The Bearded Tit Part 28

Blackcap?

Sedge warbler?

Swallow?

This is so much a case of a pleasure shared, a pleasure doubled.

This is a true point of connection; something you share with someone you love; a connection with that person and a very concrete connection with the seasons, with nature, with the world.

I mention the cuckoo because it is the most identifiable arrival. People would write to the national press to boast 'first of the spring'. Frederick Delius, Bradford's most famous musical son, wrote 'On Hearing The First Cuckoo In Spring', which surprisingly consists of more than two notes.

And one swallow doesn't make a summer but it certainly means the end of winter. I love the fact that this phrase is now so fossilized in our language that scarcely a sporting weekend goes by without some report using the cliche. 'Middlesbrough may have won three on the trot but one swallow doesn't make a summer.' Or: 'One swallow doesn't make a summer, the Red Sox are still bottom of the league.'

Our summer visitors are not exactly clockwork, but it's amazing how close to the same date they arrive each year. Because the chiff-chaff has such a recognizable song and its arrival is usually around the time of my birthday (St Patrick's Day, but keep it to yourself, I don't like a lot of fuss), I always note my first hearing of it. For me and Tori this is very special, the the moment that winter is over. moment that winter is over.

And how about this? In 2003,2004 and 2005 I heard my first chiffchaff on the same date. The 15th of March. I wonder if Julius Caesar heard one on that fateful day? In 2006 it was much later, the 22 of March. I wonder if Julius Caesar heard one on that fateful day? In 2006 it was much later, the 22nd of March. In 2007 it was the 19 of March. In 2007 it was the 19th. It was about ten in the morning and I was walking down a tree-lined street in town when I heard it. I phoned Tori at work straight away. Standing right under the chiffing and chaffing little bird, I said, 'Listen to this,' and pointed the phone towards the tree. 'Did you hear it?'

'I can't hear you. There's a lot of traffic noise.'

'Listen. Can you hear it? Isn't it amazing?'

'I can only hear a bus, I think, or a lorry.'

'Wait, I'll hold the phone up as high as I can...there, did you hear it then?'

'Sorry, darling, you're breaking up.'

'What did you say?'

'Listen, we'll have to speak later. It's all crackly.'

'But did you hear it?'

'Sorry what was that?'

'Did you hear it? First of the year!'

'h.e.l.lo? Are you still there?'

'h.e.l.lo...I think I've lost you.'

'h.e.l.lo?...h.e.l.lo?...Look, I'll call back later.'

So I waited till she got home. I couldn't wait to tell her. 'Sorry about this morning,' she said as soon as she walked in the door. 'I couldn't hear anything you were saying.'

'Don't worry, 'I said. 'It's just-'

She interrupted me straight away.

'Oh, guess what! I heard a chiffchaffthis morning. First of the year. Just before you phoned me, in fact.'

'I heard one as well!'

'Liar,' she mocked.

'That's why I phoned you.'

'Yeah, right!'

She's lying. I know she is. 'Oh and something else,' I add. 'I saw a swift!'

'Blimey, that's amazing! That is early. I'm impressed. Where did you see that?'

'Er...'I mumble, 'on a repeat of Bergerac Bergerac.'

DANNY, THE PUPIL AND THE TEACHER.

'Redshank,' exclaimed Danny, pointing at the water's edge.

And so it was.

It had been nearly a year since I introduced Danny to twitching. Nearly causing a major fire in a bird reserve and having nightmares about terrifying growths in his chest had not noticeably made him cut down on smoking, but he had retaken up his old hobby of photography with a commendable zeal that was earning him money and taking him over Europe and beyond.

'Yes, that's a redshank.'

I was tempted to act the real twitcher and say, 'Yes; or is it a spotted redshank?' even though I knew it wasn't wasn't a spotted redshank but still wanting to show off that I knew there was such a thing as a spotted redshank and that they were a little bit tricky to tell apart. And not just showing off my expertise but to remind Danny of the teacher-pupil relationship I had with him when we were birding, and to reinforce our respective roles. a spotted redshank but still wanting to show off that I knew there was such a thing as a spotted redshank and that they were a little bit tricky to tell apart. And not just showing off my expertise but to remind Danny of the teacher-pupil relationship I had with him when we were birding, and to reinforce our respective roles.

'Well done, Danny.'

'Don't 'well done' me, young man!' Danny retorted, semi-jokingly. 'Didn't I photograph one last time we went out?'

'So you did.'

Danny coughed. He coughed again. And then again and I thought he was not going to stop.

'Sorry, mate. b.l.o.o.d.y f.a.gs. So what did little Tori think of them?'

'She loved them.'

In fact she'd said, 'Blimey, these are fantastic pictures.' Danny had printed off the digital originals on to high quality photographic paper. 'Amazing shot of an avocet.'

'Not difficult to photograph waders though,' I'd said.

'That's a bit unkind; this dunlin is amazing!'

'Yes, or is it a little stint? No, you're right, it's a dunlin.'

'He has a good eye.'

'Yeah, well at least one part of his body is good.'

Tori looked reproachfully over the top of her reading gla.s.ses. 'Sounds like you're jealous.'

'Eh?'

'You were the one who wanted to get Danny out birdwatch-ing. Now he's quite keen, you don't like it.'

'That's not true.'

'Just because he's uses a camera and you use binoculars, you don't like it. You think it's a branch of photography rather than pure, immaculate twitching.'

'Not at all. I'm pleased for him. He's out in the fresh air, not smoking and drinking...as much.'

Though Tori had a point. A little tiny bit of a point, anyway. I was imparting my superior bird knowledge to Danny and he was turning it into photography, which was already his hobby. And it was also a subject I knew nothing about. In fact, I loathed photography: surely one of the world's most overrated talents, if that's not too generous a description. I always thought the gift of the world-cla.s.s photographer was to be somewhere where something was worth photographing and to have his camera with him. Anything above and beyond that seemed to be pretentious b.o.l.l.o.c.ks. Though I didn't want to annoy or upset Danny by voicing this opinion. It dawned on me that perhaps the bit I liked about birdwatching with Danny was the 'apres'. Danny was good at 'apres': eating, drinking, talking rubbish, swapping obscene reminiscences, having a huge laugh and making fools of ourselves in mixed company. The photography aspect of our expeditions had made it more serious for him and less fun for me.

'Thing is,' said Danny as we walked toward the lake. 'Thing about photography is that there's nothing to it. Being a good photographer just means being in the right place at the right time and having a camera with you. The rest is pretentious b.o.l.l.o.c.ks.'

'Mmm.' I pretended to muse on this. 'I'm sure a lot of people would disagree with you.'

'Stuff'em.'

We were at Rutland Water, about sixty miles north of Cambridge. When I was a little boy, in the days when you had to learn things at school, everybody knew that the smallest county in England was Rutland. For a long time it was subsumed into Leicestershire but the plucky Rutlanders had agitated for it to be restored to its former tiny glory. So now it was Rutland again, with the pretty town of Oakham as its capital; a beacon of hope for rapidly disappearing Britain. Rutland Water was built in the seventies when I was still a student panting after the most beautiful girl in the world. It was originally called Empingham Reservoir and had been created to supply water to the East Midlands. It is an impressive site and one of the largest man-made reservoirs in Europe.

'Now, look, Danny, follow my finger there. What do you see?'

'Water.'

'Er...correct; keep watching-something's about to appear.'

There was a plop and a dark, toy-duck-shaped bird bounced to the surface.

'Recognize that?'

'Oh yes, that's another one I photographed at t.i.tchwell. Oh, it'ser...'

'If I said Tachybaptus ruficollis Tachybaptus ruficollis to you, what would you say?' to you, what would you say?'

'I'd say cut out the b.l.o.o.d.y showing off and remind me what it is!'

'Little grebe.'

'Oh yes, I remember. Hang on. I don't think it is, you know.'

'It is, Danny, trust me.'

'I spent about an hour developing those photos; the little grebe didn't have a red eye and those funny yellowy feathers on the side of the head. Not that I remember anyway.'

I looked at the bird closely though the binoculars and saw that there was something odd about this little grebe, but I put it down to a seasonal plumage variation.

'It's probably some seasonal plumage variation.'

'Oi, mate!' Danny was calling out to a pa.s.sing birder. 'What's that little black ducky thing down there?'

I'm sure this was another severe breach of twitching etiquette. The stranger looked Danny up and down suspiciously as if he were the sort of person who'd set fire to hides with f.a.g ends. He gave the bird a brief going over with his scope.

'It's a black-necked grebe.'

'Not a little grebe, then?' Danny asked.

'No, a little grebe doesn't have that bright red eye and those yellow ear tufts.'

'One-nil to Danny!' he shrieked annoyingly.

'Podiceps nigricollis, ' I announced, limply trying to get back some self-respect and pixie points.

Tori laughed at this anecdote. 'It's not a race: who sees the most birds, who sees the most species, who sees the rarest one. It's not a compet.i.tion to see who knows the most Latin names for birds.'

'Well, I'd win that. Hands down.'

'Teh, there you go again! He's learnt a lot from you, what's wrong with you learning from him? There's nothing wrong with that. Don't be so proud. You don't have to save face all the time. Be wrong occasionally. I know you're not used to it but give it ago.'

'How dare you say I'm not used to being wrong? I've been wrong eleven times. Twice in the same year.' 1982, it was.'

'You may joke, but you don't like to be shown up, do you?'

'Nonsense. Alright then,' I said, reaching for the nearest bird book. 'I'm going to show you a picture of a bird and you tell me what it is.'

Reluctantly Tori went along with this. I turned to the black-necked grebe. I covered up the name and turned the book towards her.

'What's that?'

'It's a black-necked grebe,' she said instantly.

'Exactly. Black-necked grebe. Just what I thought.'

STARLING.

A spring day on the coast. I am with a hardy old countryman and birders surveying the estuary and its inhabitants. spring day on the coast. I am with a hardy old countryman and birders surveying the estuary and its inhabitants.

'Look at that. Huge flock of dunlins,' say I.

'A fling.'

'Sorry?'