The Bearded Tit Part 27

The town was ablaze with light, music and laughter. The pale yellow facade of a pub called the Hoste Arms dominated a pretty village green whose tiny brook reflected the dazzling main street, bustling with excitement and smiles. This was an oasis. A lavishly tasteful, old world Las Vegas in the desert of winter Norfolk. It seemed like a mirage. But we stopped. We stayed. We went back over and over again and it became our base-camp for birdwatching and much more besides.

'This place is b.l.o.o.d.y excellent, mate,' enthused Danny, drooling as his eyes pa.s.sed along the array of real ales and real barmaids.

We fell in with a fairly bad crowd, which was fairly good, and had a very good time, which was very bad. I phoned a jealous and incredulous Tori to say that we had been forced to stay at the Hoste in Burnham Market that night, due to fire in one of the hides at t.i.tchwell bird reserve.

I introduced Danny to an acquaintance of mine who was a photographer in London, who was coincidentally doing some freelance work for a natural history magazine. Danny and he talked a load of apertures while I got in some mild womanizing practice just in case I'd have to come out of retirement and do it again for real one day.

In a corridor on the way back from the gents I pa.s.sed a gla.s.s case containing a stuffed bird. Judging by the date on the case, it was a genuine antique and a testament to the Victorians' mania for taxidermy. This bird was another resident of the soggy world of reed beds and accordingly it was clothed in another mottled, feathery symphony of browns, blacks, creams and rusts; but a spectacular symphony, none the less. I'd never seen one this close up but, then, few people had.

'Hey, Danny, I've just seen a little crake.'

'I was wondering where that had got to!'

s.e.xUAL DIMORPHISM.

Boys and girls are different. No, it's true. And there are more male then female birdwatchers. And there are more men than women in pub-quiz teams. Men like the names of things. They like learning lists. They are fact misers. Why should this be? What happened to us fearless hunters who once risked death on a daily basis to stalk dangerous prey and bring home meat for the table? The hunting stopped, that's what happened. By and large women made the home and reared the children. It could be argued that their role has changed less over the centuries. But what of the alpha hunter male? Hunting was about knowing the land, mapping it, learning the names of places, recognizing what was prey and what was food, the names of both, the behaviour of both. It was about looking into the distance. The hunter had to dominate the world, he had to control it; to control it, he had to know it. Knowing or not knowing meant surviving or peris.h.i.+ng. So, the modern, sedentary, castrated male hunter twiddles his thumbs and idles away his time cataloguing facts. Is not the pub quiz an elaborate ceremonial version of hunting, a coded and symbolic a.s.sertion of the hunter male's dominance over his environment and, indeed, over his rival males? We have gone from scanning the landscape, spotting our quarry, ambus.h.i.+ng it and tearing it apart to knowing who won the FA Cup in 1979, which of Henry the VIII's wives survived him or which common bird is Strix aluco Strix aluco.

This is not a s.e.xist generalization but based on experience. I'm not rerunning a tired cliche of the sort that claims that 'girls can't read maps' nor 'catch a cricket ball'. I am familiar, of course, with these theses. And when it comes to lists of seemingly unconnected names and numbers, do men do it better because they care more?

Or maybe it's to women's credit that they care less. The female likes and knows the big picture, the general picture, and is not bogged down or preoccupied by tiny details. How far is that mountain away from here? Is that animal spoor a wildebeest or leopard? How long would it take me to run to that tree? Is that plant poisonous? Which is the only Beatles' song with the word 'peanuts' in it?

Girls want to cut the c.r.a.p and get to the good bit. I am touched when I hear girls talk about a night out. The conversation could go like this: 'I met this bloke in the pub last night...'

'Yeah...'

'And he walks over and he starts chatting me up...'

'No? What was he like?'

'Well, he wasn't bad. Quite hot actually.'

'Really?'

'Yeah, but he didn't realize that I knew him.'

'What?'

'I know who he is. And I know his girlfriend!'

'Noooo! Get away...'

And so it goes on. An interesting tale of intrigue. I fancy that if two men embarked on a similar conversation, it might go like this: 'I met this girl in the pub last night.'

'Which pub?'

'Lamb and Flag.'

'Where's that?'

'Corner of Conway Street.'

'Oh I know. Used to be the Moon and Sixpence.'

'That's the one.'

'What's it like nowadays?'

'Good. Nice drop of Young's. Keeps his beer well.'

There are differences between males and females in the birding world too. Put bluntly: boys like birds of prey and girls like warblers. I'm well aware that generalizations are clumsy tools and can be unfair and misleading, but my limited observations tell me that boys like raptors and girls like BJs. (Brown jobbies, if you must know. Or LBJs-little brown jobbies, in twitching parlance.) You can understand this superficially. Raptors attack things and rip them to shreds or carry them off somewhere and rip them to shreds later. And they have all the equipment that goes with this: huge powerful talons, hooked bills and fabulous eyesight, which means they have big eyes in a perpetual frown. A piercing glare that seems to say, 'What are you looking at, f.u.c.k-face?'

Boys like this.

The LBJs, which are mainly warblers, are tiny, slim, secretive birds usually with amazing songs. They are pale beneath and brown above. Sometimes they are streaky brown above and pale beneath. Sometimes they are streaky brown above and streaky pale beneath. Rarely, though, streaky pale beneath and not streaky brown above. They are, in short, cute birds.

Girls like this.

But I don't think this is the heart of the matter. LBJs take a lot of care, patience and hard work to see. Boys do not like this. LBJ take a lot of care, patience and hard work to see. Boys do not like this. LBJs skulk and hide deep in trees, bushes, hedges and reeds. Boys can't be bothered with all that nonsense, even though, as a girl will tell you, the bird, when you finally see it, is beautiful, delicately marked and superbly individual, not just a little brown job. skulk and hide deep in trees, bushes, hedges and reeds. Boys can't be bothered with all that nonsense, even though, as a girl will tell you, the bird, when you finally see it, is beautiful, delicately marked and superbly individual, not just a little brown job.

Raptors, on the other hand, are easy. They perch openly, alert and busy. The glide, hover or soar, in full view of everything, except, of course, some unlucky mammal on the ground. If there is a red kite about, you will see it. And spectacular it is. There is absolutely no effort involved in finding a red kite in the sky and watching its lofty magnificence for hours. A piece of twitching p.i.s.s.

Boys like this.

Warblers, on the other hand, are tricky. Well, for a start, pick up a book of British birds and look in the index under warblers. There are forty-two entries. Most people have probably never heard of any of them, though those with a little country knowledge, or maybe pub-quiz knowledge, may have heard of these: The whitethroat: a pretty bird that used to be widespread and resident in this country, and now visits from April onwards. In the olden days country people used to call them Peggy. 'Morning, Peggy Whitethroat,' they'd say. I've no idea why. Next time I'm in the olden days, I'll ask a country person. The whitethroat takes it name from the colour of its throat. Which is? Anyone? White! Very good. It often sings its scratchy but musical song perched openly when its white throat is unmistakable. Its scientific name is Sylvia communis Sylvia communis, meaning 'common forest dweller'. It is not as communis communis as it once was, nor particularly forest-dwelling, but it does give its name to a whole bunch of similar birds, the 'sylvia warblers', one of which the whitethroat is usually paired with in books. Another well-known bird: as it once was, nor particularly forest-dwelling, but it does give its name to a whole bunch of similar birds, the 'sylvia warblers', one of which the whitethroat is usually paired with in books. Another well-known bird: The blackcap: as you probably can tell from its name, this bird has not not got a white throat. Like all warblers this one has a lovely song, bright and clear, getting louder and faster. Its scientific name is got a white throat. Like all warblers this one has a lovely song, bright and clear, getting louder and faster. Its scientific name is Sylvia atricapilla Sylvia atricapilla, which means 'forest dweller with a black cap'.

The chiffchaff, one of my favourites already mentioned, is the little bird with the memorable two-tone song. The chiffchaff is virtually identical to the willow warbler, its twin, you could say, but the tiny, dull, greeny-brown willow warbler's song could not be less identical. An ascending trill becoming a cascading warble, fading away but finis.h.i.+ng with a slight flourish.

'They are very similar but both beautiful in their own sweet way,' Tori a.s.sured me.

'If you say so,' I added cursorily.

'Birds of prey are obvious. They're too easy to see.'

'I like easy,' I said, hoping to put the matter to rest.

'They're just there. Alone in the sky. It's as if they're shouting, 'Hey, look at me, I'm a bird of prey!''

'In my book, that's good.' I puffed my chest out and added, 'We hunters have a special bond!'

There was a short, unkind sn.i.g.g.e.r from my side. It was early evening and we were 'stalking' a sedge warbler at the edge of a field by the river.

'Look at that!' She pointed at the small bird. A small brown bird. Streaked. The sedge is streaked and, through binoculars, rather engagingly marked. Its song, if you can call it that, is a loud, fast, excitable mix of trills, clicks, squeaks and whistles. Apparently, according to those with lots of time and sound-recording equipment on their hands, the sedge warbler has never been known to make the same noise twice.

'Hey, look,' shouts Tori. 'It's parachuting!'

And it parachutes. It does a short song flight from its perch in the undergrowth, then glides back down again.

It is lovely. And this parachuting business is quite impressive. We watched it 'parachuting' a few more times. On the third one, there was a sudden, loud, high-pitched squeak.

A dark angular blur shot past us.

A sparrowhawk.

No more sedge warbler.

'That's what I call a bird!'

Tori pulled a dismissive face and walked off.

DANNY AND THE BLACKBIRDS.

It was a nice, cosy suburban bedroom. But very fifties. Too much fabric. Curtains, bedspreads, seat covers, cus.h.i.+ons, woollen flowerpot covers. And too many flowers in the patterns. And all the colours too dark. It gave the impression the room was caving in on us. We were being drowned in rhododendrons and suffocated with mauve. Despite the attempted homeliness, this place had no heart to it. The bedroom did not smell of bedroom. It smelled of hospital. Disinfectant and anaesthetic. The uneasy smell of chemicals that hide disease and mask death. Danny lay awkwardly upright on too many flowery bolster pillows. He was clearly in shock. His white eyes were bulging. The blueness of his thin lips was emphasized by the grey pallor of his face. The dryness of his throat made his voice grate, and a sudden strange noise caused panic. Was he trying to speak or was he choking?

I looked at the doctor. 'Do something then!' The man looked blank. 'Come on, for Christ's sake! You're the doctor!'

The doctor returned a horrified stare at me. 'I'm not a doctor,' he stammered. 'I'm a man wearing a white coat.'

What did he mean by that? Was he surrendering responsibility?

'Has he had painkillers? Have you given him painkillers? He needs something. Urgently!' I was having difficulty getting their attention.

'There's something in his throat. Look, he's got something stuck there down his mouth, down the back of his gullet,' said one of the medical students.

'It's a feather. A black feather! I know what...' The doctor thrust his hand in Danny's mouth, extracted a small black feather and immediately spit, phlegm and sticky clots of blood spewed from Danny's lips.

The man wearing the white coat shook his head. 'We're going to have to open him up.'

I was afraid it would come to this. 'The whole chest?'

'Yeah, cut through the ribcage, get that out of the way and slice into the lungs.'

He sounded matter-of-fact and detached.

'How long will it take?' I asked.

'Not long at all,' he said. 'Very quick, in fact. Watch this!'

I couldn't believe what happened next. The doctor produced a long-bladed knife and rammed it into Danny's sternum and split his chest. It plopped open with a warm hiss. The escaping air reeked of urine, damp straw and animal filth. And then we saw them: free now from the cage of his ribs, four-and-twenty blackbirds. Large slimy crows? Crows deformed by an oil-slick? Or perhaps mutant cormorants covered in coal-black grease. Unable to see beyond a gummy squint, unable to move beyond a pitiful spasm, unable to crow beyond a rasping rattle. This was the nest of the birds of death.

I picked one up. 'Danny, what sort of bird is this?'

'Is it a d.i.c.ky bird?'

'That's not good enough; I want the scientific name. I want the Linnean binomial!'

'I can't stand this,' said Danny getting out of bed.

'Where are you going?' I asked.

'Pub, mate. Must have a beer. And f.a.gs, mate. Got to get a snout.' And he disappeared.

We sat together in the pub. 'And that's how it ended?' I asked.

'That was how it ended.' Danny looked quite shaken, but he managed a smile. 'But you, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d, asking me for the Latin names for birds after my body had been cut open.'

I hoped that I would never do that in real life. 'And what would Dr Freud have to say about a dream like that?'

'It's got to be about smoking, hasn't it?' said Danny reluctantly.

'Er...well, it's quite possible.'

'If I'm going to keep having dreams like that, I'm going to be too scared to go to sleep.'

'What are you going to do about it, then?' I asked.

'I'm going to have to seriously consider giving it up.'

'What, smoking?'

'No, sleeping!'

FIRST OF THE YEAR.

A friend of mine, who is resident in an exotic faraway Eastern place, once said to me, 'What's odd about England is the seasons. How do you put up with things changing all the time?' friend of mine, who is resident in an exotic faraway Eastern place, once said to me, 'What's odd about England is the seasons. How do you put up with things changing all the time?'

To me, the question seemed incomprehensible; almost sacrilegious. How does he put up with every day being the same tedious round of rain, sweltering sun, humidity, rain and so on?

'I always know what the day is going to be like,' he boasts.

And is that a good thing? Is that not like being in a prison? Does that not turn each day's weather into a routine, a drudgery? The subtle change to the landscape as the seasons pa.s.s is surely one of the unrivalled pleasures of the English countryside. The snowdrops, crocuses, daffodils and the tentative pale greens as winter gives way to spring and the gentle days of May bursting with blossom and...but you already know. I don't need to tell you. Keats and Wordsworth would have been lost without the four seasons. And as for poor old Vivaldi!

I once told my children that birdwatching was nothing like trainspotting because, unlike trains, birds do not follow a timetable. But they do, of course.

As any countryman will tell you, our bird life is locked into the timetable of the seasons and the accompanying changes. We have resident birds that do different things at different times of the year: singing to find a mate, mating, nest-building, frenzied food gathering as the young arrive, the young fledging and maybe another bash at breeding.

Then we have the visitors. A whole different set of birds arrives in spring, autumn and winter. It is a pleasure to see or hear the song of a new arrival; some birds that have come from as far as South Africa turn up on a favourable breeze to feed and breed in England.

They arrive bringing delight, but they also bring mystery. Birds migrate so they are always near an abundant food source, but why do they fly so much further than they need to? Swallows winter in South Africa, fly to us for the summer to breed and then return. But why here? I have seen swallows in Aberdeen in the summer. They've come from South Africa to find food to sustain their breeding, but on the way they have flown over Central Africa, which has more than enough food for them. And Greece, Italy, Spain, France. Loads of flying insects in all those places. No disrespect, but why the h.e.l.l Aberdeen? And their navigational abilities defy belief; they are the stuff of NASA's dreams. The cuckoo, born here in English woodland, flies south to find a mate. The couple returns here to leave their egg in the nest of an unsuspecting pipit or warbler. The staggering mystery is how did the cuckoo find its mate? Brought up by its small brown surrogate parents, a cuckoo had never seen another cuckoo before.

The unexplained does not diminish our joy at seeing or hearing the first of the year. It is an annual pleasure that Tori and I share. In our house, there's a tangible excitement as March and April approach.

Who will get the first chiffchaff?