At the age of perhaps eight, or nine, my interest in ornithology was embryonic, but thumbing my father’s Collins field guide helped it to thrive. The more unusual species held, for me, an almost mystical quality. Photographic guides were fewer than today and so I knew them from representations, by fine-artists, including Basil Ede and Charles Tunnicliffe. They were celebratory works; intended, surely, to emphasise colour and add an extra layer of drama; and the buzz, for me, was to imagine how they would appear, in the flesh, or more accurately, of course, in the plumage. The thrill, then, of seeing paintings brought to life would become an elusive and longed for prize.
Of course, birds don’t look as they do in such paintings. Sometimes they seem better, sometimes worse, but never the same. I recall standing in the grounds of Norfolk’s Castle Acre priory; having been dropped there in order that my father could visit someone in a nearby village. Goldfinches were present; excitingly so, for it was the first time I’d seen them up close; and there were many pied wagtails. But there was another bird that loitered around a low fence; perching on the posts. I had no binoculars and strained my eyes to get a better view. Little bigger than a blackbird, its identity perplexed me, even when gliding past no more than a foot, or two, above the ground. The bird seemed shadowy; ghostly almost; with, somehow, a charismatic quality, although curiously thrush-like at rest. I saw no barring on its underparts, which were shaded as it passed me and it was too far away for that when perched. Again and again, the bird dashed by; so close to the ground it could easily have been the shadow of something higher and in the years that followed, I would gaze at illustrations of the species, hoping I might see one for real; with that splendid barring and those fiery yellow eyes. Only an acquired understanding of the species would reveal the truth; that I had encountered a sparrowhawk without realising it.
The presence of so many once-rare birds, in Britain, has caused me to think. My engagement with twitching was brief and the whole business of visiting reserves troubles me now, in a way I had not imagined. I think of a future occurrence: a scenario in which I am seated within a hide and recognise an obscure rarity; one that’s tricky to identify and easily overlooked. The urge is there to tell those beside me, but also an understanding of the game. I do, though, announce the presence of let’s say a ‘first for Britain’ and trigger a chain of events that leads to a road fatality. Were that to transpire, what would he, or she, have died for? But not to share such a find with fellow enthusiasts still seems churlish and would strip away much pleasure. Crazy though it may seem and wonderful though birds are, I no longer wish to encounter rare ones and avoid looking at common birds, sometimes, in case I might. This is not a condemnation of twitchers. Most are skilled and responsible motorist
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