The Bird That Made Me Question It All…

Hello you lot, how’ve you been? Remember 2021, the year where winter turned to summer in about a week? Mad times eh, but hope you’ve all had a good non-existent spring!

Today’s topic on my mind is again philosophically diving deeper into why birders do what they do. You can have a gander at my earlier blog ‘why birds?’ but on this occasion, I thought I would share a story from a time where I genuinely asked myself this broader question. Why? What even is the point? Why do I bother spending hours of my time in pursuit of merely looking at a bird or two? I kid you not, it took one visit to see one bird to trigger what is essentially an existential crisis. Allow me to explain…

For starters, this is an exceptionally rare species to the UK. Only tens of pairs are known to breed here and they are very picky regarding where they like to reside. Fortunately, there is one established nature reserve that they are regularly found and it was in my old homeland of Norfolk! To add an extra layer of context, this encounter was around 10 years ago and in this time, this bird’s population has remained relatively static. Having read up about these birds for years, I was DESPERATE to see one. Like teenage girl tracking down where their favourite boy-band will be recording, I was giddy. Having begged my dad, he eventually agreed to take me one august afternoon. The stage was set for a tremendous day in prospect. An ultra-trouser-rubber basically on my doorstep. What could go wrong?

Well, has anyone ever been to Norfolk? Turns out, it’s actually huge. Statistically speaking, you can fit Greater London four times over within Norfolk and still have space. For a barren land filled with farms, there’s a lot of it. Planning travel routes wasn’t my forte and as it turns out, southeast Norfolk to near Thetford is quite the trek. This notion of being local was thrown out the window and after what felt like an expedition to Mordor, we had arrived at our destination. No glitzy visitor centre with a carrot cake filled cafe, just two hides and a shed-like rangers hut. It didn’t emanate confidence, especially when I’d pleaded that this place was a goldmine birding-wise. The car park was pretty empty so this wasn’t as if I was about to ride the nemesis inferno at Thorpe Park. A tumbleweed would have fitted the scene perfectly.

What became clear at this point was that this wasn’t a bustling diverse habitat and instead a reserve catered to housing one species. Beyond the hide was simply a single grassy field with no water and even minimal foliage. The term deserted was apt at this stage, however I felt confident we would see what we had come for. Before you step foot in the hide, there were several signs demanding the need for lack of disturbance. No sudden movements, no noise and basically no breathing. This hide was not a place to party, it felt like the strictest of churches whereby even the creak of a stool could trigger an ecological cascade. The birds were clearly hugely sensitive, but this only helped the anticipation. Common feral pigeons are boring in how bold they are, so it’s oddly the anxious kinds that garner the attention. So we entered, quietly sat down and waited. I’m well used to sitting patiently in a hide for something exciting to pop up but usually, there’s other things to see. Watching clouds go by as you have to sit stone still is actually quite uncomfortable.

Then, suddenly, it all came to life before me. It came roaring across the sky, dancing and pivoting against the grey clouds in an eye opening display. It was certainly unavoidable and spectacular to watch. Sadly, it wasn’t the species I had in mind (as it wasn’t a species of any kind), as it was a Harrier fighter jet from the nearby airbase. Considering the bird I wanted to see gets upset if birdwatchers sneeze or even blink, they clearly don’t mind metal man made machines capable of tearing the sound barrier ripping overhead. Maybe if I dressed up as a jet then they’d be at ease. 

Twenty minutes went by which may as well have been twenty years. It got to the stage where drying paint would liven up the scene. The reality was, the very treasure I had sought for so long wasn’t buried away, it was in plain sight. One caveat that I’d forgotten was their ability to camouflage and against the sandy soils of the Brecks, this bird blended in beautifully. A glance down the binoculars to the very far side of the field would be greeted with the prize that I’d hoped for. There it genuinely was. Motionless and hunkered down but very much there. Nothing else around but this one bird. Wow.

Now what?

It didn’t poke its head up, it didn’t walk around, it didn’t dance the salsa whilst singing opera. Maybe I expected too much but was it too much to ask for a bit more movement? I waited around just in case any other birds interacted with it, or it decided to venture closer. Nope. I had travelled a huge distance to a tiny nature reserve to stare at a brown blob for an hour. So again I am asking myself: why? It’s a hard sell enough to convince friends and family that birdwatching is a worthwhile and exciting hobby but when the reality is field gazing, it’s not a great advert. What’s the benefit to jumping in a car and travelling cross country just to see a clump of feathers compared to stamp collecting or long distance running?

Looking back, it all seemed pretty futile to make such an effort but I can’t say that on the journey home I was wholeheartedly disappointed. The reason being that I’d seen it. I was there. I laid eyes on a bird many people in the UK have never and may never see. Revelling in rarities is what it’s all about, whether it’s being able to compare notes with other birders or simply sit in the knowledge that you have witness something unique. In fairness, at least I saw it. So many trips to see amazingly rare birds end in dismay and nothingness. At least I have a metaphorical badge to add to my sash. If you focus on simply finding one bird on its own, it makes any other outcome of a trip null and void. There’s no time when you’ll be out birdwatching that you won’t appreciate the broader natural world around you. Isn’t it more about the fresh air and the experience rather than the list at the end?

If there’s a moral of the story, it’s they not every exploration into nature needs a motive. You shouldn’t feel obliged to always get a great picture or stumble across a rarity. Get out there and revel in every second of it.

Oh, and in case you hadn’t guessed, it was a stone curlew. Stupid birds.

Adiooooos…