The Bearded Tit Part 26

'Dunlin.'

'Don't tell me, that big group on the island: dunlin?'

'Correct.'

'That's not a dunlin though, is it?'

'Where?'

'Four o'clock from that wooden post. About ten feet away?'

I turned my binoculars nonchalantly in the direction Danny indicated and gave the bird a casual look.

'Yeah, dunlin. That lot are all dunlin!'

'But it's slightly smaller.'

'Hard to tell through binoculars.'

'And it's more ruddy and hasn't got an obvious black belly patch.'

I said, 'Dunlin', again firmly but had another look anyway. 'Blimey, it's a little stint. You're right; well done!'

'You see! Dunlin, my a.r.s.e. You don't know what you're talking about!'

I was slightly annoyed that I hadn't been more thorough in my identification, so I thought I'd score a cheap point.

'Yeah, but what's its scientific name?'

Danny furrowed his brow and took in a sharp breath as if he was seriously thinking about attempting an answer.

'Er...little stint? How about Calidris minuta Calidris minuta?'

This shocked me. This was my territory. Not Danny's. I'm the only person allowed to know all the Latin names for British birds!

He started laughing and pointed to a large coloured chart on the wall behind me showing all the common waders, their English and scientific names.

'Jesus, what's that smell?'

Danny had flung a cigarette end into the dry strawy corner of the hide and it had caught light. Splas.h.i.+ng whisky on it didn't exactly dowse the flames but after a few minutes' jumping and stamping, the fire was out.

'For G.o.d's sake, Danny, we're going to end up in jail at this rate!'

After that little shock we pa.s.sed the time pleasantly, and within a few hours Danny could confidently identify dunlin, redshank, oystercatcher, avocet, ruff, knot, lapwing, golden plover, grey plover, curlew, little stint and a shelduck. The other ducks were still those quacky things and the seagulls remained seagulls. But his knowledge had grown admirably and there were some superb-looking photographs on the way. We got back to the car. Loaded it up and drove out of the reserve in search of an oldfas.h.i.+oned pub for a pint and an ornithological debrief. As we drove away from the coast we travelled up a slight hill and I looked in the mirror at the expanse of reed beds and marshes. To my horror, roughly in the direction of where we'd been, a large dark plume of smoke was arising. Something was on fire.

DULL AND DRAB FEMALES.

A summer's evening. A river. Ducks, geese, swans and that ubiquitous summer's evening. A river. Ducks, geese, swans and that ubiquitous pair pair of wild water chickens: the moorhen and the coot. of wild water chickens: the moorhen and the coot.

Coot with its signature matt black plumage and spotlessly white bill and facial s.h.i.+eld. Bald as a coot. The coot, of course, is not bald in the human sense of hairless. Neither is the United States' sacred bald eagle. But then bald originally meant 'white'. A bald person's head was white, that is, pale, compared to a person with hair. I was musing on these things as Tori and I sat at a quayside bar. It was also a great place for other, non-avian, animate objects.

Look at those delicious creatures. Girls out on the town. Rolling, wiggling and bouncing firmly and sweetly. Their scant clothes hanging on to their bodies as if mostly by accident. A single man's dream.

And I was sitting there with my wife sipping a flat lager.

'Isn't this lovely?' Tori asked.

'Perfect,' I a.s.sented.

'Then why are you looking so d.a.m.ned miserable, then?'

Before I had time to make up my answer, I noticed that walking towards us were two generously proportioned girls so scantily clad they seemed to be wearing their bodies on the outside of the clothes. Tori, who had noticed the target of my intent stare, turned to me and said, 'I know what you're thinking: whatever possesses some girls to come out dressed like that? Who's going to look at them? The state of them! Appalling.'

'Yes, you're right, sweetheart; my thoughts entirely.'

It certainly does not happen in bird world. It's a truth universally acknowledged among birders, though probably denied by a lot of them, that the bird they really want to see is the adult male. The adult male in full breeding plumage. Not the duller, drabber female. These words are not mine. Look in any bird book and the language is the same: 'Next to the brilliant male, the female is rather plain.'

'The female is smaller and duller.'

'Female is a rather drab version of the male.'

'The female is similar to the male but the colours and marking are weak and washed-out looking.'

'Female drab.'

'Female plainer with fewer streaks.'

'Female plainer with more streaks.'

'Female browner all over, with less p.r.o.nounced markings and a generally drab look.'

The point can be ill.u.s.trated by several common species that even the bird-not-watcher will recognize.

The mallard duck: every pond, lake, river estuary, harbour or puddle will have a mallard. The male with his s.h.i.+mmering bottle-green head, white neck ring, clean yellow bill and flashy purple-blue wing-bar, and a dull brown female paddling behind.

The blackbird; female a brown bird.

The greenfinch; female not green.

The chaffinch; female a dull version of the male.

The sparrowhawk: male slate-bluey-grey above and barred orange beneath; female greyish bars beneath and dull, dark brown above.

The golden oriole: male truly fabulous, startling yellow; the dullish green female doesn't stand a chance against a stud coloured like that.

And as for the ruff...In spring, the male doesn't bear thinking about. A bizarre, broad feathery collar that can be black, white or reddish-orange. Forgive me, but it's bordering on the ludicrous. Especially for a British bird. No compet.i.tion from the duller, drabber, plainer, dingier, mousier, more washed-out, lackl.u.s.tre female.

'Woah, wait a minute now, Rory,' I hear you cry. 'What about the grey phalarope?'

Alright, yes, I'll let you have that one. The grey phalarope male is duller and drabber than the female, which is, in the summer, a rather fetching brick-orange. And the dreary male of this species is the one that incubates the eggs and rears the chicks.

Come on, male grey phalarope memo to self: 'Must be more brightly coloured.'

But the rule of thumb is largely true, and in species that have drab males, the man-birds make up for it by having louder or more intricate songs.

It didn't seem fair somehow, back in human-world, on a summer's Friday evening in Mojo's c.o.c.ktail bar. Surrounded by sublime and exotic beauty, there was I, the dullest and drabbest of dull, drab males, drably and vainly leering over the dreary rim of his dull beer gla.s.s. And I don't think standing up and delivering a loud, intricate song was going to help.

A punt full of hen-party-goers had pulled up alongside the quay. Most of them in Ts.h.i.+rts and bikini bottoms. They climbed on to the quayside and started cavorting, free from care and sobriety. I couldn't take my eyes off them. Tori nudged me and pointed towards the river.

'Moorhens are quite nicely marked when you see them close up, aren't they?' she said.

I nodded. 'You took the words out of my mouth!'

DANNY PUTS ONE OUT.

After some reprehensibly bad driving round single-track country lanes, Danny arrived at a pub so inhospitable looking it would be guaranteed to be free of twitchers. There were two cars in the car park. One without wheels and one without doors.

'This is our kind of place!' said Danny, lighting up a cigarette. 'I can't imagine any birdwatchers come here.'

'I can't imagine any humans come here. Listen, why don't you just not smoke for a bit. You've done enough damage already today.'

We walked into the tiny public bar.

It was packed with birdwatchers who stopped talking as one and turned towards us. It was so unwelcoming, I thought one of them might come up and tie the dartboard round my neck.

I've never really done 'jauntily' that well, but I took a deep breath and made an attempt, starting with, 'Evenin' all.'

Much to our relief they nodded non-committally and got back to their conversations.

We squeezed into a gap at the bar to order a couple of pints, bisecting a worrying dialogue about 'the fire' at t.i.tchwell.

Danny and I exchanged glances of the 'uh oh better not hang around here too long' variety. We were staggered that news of a not very big fire about ten miles away that probably only started half an hour earlier could have reached this remote watering-hole before us. That's Norfolk for you: big county, small place.

'I heard there was a couple of blokes in a hide drinking whisky and smoking. Not birders. Up from London, I expect. Probably staying at the Hoste in Burnham Market with them s...o...b..z types,' said one.

'Two pints of the local bitter please,' Danny said cheerily to our host.

'That's off,' he said glumly.

'Looks like it,' Danny replied, pointing at a gla.s.s on the bar. The victualler was unimpressed.

'Two lagers, then. Thirsty work this twitching, eh?'

The entire room looked us up and down. 'See anything special?' asked someone.

'A fire,' Danny said.

'Yeah,' I added, 'we thought it might be a phoenix.'

'I know all about the fire,' a man at the bar said, fixing his knowing eyes on us.

It was a worrying moment that lasted longer than moments should.

'Er, do you know how it started?' I asked tentatively.

'Course, I know how it started!' he blurted.

Another worrying moment, at least as long, if not longer, than the last worrying moment.

'I started it myself. Some of them old reeds and dead wood is no use to man nor beast, you got to burn it. Away from the reserve though.'

'Of course.' Danny and I nodded with enthusiasm, endorsing the local's good countryside practice. Relieved by the knowledge he was not about to be arrested for arson, Danny's confidence grew and he instigated some jolly banter with the other customers.

'OK, any of you twitchers ever seen a dunlin?'

There were a few dismissive snorts from around the room.

'What about a curlew? Any of you heard of one of them?'

'Is this your first day birding then?' asked the barman.

'How dare you, sir! I was born in a nest and raised by ruffs.'

A voice from the corner shouted, 'Have you seen a little crake?'

'No,' answered Danny, 'when did you last have it?'

The landlord had apparently tired of our presence in his establishment and pointed at the two half-full gla.s.ses in front of us.

'I expect you chaps want to drink those pints up and leave the premises now, don't you? I expect you two are staying up at the Hoste as well, aren't you, with your London friends. S'pec you'll want to get back up there soonest, won't you?'

'Yeah, well, we just stopped off for one,' I said draining my gla.s.s.

Danny did the same, with a parting, 'b.l.o.o.d.y nice meeting you chaps. Take care now.' And as the door closed behind us he went on a bit louder, 'Hope this pub never burns to the ground. Could cause up to three quids' worth of damage.'

We were out in the car park.

'So, back home?' Danny said.

'No fear,' I said. 'That miserable git has given me an idea. Let's go to the Hoste.'

Years earlier on a colourless November afternoon, Tori and I had been driving round North Norfolk after an abortive bird-watching session. As frequently happens in that place at that time of year, the sea, the sky and the land had drained into an icy monochrome as daylight faded and the flocks of huddled waders had become part of the mottled background. That evening, sunset had been called off at short notice and the sky was as slatey in the west as it was in the east. We drove through one anonymous village after another. The houses were blind, the streets were empty and the occasional string of Christmas lights in a window merely emphasized the bleakness.

Then we drove into Burnham Market.