How to be a Bad Birdwatcher by Simon Barnes

Author:Simon Barnes [Simon Barnes]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781780720692
Publisher: Short Books
Published: 2011-10-18T04:00:00+00:00

11. Shirtless Tim and a nice bit of posh

“See, O Bagheera, they never thank their teacher. Not one small wolfling has ever come back to thank old Baloo for his teachings.”

Rudyard Kipling, The Jungle Book

My father gave me a reward when I was able to do my tables, from once two is two all the way to twelve twelves are a hundred and forty-four. It was A Field Guide to the Birds of Britain and Europe, dated now but recognised as both a classic and a revolution in bird identification. How odd it was to be birdwatching with my bedraggled copy more than 20 years after I had acquired it by knowing that seven eights are fifty-six. Back from Hong Kong, I had to set the divine Karen Phillipps aside, and return to my old friend Roger Tory Peterson.

I visited odd places, and looked at birds, generally with Cindy, who was by then my wife, and we had fine times and muddled along and saw a few birds here and there. There was always a feeling of being in over our heads, but that was rather agreeable. We visited woods, parks, lakes, the Norfolk Broads. I had what you might call a second Confirmation Bird here. I had read about marsh harriers before, and knew them from the Young Ornithologists Club. I knew they were birds of fabulous rarity: only one or two birds nesting in Britain at secret locations.

And I saw one. They are unmistakable birds: nothing flies like a harrier. They cruise with wings held in a shallow V – a dihedral, to use the nice technical term from aerodynamics, which I remembered from the cadet corps at school. And, as with my Sri Lankan avocets, there was that sense of amazement and privilege. I wanted to drop to my knees; I wanted to whoop with excitement; I wanted to weep for their scarcity and weep again because they were still here; here, now, in front of me, quartering a field in a remorseless dihedral, performing every now and then a shuttle-cock drop on to some luckless creature of the reeds.

I was not thrilled because it was a tick, because my list was at a stroke one bird longer. Birdwatching is not trainspotting, and must never be confused with such a thing. Birdwatching is – this harrier was – a soul-deep matter. It was more than beautiful; it was a meeting, and understanding, a linking of myself with the bird and the world. My heart in hiding stirred for a bird – the achieve of, the mastery of the thing!

If you think my prose style has suddenly changed for the better, I must sadden you. That last sentence is from Gerard Manley Hopkins. Idiot interviewers are always asking victorious sports stars: “How does it feel?” They reply: “I’m over the moon” or “It hasn’t sunk in yet.” When Hopkins saw his kestrel – for the poem I was quoting is for a kestrel rather than a harrier –

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