This Birding Life (39 page)

The best sighting so far occurred in early September, on the day of our house-warming. As guests gathered in the back garden, I looked up at the flocks of House Martins gathering overhead. High above them, dark against the blue sky, was a familiar, streamlined shape: a Hobby. Thirty years ago, when I first came to school in Hampton, this would have been an extraordinary record. Nowadays, following a population boom, Hobbies are a fairly regular sight over the west London suburbs. No less exciting for that, though.

Unfortunately, so far very few birds have graced our garden with their presence. Although we have put up several bird feeders, the only birds to venture within our boundaries are a couple of Blue Tits and a noisy, but elusive Wren. One of the problems is that the charming family next door owns two cats, which regularly prowl around our garden in search of food.

If the cats ate spiders, they would be well satisfied, for these are the most prominent inhabitants of our garden. So we can only hope that in the coming months, as food gets scarcer, a few more birds will be tempted to visit. Meanwhile, as the chill winds of autumn begin to blow, and the House Martins head off to warmer climes, I look forward to some more surprises from our local birds.

It's a cloudy, dull Sunday in the middle of January, and I'm looking out of my window. A Magpie chases another across the sky, a Wood Pigeon perches in a tree, and over the distant peal of church bells, I can hear the calls of Jackdaws as they pass overhead.

Yesterday, as I looked out of the same window, a flock of tits passed through the garden: constantly calling to one another as they hopped to and fro, before launching themselves onto a feeder to grab a single sunflower seed at a time. The day before that, I heard a Blackbird calling. Looking across the roof of the neighbour's garage, I saw a movement in a bush – a small, greyish-brown bird with a milk-chocolate-coloured crown. It was a female Blackcap, feeding voraciously on juicy berries before flying off to seek sustenance elsewhere.

Three snapshots of the birdlife from my window, in a typical London suburb. Nothing out of the ordinary, you might think. Except that by the time you read this, some of those small birds might have died through lack of food. Another could have been killed by a cat. On the bright side, the Blackbird may have begun to sing, staking out his territory for the coming spring.

For however ordinary the birds you see from your own window, it's worth remembering that from a biological point of view the struggle
they face is no different from that of any wild creature. Take the Blackcap. This little bird, weighing barely as much as a pound coin, was born in central Europe, probably last year or the year before. In the autumn, along with its siblings and parents, it headed in a northwesterly direction towards Britain. After crossing the North Sea it ended up here, by the River Thames in Hampton, where a mild winter's climate and plenty of food give it a better than even chance of surviving the winter.

Even more extraordinary, this Blackcap is one of the best examples of evolution in action. Thirty years ago her ancestors migrated south-west, to spend the winter in Spain or North Africa. Then, by some random genetic mutation, a small proportion of the German Blackcap population began to head off in a completely different direction.

In normal circumstances they would have perished and that would have been that. But because this random mutation conferred some tiny evolutionary advantage, they survived and returned to breed. Little by little, the process of natural selection increased the proportion of these birds in the general population. A couple of decades later, and they have taken over. Today the whole of this population of Blackcaps spends the winter in Britain and Ireland.

For scientists, this is doubly fascinating. First, it shows the speed with which natural selection can act on living creatures. Second, it lends weight to the notion that our environment is changing as a result of global warming. The recent unprecedented run of mild winters – together with food provided by us – has enabled these Blackcaps to survive.

So next time you look out of your window, don't just take the birds you see for granted. Every one of them has an extraordinary life history, is worth watching, and will repay the benefit of close study.

The Cuckoo shot across the island as if fired from a gun, hotly pursued by a frantic pair of Lapwings. Veering round, it passed right in front of the West Hide, giving wonderful views. Like all unexpected sightings, it produced a mixture of thrill and satisfaction. First, a shot of adrenaline as I realised this was something different; then, the excitement of watching it at close quarters; finally, as it disappeared, the satisfaction of having seen a new bird for the site. For this was not Cley, Minsmere or Stodmarsh, but a little nature reserve on the suburban outskirts of west London. Welcome to my new local patch.

For seven years back in the 1970s, I took the train each day from Shepperton to school in Hampton. Along the way we passed some reservoirs at Kempton Park, though I don't recall taking all that much notice of them. Thirty years later, Thames Water has turned one of these into a nature reserve, sandwiched between the racecourse, some allotments and a housing estate. Initial impressions are not very inspiring: first, you negotiate a narrow, muddy path favoured by dog-walkers and horse riders; then you go through what look like the gates to Colditz, presumably designed to keep out local vandals.

But if you shut your eyes and listen for a moment, the experience takes on a much more pleasant feel. As soon as you leave the road you are serenaded by the local Blackbirds and Robins; further along the path the sound of Chiffchaffs and Blackcaps begins; and as you walk up the grassy bank towards the hide, Whitethroats and Willow Warblers add their voices to the chorus.

On my very first visit, back in March, the highlight was the view from the West Hide. From its lofty vantage point on the banks of the old reservoir, I looked down upon a stage filled with frantic activity. Coots and Moorhens were building their nests, Great Crested and Little Grebes were diving for food, and the air was filled with the calls
of Lapwings as they fought off every intruder, including Jackdaws, crows and foxes, with a brave and noisy assault.

Since that first visit I have been back at least a couple of dozen times. There have been unusual sightings, such as a Buzzard flying lazily overhead on a bright spring morning; a Bar-tailed Godwit which stopped to feed for a few days on its way to the Arctic; and a male Garganey posing in front of the hide one evening in early May. But even when only the usual birds are present, there is always something to enjoy: from displaying Whitethroats to the pugnacious antics of the Canada Geese. And like all local patches, there is always the chance of something unexpected turning up, like that Cuckoo.

After that first sighting, we strolled round to the East Hide, and had no sooner settled down when we spotted the Cuckoo again. He was sitting on a bush, feeding on hairy caterpillars, and giving fabulous views. We watched, enthralled, as he used his beak to remove the poisonous innards of the caterpillar before wolfing it down his throat. Not something I expected to see when I set out from home, an hour or so before.

My mother always used to say that when you buy a new house, you should live with the garden for a year or so before you make any major changes, so that you truly understand its seasonal rhythms.

A local patch is a bit like that. When I first visited Kempton Nature Reserve back in March, spring was just around the corner, and the last few wintering ducks and waders could still be seen. Soon afterwards, summer visitors began to appear, and by the third week of April all four common warblers – Chiffchaff, Blackcap, Whitethroat and Willow Warbler – were singing constantly from dawn to dusk. The next week saw the first House Martins, while my birthday on 26 April
coincided with the arrival of those true sentinels of summer, Swallows and Swifts.

May was full of goings-on, the highlights being a fine male Garganey and a female Bar-tailed Godwit, both on their way north to breed. It always amazes me when a bird just drops in for a rest on its way from Africa to Scandinavia or the Arctic, but that's just one of the things that make a local patch so special.