Of phalaropes and blue tits

It was smaller than I’d expected, but perhaps that’s because it was standing next to a sheep. Big things, sheep, especially when compared to red-necked phalaropes.

Behind it, a common tern wafted languidly over the water, disgracefully elegant; a great crested grebe wrestled with a fish; mute swans floated, as they do, somehow pulling off that elusive trick of exuding power and grace at the same time; the sheep sheeped, quietly oblivious. But all eyes were on phalaropus lobatus.

The phalarope (what a brilliant word, by the way, the kind of word you never get tired of saying but somehow never quite sounds right – phalarope phalarope phalarope – I learn that it comes from the ancient greek: ‘phalaris’ = coot; ‘pous’ = foot – you’re welcome) scuttled around busily in almost circles, slaloming between the legs of black-headed gulls and pecking for food on the shore of the lagoon. Peck scuttle peck scuttle peck. It’s what members of this family (there are three of them: the grey (or red in some parts of the world), the red-necked and the Wilson’s, which, surprisingly enough was until yesterday the only phalarope I’d seen; I say surprisingly because it’s the rarest of the three in Britain, and you’d have thought it would have been the grey (or red in some parts of the world) or the red-necked that I would have seen by now, but no, they had somehow eluded me) do.

There are altogether too many parentheses in the last paragraph. I apologise. Extract them and it should make more sense, although you would also learn less about phalaropes. I honestly can’t be bothered to rewrite it right now, so you’ll just have to work it out for yourself.

Anyway.

Both I and the red-necked phalarope were in Rutland. While the bird’s purpose seemed mainly to whizz around in circles trying to catch crustaceans – look, I’m sorry but I just have to insert another little interjection on the subject of phalaropes, namely that their ‘whizzing around in a circle’ behaviour is more associated with their being on shallow water than on the shore, the purpose apparently being to create a whirlpool from which they can more easily extract their prey, so it was quite interesting to see it exhibiting the same kind of behaviour while on terra firma, presumably because it’s just got so used to whizzing around in circles that it finds it hard to break the habit, no matter what the circumstances or effectiveness of the procedure – mine was to whizz around marquees trying to avoid buying optical equipment. (Another ridiculously convoluted sentence. So sorry.)

Yes, I was at Birdfair, the annual gathering at Rutland Water Nature Reserve known by some as the Glastonbury of birding. This was my first visit, but if my experience yesterday is anything to go by, the place is fraught with peril and I’d do well to avoid it in future years. It was only by exerting my legendary iron will that I escaped without buying three telescopes, eight pairs of binoculars, fifty books, a hundredweight of bird food and a three-week birding holiday in Costa Rica. As it was, I contented myself with a slow meander through the dozen or so marquees, stopping occasionally to pick up a brochure and have a chat with the exhibitors.

The lady at the Finnature stand was all smiles and understatement. (I’m tempted by Finland. Birds, Sibelius, a pleasingly impenetrable language.)

‘I imagine your trips are popular?’

She shrugged an indefinably Finnish shrug, smiled, and gestured to a beautiful and dramatic photograph on a banner behind her.

‘Well… we have owls…’

They do indeed. The magnificence of the pictured owl, a great grey, nearly made me sign up on the spot. But then I remembered my legendary iron will, picked up a brochure, and moved on. And on. And on.

It might feel ironic that a day spent at an event devoted to birds doesn’t involve many actual birds, were it not for the fact that the organisers of Birdfair, in holding the event on a nature reserve, are way ahead of us. Within a couple of minutes you can leave the seething masses behind and be sitting in a bird hide with nothing but a reedbed, a coot and your thoughts for company.

I did so, and before seeking out my phalaropey target, briefly pondered a week at the beginning of which I’d received probably the unlikeliest endorsement of my book’s brief career.

Think and say what you like about Clarkson – and most people seem to – taking time out of your day to seek out a writer and tell them you’re enjoying their work is a benevolent act, no matter how you slice it, and I was, and am, duly grateful. As someone on Twitter pointed out, it’s almost as if people are surprisingly complex and nuanced.

Nonetheless, I had an inkling that if I’d paraded around Birdfair holding a placard emblazoned with ‘JEREMY CLARKSON LIKED MY BOOK, YOU KNOW’ I might have been politely hounded out of town. But you never know. Broad-minded folk, birders.

The time came, and as I left, groaning under the weight of brochures (and, yes, ok then, four books – even the most legendary of iron wills has its weak moments) I stopped briefly by the British Trust for Ornithology’s tent. A small crowd had gathered for a bird ringing demonstration. The ringer was talking, and it was only after a few seconds that I realised what he had in his hand.

A blue tit.

It peeked out from between his fingers, calm and curious, unperturbed by the attention, while his temporary captor explained something of the work of a bird ringer. A wild bird, briefly trapped, treated with respect, tagged, its data logged, and then released. Each bird a tiny blip of data contributing to our understanding of the natural world. Science in action. Important work, done largely on the quiet.

Birdfair, I thank you. I will return. And maybe next year I’ll buy those telescopes.

You can join the British Trust for Ornithology here. I would, if I were you.

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