Alun Newman: He's a Bad Birder!
I’m Britain’s worst birder. Birder, I’ve learned, is the new name for a Twitcher, which was the new name for a bird watcher.
Apparently, the birder community disliked “twitcher” though I can find no record of them gathering en masse at the O2, electing a democratic governance structure, and voting it out. Still, the new name stuck. My bird knowledge, however, did not. It’s shockingly basic.
I can do primary-school birds, sparrow, blackbird (the one with the orange beak), robin, pigeon and puffin. After that I drop into categories gulls, owls, birds of prey and everything becomes sketchy. Is it a swift or a swallow? A crow or a rook? Tawny owl or barn owl? The list of uncertainties goes on. It’s frustrating.
I’ve recently wanted to learn more about nature, to be more than “all the gear and no idea.” I’ve bought walking shoes and breathable trousers, I just need the bird ID.
Sonia and I had a chat recently about binoculars. It’s getting serious. Most of our “birding” happens in the car. I’m a huge fan of raptors, birds of prey, and my excitement was cranked to 11 at the Hawk Conservancy Trust in Andover. The place is magical if the weather cooperates.
You sit in an outdoor auditorium facing a wildflower meadow and a valley. Experts bring out birds and fly them across the space. Peregrine falcons tear down at lightning speed. Kestrels hover and dive. If the wind is right, birds released miles away turn from tiny black specks on the horizon and then grow, glorious, as they swoop toward the arena while music plays. Vultures, with wingspans that whisper “we could pick up your children,” glide just metres from your face.
I’m not doing it justice, it’s like trying to describe a sunset. You really have to be there.
Outside of that, my birding progress is minimal. Nearly all my spotting happens when I’m driving, usually up the A3. I point and shout at Sonia, “Look, look, it’s …” My default raptor identification is the buzzard. I’m not sure why.
As a team, Sonia and I are equally rubbish. With more confidence she’ll insist, “No, no it’s a kite.” We then bicker like the world’s least qualified ornithologists about tail shape and wing posture. Could it be a kestrel? A hawk? I maintain it cannot be a golden eagle. We agree it’s unlikely either way, and then fall back into a binoculars debate.
This is my plea to the actual birders out there, we need you. I need you. Social media, community groups, local walks, anything that turns the shouting match on the A3 into learning. Tiny, practical tips would help, a few quick pointers on flight silhouette and tail shape.
I’ll bring the walking trousers and the enthusiasm, you bring the knowledge. Together we might just turn Britain’s worst birder into Britain’s slightly-less-worst birder.