The Bearded Tit Part 29

'A fling. That's what you say for dunlin. A fling of dunlin, not a flock.' And notice he says 'dunlin', singular, not 'dunlins' as I did.

'And a large group of pintails, as well.'

'k.n.o.b,' says countryman.

I pause to work out whether this is a comment about me and my ignorance of collective names for birds, or the collective name for pintails.

'It's a k.n.o.b of pintail.'

'Oh, of course.' I press on tentatively. 'Is that not a flock of guillemots?'

'No, that's a bazaar of guillemot.'

'And what about those thrushes?'

'A mutation.'

'Linnets?'

'A parcel.'

'And what about that flock of shelducks?'

'A dodding of shelduck.'

'Well, I never.'

I should perhaps inform you that this dialogue never actually took place. You know this, first, from the odd collections of species: would I really be able to see a bazaar of guillemot from the same point I could see a mutation of thrush or a parcel of linnet?

Collective nouns, eh? Can you really be doing with them?

Compilers of pub quizzes apart, is anyone remotely interested in them? Who on earth would use them in everyday conversation?

A 'swarm of bees' or a 'den of thieves' is pa.s.sable, but a 'siege of herons'? A 'cadge of peregrines'? I ask you! Some of them have a vague logic. A 'ballet of swans', for example. An 'ostentation of peac.o.c.ks' makes sense. But does it imply that the peac.o.c.ks have to be adult males with their tail feathers fully extended and fanned? Can you have an ostentation of baby peac.o.c.ks? Or what about the females, the peahens? Is it a 'self-effacement'?

But what is more worrying: who bothered to make them up? Who the h.e.l.l thought it necessary to have a different collective noun for each bird species? And besides, answer me this. If a 'dodding' can only be of shelduck, why would you ever say a 'dodding of shelduck'? And not just 'dodding'? Eh? See: not so clever now, Mr Collective-noun-inventor!

Having said that, I will own up a strong affection for one or two. If you've ever watched a group of goldfinches sociably tripping from bush to bush, singing its trilling, chattering, liquid song and flas.h.i.+ng its patches of black, yellow and bright red, then you cannot argue with this flock being called a 'charm'.

A charm of goldfinch. Perfect.

And what about 'a parliament of owl'? Those wise-eyed, grey faces, deep in thoughtful debate on matters weighty and solemn. (Not that at any time in our history would we a.s.sociate 'parliament' with wisdom or serious, thoughtful debate, but you get the idea.) And as for crows: huge, brooding, smart and powerful. A 'murder of crow' and an 'unkindness of raven' are spot on.

I also have a soft spot for a 'murmuration of starling', because a murmuration is something special. When you see one, you'll know; and you'll never forget it. A murmuration is a dramatic display of the majesty, power and mystery of the bird world. People who think 'birds' are boring are stopped in their tracks.

The memory of one November afternoon over a city park will stay with me for ever. Not for the birds, particularly, but for the people. A sun was disappearing over the horizon leaving a narrow strip of gold on the edge of a sky, which was the colour of slate. Dog-walkers, families and children, strolling lovers, late shoppers, all stood with open mouths on the footpath as a giant, fluttering ball of starling wheeled and s.h.i.+mmered above them. A cloud of birds, a thousand strong, like a ma.s.sive shoal of black fish, swirling in all directions with perfect coordination. The onlookers were bewitched, awed, and even a little scared, by the alien spectacle.

Yes, a murmuration of starling; I'll buy that. Better than a 'plump of moorhen', definitely.

DANNY AND THE BIRDS OF EAST AFRICA.

This lilac-breasted roller is a stunning bird. I have enough difficulty finding the superlatives to describe our own British specials, like the humble kingfisher, so the hyperbole needed to convey the magnificence of an East African bird like the lilac-breasted roller is truly beyond me. It can only be described by the words: 'Go to East Africa and see one.'

'Any idea what this champion is?' Danny had said, laying the photograph neatly down on the table in front of us.

'Wow,' said Tori on the intake of breath. 'That's a beaut.'

'Yes, pretty,' I admitted. 'No idea what it is, though. But I bet it's a bird you photographed in East Africa.'

'Spot on,' Danny laughed. 'It's a lilac-breasted roller. And this one?'

Another slickly professional photograph was offered unto us. This one again depicted a bird with predictably superb markings. Impossibly coloured as only tropical birds can be. A huge iridescent flash of turquoise on its cheeks and neck, bright orange breast and a snowy-white rump. Its head, black with a staring white eye, and its beak, slightly curved and stabby, gave it the look of a starling.

'It's superb,' enthused Tori.

'Looks like a starling in fancy dress,' I unenthused.

'Well, what about that? It's a superb starling!' chuckled Danny. 'Now what's interesting about that piccie is that I shot it with a Canon EOS-IDs Mark II with a Canon EF lens 300mm f2.8 IS plus 1.4x converter.'

'Ooh, Danny, you're blinding us with science now,' Tori said rather kindly. 'Boring us without science' was how I was going to put it.

'No, but what I was going to say was this: the interesting thing about the two photos-'

'Careful of incontinent use of the word 'interesting', Danny!'

'No, it's just that the starling, that superb little feller, was shot on film. Ilford XP2 with an Olympus OM-1N. I was wondering if you could see any difference in tone or quality or anything.'

I ummed for a bit and said, 'I think I'd need to know a bit about the apertures, shutter speeds and focal lengths first.'

'Well, actually,' he started, then realized I was being sarcastic and stopped, looking genuinely deflated. He lit a cigarette and Tori reached for the next photograph. It showed a pretty bird with a snow-white breast and head, perilously perched on a branch covered in huge thorns.

'That looks like a shrike,' Tori said.

'A northern white-crowned shrike,' Danny confirmed.

'It's on a good tree for impaling its prey,' I said, and Tori reminded me of our first ever sighting of a shrike, a great grey shrike, in Lanzarote. It was our first holiday together in the early, nervous days of our relations.h.i.+p, and I remember needlessly worrying that the habits of the shrike might be too bloodthirsty for her.

The glossies kept coming; on each one some wonder bird from another continent. Bigger, more bizarre and more brightly coloured. After half an hour we'd 'ooh-ed' and 'aaah-ed' our way through Somali bee-eaters, red and yellow barbets, African paradise flycatchers, spotted morning thrushes, sooty chats, pin-tailed wydahs and a whole host of drongos. My respect and admiration for Danny's work was made grudging by a slight irritation I couldn't really put my finger on.

'You weren't very enthusiastic about his photos,' Tori said as we lay in bed later.

'I was. I thought they were fab.'

'You didn't show it. You should be pleased. You pestered him to go birdwatching with you and he did. He gets really good at it and into it through photography, and gets paid by a magazine to go round the world photographing birds. I'd have thought you'd be delighted.'

I blew out a deep breath in the direction of the ceiling and tried to think honestly.

'Well, the thing is with Dan that we do different things now. We're both busier than we used to be so there isn't time for the crack we used to have; you know, just going out on the town, on the p.i.s.s, to football, womanizing.'

'What womanizing?' Tori cut in hard.

'Well, that was mainly Danny's department. Obviously.'

Tori was not completely satisfied with this. 'Because you've already got a lovely woman you're devoted to!'

'How did you find out about her?'

'Ha ha.'

'No, but it was a laugh at first,' I went on. 'Twitching with Danny. A few hours in the bushes then a night on the p.i.s.s. Now he's gone all serious about it.'

Tori forced out a snide guffaw. 'Well, that's rich. I thought you were the serious birding bore trying to get your best mate to join your club. Was he only allowed to join on your terms then? Has he broken the rules by becoming more interested and serious about it than you?'

She was right. I had started it and it was fun having Danny as the new boy, as my private pupil.

'Do you resent the fact that you got him these shoots abroad?' Tori said, cuddling up to me.

'No, not all,' I said, truthfully. But another truth was beginning to dawn. I was interested in birdwatching in Britain. I would be exhilarated to see a British rarity. A black redstart or a golden oriole. It seems almost to be cheating to go to a far-off country where birds like a Lewin's honeyeater or a cobalt macaw or a streamer-tailed humming bird are two a penny.

'Where's the skill in going to Java and seeing a Java sparrow?'

'Oh I see,' said Tori in best Advocutus diabli Advocutus diabli mode. 'If you want to be a birdwatcher, you can only do it in the country you live in?' mode. 'If you want to be a birdwatcher, you can only do it in the country you live in?'

'Not really. If we go abroad, we always take our binoculars just in case, but we don't go abroad precisely in order to bird-watch, do we?'

'We could do, though. And what's wrong with people who do?'

Nothing, of course. I was unsure now what I thought. I knew that I was pleased the exotic birds, and indeed the dull ones, of other countries existed, and I was pleased that people would travel to see them and photograph them, but I was pleased not to be one of them, and I was pleased to carry on doing casual birdwatching in Britain with our small but varied collection of birds, not all of which I'd seen by far.

Since Tori and I had been living together, I'd seen less of Danny and all my friends. But that is normal and to be expected. I thought we'd spend more time together if he came birding with me occasionally. It worked, but now that he was seriously into it through the photography, I hardly saw him at all. He felt the same way, I think, which is why one day he surprised me by inviting me on a trip to the Gambia.

'He's said I should go with him on his next trip: a photo-shoot in the Gambia,' I told Tori.

'That's great. Will it be expensive?'

'He wants to pay. Not him personally but the job. He thinks he owes me.'

'Ah, that's lovely. You must go.'

'I'm not sure I want to.'

'You've got to go.'

It was a nice offer, but for whatever reasons I did not really want to go. Tori seemed touched by the whole idea. 'Why don't you go, just for Danny? You've done a lot for him. It would be nice.'

I shook my head. 'I don't think I'd enjoy it if I was doing it just to please him. I don't think he'd enjoy it either.'

'Amazing birdlife I bet. And I'm sure you'll be in a luxury hotel.'

'Probably.'

'With a bar and womanizing facilities.'

I laughed. 'For Danny, of course.'

I came up with several excuses as to why I couldn't go. The ha.s.sle of rearranging work, the administrating of flying, my loathing of airports and the tedium of air travel, the mosquitoes, missing my daughter's birthday and an a.r.s.enal home game, but the truth was that this was his thing and not my thing, and while I was pleased for him, I didn't want to go.

'That's a real shame, mate.' He seemed genuinely disappointed. This made me feel awkward. He started coughing so much I could almost feel the scratching pain in my own chest.

'A change of climate will do you good. You go off and have a great time.'

'You'll be sorry.'

'Maybe, I will.'

And he was right.

I would be sorry.

HERON.

But sometimes the best birdwatching moments are not watching a bird, but seeing seeing a bird. You haven't planned a trip, you're not in some exotic location, you haven't chosen the time of year or the place and you haven't got any complex gadgetry with you. You're just out for a walk in the country as Tori and I were, one early summer's evening. We were taking a short cut by a bend in the river across a lane thick with nettles and cow parsley. We weren't exactly being silent and our thras.h.i.+ng through the undergrowth disturbed a heron, which took off scarcely a yard in front of us. a bird. You haven't planned a trip, you're not in some exotic location, you haven't chosen the time of year or the place and you haven't got any complex gadgetry with you. You're just out for a walk in the country as Tori and I were, one early summer's evening. We were taking a short cut by a bend in the river across a lane thick with nettles and cow parsley. We weren't exactly being silent and our thras.h.i.+ng through the undergrowth disturbed a heron, which took off scarcely a yard in front of us.

Have you ever seen a heron? You probably have. It's a bit of a one-off bird. Or should that be a two-off bird, because, to my mind, there are two herons: there's the standing heron and the flying heron.

A grey heron standing by the edge of a pond or river is a mesmerizing sight. Its trance-like stillness is hypnotic. Is it moving? Yes, imperceptibly, it moves. Staring into the water for its prey, which it grabs with a lightning strike from a spring-loaded neck. It's one of those creatures that makes you think ah, that's why G.o.d gave us slow-motion photography.

But a gift to the apprentice birdwatcher. Easy to see. Tall, elegant and boldly marked: beautiful blue-grey wings with black tips, a black cap elongated into a plume at the back of the neck and a white breast with little black streaks on its neck. And its beak: pinkish, orangey-yellow and...can I avoid saying dagger-like? No. Its beak is like a dagger. Go and look at one; that beak was designed for 'dagger' cliches.

And when you see one flying, or taking off close by, as Tori and I did that night, then you know straight away that you have seen something seen something. It's a stop-you-in-your-tracks moment. What is that huge bird, you think. Big, broad, scoopy wings struggling to get itself off the ground. Away it goes, ma.s.sive against the sky with its yes, dagger-like head tucked into its shoulders and its long legs dragging behind. I always think, when I see one, especially this close, that it must be the biggest bkd in Britain, but I know know that the mute swan is. But still I wonder. that the mute swan is. But still I wonder.

My friend Mannie is in no doubt.

He has hugged one.

'Have you ever hugged a heron?' he asked me once.

'Er, no...funnily enough I haven't. I've kissed a frozen chicken, does that count?'

'No, hug a heron when you get the chance.'

Now, Mannie is an experienced wildlife cameraman and has filmed many birds all over the world; if there's anyone I know with good reason to hug a heron, it'd be him.

'There's nothing to a heron,' Mannie continues. 'You think they're going to be ma.s.sively chunky and heavy, but not a bit of it. Insubstantial. Feeble. Shandy lightweights'