This Birding Life (16 page)

Despite the recent run of wet and windy weather, conditions were sunny and warm, with blue skies and a brisk southerly breeze. The tide at Pagham village was higher than I'd ever seen it, lapping against the base of the sea wall, and forcing the birds to seek refuge in nearby fields.

Thousands of Golden Plovers and Lapwings were wheeling overhead, filling the sky as they twisted and turned, constantly calling to each other in a breathtaking spectacle. Hundreds of ducks were on the
open water: mainly Wigeon, Teal and Pintails. There was also a lone, smaller bird, whose black-and-white plumage reminded me of an auk. It was a Slavonian Grebe, one of Pagham's winter specialities. Then an elegant white bird flew past: a Little Egret, once very rare, but now a regular sight on many south-coast estuaries.

After a brisk walk, we drove round to the other side of the harbour, where the car park at Church Norton was filling up with birders, dog-walkers and worshippers at the little church that gives the village its name. As the tide rose to new heights, thousands of waders flocked together, flashing light and dark as their plumage caught the winter sun. But the real prize was away from the harbour, by the little gate at the entrance to the churchyard. Here, a small crowd of birders had gathered, watching an ivy-covered tree with more intensity than it appeared to deserve.

Then a tiny bird popped out, revealing a stunning black-and-white striped head, fiery orange crown and olive-green plumage, before plunging back into the dense foliage. It was a Firecrest, a rare relative of the Goldcrest, and just as small – 9cm long and weighing barely the same as a 20p coin. After a few frustratingly brief glimpses, the bird, which is spending the winter in this sheltered, balmy place, finally revealed itself in all its miniature glory, much to everyone's relief and delight.

On leaving Pagham, the day's total stood at a respectable 58 species. To boost it further, we stopped off on the way home, at the RSPB's Pulborough Brooks reserve. As well as the attractions of a well-stocked shop and superb tearoom, Pulborough is a magnet for wintering birds, with large numbers of dabbling ducks on the flood plain and flocks of Redwings in the fields above.

The hide was so full we could barely get a seat. We soon found out why. A Barn Owl was quartering the marshes, hovering on its broad, pale wings in search of voles. After a few near-misses, it finally caught one, only for an opportunistic Kestrel to make a smash-and-grab raid and seize the prey. Bewildered, the owl flew up to perch on
a fence-post, treating us all to a splendid view as we sympathised with its misfortune.

As we walked back up the muddy path to a well-earned cup of tea, the day's final total stood at 65 species. But mere numbers tell nothing. Three very different images will stay in my memory: the Barn Owl floating on silent wings, flocks of Golden Plovers wheeling overhead in the pale blue sky, and that tiny jewel of a bird, the Firecrest. Happy New Year!

As a spotty teenager, I remember listening to the Newcastle-based band Lindisfarne. It wasn't for another 20 years or so that I finally visited the stretch of Northumberland coast from which the band took their name. Since then, I've gone back as often as I can: lured by the cries of nesting seabirds on the Farne Islands nearby. Mind you, the racket made by several thousand Kittiwakes, auks and terns can easily outdo most rock bands. It starts as a distant hum, then, as the boat approaches the rocky cliffs, builds to a crescendo until the noise is almost deafening.

Then there's the indescribable smell. In other parts of the world, seabird droppings, or guano, are harvested for fuel, bringing riches to the residents. Here, though, the only people making money are the local boatmen, whose canny monopoly allows them to charge a tidy sum for putting you off on Staple Island, picking you up a couple of hours later, then depositing you on Inner Farne.

Still, it's worth every penny. There are very few places where I've been so overwhelmed by the sheer presence of living creatures. Grey Seals loll on the rocks, supremely indifferent to the passing boat. Common, Arctic and Sandwich Terns swoop overhead, plunging
down into the water to pick up their prey. And Guillemots and Razorbills – truly the penguins of the north – perch like statues on the cliff face above the boat.

Then there's the one we've all come to see: the Puffin. This comical black-and-white auk, with its multicoloured bill, must surely rival the Robin as Britain's favourite bird. In late July there are literally thousands of them, hanging about outside their burrows as if challenging the photographer to come up with an image which isn't yet another tired cliché. Hundreds of rolls of film must be exposed here every year, all to produce more or less the same image – yet this knowledge still didn't stop me taking a few dozen photos myself.

But despite the teeming birdlife and golden photo opportunities, all is not well on the Farne Islands. Although we searched diligently through the flocks on the beach, we couldn't find any Arctic Tern chicks. One of the National Trust wardens explained why. Apparently it has been a disastrous breeding season, with the parents unable to find enough food for their hungry young. As a result, 200 pairs of Arctic Terns have only managed to raise a single chick between them.

Nobody knows why it's been such a bad year for the terns. It may be that pollution on the surface of the sea has forced their prey – sand eels – to venture deeper than usual, out of the birds' reach. Maybe overfishing is to blame. Or perhaps rising sea temperatures, due to global warming, have reduced the numbers of fish in the area altogether. Whatever the reason, in a month's time 400 Arctic Terns will be making the long flight south to Antarctica – without their offspring.

Fortunately, other birds are having a more successful breeding season. Baby Shags, looking like fluffy children's toys, savoured the regurgitated food served up by their parents. Kittiwake chicks perched on ledges, looking as if they were about to fall off at any moment. And the Puffins continued to loaf about, posing for photographs until the boat finally came to take us away.

Back on shore, it almost seemed like a dream. But that evening, on the beach by Bamburgh Castle, we looked over the narrow stretch of
sea to the Farne Islands. In the air, above the distant rocks, there was a mass of wheeling seabirds. All that was missing was the sound – and, of course, that unforgettable smell…

Few birds on the British list have quite the same air of mystery about them as the Ivory Gull. This is a bird of the true Arctic: breeding among the pack-ice of Spitzbergen and Novaya Zemlya, and surviving by scavenging the remains of Polar Bear kills. Even in the long, dark winter it rarely ventures south of the Arctic Ocean.

So when I heard the news that an Ivory Gull had taken up residence in the Suffolk seaside town of Aldeburgh, my reaction was a mixture of astonishment and glee. The bird had probably followed a fishing trawler south from the Arctic Ocean, and was now spending its time on the beach, feeding on scraps donated by friendly local fishermen.

On a visit to East Anglia the weekend before Christmas, we decided to drop in on the bird. As we arrived, a small group of birders stood with their telescopes pointing up at the roof of a building. It was the usual story. Apparently the gull had been ‘showing well' a minute or so before we got there, but had just flown away.

So in the gathering gloom of a winter's afternoon, we braved the bitter northerly wind and strode along the beach. At first, there were only Black-headed, Herring and Great Black-backed Gulls, but then I caught sight of a blinding flash of white. We walked around the corner of a fisherman's hut, and there it was: my first ever sighting of an Ivory Gull.

Despite its name, this species is not ivory coloured at all. A better name might be ‘Persil Gull': its plumage is almost whiter than white,
apart from dark legs, a pinkish bill, and little black spots along the wings and tail. At first sight, with its suitably funny walk, it looked more like some exotic pigeon than a gull. Its pristine appearance was marred by what can only be described as a dirty face, the result of a life spent sticking its head inside a carcass in order to feed.

Living in the high Arctic, birds face a simple choice: eat or die. This bird had decided to eat, attacking a dead fish with gusto, while the accompanying Black-headed Gulls simply looked on bemused. If one did attempt to muscle in on the new arrival's territory it got pretty short shrift from the Ivory Gull.

As we stood and watched, I became aware of the incongruity of the situation. Here we were, standing around on a Sunday afternoon in a genteel English seaside resort, watching a bird which until recently had never even seen a human being. From time to time curious passers-by stopped and asked what we were doing, then took a look through our telescopes, made non-committal remarks and wandered off. I imagined them returning to their homes and greeting their spouses with: ‘You'll never guess what I saw down on the beach, dear…'

For me, however, seeing this bird fulfilled a long-held ambition. I first became aware of the Ivory Gull in the early 1970s, when one turned up unexpectedly somewhere in north-east England, prompting one of the first examples of a ‘mass twitch'. Since then, I had always wanted to see one, and now the bird was making short work of a fish just a few metres in front of me. It appeared to be very much at home in the freezing conditions.

With dusk rapidly advancing, I only had one remaining desire: to see this ethereal wanderer in flight. My wish was granted, as the gull took off and floated around our heads, uttering a surprisingly high-pitched cry. As it dropped down onto the beach to roost, the first flakes of snow began to fall.