A river in Kent

An especially busy half hour of work, sat at the kitchen table in Dover helped me feel like I deserved a break. Mum and Dad came back from the dentist and picked me up at the end of the road, then we drove to somewhere on the outskirts of Hythe. 

The grass pollen count was high and I could sense it like an invisible haze in the air. It was a warm spring day, a taste of the summer soon to come. In the car park there was an information board faded to the extent it was barely readable, something about the surrounding wildlife habitats or the history of the village. 

We went to the café/taproom and got our various refreshments. At the table Mum and I shared our suspicions that the lady at the counter didn’t charge us for my Magnum. It was busy with people and their dogs, and it felt like a place that deserved to be busy because it was a pretty corner of Kent with hops growing round the edge of the seating area, a river nearby, a real fresh excess of greenery surrounding us.

We talked about Millais Road, where I grew up, where Mum and Dad still live, all the people who have passed through or remained. It was an exercise in squirrelling into recesses of memory that haven’t been visited for decades. All those adults seen through a child’s eye, the other children mostly frozen now in time, apart from the ones occasionally seen grown up and awkwardly shaped. There are people I haven’t thought about for years still living on the road. Mr. Gardner who taught me woodwork at school is still there, still alive, still remembers me apparently. The shared experience of a street where all the houses have either the same layout or a reflection of it; it feels like you’re all living the same life just in different flavours.

We went for a little walk down the river after our coffees. There were gaps in the trees and bushes along the riverbank for fishers to locate themselves, and you could hop down and have a closer look at the watery scene. It was all dense trees on the other side too, overflowing into the river, mirrored and rippling.

It was just a path off the main road but it was an immediate immersion in nature. For me, the first time in a long time it seemed, out on a walk for nature’s sake, and it was a refreshing return. We went further down a bit. On the left there were ponies, and Peter J Checksfield had put up a sign informing the ignorant thieves who stole his mink traps that they need educating, and if he catches anyone trespassing in his paddock there will be serious consequences. We laughed but didn’t linger – you don’t wanna get caught up in countryside issues you don’t understand.

The path was narrow and I hung back as Mum and Dad went on ahead, and as a result I was alone in seeing a little blue firebolt flash past over the river. It was a kingfisher, just the briefest of views before it disappeared into the trees, but that electric blue was unmistakable. I told Mum and Dad and we watched the area briefly but it didn’t come out, so we continued.

On the way back though we saw it again. This time a better view with some of that rust-coloured plumage on show too. And this time we all saw it, swooping quickly away from us down the waterway, a splendid burst of colour. We hung around for a little while, hoping for it to re-emerge, but we didn’t see it again. 

I would have happily sat on that riverbank all afternoon, looking out over the water waiting for the kingfisher to do its flights here and there, perhaps hunting to feed a new brood. I would have sat there for hours. And even though I couldn’t, it was reassuring in itself to have such a clear reminder of something that can bring me joy.  It was a sample of a familiar, not-so-distant peace. 

Song Thrush Outside the Pavilion

Spot the bird! (answer below)

(This was in January)

I don't have much to do at the moment so I've been wandering around town quite a lot, and I've been writing down the interactions I have with people I don't know. Today I went to a café to do some reading. It was quite a gloomy part of the café and I was disappointed because the man sitting next to me had claimed the seat with the reading lamp, even though I was before him in the queue. I asked him if I could scooch the reading lamp along to my side of the table, seeing as he didn't seem to be using it. He didn't mind, but he was a bit surprised that I was happy to just move the furniture around.

The lamp gave me a tremendous amount of light for my reading. I didn't stay for very long though. I went into the Pavilion Gardens. I was going to use the public toilet but it was closed. One of the homeless people outside it told me that a tree had fallen on the roof and that was why it was closed. I looked up and saw the offending tree looming over a taped-up window. About ten seconds later, a bedraggled hippy dressed in soldier gear said something to me as I was walking past him. I didn’t hear, but instead of ignoring him, I turned round and begged his pardon. He repeated what he had said, which was: 'have you seen any monkeys in the tree?' I'm not sure if he was talking about the tree that broke the roof of the toilets. I said no. ‘Any parrots?’ he said. I said no, and laughed and carried on.

I continued round past the front of the Pavilion, paid a £50 note into the bank, and went to the bus stop. The bus was going to be another five minutes so I decided to walk at least some of the way.

Just past the bus stop, I heard a song thrush calling from the trees. Song thrushes are fairly common, but when I first heard their piercing motifs, it sounded to me just like something from a rainforest scene, and, as often happens when you first start birdwatching, I thought it was something rare. Now, they don’t stop me in my tracks in quite the same way, but this one caught my attention and I let it keep it. I let the moment be serendipitous. I hadn’t waited for the bus; instead I had taken this little walk, and that choice had created this reality of this song thrush and my participation and appreciation of it.

It performed some particularly synthy glissandi that really made me gasp and smile. I took out my phone and filmed it, mainly so I could record the song. But I think I missed the best bits (it’s always the way). It happened to be a very picturesque scene with the Pavilion all lit up and silhouetted in the pink and blue sunset, and the ice rink with its festive lights in the background, but what interested me was just a tiny black shadow on a branch.

I wondered if other people even noticed the song. They must’ve done. But did it seem out the ordinary? Maybe it just blended into the exotic atmosphere of the Pavilion with its palm trees and palatial domes.

I had been thinking about what parts of life are important to capture. What parts are the ones that people make into poetry and songs and books? I thought about this moment, about how special it is to hear birds singing in the winter (why are they doing it?), and how maybe this is one of those important moments. I had actually been feeling very directionless, and seeing/hearing the song thrush outside the Pavilion, though it didn't exactly solve my problems, reminded me about the kind of feelings I should be looking for.

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)

Bitternspotting in London

We met on Monday and went to the WWT centre in Barnes in London. Our main bird-related goal was to see a bittern. It seemed like a realistic goal. Four had been spotted the day before and there were six in total known to be living there. Also the last time I was there I had seen one. It had been just barely perceptible even through a scope and I would never have seen it if it wasn't for another more experienced birder spending some time helping me. But I saw it eventually and it was definitely a bittern and I had felt that thrill of a rare bird spotted. 

The trip started well. There was a pair of Asian short-toed otters swimming about, recently fed, looking all satisfied and waterproof. Then there was a big colourful fish structure that looked like a room of some sort. We were intrigued and amazed. It looked like a room, but the door/mouth led nowhere. It looked like a fish that had suddenly grown really big and was now stuck in its shed. Turns out in real life it was an ice cream hut. 

The first few hides were empty and peaceful and we gazed for a while at the lapwings, geese and ducks, some of them upending themselves to feed, some of them shovelling about with their shovel beaks, and there were also some ostracised cormorants on their own island. We scanned the reeds at the edges of the water for bitterns but we couldn't see any. 

Bitterns are very hard to spot because they don't come out much and they're the same colour as their reed bed homes, and also because they don't even really look that much like birds. 

We went on to the main hide to seek news of bittern sightings. It's a pretty amazing hide. It's like a watchtower, with two floors and a 360 degree view of the reserve. When we got up to the top, we asked one of the chief birders if he had seen any bitterns. He said he'd seen one in the first hide but not in this one.

We looked out. A hide has a special kind of quietness. Everyone is waiting for someone else to spot something interesting. We moved between windows, our bare hands on binoculars getting colder, then we came together to have some vegetabley tea from a thermos. Even though no bitterns had been spotted in this hide, we stayed there for a while. Not much was going on, but we didn't mind. There were two coots fighting and that was entertaining, but not really any especially exciting birds.

Finally, as if waking from a dream, we realised that we should be going to the hide where the bittern had been spotted. We hurried onward, but the hide was locked. We had left it too late. It felt a bit like someone was shutting us out for being too slow. It was OK though, we went on and we found some exhibits about flying narwhals and lego dams and multicoloured poo and then we searched the box of bird badges in the shop for some good ones (I got a spoon-billed sandpiper and she got a kingfisher, I think). It was great.

Bird in Devon

We've been in Devon in a yurt soaking in the deep peace of the deep countryside. This was complete isolation, borrowed space from the trees and the animals.

There was a bird singing loudly near us. It was almost as loud as the wrens. It had more stamina though and the song was varied and surprising, familiar yet different. I thought it might be a whitethroat but the phrases were longer and more elaborate. It was a bit like a dunnock but the range was lower - like a blackbird covering a dunnock song. I have a birdsong app on my phone, which I scoured but there wasn't anything that matched.

I followed the mysterious singing bird and even though it seemed like it was in a bush just in front of me, I couldn't see any movement except a glimpse when it flew off somewhere else. It looked small and brown and nondescript. I abandoned the quest and went to do something else.

But it kept singing. I heard it when I woke up at 5 in the morning and it was there when we were having breakfast. I left my coffee to go and see if I could identify it but still it escaped my view.

I knew it was only feet away. It was definitely there, I could hear it. And I had recorded it singing, so eventually I'd be able to identify it, but I just wanted to see it, to meet it, to watch it. Rose said it was my nemesis. Its song seemed mocking in its concealed closeness.

Then after the next breakfast, I said to Rose that I was going out to find it and I wouldn't come back until I had seen it. This could have been a fool's pledge but I followed the singing and for just a few seconds it paused on the telephone wire just above a hedge. It was a blackcap! A new bird. Seeing it felt like I had caught it. The hunt was over. I went back to tell Rose.

Here is a video showing how loud and close and frustratingly hidden it was:

Here is what a blackcap looks like:

Though I didn't get a picture of the bird myself, I think I might have filmed one of its children: