me,’ I explained.
‘That’s the fun,’ she smiled and walked off.
Indeed it was. I could see the reed bunting clearly and hear his nondescript call. His face was black and on closer inspection it featured downward pointing white lines on his cheeks, which made him seem unhappy, like he’d smelt something bad. He glanced about and chirped, before fluttering away. One strange thing I found afterwards, which not only relates to reed buntings, but other wildlife too; once you see a species for the first time you subsequently see them all over the place. During the next year I saw reed buntings on five separate occasions. It was as though they had deliberately concealed themselves for years; however, once one bird let down the team, the rest gave up and came out of hiding. I imagined the ‘Reed Bunting 2006 AGM’ and the president addressing his audience, ‘Well, as you are all probably aware, an anonymous delegate was spotted by Steve in Norfolk, therefore Steve can see you all now. But, stay vigilant, we are still successfully hiding from Sally and Dan.’
Titchwell was a great treat and an education. There were serious birders out there with decades of experience and I was a novice amongst those experts. This wasn’t a problem for me. It was a blessing because without their help I’d have struggled to identify several new species. I encourage any novice to visit Titchwell and chat with others. Don’t be shy – timid wildlife enthusiasts will miss out. I learned more from other visitors than any information board. In fact, I wish I’d asked more questions – I could have benefitted from somebody’s help with the next day’s itinerary, as the weather forecast was awful.
The final stop of the day was Holkham Hall. Apparently, lots of deer were there. A long driveway led between a wide landscape of grassland and well-appointed trees. In front of the manor house a large herd of over a hundred fallow deer stood or lounged on the grass. The fact that they were all plonked on the garden of a stately home removed any sort of excitement for me and I left.
The sun started to fall low on the horizon and my mind drifted towards dinner and a couple of pints. However, there was one unexpected wildlife encounter to enjoy first. On the return to Blakeney a white bird drifted as light as a feather across the road before disappearing behind the hedge. I pulled over, ran to a gap in the hedgerow and peeked through. But the barn owl had already vanished. I love barn owls, they are graceful in flight, floating on gentle beats on soft thick wings, ghostlike in movement. It was a wonderful way to finish a great day in Norfolk. Well, a great afternoon at Titchwell, the morning had been a bit rubbish. Tomorrow was going to prove even more difficult.
The next morning I had a lie-in and went for breakfast a few minutes before service closed. The rain belted down outside and, according to the chap on the neighbouring table, it would continue all day, although he ended on a positive note: ‘It’ll brighten tomorrow.’
I studied the map and tried to find places which wouldn’t involve exposed outdoor locations and getting soaked. The options were limited. At Cromer I wandered along the pier which was patrolled by turnstones and herring gulls. The gusts flapped poster adverts for kids to go crabbing. No children were stupid enough to go crabbing in torrential rain. Only a few adults were about and they were either hiding in shop doorways or lurking in bus shelters.
After Cromer I visited a couple of beaches – if the water falling from the sky wasn’t enough, I got sprayed by a windblown wave. I licked my lips and got the full salty taste of the North Sea.
At Morston Marsh I was the only animal outdoors. The rain eased during late afternoon and as the deluge subsided, I heard a willow warbler singing, a melody which sounds like cascading notes down a flute. That was my daytime wildlife highlight and by the end, every inch of my body was wet from persistent rain, which managed to soak into my boots and add a squelch to my step. I returned to the accommodation, dripped into the room, slurped out of my walking boots and put them on the windowsill. I opened the window – typical, the rain had now ceased. Hopefully the breeze would dry my boots and I dumped the rest of my wet clothing on the radiator.
Once showered, dried and refreshed, I slipped into clean clothes and checked the time. It was the cusp of beer o’clock, so I headed downstairs to the bar. It had been a poor day in the wild, but I hoped for a better time inside the warm cosy pub. Many of the annoying trappings of modern bars were banished from this fine establishment. No music, no television screens and no fruit machines. Several people were already drinking at the bar and the only noise was the friendly murmur of conversation. Perfect.
As the evening advanced more people arrived and the barman introduced me to some of the local characters. The Norfolk accent was warm and friendly, but the locals possessed a devilish sense of humour, which lit up the room with its darkness. When I passed underneath a low beam, it gently brushed the top of my head – a lady who I’d enjoyed a friendly chat with earlier pointed at me and booed. They were indulging in their favourite sport, which I’d witnessed the previous night – watching strangers cracking their craniums on the low beams. Successful strikes were documented – a post-it-note was attached to a particularly low beam which read, ‘Terry from Basildon hit here 22/05/06’.
The regional real ale was named after Norfolk-lad-done-good Admiral Horatio Nelson and I asked, ‘What do they drink in Suffolk, a pint of John Constable?’ This kicked off a lively debate about rivalries with neighbouring counties, culminating in derogatory comments regarding Ipswich Town FC, much to the consternation of the Ipswich man. At the end of their deliberations about outsiders, the general consensus was the worst visitors were London day-trippers.
One member of the crowd looked at me, ‘You’re not from London, are you?’
He seemed relieved after I clarified I was from the Isle of Man, although its location confused him as he mentioned Cowes Week, which happens on the Isle of Wight. Someone else asked about the purpose of my trip.
‘I’m a wildlife watcher.’
The barman leant closer, ‘Have you seen marsh harriers yet?’
I shook my head.
A big chap with a beard chortled, ‘Marsh harriers were outside the pub earlier.’
Another joined in, ‘Saw three on my way to work.’
The barman added, ‘One was in my garden this morning.’
They all laughed at my expense.
I announced loudly, in order to be heard above all the mockery, that tomorrow I’d see my first marsh harrier. They all felt pessimistic about my chances and I was accused of being full of beer and bravado.
It turned out to be a night of revelry and before closing I went outside and embarked on a night-time stroll towards Blakeney harbour. Some fresh air was required to send Horatio Nelson sailing out of my head. Bats accompanied my walk, they were small and twirling in flight, probably pipistrelles based on their size and movement. After feeling refreshed by the coastal air, I went to my room, switched on the light, wrote up my diary and dozed off on top of the bed. An hour later I was awoken by a tapping noise above.
The central light was still on and it had become the focal point for a gathering. Small flies spectated on the fringe, while a main event moth headbutted the light bulb. My moth knowledge is limited – I can only confirm it was one of those big brown ones. The insect entourage must have entered through the open window, still ajar for the purpose of airing my boots.
I leaned over the windowsill and closed it shut. Woefully I took a breath of my boots – they stank like an old wet dog. Once my lungs were cleared, I readied myself for bed, jumped under the sheets, gave the insect congregation a ‘Goodnight’, and switched off the main light. Hopefully the moth would also take a rest. All fell quiet as I drifted off to dreams of marsh harriers.
I was stirred from my slumber by a scratching, flapping annoyance. This was not the nocturnal flourish of a moth, but a crane fly, better known in my household as daddy longlegs. I knew this blighter from previous periods of insomnia. It could continue this noisy parade for over an hour. There was no alternative but to switch the light back on and search for the irritant. Once the room was illuminated the insect fell silent. It was playing a game of musical statues. I stalked around without any signs of my quarry. After several minutes of frustrated hunting he was found in the fold of a curtain. A brief chase ensued, finally resulting in his capture and an unceremonious flinging out of an opened window. ‘I hope a bat eats you!’ Window slammed shut, lights off, under the bed covers, eyes closed and a return to dreamland.
Flutter flutter.
I sighed. The moth had kicked off again.
The following morning, I ate breakfast and read last night’s diary notes – written under the influence of alcohol. They appeared be in a foreign language, scribbled by someone with a nervous condition. I decided to rewrite the lot while scoffing a full English (even though I have great respect for animals, I haven’t converted to vegetarianism).
The weather was bright and sunny, and I felt the urge for fresh air. I was nurturing the classic combination of a mild hangover and a poor night’s sleep. The day began east of Blakeney on a raised footpath above the lagoons. It was a circular route, which was square in shape. A reed warbler sang; sounding similar to an old car engine trying to start on a cold morning, the ignition scratching away, turning and turning, but never quite biting. Further along, a sedge warbler sang, a scratchy tone resembling a reed warbler but without rhythm; sedge warblers are jazz soloists. They remind me of the noises emitted by a mad scientist’s contraption. I think of Rowland Emett’s Afternoon Tea Train or old sci-fi movies with elaborate machines rattling with tubes, cogs and whistles. As I listened to the warblers, a small happy dog bounded up, sniffed my boots, got a full blast of the aroma and scampered off quickly. God knows how bad my footwear reeked to a creature with a sense of smell forty times greater than my own.
A short distance away was Cley Next-the-Sea Beach. I don’t need to elaborate on the scenery, the name says it all. This was the starting point for an invigorating ramble across Blakeney Point, a dynamic spit of shingle washed up during storms and tides. The area was recommended as a place for terns and seals. I lifted the telescope onto my shoulder and strode across the shingle beach. After a short distance I wondered whether this was a good idea. The spit stretched off into the distance, with no obvious path and the shingle was energy-sapping, like wading through treacle. After ten minutes I looked back to check my progress. The car was clearly visible behind and the blue building I was aiming towards seemed no closer. I plodded on for another twenty minutes and stopped again. Car was still there. Somehow the telescope and tripod gained weight and ate into my shoulder. I thought to myself, in recent history this was one of my worst purchases. Why didn’t I just buy some bloody binoculars? Yesterday it belted with rain – today was as bright as a celebrity’s teeth. I would have welcomed cool drizzle.
It was another thirty minutes before I arrived at the strange blue building, sat down and rested my weary legs. I’d trudged a flat landscape and it felt like I’d climbed a mountain. The wildlife didn’t help. I only saw a solitary Sandwich tern and they are nothing new to me. I am fortunate to live somewhere this tern species visits every year on their passage to breeding grounds in Northern Ireland. They treat the Isle of Man as a location for courtship and mating before going home, like young Brits visiting Ibiza.
I spoke to someone who survived the same journey as me and asked what I might see further ahead.
He replied, ‘The nesting area is all fenced off, so you are limited.’
I once joined a warden named Louise on a tour of the Ayres along the Isle of Man’s northern coast. The purpose was to produce a film for the visitors’ centre and let people know how dangerous their feet were in summer. Louise took me to the beach to see the nests of oystercatchers, ringed plovers and little terns. I found the nest hunting experience terrifying because the eggs were perfectly camouflaged like pebbles, laid in small sandy depressions with little nesting material to highlight their presence. Every time we discovered a nest it was a relief rather than a pleasure. I would have been horrified if I’d stepped on any.
The idea of going near ground-nesting birds again filled me with dread, and was sufficient excuse to leave Blakeney Point and return to the car. I was knackered anyway, which was the deciding factor. I pitched the tripod on my sore shoulder and noticed that no one else was stupid enough to be carrying anything heavier than binoculars.
I eventually arrived back at the car and wiped sweat off my forehead. There was one positive; I’d perspired yesterday’s pints of Horatio Nelson out of my body and rid myself of any lingering hangover. I needed provisions and drove to Cley, a charming little village of cottages, some partially constructed from large shingle stones. I came to the conclusion that shingle makes better building materials than footpaths. Once stocked with food and water, I continued around the coastal road and parked at Cley Marshes. Shortly afterwards, a large skein of fifty geese lifted from a nearby hillside, and roared above as their honking mass headed towards the sea. According to a nearby birder they were pink-footed geese. I couldn’t confirm the colour of their feet. I initially labelled them as greylag geese, a species which coincidentally also has pink feet.
It does amaze me when birds have names based on the least noticeable part of their anatomy. There is a bird called a short-toed eagle…. I’ve never seen a bird and thought, ‘Blimey, look at those tiny digits!’ Another example is the red-legged partridge – if you see one of those the last thing you notice is their red legs. They resemble a glitterball that’s been kicked into a rainbow, a fact ignored by the ornithologist responsible for their naming.
I stood and watched the departing geese; the leaders tried to create a v-formation but behind them was a disorganised rabble. A geese skein is special, but something more exciting appeared above the reedbed. A female marsh harrier. Her wings banked and tilted as she quartered the wetland, eyes aiming down, talons ready to snatch a vole, pipit or warbler. Preferably not a warbler. The harrier continued east and behind it a moment later a second bird. You don’t see a marsh harrier all your life, then two come along at once. Through the telescope I focused on the second bird – she was a female or possibly a juvenile; adult males have greyer plumage. She was similar in size and form to a female hen harrier, a familiar bird back on the Isle of Man, with the addition of cream plumage on her head and shoulders. This next statement is going to seem out of order, considering it’s coming from someone with the fashion sense of Compo from Last of the Summer Wine. But I thought the marsh harrier was scruffier than a hen harrier. Hen harriers look like they’ve slept in a hotel room, while a marsh harrier resembles a bird that’s drunk too much Horatio Nelson and fallen asleep in a ditch.
I was delighted to have seen my first (and second) marsh harriers and when I walked into the pub later, I was excited about confirming my success to the naysayers. As I perused the bar’s patrons, I realised none of yesterday’s crowd was present. Even the barman was different. I was leaving in the morning, so gave the new barman a message to pass on the happy news. I was sure they would’ve all been interested – in hindsight, I’m sure they weren’t.
As I left Norfolk and drove across England to Cheshire, I reflected on the short break and felt invigorated by the adventure. Granted, I’d been completely out of my depth, but I learned valuable new skills and knowledge. The mistakes included being unprepared for a rainy day and having a limited number of places to visit on my schedule – all could have been resolved with more planning and preparation. I should have booked a boat trip around Blakeney Point, instead of enduring an exhausting hike. I also needed to buy binoculars. One final thing to remember – when entering a bird hide, don’t let the door slam shut. That still makes me cringe with embarrassment.
At Cheshire, I met up with family and shared the pungent aroma of my boots. Shortly afterwards my footwear was permanently banished outdoors. Norfolk had been great for birds, but I wanted to encounter mammals and sea life.
So, for the next holiday I turned my focus towards Scotland.
Chapter 2
