Midsummer at Barnes

There were builders in our houses and we felt slightly adrift, so we decided to go to Barnes for the day. We were delayed by a forgotten membership card, but with smooth rail connections the journey was quick, and when we got there we realised that actually we had lots of the sunny afternoon left. We had no particular birding aim for once so we tarried in the park on the way. It felt a bit like we lived there. Emma talked to a lady who actually lived there about a dashing mandarin duck on the lake. 

Very very dashing mandarin duck (male) (Photo by Emma Brook)

The woman said Barnes is a nice place to live; it may be full of yummy mummies, but at least you don't have to complain about anything, because someone has probably already done it. It's an unsettling place. It's like a haven for people who don't actually have anything to shelter from, where the only problems are ones that can be solved by complaining to the council.

At the actual wetlands we were surprised by how drastically the landscape had changed since we were last there, in February. The island in the middle of the water that had teemed with squabbling waterbirds was now a deserted tropical island, all wild and overgrown, like a green tide had come in.

As Emma drew, I chatted to the only other birdwatcher in the hide about how quiet it was. He said he hoped to see a bittern. I said it was probably unlikely because they don't nest here. We watched a seagull try to prey upon a coot chick but the coot's mother fought it off. Then a lapwing went and harassed the seagull in the air, presumably anticipating a similar attack on its own family. It was a distressing scene, but also harmonious.

What Emma was drawing

We exchanged our top birdwatching stories, and then we talked about how we had both been to the same bush at Pulborough Brooks where they went in Springwatch to hear nightingales singing. We didn’t talk about how incredibly emotional this part of the programme had been; how a sound recordist had broken down when he recounted how he had to play his son the song of the nightingale on his phone, because they couldn't find one in real life. There was an awful lot of stuff about 'sadly declining' bird populations in this year's Springwatch.

And it makes it feel a bit haunting to be walking around in nature. When I see a lone butterfly, I think about what it would have been like when there were CLOUDS of butterflies floating low over the summer fields. When I hear a yellowhammer singing, it sounds hungry and desperate now, like it's begging for the 'little-bit-of-bread-and-no-cheese' of its song. The woodpeckers are on the bird feeders; there are 50% less swifts; and the sand martins aren't even nesting at Barnes this year. When I see a bird, I see hundreds of its ghosts.

Then I made a serious breach of birdwatching etiquette: I was trying to find out what a cetti’s (pronounced 'chetty') warbler sounded like and I played a recording on my phone. It came out a lot louder than I had expected, and a real cetti's warbler in a nearby tree thought it was being challenged by another male and started singing in confrontation. We got a very good view of it hopping through the tree (probably in a panic of male pride), and I now know what a cetti's warbler sounds and looks like (they sing in short, loud, warbly barrages, and they are small and brown), which is brilliant, but I felt pretty bad for complicating the power dynamics of their mating season.

The day had been very hot, and at closing time the sun was somehow still as fierce as ever. We emerged reluctantly out of the cool cocoon of the nature reserve, and it faded like a mirage behind us as we returned to a very arid London. 

Unexpected Colours

I had a dream that there were some goldfinches in a tree. I was with my mum and I was waiting for her to see them and be excited to see so many unexpectedly colourful birds, so I could show off my bird knowledge and tell her they were goldfinches. She did ask me and I did tell her. And then I saw a great tit in the same tree and I said, 'look at that big one,' (even though they’re not that big), 'that's a great tit.' And I felt a kind of urgency because I knew her interest in the birds would probably be fast disappearing.

The day after the dream was one of those 'unseasonably' hot days we had recently. I decided I should brave the heat and leave the house, so I went to the Lewes Road Extra-Mural Cemetery. I was struck immediately by the trees in pink and white flower. I’m always surprised when trees have flowers. It’s like they’ve stolen the idea from the real flowers.

I peeled a hard-boiled egg and ate it. Then I saw two jays flying between the trees ahead of me. Their electric blue wing streaks were like fancy jewellery amongst all the humble browns and greens of the trees. I had seen two jays in this exact place before. Surely it's the same pair, right? Monogamous and in love and settled, in the same tree every year? 

And then Emma sent me a message telling me that it was exactly a year ago that we had come to this graveyard and I had seen a blackcap while she looked in the herb garden. I thought maybe the blackcap lived in the same place all year round, like the jays. I couldn't find it there though, or hear it. I did see a little wren just behind where the blackcap had been, which was a treat. Normally you just hear them. 

A car pulled up. The driver stayed in the car while a passenger got out and went up to a bed of roses with remembrance plaques in front of each plant. She looked at one of them for a couple of seconds and then got back in the car and it drove away. 

I went home then, satisfied that I had left the house.

Bitternspotting in November

Peacock Tower in Barnes WWT

Back in November, we went to the WWT in Barnes on another bitternspotting quest. This was our third time. The first two times were unsuccessful, so this time, to maximise our chances, we read '10 strategies to see a wintering Bitterns (sic.) in the UK' on BirdForum. So we knew we should: 

1) 'Find your spot' - check

2) 'Don't give up' - never!

3) 'Preferably pick a clear sunny day' - it wasn't clear or sunny but not much we could do about that

4) 'If there's been a cold snap it's more likely you'll see a bittern' - it had been pretty cold, I suppose

5) 'Mornings and evenings are best' - we arrived at 2pm so we had clearly missed the morning but would be there for sunset if they didn't throw us out first

6) 'Four eyes are better than two' - check (well, eight eyes including glasses)

7) 'You have to be good at describing where to look when in a hide with your partner' - I think we're pretty good

8) 'Try and get some elevation so you can see all the reed beds' - the main hide at Barnes is a tower (the Peacock Tower) with a 360 degree panorama, so check

9) 'You're more likely to see a bittern in the air than in the reeds' - ok, thanks

10) 'Bitterns do a flyover at sunset in early/mid March to scope out nest sites, so this can be a good time to see them' - not applicable

Before seeking the bitterns, we went to see the otters. We had just missed their feeding time but they were still out playing in their otter zone, all sleek and shiny and aerodynamic like torpedoes in the water. Their movements seem so performative, it's easy to think they're putting on a show for you. It's easy to forget that they don't know how graceful they are.

Then we went back to the beginning, hired some binoculars, detoured through the new Coral Reef zone, got coffee and armed with our insider bittern knowledge, we headed to the hides.

We made the familiar loop through the reeds from hide to hide. It was quiet. A group of school children were leaving as we got there. There was not an atmosphere of excitement. Perhaps there would have been if people had spotted a bittern already that day or in the past few days, but there was nothing in the daily sightings books. It wasn't looking hopeful, but we stuck by rule 2. 

'Girl seeking bittern'

Though we didn't give up, our goal faded into the background as we amused ourselves in other ways. We played life-size snakes and ladders; watched geese running after their partners and pecking at gates and fences for microscopic food; looked at the second-hand book stand in the foyer (German wine guide, Shakespeare recipe book, etc.); admired the red trees and the blue lake and the two ducks wearing crowns of flowers on a shelf above the door in the wetland hut exhibit… 

The truth is, though we had a brilliant day, I think we had forgotten the excitement of being in the vicinity of a real-life bittern. The memory of the thrill of the booming bitterns we heard at Minsmere in the spring had faded; May was already so long ago. But I feel that excitement now as I write this. I realise that if we had seen one rise up from the reeds, it would have been very very special. And it makes me want to go back right now.

(illustrations by Emma Brook)