This Birding Life (41 page)

‘A charm of Goldfinches' is not a phrase you hear very often these days, but the collective noun for this delightful little bird could not be more appropriate. For of all our native songbirds, the Goldfinch has a good claim to be the most attractive and endearing.

When we moved to south-west London four years ago, we had all the usual garden birds to visit. Blue Tits and Great Tits, Greenfinches and Chaffinches, even the odd Ring-necked Parakeet would drop in to take advantage of our seed and peanut feeders. But for the first year or so, we saw no Goldfinches.

Nor did we hear them. For the first sign that you have Goldfinches
in the neighbourhood is usually their sound: a tuneful, tinkling call often uttered in flight. But despite my best efforts, our garden and its surroundings remained resolutely Goldfinch-free.

Then, after a year or so, I tried a different strategy. I bought two new bird feeders: one, a monstrous metre-long creation of metal and plastic, which I filled to the brim with sunflower hearts. The second, a smaller and more modest affair, containing a special product called nyger – tiny, black, grain-like seeds which are reputed to attract Goldfinches as cheese attracts mice. I must admit that I was fairly sceptical. For a start, the tiny holes on the sides of the feeder looked too small to allow any bird to extract the contents. But I decided to give it a go, and so with my two new feeders primed for action, I retreated to the sitting room.

What I am about to tell you may make you think I am exaggerating. But it is the honest truth that within an hour I heard the telltale tinkle from the skies above, and there, on my nyger feeder, was a pair of Goldfinches. Minutes later, they were joined by another, and another, until a whole flock was enjoying a free lunch.

It was then that I realised that I had underestimated both the bird and the designer of the feeder. For the Goldfinch is the only species with a bill thin and pointed enough to be able to extract the tiny seeds from the slightly less tiny holes. Greenfinches give it a go but give up in frustration. Starlings and House Sparrows simply do not stand a chance.

Since then, we have enjoyed the presence of Goldfinches on virtually a daily basis, with flocks of a dozen or more regularly appearing. Sometimes, I take a closer look through the binoculars I keep by the back window and never fail to marvel at the sheer beauty of their plumage. Subtle shades of beige and cream; black wings emblazoned with the flash of yellow that gives the species its name; and the bright crimson face – said to be the result of the Goldfinch attempting to remove Christ's crown of thorns and becoming wounded in the process.

And even when I don't see them, I can hear that bubbling call as they fly overhead. A call that reminds me that in our eagerness to seek out the rare and exotic, we can all too easily overlook the common and familiar. For the Goldfinch is, in every sense of the word, a charming little bird.

On a fine spring evening – and there haven't been many of those so far this year – I love to sit on the little patio at the back of our house and listen to birdsong. By April the chorus is well under way, with the tinkling notes of the Goldfinch, the delicate tones of the Robin and the impossibly energetic trill of the Wren all competing for my attention. But the sound that I most enjoy hearing is the leader of the orchestra: the fluty tones of a male Blackbird, belting out his song as if his life depended on it.

Which in many ways, it does. For this bird certainly isn't singing purely, or even partly, for my benefit. His song may be beautiful – and may have inspired generations of poets, musicians and writers – but that Blackbird perched on the nearby roof is engaged in a battle as serious as any in the natural world. Before the summer is over, he must win a mate, fend off rivals to his territory and raise as many young as he can. The race to reproduce is on – and given that most songbirds only live for a year or two, this may be his last chance.

This springtime battle is at its most intense in my suburban neighbourhood, here on the outskirts of London. Studies have shown that town Blackbirds breed at densities up to ten times greater than their country cousins. So, even as I listen to ‘my' Blackbird, I can hear an answering song from two or three others nearby. The reason for this incredible breeding success is that gardens are ideal for Blackbirds to
nest and raise a family: providing plenty of food, places to nest and song-posts from which they can serenade the neighbourhood.

Yet it goes without saying that these built-up areas are not the Blackbirds' original habitat. Like so many of our garden birds, they evolved as creatures of woodland, living in the dense, leafy canopy and feeding on the forest floor. Only in the past couple of centuries have they discovered that our towns and cities, with their leafy avenues and intensively managed gardens, provide the perfect place to feed, drink, rest and nest. They moved in and have never looked back.

But like all living creatures, Blackbirds cannot hide their evolutionary origins. Even if they no longer lived in woodland, we would know that they originally came from there, for one simple reason: their song. Those deep, fluty tones, which make its song so appealing to the human ear, must have evolved to allow the sound to carry as far as possible through the dense foliage. Leaves soak up high-frequency sound, but the deep, baritone notes of the Blackbird penetrate this green barrier, allowing my bird's ancestors to defend their territories and win mates.

Not that any of this concerns the fine male Blackbird sitting on the roof opposite me and keeping a close lookout with that beady, black eye. Once he is happy that I present no immediate threat, he relaxes, opens his beak and sings, to his – and my – heart's content.

At almost two years old, my son Charlie has already mastered the art of identifying some of our common birds. Hardly surprising, really. After all, when I brought him back from hospital when he was just two days old, one of the first things I did was to hold him up against the window and show him the birds on our garden feeder.

His first bird? A Goldfinch – one of my favourites, and I hope someday one of his. Since then I have taken every possible opportunity to point out birds, and he has learnt to identify ‘dove' (a category that includes Wood Pigeon as well as Collared Dove); ‘parrot' (the ubiquitous and noisy Ring-necked Parakeets) and ‘Robin' (almost any small bird). If he fails to identify a particular species, he can always fall back on the general category of ‘bird', which includes every living thing to visit our suburban garden, apart from the odd cat or squirrel.

My greatest achievement so far has been to teach him the identity of my favourite British bird. Earlier this summer we spent a very pleasant week in the Dorset market town of Beaminster, whose old houses support a healthy population of low-flying Swifts. After a day or two of me pointing them out as they whizzed overhead, Charlie finally got it. From that moment on, every small bird flying across the sky is, to give it his distinctive pronunciation, a ‘wift'. Even if it's a House Martin. Or indeed any other species.

All very charming, but will it make him interested in birds as he grows up? Some might consider that with two parents already converted, he has little choice in the matter. But I am not sure whether you can ‘teach' a passion like birding or whether there is some kind of innate factor that makes someone gravitate towards birds, as opposed to, say, music or sport.

With my older two sons, now in their teenage years, I opted for a softly-softly approach. The result was that they have never taken more than a passing interest in birds, to put it mildly. So this time I have decided to be a pushy parent. Given that Charlie already has two younger siblings, six-month-old George and Daisy, I am hoping that at least one of them will follow in my footsteps.

But why am I so determined to get my children interested in birds and birding? Is it just so I can have someone to carry my telescope on long walks or talk to in my old age? I would like to think that I have a more altruistic motive. For I have gained so many benefits from my
passion for birds – both professionally and personally – that I would love my children to share in the joy of birding.

Soon I shall be getting them their first bird book, then a pair of binoculars. In a few years we will go on trips to bird reserves, where they can annoy the ‘serious' birders in the hides by talking too loudly. Eventually, I hope, I shall instil in them a passion for birds – and indeed other wildlife – that lasts their whole life long.

MAY 1997

M
y mother was never really interested in birds. But she still encouraged me in my new-found hobby. At first, this meant trailing after me and my classmate Roger, as we walked around the local gravel-pits in search of Great Crested Grebes. I can still remember the excitement when we finally saw a pair of these beautiful birds.

Family holidays were spent at Milford-on-sea in Hampshire. This was close to the wonderful Keyhaven Marshes, where for the first time in my life I watched wading birds such as Oystercatchers, Redshank and Dunlin.

But things got really serious when, for my thirteenth birthday, I became the proud owner of a pair of Carl Zeiss binoculars. My first chance to try them out came at Minsmere, where my mother sat patiently in hide after hide as I marvelled at the Avocets, Marsh Harriers and multitude of other birdlife at that fabulous reserve.

1974 was, I suppose, my
annus mirabilis
. That summer, I cycled off to the New Forest on a camping trip with my friend Daniel, blissfully unaware of my mother's terror at letting her only child go off on his own at the tender age of 14. Somehow we managed to survive unscathed, although on reflection, I wouldn't let my own children loose on the roads at that age.

That September, she took me to the Isles of Scilly, even allowing me two weeks off school, to the outrage of my teachers who for some strange reason thought that O-levels were more important than autumn migration.