Inspiring challenge
It was a case of 0-200 birds in 35 years for one man whose interest in birdwatching dipped but was then renewed by a birding challenge
Can our #My200birdyear challenge encourage lapsed birders to ‘look up’ again?
Iblame the Canada Geese. Not the most glamorous birds to trigger a renewed interest in birdwatching after a 35-year hiatus, I grant you. But if I’ve learned anything in the two-and-a-bit years since those hulking squawkers flew low over my head that morning – and I mean grazingmy-bald-patch-with-their-wingtips low – it’s to seek beauty in even the most mundane spectacles. And as any London-based birder will attest, there are few things more mundane than the Canada Goose. It was January 2016 and, as is the way of things, I’d made New Year’s resolutions. I hadn’t called them ‘resolutions’, of course – I find they’re much easier to break that way. But I was absolutely clear in my head that, halfway through my 51st year, I needed to shake things up, particularly in the fitness department. I was eating and drinking less; I’d enrolled in a yoga class; I’d taken to long walks, saying hello to grass and clouds and trees. Middle age was upon me. It was on one such walk that the Canada Geese happened. Not in their usual way, pestering for food, fouling the pathways and generally making a nuisance of themselves. These birds, eight of them, were organising themselves for take-off from the lake in Dulwich Park near my home in south London, calling to each other in fervid excitement, a frenzy of organised chaos, coming together at the last second as the final goose slotted into place. They churned the water and the air, sending a Moorhen scuttling for cover. And then they were coming at me, wings straining, wafting displaced air over my head, a reminder of the weight and difficulty of flight – thrilling and unignorable. From such everyday moments are obsessions rekindled. My 12-year-old self resurfaced briefly, sidled up behind me and grabbed hold, never to let go. “Remember this? It’s time again”. It’s not difficult to explain why I got back into birding after 35 years away – least of all to readers of a magazine devoted to that magnificent pastime. Harder is to explain where I’d been all that time. What was I playing at, not taking advantage of the best free entertainment available to mankind? I’m still not sure how and why the passion dissipated, but somewhere
It’s not that birds were completely absent from my life between the ages of 15 and 50, more that they were in the deep background, like extras in a crowd scene
between binocular-toting, tick-obsessed 12-year-old and grunting indolent teenager the spark went out, apparently never to be rekindled. It’s not that birds were completely absent from my life between the ages of 15 and 50, more that they were in the deep background, like extras in a crowd scene. I’d notice when the Swifts returned – it’s difficult not to – but only with a careless “Oh, OK the Swifts are back. Jolly good”. And when a Wren flew through the open window of our kitchen a few years ago and perched on the sideboard, it caused a flutter and a stirring in my heart. Of course it did. But some tedious unimaginative part of me would tamp down any hint of enthusiasm, as if to say “You’re too busy for such fripperies”. Idiot.
Had I really seen a redstart?
Now, enthused by the geese, I leafed through old bird books, wallowing in the memories. But as I did so, a nagging thought tugged at the back of my mind. I seemed to have ticked a lot of birds I now had no recollection of having seen. Quail, Woodcock, Black Grouse. Really? Jack Snipe, Black Redstart, Marsh Harrier. Uh huh. I remembered enough to know that seeing a Marsh Harrier in Britain in the 1970s would have been unlikely, to say the least. And where exactly had I seen a Black Redstart? I would have remembered that, for sure. I was left with the conclusion that as a 12-year-old I was a great big liar, liar, pants on fire. This emphatically would not do. I like a project; and as a cricket fan I’ve always liked a list. Here was my chance to atone for my childhood sins. I would go out and see as many birds as I could, and I would be scrupulously honest about it. I set about making myself a target for the year. How many could I see? 150? 200? 300? If only I’d known about Bird Watching magazine at that stage, it would all have been much simpler. No coincidence, though, that I independently settled on a target of 200 birds for the year. It’s a fine target for a beginner – just hard enough to be a challenge, to get you out and about and thinking of ways to find them, but not so ridiculously daunting that you give up halfway through. I took baby steps. First the garden, then the local parks, then the WWT reserve at Barnes. This will perhaps explain how my total by the end of March remained a paltry 40. A trip to Minsmere in Suffolk in April was a giant leap, both in numbers and confidence. Then I cast the net wider: Dungeness, Portland, Lakenheath and beyond. And the more I went out, the more I learned, the more I realised how much there was to learn, and the more I got a handle on where and when I’d be able to push my total towards the mythical 200. There were disasters. Of course there were. We don’t talk about the rainy day in Ashdown Forest in June; and the mere mention of a Short-eared Owl can still make me shudder. But as the year wore on, I realised that it wasn’t about the target. Not really. I’d taken my exercise, broadened my horizons, changed my view of the world, and spent some actual quality family time to boot. And did I make it to 200? Well, maybe it was about the target after all, just a little bit – you’ll have to buy the book to find out.
> Lev’s book, Why Do Birds Suddenly Disappear?, is out 17 May, from Unbound. Follow him on Twitter: @Levparikian