This Birding Life (6 page)

We've all had the frustrating experience of a brief glimpse of ‘something different' – a bird that looks unusual, but which you don't see well enough to identify. Generally it's best just to put the episode down to experience. But once or twice in a lifetime, a birder may experience the ultimate frustration: seeing a bird that you
know
is something good, but whose identity you just can't pin down.

My own ‘one that got away' happened back in September 1983. I fancied a few days off work, so I drove my battered Ford Cortina up to north Norfolk. The next morning, my companion and I wandered
along to the beach at Cley, which as every birdwatcher knows, can be a great place for passing seabirds. However, mid-morning on a bright, clear, windless day is hardly likely to produce an avalanche of unusual sightings.

So it proved. Despite watching for an hour or so, we didn't see much more than a few of the local gulls flapping along the tideline. Apart, that is, from the petrel. We'd only just got ourselves comfortable on the shingle, next to two or three other optimists, when I caught sight of a small, dark bird ‘shearing' over the waves just beyond the tideline. I was about to yell ‘shearwater' when someone else called ‘Leach's Petrel – flying left!'

We watched for a minute or two, until the bird was out of range. Then we looked at each other in delight and congratulated ourselves on our good fortune. We were so elated that I committed the birder's cardinal sin: I failed to take any field notes. After all, we had all agreed it was a Leach's – and for me it was a new bird as well!

It was only when I got home, and leafed through a few field guides, that I began to have my doubts. According to the experts, Leach's Petrel is supposed to have a dancing, tern-like flight, a pronounced kink in the wing, a forked tail and an indistinct, V-shaped rump. The bird I'd seen had none of these characteristics, at least as far as I could recall. So I assumed it must be a Storm Petrel, with a typical all-dark plumage and plain white rump.

Two problems. First, Storm Petrels are a very rare sight off the north Norfolk coast, almost always being sighted in poor weather, when they are driven close inshore. Second, I have seen numerous Storm Petrels since, and though their plumage fits my mystery bird, their ‘jizz' (or general appearance) certainly doesn't.

Every Stormie I've watched has a weak, fluttering flight, more like a bat than a bird. In contrast, the flight of the Norfolk petrel was strong and direct, on long, straight wings. So what was it? A Leach's, which somehow managed to conceal all its distinctive field marks? Or a Storm, flying differently from normal owing to the unusually calm conditions?

Or could it have been something else? That straight-winged look, that broad, white rump, that shearwater-like flight – they all point to the rare Wilson's Petrel, straying round the coast from its usual haunts out in the Atlantic.

Of course, now I will never know. A few years later my companion on that day died, tragically, from heatstroke while birding in Australia. The other observers? Who knows – but if you're reading this, and you've got a dodgy Leach's Petrel on your list, do get in touch!

The moral of this sorry tale? Never assume. Never go along with the crowd if you have a shred of doubt. And always, always take detailed field notes. You can use a notebook, tape-recorder, palmtop computer or back of an old envelope – it doesn't matter. Just do it, or, like me, you will live to regret ‘the one that got away'.

Few birdwatchers lucky enough to be on the Isles of Scilly in mid-October 1985 are ever likely to forget the experience. It was one of those rare autumns during which the birds appeared to come from all points of the compass to make landfall on these delightful islands off the south-west of the British Isles.

I arrived by helicopter from Penzance, weighed down with the weatherproof clothing I'd worn to combat the worst of the British weather. As I disembarked, I was met by an extraordinary scene: a crowd of birdwatchers, most in shirt-sleeves, staring intently at what appeared to be a small patch of scrubby grass.

It
was
a small patch of scrubby grass, but being on the Isles of Scilly in autumn, it concealed a rare bird. This was a Bobolink, a North American species which looks like an anorexic Corn Bunting. This was
just one of several American vagrants which had managed to cross the Atlantic Ocean during the westerly gales of the week before.

Getting a good view of the Bobolink meant I had missed the bus to the islands' capital, Hugh Town, so I shouldered my rucksack and began the long but pleasant walk. I soon realised that a thick jumper and waterproofs were a mistake. The sun shone high in the sky, and temperatures were up in the seventies – great weather for tourists, but not so likely to produce a crop of rare birds.

Or so I thought. In fact, October 1985 proved to be the best ever for rare vagrants on Scilly, with birds turning up from west, south and east. As well as the obliging Bobolink, there were up to 15 American land-birds of six species on the islands. These included both Yellow-billed and Black-billed Cuckoos – the latter posing exhausted on the lower branches of a tree for a crowd of almost a thousand contented birders, in full view of a hungry-looking cat. The next day, the cuckoo was nowhere to be seen.

Transatlantic vagrants are more or less annual on Scilly, though their numbers vary from year to year depending on the timing and intensity of westerly gales. More unusual was a crop of visitors from southern Europe, presumably due to the spell of light southerly winds that had brought such good weather to the islands. These Mediterranean wanderers included a stunning Bee-eater, which posed for all-comers on the island of Tresco.

As if this wasn't enough, in mid-October birds started to arrive from the east, too. Yellow-browed Warblers, an annual visitor from Siberia, seemed to be everywhere, and on the 15th a Booted Warbler was discovered in a clump of bushes on Penninis Head, St Mary's. These birds had travelled thousands of miles in the wrong direction across Asia and Europe, due to a combination of bad navigation and the right weather conditions. Where they went after leaving the islands, nobody knows.

It's not far from the truth to say that good weather for birdwatchers is bad weather for everyone else. To put it another way, wind and rain often bring the most interesting birds to our shores – especially in autumn, when migrants on their first journey may go astray during bad weather. But it doesn't always have to be like that. Once in a while, glorious autumn sunshine and soaring temperatures can be accompanied by fantastic birds.

Back in late September 1986 I planned a trip to East Anglia with a couple of friends – both relatively novice birdwatchers. As we set out from London I looked at the clear blue sky and reflected that even if we didn't see any birds, at least we'd get a decent suntan. I was right about the weather, which stayed warm and sunny throughout. Fortunately, I was wrong about the birds.

We started off at the RSPB's best-known reserve – Minsmere, in east Suffolk. There, we came across the first rarity of the trip: a juvenile Red-backed Shrike, perched on bushes near the sluice. We also saw an unseasonal Red-necked Grebe, moulting out of its gaudy breeding plumage.

Heading round the coast towards north Norfolk, we stopped off at Cley Marshes. A quick seawatch produced a variety of commoner seabirds, including passing Gannets, Red-throated Divers and a very obliging Arctic Skua. This bird lived up to its piratical reputation, chasing terns up and down the beach in order to persuade them to regurgitate their food.

After an enjoyable and productive morning, we headed towards the legendary Nancy's Café for lunch. This establishment, alas now closed, was located in the back parlour of a tiny terraced cottage in the middle of Cley. For a few years, before the advent of hi-tech bird information services, this humble eatery was the centre of the twitchers' ‘grapevine'.
People phoned Nancy's from all over the country, leaving messages about rare bird sightings, or more often, wanting to find the latest ‘gen' on what had been seen elsewhere.

This made the uninterrupted consumption of food well-nigh impossible. No sooner had you lifted a forkful of baked beans to your mouth, than you had to answer the phone to yet another anxious caller, demanding to know if the latest rarity was still present on Scilly or Fair Isle.

As we approached Nancy's, smacking our lips at the thought of our well-deserved meal, another birdwatcher ran out. His rather flustered appearance suggested that he might be in a hurry. Sure enough, as he passed us, he blurted out the words: ‘Citrine Wagtail. Just been found. Blakeney Harbour.'

His rapid departure presented us with a dilemma. Did we forgo the prospect of lunch, leap in the car and follow him to see this rare and unexpected Siberian vagrant? Or did we stick to our original itinerary?

It was a foregone conclusion, really. So it was not until an hour or so later, fortified by poached eggs and copious cups of tea, that the three of us wandered up to the small crowd of people by the harbour at Blakeney. There, we asked the usual question, heard at every twitchers' gathering. ‘Still showing?'

It was, and we enjoyed excellent, close-up views of the wagtail, the first ever seen in Norfolk. OK, so it didn't look all that different from our familiar Pied Wagtail, but it was a humbling experience watching a bird that had flown thousands of miles off course, impelled by some mysterious form of wanderlust.

Nevertheless, I must confess to a certain satisfaction that, unlike the other observers there, we had the satisfaction of a full stomach. After all, as even the most dedicated twitcher must accept, man cannot live by birds alone.