This Birding Life (33 page)

After about a fortnight, I finally pinned down the bird, and was rather disappointed to find that it wasn't dressed in top hat and tails. With the help of a field guide, I identified it as a Chin-spot Batis, a tiny, tit-like songbird. Where this little black-and-white creature learnt to pay homage to Eric and Ernie, I never managed to discover.

Most birders keep lists. A British list, of all the birds they've seen in this country. A life list, of all the birds they've ever seen, anywhere in the world. And in my case, a journey to work list.

Depending which way you look at it, I am fortunate that my journey to work takes longer than most. Although I live in south London, I travel once a week to Bristol, a return trip of almost 300 miles. So I
spend a lot of time on the road, and while Radio 4 staves off the boredom for a while, inevitably I turn to other means of amusement. Hence the list.

There are several drawbacks to birding while driving. First, because I obviously can't use binoculars, I don't see many small, hard-to-identify species. And if I really wanted to maximise my list, I could have picked a better route than the M25, M4 and M32. Britain's motorway system hardly ranks among the world's top birding hotspots, but even so, I do get a few surprises.

Take last Monday. There I was, stuck in a traffic jam on the M25 (what's new?), when a small, fast-flying bird whipped across the carriageway. I only saw it for a second or two, but its identity was never in doubt. A Kingfisher, doing its own spot of commuting from one gravel-pit to another and diverting my attention away from the traffic news for a moment.

Some birds are commonplace on motorways. Crows, Wood Pigeons and the ubiquitous Kestrels, hovering above the verge in search of their rodent prey. Sparrowhawks, too, though you have to be quick to notice them as they speed low past your windscreen. And more remarkably, Buzzards. I've often seen them on the western section of the M4, past Swindon. But one warm summer's evening, I noticed a pair of these majestic birds of prey loafing over the motorway near Maidenhead, barely 30 miles west of London.

Stops for rest and refreshment can be productive, too. Membury Services is home to the best coffee and croissants on the M4, consumed to the musical accompaniment of singing Skylarks. Pied Wagtails forage for crumbs in the car park, as do Rooks, as befits the rural surroundings. At the end of my journey, the entry to Bristol usually produces Herring and Lesser Black-backed Gulls, refugees from the nearby docks.

Sometimes I take a short diversion, driving through Hampton Court to drop my son David off at school. One frosty winter's day was particularly busy, with Long-tailed Tits, a Mandarin Duck and the
usual flocks of parakeets screeching overhead. I am sometimes tempted to cheat and take an even longer route, but feel that the potential new species would hardly compensate for the horrors of a five-hour journey.

And the most unusual thing I've seen on my travels? Well, the Mandarin and Kingfisher come close, and I'm pretty sure I saw an Osprey once – but it was gone too quickly to be certain, and you can't really do a U-turn on the M4. In fact the best sighting of all came the same morning as the Kingfisher. Having escaped the M25, I was just getting used to the unfamiliar sensation of fifth gear, when a traffic jam forced me to slow down. A police car was trundling along the hard shoulder, presumably escorting a heavy load or broken-down motorist. Or so I thought.

But as we crawled past, the true nature of the policeman's errand became clear. Waddling along behind the panda car was a swan, accompanied by half-a-dozen cygnets, all enjoying the benefits of a VIP escort. I smiled all the way to work. Well, to the next traffic jam, at least.

Back in the 1970s, when other kids were playing with their Chopper bikes and Spacehoppers, I had other things on my mind. And if I had to disobey the law to get what I wanted, so be it. Thus it was that early on a Sunday morning I could regularly be found ‘breaking and entering' at an industrial site in south-west London. Fortunately, I rarely fell foul of the boys in blue, who obviously did not mind that a 13-year-old boy was climbing a fence to get into Barn Elms Reservoirs. After all, I could not really get up to much harm – apart from drowning, perhaps.

I was there, of course, to watch birds. And these four basins of water alongside the River Thames at Hammersmith provided birds
aplenty. Ducks, with wintering Goldeneyes and Goosanders. Passing waders, such as Ruffs, Green Sandpipers and Little Ringed Plovers. And the chance of a real rarity, like the Desert Wheatear which arrived all the way from North Africa one warm spring day, and which I still managed to miss.

Today, the birds are still at Barn Elms. But apart from that, things have changed a bit. The site is now London's latest visitor attraction, with hordes of eager families walking along manicured paths, delighting in the variety of birds, insects and plants to be found there. It even has a new name: the London Wetland Centre.

The Wetland Centre was the brainchild of the twentieth century's greatest conservationist, Sir Peter Scott. Sadly he did not live to see the fulfilment of his dream, but if he had, I am sure he would have been overjoyed. The Wildfowl and Wetlands Trust (WWT) has transformed the derelict and disused reservoirs into a haven for wildlife, no distance from central London.

Funnily enough, the first thing that struck me was not the birds, but the richness of the habitat itself. WWT ecologists have lovingly recreated natural ponds and reedbeds by taking plants from elsewhere in the country and replanting them here. In turn, the plants have attracted an impressive array of insects, including dragonflies and damselflies. One of the highlights of my visit was close-up views of a huge Emperor dragonfly laying its eggs on the surface of the water.

I am no plant expert, but the variety of colours and textures managed to draw my attention away from the birds, at least momentarily. Purple loosestrife, reed-mace and flowering rush provided a stunning sight, glowing in the afternoon sun.

There were birds, too, of course: families of Coots and Moorhens, a surprisingly confiding Little Grebe, and flocks of Linnets and Goldfinches feeding on the banks of thistles or perched on the surrounding fence. Clouds of House Martins and Swifts decorated the sky, although the expected Hobby failed to materialise.

Further along the trail, there were displaying Ruddy Ducks in an
area of open water, while Common Sandpipers and Little Ringed Plovers fed on the muddy edges. Lapwings breed, and Snipe and Kingfishers may soon do so — little short of a miracle this close to the heart of a major city.

Local birders have already found a few scarce visitors, with regular Avocets and the occasional passing Osprey or Red Kite. If and when a really rare bird turns up, families out for their Sunday afternoon stroll will undoubtedly find themselves surrounded by an invading army of twitchers.

Whether you are a keen birder or just a casual visitor, it is worth trying the café, whose food is a cut above the usual standard at bird reserves. A few years ago, the V&A ran a much-derided advertising campaign in a misguided attempt to attract the casual visitor. Maybe the Wetland Centre should market itself with a revised version: ‘An ace caff with a very nice wetland attached'.

Anyone who has ever listened to Radio 4's longest-running programme,
Desert Island Discs
, has no doubt thought about which records, book and luxury item they would take with them to that imaginary isle. Birders can play a variation on the game: choosing a selection of birds which bring back memories of a lifetime's birding. Putting questions of practicality and habitat aside (would a Snowy Owl survive?), here are my eight desert island birds.

First, Coot, because without this humble waterbird I might never have taken up birdwatching. It was on a cold winter's day back in 1963, when my mother took me to feed the ducks on the River Thames. I saw some Coots, identified them using
The Observer's Book of Birds
, and was hooked.