Unsung heroes
RON HOBLYN A Suffolk wildlife stalwart who saw beyond a punk rocker exterior to the dedicated naturalist inside.
My university days were a stark contrast between exciting academic progress and a social disaster zone. I loved the course to the extent that I only missed one lecture in three years, but for most of that time I barely spoke to anyone, merely uttering “20p please” to the bus conductor twice a day. I didn’t fit in… so despite the enormous value of the education it was a very lonely time for me.
Of course with green, blue, black, or blonde and black stripy hair (I was studying badgers at the time, so I matched their markings), skin tight zippy trousers, white brothel creepers and a studded biker’s jacket, I didn’t look like your typical 1970s zoology student. Not that this perturbed most of my lecturers or my tutor, Dr Rory Putman, who smiled wryly at my flamboyances and was enormously supportive of both my inadequacies and my ambitions. Nevertheless, when I left university I felt like I was at war with most of the world and found respite from the battle on the heaths of the New Forest where my favourite bird of the moment, the red-backed shrike, was sadly similarly imperilled. It had been in long-term decline but was finally finished off by the nefarious attentions of egg collectors. During the summer that followed my graduation, none arrived on the sunny, coconut-scented sandlands that had been their southern stronghold. I was bereft, but not beaten.
I wrote to a man who lived in the Suffolk Brecks, who I had been told was ‘Mr Shrike’. I got a very neat handwritten reply by return inviting me to come and help warden the remaining pairs in Thetford Forest.
Thus, on a hot Saturday in June of 1982, Mr Ron Hoblyn, and his wonderful wife Maureen, probably got the shock of their lives when my father dropped me at their neat cottage door and sped off back to Southampton. I was sporting an absurd yellow quiff, leather trousers, and my trusty binoculars. We went for a walk, did a bit of nest finding, talked about woodlarks and nightjars, listened to F-111 planes roaring overhead, and ended up gawping in mutual admiration at a male redbacked shrike. I learned that Ron was ‘Nestfinder General’, and all about birds and forestry. I had found myself in the company of one of the greatest naturalists I’ll ever know. I think Ron learned that the 10x50 binoculars were the critical element of my attire, and that I was always keen to listen to someone who knew more than I did. So over the next couple of weeks that I spent sleeping in a tick-infested tent beneath the shrikes, diligently and daily repelling a posse of egg-collectors, we began to share our passion for wildlife.
One of Ron’s secrets is his eyes: small, sparkling and keen; he is a brilliant watcher. He is patient, of course. But he also, quite simply, sees more than most – the quick details, the subtle clues that combine with a lifetime of ingenuity honed quietly in the shady nooks of Suffolk to unravel nature’s curiosities. In between he worked for the Forestry Commission and together with his team helped to reshape its conservation policy in the East of England. A great number of nightjars, woodlarks, stone curlews and goshawks are the better off for that.
On a warm evening during one of the last of the shrike summers I spent with Ron, he drove me down to a layby opposite Lakenheath airbase where, on the sand alongside a burned out van, he showed me the sand catchfly – a curious little plant living on dry disturbed ground. A car pulled up and I’ll never forget the look on the driver’s face: incredulous, confused, startled, as he took in the sight of a prostrate punk rocker and his mentor musing over the minutiae of life.
Without prejudice, Ron offered me a chance when few others did, and I remain very grateful for that. Top bloke. CHRIS PACKHAM is a conservationist and presenter.
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I WAS AT WAR WITH THE WORLD AND FOUND RESPITE ON THE HEATHS.”