Wonderful Waxwings
It was a case of ‘the birdwatching that wasn’t’ for this Waxwing chaser…
Will you see these exotic invaders on your patch this year?
I’ve never been a twitcher, but I wake one Sunday in early January from a dream about Waxwings. After breakfast it doesn’t take much effort to find a dedicated Waxwing-chasing website, so I duly sign up. The web posts and photos track this winter’s Waxwing visitors from northern Scotland south to Yorkshire, the Midlands and now Kent.
Each sighting is responded to with groans of envy from those less fortunate.
I ask if there have been any seen near London. In seconds, I receive a response telling me Gravesend is the nearest so far this winter. Then I waste half an hour looking up the journey from south London to Gravesend, before deciding I must stop obsessing and do the washing up.
The following Friday, there’s great excitement among the Londoners on the website. A single Waxwing has been seen in Euston. I’m not working today, so I drop other plans and make it there by mid-morning. The location is very near the hectic station but still manages to be quiet and residential. The street is empty when I arrive, but I guess that the three red berry trees along one side must be the attraction. I loiter on my own for a few minutes and then, one by one, a number of other likely birders appear. “Are you… ?” we ask each other and gradually form a loose and convivial group.
Checking bird sightings
There are two women and a man who are on their lunch breaks from work, and one chatty chap who has come into London for a meeting. We all agree it was sensible of him to allow enough time for a brief diversion. With icy fingers, I check the website on my phone, and see that no-one has reported seeing the bird today.
We pretend to enjoy a group of Redwings in the top of a London Plane tree, to pass the time. While the other birders have to go back to work, I stay for half an hour more and then come to the conclusion I need to thaw out. I reflect that I might be more suited to chatting than
twitching. After warming up in the British Museum, I return to the street. There’s a woman with an ostentatiously large camera trained on the berry trees. Unlike many of the birders I come across, she doesn’t seem keen to talk. I hang around for half an hour and then go home. On the website later I see a picture taken by the mystery camerawoman, which shows the bird was there just after I left. I respond by complimenting her on her good luck, while privately cursing.
Berries but no birds
The following week, there are sightings near Finsbury Park in a housing estate. Feeling like a proper twitcher, I rearrange my work days and travel across London. I can’t see any birds round the edge of the estate, so I walk through it. I know from online conversation that in some places, the locals are getting fed up with Waxwing twitchers, but I get no more than curious glances today. I find lots of hedges laden with red berries but no birds. On the way home, I stop off at Euston on the off chance but the berry trees are bare now. Revisiting this scene has the same effect as picking at a scab.
The London sightings go quiet for a while. Then, at the start of February, I travel to a residential road in Balham. A flock of Waxwings have been here a number of times this week, most recently lined up on an aerial above a primary school. On the site there have been responsible, if rather patronising, online warnings against pointing binoculars at children. I see no sign of any birds, despite quartering the streets around the school. Frustratingly, it seems I didn’t react quickly enough because the birds aren’t seen here again.
Giving up... for now
In between trips, I read that in the twitching community pretending to see a bird is called ‘stringing’. And someone outed as a stringer is ostracized by the community for life. Tempting though that sounds, I decide it’s better to settle for being a twitching failure with my integrity intact.
And it is all beginning to feel a bit hopeless. On a sunny afternoon later in February, I take a train packed with shoppers to Wimbledon. I weave through leafy streets to find the park where six birds have been seen over the last few days. It doesn’t take me long to spot a likely birdwatcher accompanied by his partner. I wander over for a chat. It’s clear the birdwatching is his thing rather than hers, but she’s relaxed to find a morning’s shopping interrupted by a spot of birding. I pick up that this happens quite often on their days out.
The bench the couple have chosen is under the tree where the flock was last seen. He’s heard that the flock arrives back at the park each evening to roost. I walk round the park while the sun goes down and debate how long I’m willing to wait. As usual when I’m birding, I’m really hungry, so call in to the park café for some cake.
There is no sign of the birds that afternoon or anywhere else in London from that day onwards.
My family have been very tolerant but I sense relief as I admit I’m giving up. I’m not sure they hear me mutter “...until next year” under my breath.
A FLOCK OF WAXWINGS HAVE BEEN HERE A NUMBER OF TIMES THIS WEEK, MOST RECENTLY LINED UP ON AN AERIAL ABOVE A PRIMARY SCHOOL