Official: The LEAST Christmassy Birds

 It’s Christmas time, there’s no need to be afraid. Yes, ya boi is back on the blog isn’t he. In a blog from a couple of years ago, I put forward a case for a number of British birds to be regarded higher with respects to Christmas. Penguins and robins are boring anyway, so why not have some alternatives? If you haven’t read that blog, go back and quickly read it. Now. QUICK.

Ok welcome back. Good, wasn’t it? Anyway enough of that nonsense, I’m channeling my inner grinch and wondering; what are the LEAST Christmassy birds? Which species evoke little to no festive cheer and deserve no place on the mantelpiece in December? Disclaimer, I’m not saying these birds are terrible or should be ridiculed in any way, they’re just not the type that you’d find made into a bauble or stitched into a sweater. Let’s ho ho go…

SWIFT

Unless you live below the Sahara, you’ll be unlikely to see one of these sky-dancers at this time of year. After all, Africa doesn’t even know it’s Christmas at all… right? Swifts are synonymous with clear blue sunny skies and screaming as they skim your rooftop. They’re hardly representative of the usually dour winter weather we’re acclimatised to. If a swift ever saw a snowflake, it would probably have a panic attack. Pop a swift in your nativity scene? Rogue choice.

BEE EATER

They may be adorned in multi-colour plumage and they do dazzle like tinsel but they are the LAST thing you’d consider when pondering Yule-tide. Despite their increasing presence across the UK, replacing them in place of partridges is a step too far. A romantic ideal Christmas involves gentle snowfall, so a bird invading the country owing to climate change is a big middle finger to all things mid-winter. Big NO.

CARRION CROW

The red of Santa, the green of holly and the white of snow; all quintessential Christmas colour palettes. It comes as no surprise that a bird draped in black from talon to bill is miles from being associated with the festive period. At a time all about new life and spending time with family, carrion crows just kill the mood. You can forgive jays or magpies for being ever-so-slightly more jolly but their monochrome cousins can’t make the cut. They should just stick to Halloween, they’re banned from owning two separate holidays.

GOSHAWK

These absolute units should be admired at all times of the year, that’s a fact. Sadly, as endearing as those piercing eyes and gruesome talons are, they’re not the most merry of birds. Just imagine one of their plucking posts, adorned with feathers and limbs of its prey, with a giant adult female stood proudly with wings aloft over a merciless carcass. Awesome, right? But the year you put that on a Christmas card is the last year you’ll expect one in return. Sorry guys, goshawks aren’t Christmassy.

HERRING GULL

It’s actually ridiculous to even think about how these guys can be remotely festive. They’re gregarious chip-guzzlers that are synonymous with childhood trips to the coast, not singing along to Mariah. Despite having appropriately-coloured plumage and being widely found across December in Britain, they give off such an unchristmassy vibe. Unless you traditionally spend Christmas in Brighton, herring gulls should have no part to play on the big day.

There are plenty of winters birds that tick a lot of festive boxes but these species certainly fall short. Are there any others that I’ve missed? Do let me know…

MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!

THE TRIMINGHAM BEE EATERS - REASONS TO BE CHEERFUL?

Picture the scene; it’s the 20th of July. It’s a day after the UK has sweltered under near 40°c heat. Every blade of grass in sight is tinged in parched brown whilst thunderstorms roll across the distant horizon. You recall, you get the picture. This was the day I begged to be driven from South to North Norfolk in the hope of ticking off a lifer. An hour and a half later, arriving at what was essentially a dusty field, doubt crept into my mind. What if the conditions aren’t right? What if they’re too far away? What if they’ve already left? Do I have enough battery in my camera? (I didn’t.) As we trekked under the imposing sun along a dirt path, the sweat beads that dripped were not solely reserved for the conditions. We greeted a studious volunteer with the traditional blue of the RSPB and asked the hallowed question: Where can we see the bee eaters?

‘Oh, they’re just over there’, he said.

He wasn’t wrong. Over there they were.

One sat on a telegraph wire alongside a flock of goldfinches, as if it were part of the furniture. Another flitted from beyond the hedgerow to their quarry-cavity cubbyhole. The weather that day not far off the Mediterranean, fitting really. These birds had become minor celebrities and unlike most rarities, they were obliging. Dancing against the azure skies in pursuit of their buzzing prey, chirruping away to one another as if this was a perfectly normal spot to call home. It wasn’t a tropical riverbank, it was a sandy cliff surrounded by brambles and machinery. The relative mundane East Anglian backdrop perfectly contrasting with these gloriously bold birds. (I’m allowed to say this, I’m Norfolk born and bred.) The golden question really is, can we enjoy it?

The obvious answer on paper is yes, duh. An incredibly rare bird nesting successfully in the UK? It’s the stuff of dreams for conservationists, surely? However, if we want to throw reality in the mix, it is an indicator of what future summers will look like. As our climate becomes more akin to the south of Spain, Mediterranean species will follow. It’s one thing for more sightings to be noted but for bee eaters to feel so at home that they actually decide to stay, that does create question marks. If it was a one off, we could perhaps treat it as a unique anomaly, but with recording breeding attempts in 2014, 2015, 2017 and now 2022, that’s what we can safely call a trend. There had only been four records in the 50 years prior to this. Getting warm much?

The fact is that continental shifts are happening not just in UK bird species but in flora and fauna across the globe. Bee eaters just so happen to be poster boys for this, given their flamboyant style. Earlier flowering trees are triggering insects to emerge sooner, meaning food webs are becoming out of sync for their predators. This is just one of many ecological catastrophes on our doorstep, alongside our favourite wasp assassins. Not to undermine the situation, but branding bee eaters as the harbingers of global warming feels a bit like closing the stable door after the horse has bolted. It is a genuine worry that shouldn’t be swept under the carpet, but what can we do about it?

To play devils advocate for the devils advocate, and go right back to where I started, but bee eaters are just awesome. There was not one birder that visited Trimingham that was underwhelmed upon laying eyes on these glorious migrants. As a collaborative event that drew nature lovers from all corners of the nation, it was quite the summer. For the critics of promoting a bird that symbolises a slowly boiling planet, one could argue the heightened media attention was a valuable PR exercise. As much as it was glorifying a rare species, there’s much to be said about the conversation it spawned regarding climate change. There’s a reason why this blog is being written in the first place. I always say the most powerful weapon in modern conservation is education, so there’s no harm is spreading the word.

At the most simple level, it was an amazing afternoon for me. A truly memorable sighting in my home county, it couldn’t have been much better. Following so many holidays to Spain, it was the Costa Del Cromer that provided the setting for my maiden bee eater sighting. For a moment, I considered it to be a once in a life time experience, but as we all know, it likely won’t be long until they’re perched on my bird bath. Their presence is undeniably unnerving but their arrival brought birders together and generally made everyone who saw them smile. The bee eater hype was real and they joy they brought is impossible to ignore.

BIRDWATCHING IS WEIRD.

I get this a lot. 

Even if I’m not told this directly, it’s certainly the vibe. My Instagram lit up as soon as I posted about my engagement but as soon as it was back to goldfinches, the hype died down. The gist I feel is that it’s not a particularly scintillating past-time, contrary to how I feel anyway. My colleagues genuinely described the hobby of birdwatching as ‘strong boomer energy’. Fantastic. The question really is, who is right? It’s obscure, but is it ‘odd’? The many outweigh the few in terms of strong opinions on the matter but does that make them right? What makes watching Attenborough amazing but Packham and Co. pathetic? Let’s dig into this…

We’re all environmentalists

In our minds, we all draw metaphorical lines. We care about things to different levels, which is completely fine. I can enjoy watching Norwich play but I wouldn’t get a tattoo of a canary on my chest. Most people would have strong socio-political opinions on certain topics but few would have the willpower to protest or take direct action. The term ‘arm-chair environmentalists’ is a poignantly true label in this regard. Much respect is rightly handed to climate scientists or green activists but birders with eco-consciousness are disregarded. If I branded myself as an environmental studies graduate, in line with my degree, ears would prick. Branding myself as a birdwatcher simply results in wry smiles. In spite of contributing to charity, protesting in favour of animal welfare and ultimately busting a gut to raise awareness of ecological issues, I’m looked down on because I also like identifying ducks. If every last bird in Britain disappeared, with a traffic-filled dawn chorus, empty gardens and soulless wetlands, maybe then society would care. Every birder on Earth has the health of their planet close to their heart but for bystanders, of whom environmental issues are pressing yet confusing, wildlife lovers are just ‘bunny-huggers’ or fuddy-duddy bird nerds. It is correct that I’m not as green as Greta, but a longing for a healthy world with thriving wildlife is a shared passion.

We’re all animal lovers

Dogs are man’s best friend, cats are adorable companions but waxwings and wagtails are weird. The hypocritical struggles are real. It is fair that a day out in Welney may not have the same draw as the Amazon or the Okavango but the point is still there, to revel in the wonder of nature. Ducks and geese may not be as traditionally exciting as ungulates or big cats but just because people may like seeing birds instead, that’s deemed to be unusual. It begs the question, at what point does an animal become ‘cool’? Do flamingoes count? They’re big and colourful, so do cranes or bustards count? If eagles are universally awesome, how about goshawks? The unfortunate reality is that not every animal that’s ever existed can be planted into our brains at an early age. We build comfort zones in our heads about what wildlife we know and anything beyond that is alien. The issue, really, is why there is this refusal to embrace new knowledge. I mention an osprey or a bittern to non-naturalists and their minds blank. Our fixation with organisms other than us is part of the very fabric of human history, so to distance ourselves from embracing it goes against everything that’s come before us. Basically, birds are animals, at the end of the day and seeing them is fun.

We all love the great outdoors

There is literally a successful retail brand called Go Outdoors. Hiking is a super-trendy and athletic activity that is highly regarded by the general public. The moment you wear hiking boots with the intention of ‘just’ going to a nature reserve, you’re peculiar. Birdwatching isn’t just about ticking a list, so much of it is fresh air, seasonal scents and vitamin D. Any suggestion of ‘going for a walk’ is usually greeted with agreement but any mention of binoculars warrants derision. The unspoken rules of walking that society have set in stone specify that stopping to engage with nature at any point is banned. No halting to gaze at greylag geese or spot sparrows, people have places to be. The logic that animals must not be admired, despite our widespread love for animals, as discussed, is baffling to me. Agreed, stopping to poke every fungus or scanning every canopy for treecreepers can be draining but any deviation from simply a sanitised ‘walk’ is scolded. If you wanted to get your steps in, minus flora and fauna, why not buy a treadmill?

We all love novelty

Sentimentality is an interesting subject to analyse. Deep down, it’s rooted within us and it’s essentially the basis for birdwatching. Ornithologists live for the obscure, that’s what drives us. A rarity, a lifer or a notable sighting gets the blood pumping but of course, it’s only birds, so why would that make any sense. We can all recall where we were at the breaking of major news, we all support the underdog and we all feel FOMO. These are all emotions that the public and birders share alike. Everyone also seeks to be different, so as not to conform to a monotonous, repetitive society. The longing to feel unique aside from being only a statistic is the very motivation to find exclusive quirks. Whether we like it or not, humans love finding things that others don’t like. Context is also key and whilst exclaiming about seeing a white headed duck might register barely an eyebrow raise, mentioning you’ve just seen one of the most endangered species in Europe garners a more distinct reaction. I was there and I saw something that very few others have been lucky to see. As climate changes and biodiversity crises continue, seeing certain wildlife will become more of a treat. However, envy will evidently be replaced with indifference.

We all have hobbies

We would all be bored otherwise. Birding can’t compare to learning a musical instrument or perfecting a sport yet still, it surely can’t be that random. If a day out in the wilderness was so bizarre, why are there literally thousands of nature reserves? Not everyone shares mutual interests, and that’s fine, but a hobby shouldn’t be judged on the basis that a minority of the public supports it. Football fans travel halfway across the country just to see their team potentially lose after a 90 minute match, is that weird? I fear this is an issue beyond merely birding, whereby niche interests are somewhat lambasted, whether it be Warhammer or stamp collecting. What is the benefit to bringing other people down just because they like something slightly different to the norm? I find going to the gym constantly is a less than enjoyable way to spend my time, for other reasons though. In the end, it comes down to that golden phrase that Jose Mourinho loves: respect.

If the argument is that birdwatching is for ‘old people’, why does this instantly ban younger audiences from enjoying it too? If the argument is that keeping lists and buzzing about seasonal changes is peculiar, does this make nostalgia illegal? If wildlife photographers are fascinating, is it only interesting if the moment in nature is captured on a Nikon? I could have this argument all day long, try me.

After reading this, I’m sure you’ll have no choice but to agree that birdwatching isn’t weird. I’ll expect to see you out with your bins on Sunday.

WHAT A MAN - My Memorable Manx Week

Seven days, one cancelled flight, over two hundred pictures taken and ten lifers. After one loooong weekend on the Isle of Man, here’s how it all went…

I didn’t have much of a perception of the Isle of Man in advance of my trip. A rocky island in the Irish Sea with stubby cats and lots of motorbikes. As I’d visited in August, the latter was very much the case. There was more leather than a DFS, with an abundance of bikers tearing around the winding roads of the island. Having never even ridden a bike, this was certainly not on my agenda. I’d come with the hope of broadening my ornithological horizons in a location far more north than I was used to. I honestly didn’t know what to expect bird-wise but I knew capercaillie was off the list. My ever-so slight advantage was that I’d be staying with the chief executive of Manx Birdlife (coincidentally the dad of one of my university chums), so I was essentially being given a backstage pass to any of the wildlife the island could offer.

After lugging my bags, camera and telescope from Southend to Gatwick via the new shiny Elizabeth line, I was set for my long haul flight of roughly forty minutes. Upon landing, I got a quick sense of what was in store for the next few days. Craggy coastlines to the left were contrasted with heather-clad hills to the right. I wasn’t in Essex any more. My first car journey also gave a taster for the stunning landscapes that I’d encounter. Slate-piled walls hugged the perimeter of narrow roads with rolling fields of green; unlike the scorched lawns of the southeast. There’s an odd sense of feeling cornered when you visit the Isle of Man. Ireland sits within view to the east, Scotland pokes above the horizon to the north, England’s Lake District sticks out to the west and on a clear day, Anglesey is visible from the south coast. No wonder the Manx people have such pride in their nation, with every other front lawn being adorned with triskelion flags. 

It took only an hour to get two lifers in the bag, both in the form of corvids. A boldly beige hooded crow secured tick number one, with a field full of chough confirming the second. Momentous sightings for me at the time that would soon prove to bore me given the numbers I saw subsequently. Surveying from the main land to the Calf of Man, gannets commuted in numbers throughout the afternoon, a fairly unusual sight along the East coast. Despite a brisker breeze, the weather gods looked favourably down upon me, with plenty of generous sunshine. That evening, I’d decided to skim through the local birding journal to draft up my birding wish list. Like a child pencilling an Argos catalogue in December, I was brimming with glee. Some targets were more ambitious than others but the excitement built as I anticipated what could be seen. More lifers were definitely on the cards.

Mornings are not my thing but with the promise of guaranteed rarities, my breakfast was just that bit sweeter. A short drive to Peel Harbour again played host to a double lifer in quick succession. A winter-mottled black guillemot drifted past a flock of eider, ticking two species in one glance. Brief sea-watching accrued fulmar, kittiwake and common guillemot sightings. The latter two of that list were unexpected lifers also. Then, cue the Jaws theme tune. Five basking sharks drifting quite close to shore was a first for me (although not a birding lifer). Regardless of the nerdy perception birdwatching has, you can’t deny the joy of seeing the worlds second largest fish circling in the water before you. Away from the seaside, we headed inland to hunt for hen harriers. With a healthy breeding population, unlike most other parts of the UK, I was a shoe-in to see one. Like Kate Bush, I was running up that hill in search of these raptors but sadly, I had to only settle for shakey, heat-haze warped sightings from the edge of a hillside miles away. Wheatear scuttled at my feet and peregrines glided overhead but despite scouring hen harrier hot-spots, patchy glimpses were all I could manage. A chilled Sunday afternoon preceded an early and hectic start.

Nothing was expected of Monday. Another morning trip took us to an estuary north of Castletown where alongside the rumbling airport, oystercatchers and ringed plovers busily fed amongst the mud. We were greeted by a local twitcher who dropped by in search of curlew sandpipers, just before he was about to visit a site just around the corner. We would follow, but were about ten minutes behind. All of a sudden, a frantic phone call was received followed by a mad dash to this other site. Something has been seen… a biggie. Bigger than a curlew sandpiper. Now I’m not much of a twitcher it has to be said and much to my detriment, this was such a rarity that it went right over my head. It soon became clear that this was a truly astonishing find, not just for the island but for Europe. This was a SHARP-TAILED SANDPIPER and instead of migrating from Eastern Asia to Australia, it was milling around the Irish Sea. Maybe the island’s wallabies made it feel at home! Twitchers flocked from all corners of the island in the coming hours to witness this most tantalising tourist. Several hours were spent surveying the shoreline but you know what, worth it. To have visited whilst the most exciting rarity of the year dropped by was quite the coup. Yes it was a brown wader paddling in the rock pools but you could just tell it was special. Mega.

Tuesday rolled around and with a seemingly golden touch at my fingertips, we trekked to the north of the island with the hope of some sea-watching action. Parking up by the Point of Ayre lighthouse, we almost ran over multiple wheatear as they snuck across the grass. Out into the Irish Sea, gannets glided past shags whilst kittiwakes dodged fulmars. It didn’t take long at all to nab another lifer and one that I was really wishing to see. The one bird that’s named after the island itself, a Manx shearwater! Several floated just above the surface of the sea on their way out to feed. A surprise raft of puffins drifted by, a real treat given they should be well out at sea by the end of August. Inland, we locked course for a set of dense berry-filled hedges. Given the time of year, I thought to myself that this would be perfect wryneck territory. Low and behold about ten minutes later, a wryneck was spotted darting from one tree to another. I didn’t manage a clear view, more a panicked swipe of the binoculars. That counts as a tick, right?

The north of the island proved to be a valuable spot as later that afternoon, we were treated to two separate views of hen harrier. Unlike squinting over a ridge, these birds flew much closer to us, showing off that famous ring-tail. Such incredible birds of prey with sightings that would make most English birders jealous. Tree pipits pinging overhead were another unexpected life tick, meaning I’d scratched off all the boxes on my native pipit bingo card. Another flock of chough chattered away, a species proving more common than pigeons at this rate. Sadly though, our searches to relocate that mornings rarity went awry. Having secured all the sightings I was bound to see (barring some long shots I hoped for), my goal was to get a decent photograph of a chough. Given their prevalence across the island, this would not be a tough task. Alas, these corvids were calling my bluff and after a few hours of scouring one of their favourite beaches, I’d had enough. I went off in a bit of a huff as these rough rocky bays were usually perfect for them.

I was not to be rebuffed. Wednesday, my final day, was set to be my day. If the first beach that we visited was a dud, I was taken to the Langness peninsula, a site where chough were so frequent, they foraged at your feet (or so I was told). Can you guess how many we saw that morning? Well, it was about three and they were dancing distantly beyond the hills. To compensate, we were instead greeted by possibly one of the least discrete rarities that you can find in Britain. A glance from the cliff top to the shoreline allowed excellent views of what is essentially a giant white heron. Great white egrets, whilst slowly increasing in numbers, are still an exciting sighting and a novelty for the Isle of Man. Following a walk to the tip of the peninsula and back, these tame choughs must have stayed at home. From one crow to another though, a raven allowed incredibly close views as it nibbled on a rabbit carcass. Grim, but ever-so-slightly glorious.

Our flight back to the mainland was set for 9pm so we needed to wrap up and pack up in preparation. What a brilliant five days of birding it had been and at that point, I wished I could have stayed longer. Well, in a cruel twist of fate, that flight was cancelled and I was marooned on Man until Friday. Truly brilliant. No fun adventures for me though, another 48 hours that consisted of watching transfer deadline day from dawn until dusk, pizza and plenty of films. A sparrow hawk still decided to swoop into the garden so that was a sweet bonus. By the time Friday evening came around, all of my weather luck had run dry, which was ironic seeing as I was soaked in proper Irish Sea rain. I didn’t bring a coat. I was still soggy by the time I landed in Gatwick.

Barring the late hiccup, this trip was genuinely one of my most enriched experiences of wildlife in the UK. The Isle of Man is not the type of location to draw masses of visitors but eco-tourism-wise, it could well be up there with Northumberland or the Outer Hebrides (not just geographically). Considering I went in a traditionally quiet time of the calendar year, I still witnessed a variety of birds that was unmatched with anything I had seen before. With wildfowl flocking in winter and sea birds gathering in spring, it really is a solid destination all year round. I can’t guarantee mega twitches on every visit but if sky-scraping mountains, glistening beaches, hoards of harriers and sensational sea watching takes your fancy, Man is the Isle for you.

Many thanks to Neil Morris for putting me up for the week and being my expert spotter. Special thanks to Ed for putting up with us for the week!

IF BIRDS WENT ON LOVE ISLAND…

That time of year is upon us whereby you can segway from an hour of Springwatch to ITV2 for another hour of everyone’s hidden guilty pleasure: LOVE ISLAND. This isn’t high brow, Attenborough level content but it’s seemingly fascinating enough. The colourful courtship rituals of these so-called ‘influencers’ capture the attention of a nation for a whole summer but in the wider context of creatures on Earth, humans are quite dull. Birds on the other hand have a weird array of pulling techniques which got me thinking: which species of British bird would crack on with ease and who would be dumped from the island? There is no better group of animals to chirps their partners, trust me. It’s time for a metaphorical migration to Mallorca…

MALLARD

Let’s start with these bad boys. A familiar face that gets top billing on this list. A splash of colour and an addiction to carbs, how ruddy relatable? These absolute dons would couple up easily enough and with the prospect of adorbs ducklings, what could possibly go wrong? Well, they would surely get a tap on the wing from an ITV producer as their mating techniques take full force. To put it bluntly, their aggressive approach to flirtation, often in pugnacious gangs, would not be appropriate for even after the watershed. They’d be booted off after two episodes with Ian explaining they needed to return home ‘due to an ill relative’.

DUNNOCK

I wouldn’t hedge your bets on these guys. They don’t fit the usual requirements of a refined, hunky singleton, instead dressed in all brown and grey. What they lack in outward beauty is more than made up for in raw charisma. These birds know a thing or two about grafting and certainly have several notches on their bedpost. They have been known to copulate more than a hundred times a day, now that is cracking on. The flip side of what could be a steamy night in the hideaway is that each ‘session’ probably lasts for a fraction of a second. Barely time to catch your breath, literally. They would fail to entertain the public with form like that and end up being voted off first. It is what it is.

GUILLEMOT

On paper, sure fire winners. Sleek build, eyeliner on point and loves the beach. A perfect candidate with near enough Olympic diving credentials. Everyone loves an athlete. On the surface, they come across as passionate lovers, bonding during their courtship. They’d surely go through rocky patches, mostly because these tend to be ideal nesting habitats. However, as always, there’s a twist. This is a species that may look monogamous but the females fail to understand the meaning of the word. Adultery is rife amongst the colonies of these audacious auks and while it makes intrinsic biological sense for the birds, it would result in explosive arguments by the fire pit. It’s the type of content that we’d all secretly love to see. I reckon they’d make it to Casa Amore before all hell breaks loose. Congrats, hun.

GREAT CRESTED GREBE

You would find these glorious birds splashing in the pool more than you would find them lazing on the sun beds. With a frizzy barnet and ‘dark features’, they would comfortably win the hearts of everyone and definitely cause a bit of in-fighting. The hilarity is that turning heads is all part of their courtship routine. Put it this way, if there was a dancing challenge, they would win wings down. Even after their elegant mating ritual, male grebes still woo their lovers with bouquets of pondweed. Who said that gifts aren’t the route to the heart? Even when chicks have hatched, both parents stick together and even let their babies sail on their back. This level of devotion would see them get all the way to the final surely. 

WHITE TAILED SEA EAGLE

The closest we can go to call a bird fierce, these gargantuan predators are bulked up like personal trainers. They would intimidate without a doubt and they’d probably prefer pulling mackerel from the sea rather than pulling someone else for a chat. If you’d want to know where their heads where at, it would probably be dodging crows or finding a perfect pine forest to glide over. Whilst other birds boldly proclaim to mate for life, these eagles are legit. You wouldn’t be mugged off by one of these lot, who are famously serially monogamous. Again, masters of the dance floor, their aerial acrobatics help with wooing a partner and they stay together throughout the upbringing of the chicks. With a lifespan of over twenty years, they’re in for the long haul. Til death do they part, although an islander passing away wouldn’t make great tele. A bonifide fan favourite but perhaps pipped to the post at the last moment?

MUTE SWAN

The boss level for coupling up. These no-nonsense monsters would stir up the vibes in the villa and take no prisoners. They would make their presence known and try as hard as they can to oust any competition. No one likes violence but the odd swan bust-up would send Twitter ablaze. Despite their stern outlook, they would turn out to be gentle when it comes to love. More adorable courtship is sure to stem the odd tear or two. When nesting comes around, they take a leaf out of Cheryl’s book and fight for their love. Anyone remotely walking near them get an earful and whilst it’s not pleasant, it’s refreshing to see a couple standing up for one another. They’d win Love Island by a landslide, share the money and come back to two million Instagram followers each. Cob and Peng.

So that’s my take on this, but I wonder what the public thinks? Got any saucier suggestions? Let me know down below.

Adios…

ESPAÑA ESCAPADE

 ¡HOLA

As you can see, I’m now fluent in Spanish. Such as the joys of four days away in Malaga. I am now back in the UK and genuinely considered turning the heating on. It’s June. So, what did I get up to? The usual combination of chillaxing and sunburning but that wasn’t all. I somehow managed to stuff binoculars in my hand luggage because of course, I went birding. I couldn’t resist. Most tourists barely bat an eyelid at the bounty of beautiful birdlife that Spain has to offer but I was fully geared up to soak it in. Normal people research decent restaurants and where the best attractions are. Me? I googled where are the nearest nature reserves and where I can find a hoopoe. I was so ready.

Malaga is an ideal tourist destination. Long beaches, baking sunshine and it’s also one of the three places that (London) Southend Airport flies to. Not bad when it’s ten minutes from your door. Even better when airport security only takes you FIVE MINUTES. I could’ve arrived fifteen minutes before the plane left the tarmac and still had time to browse duty free. What an airport. So if you want to fly to (checks notes) MALLORCA or DUBLIN then you’d also be in for a treat. Anywhere else and Stansted or Gatwick will have to do.

A two and a half hour flight saw me quickly swap drizzle for sizzling temperatures. It was well hot. Might be too hot. After what felt like a day navigating the steep steps of Torremolinos, which may have well been a Super Mario map, we finally dumped our luggage and could try and relax. I however had a sore neck from constantly checking the skies. Rare birds are difficult to see in England at the best of times but my Spain logic was that booted eagles and wallcreepers would land at my feet. I lived in hope. What I soon learned was that everything is not as it seemed when even looking at pretty plain birds. The monstrous gulls circling overhead weren’t herrings, they were yellow-legs. The gregarious common starlings were in fact spotless starlings. There were pallid swifts mingling with their common cousins. Even the invasive parakeets were different from those that flock in London. The arguably boring stuff here was a British twitchers gold-dust.

While everyone else holidaying on the Costa Del Sol was looking forward to tapas and sangria, I was itching to visit a nature reserve I had earmarked as being somewhere special. With the prospect of otters, flamingos and one of Europe’s most endangered species… I couldn’t resist. The mouth of the Guadalhorce river was right next to the airport and flanked a busy motorway, so it was pretty much Rainham Marshes on steroids. I figured that if I was going to see anything half decent, I needed to wake up at the crack of dawn. Begrudgingly, for the birds, I did so. One short Uber and I’d landed in what felt like a ridiculously rural backwater. Good. The less people the better. Upon walking up to the entrance, it was impossible to ignore the grandeur of the landscapes surrounding me. Imposing mountains with dotted villas at their feet surrounded me, with the Mediterranean Sea itself glistening in the morning sunshine. If I saw nothing today, it was still worth it.

As I crossed the river into the main body of the reserve, the connecting bridge served as something of a service station for swifts and hirundines. I had to duck to avoid the onrushing swallows and house martins. As much as these are standard British species, I couldn’t help but think of how unlikely it would be to see these scenes back at home. It really cemented how dire the biodiversity in the UK has become. A bit further along, I was drawn to a small flock of yellow passerines chattering away in a bush just off the path. Yellowhammers? Siskins? Definitely not. Serins. This is a species that even the most seasoned birder would jump in joy for and they were literally feet away. Early doors and I’d already ticked a lifer off the list.

Amongst the cacophony of Sardinian warblers, I’d reached my first hide. The sight of black winged stilts gliding overheard indicated that I was near water, just what I needed. The one endangered rarity I hoped of seeing loved lakes such as this but of course, knowing my luck, I’d likely be unsuccessful. Globally, their population is only at 10,000 and bred infrequently in Spain. It was a bird that if I managed to see, I’d likely never see again. One lift of my binoculars and there they were. A flock of white headed ducks. A British sighting of one of these bad boys would crash the birdguides website and probably make the news. But here they were, about six of them, just paddling around without a care in the world. A bright white head is a pretty damning camouflage but ultimately made them a simple spot. Birding is never usually this easy.

Granted I’d set off for around 8am, I was still surprised at how few people were also visiting the reserve. This place was on par with Minsmere in terms of appeal but had no visitor centre, staff or carrot cake filled cafe. A plethora of wildlife found next to one of the largest cities in Spain but I had the entire place to myself. Begs the question how passionate the general Spanish public are about nature? Maybe it was just too early for most folk. Treading the empty dust path, the next hide was a treat for the eyes. Avocets were rubbing feathery shoulders with sandwich terns whilst more black winged stilts dabbled in the shallow pools. A silvery cormorant look on proudly as it perched on a bare branch. In a flash, a gaggle of frenetic screeching was following by a fleeing spree, with the terns taking to the air in a flash. My instant reaction was to check the sky and I was disappointed. A mid-mobbing Osprey glided over the scrape and over the horizon. Undeniably a bird that never fails to catch the eye.

Onwards I went and the early morning chilled breeze was soon burned out by the intensity of the Spanish solar rays and soon, my already sunburnt skin started to sting. My successful day out needed to be wrapped up but before I hobbled home, I decided to find the highest point on the reserve have one final scan of the surrounding pools. Swifts again were on a vendetta to take off my head as they whizzed at eye level beside me. A single male pochard was a familiar face but wasn’t exactly the waterbird I had come to find. Every bush was trilling with warbler song which only added to the audible experience. In typical birdwatching fashion, the moment I turned my back, a heron-like silhouette floated up from the reeds. The same size as a little egret but far from white, a binoculars check confirmed another lifer for me, a little bittern. Normal bitterns warrant cheering so spotting their miniature cousin left me speechless. Yet more ticks!

After two hours or so, I was birded out. My dreams of seeing flamingos, bee-eaters and hoopoes fell short but in short, I would have to be quite the snob to play down the day’s haul. Perhaps I was a month too late during the peak sub-Saharan migration or maybe all the other lifers were on the beach. I may have travelled to Malaga with the intention of a tan but I left in the knowledge of knowing that I was lucky enough to witness one of Europe's most exclusive rarities. Based on other reports, my small list of sightings is only the tip of the iceberg, with plenty more surely out there. Fancy a piece of this spicy Spanish omelette? Remember, airport security at Southend only takes FIVE MINUTES.

What a trip.

Adios…

8 WAYS TO TRIGGER A BIRDER

Ornithologists are an eclectic bunch. Often passionate, most of the time knowledgeable and proud of their undermined hobby. It’s not everyone’s cup of tea and not everyone can tell a wigeon from a pigeon. People get it wrong from time to time but birders, being the picky bunch they are, will clench their fists at any vague biological inaccuracy. It comes from a place of wanting to spread knowledge but it can also come across as snotty and sensitive.

Got a bird nuts friend who you want to wind up? Or are you a bird nerd simply needing something to rile you up? Look no further, here is your to-do list in how to truly trigger any birder.

Incorrectly label them a twitcher

An absolute classic to get us started. There is always argey-bargey between self-confessed ‘elite’ birders who speed across country for one sighting versus those who go out for the wider experience of nature. If you fall in the latter category, your nose will turn up at being labelled a twitcher. Logically, this distaste doesn’t make much sense unless you disagree with a slightly more dedicated approach to birdwatching. A twitcher can still be a birder but not everyone goes on a wild red/breasted goose chase. It’s more the bundling of two tribes under one umbrella that causes discomfort. Like calling a Canadian American. So close yet so far.

Refer to bird ‘houses’

This one really shouldn’t touch a nerve but quite simply, it does. Trust me. In a birders mind, the wooden structure by which a bird builds its best must be referred to as a BOX, not a HOUSE. No windows, no doors and no central heating. These objects couldn’t be further from houses. If there’s one thing that gets a bird nerd’s goat, it’s the personification of wildlife. Animals must remain scientific objects and not anything with a personality or emotions. The notion of a bird rocking up to a house indicates they’ll soon pop their kettle on and watch TV. A box is a far more truthful depiction of the situation and even though a house can generally be described as somewhere in which someone lives, it’s still somehow wrong.

Feed bread to a duck

You’re lucky you don’t get birders snatching the bread out of your hands before shoving it down your throat. The environmentally friendly mantra which you’d think everyone knows by now is still lost on many and it seriously gets birdwatchers blood boiling. Bread is readily available at home and wildfowl clearly enjoy eating it. In that sense, where’s the harm? Well, imagine if someone gave you unlimited Nando’s for the rest of your life. Your eyes will most certainly be bigger than your belly. I don’t need to go over why feeding ducks bread is a sucky thing to do but the idea of hundreds of birds scrambling all over each other’s faeces just to get a crust should be indicative.

Say the word seagull

He who must not be named. Friendships have been torn apart by this name. There are reports of some birders jumping out of windows in anger at even the uttering of the word. It is ornithological sacrilege. But what’s so bad about the word seagull? (I know, I’ve said it at least twice now). They’re gulls and they live mostly by the sea. There’s no harm in that, right? In the mind of a birder, it most certainly does. The family of birds are exclusively gulls with no room for this colloquialism. No matter how many times a nature boff will tell their friends or colleagues otherwise, this scandalous name with forever remain in the vocabulary of the wider public. But in the end, is that a bad thing? Is the term incorrect? Birders would love for everyone to specify species but that’s probably pedantic.

Refer to a moorhen as a duck

If it swims like a duck and hangs around with other ducks then it must be a duck. This is again a simple mistake for most people to make but if birders ruled the high court, it would be up there with treason. The same goes for coots who often get lumbered into this same categorisation. Most parks have information signs dotted around but alas, they’re just not that interesting. Who has time to decipher which birds are members of the rail family? If only corncrakes were more common, this may well help distance rails from ducks.The narrow bill and pointed toes may give it away but if they’re milling around the local pond, it’s an understandable oversight. A birder may well let you off with a warning.

Let your dog off a lead

In a world of already tense human-wildlife conflict, the fight for green spaces which can be used for recreation as opposed to conservation is a contentious one. Birders want to see every park fenced off and left to grow like a meadow whereas the other 99% of the population want a patch of grass so that their French bulldog can waddle around. There is no right answer but if you’re on a dog walk and your furry friend gallops off into a flock of birds or an area where nesting could happen, that’s generally not cool. Most nature reserves ban dogs and while most owners have a mutual respect with their pets, naturalists would rather it if dogs never needed to go for walkies ever again.

Get a fake lawn

Have you ever looked at your biodiversity rich garden filled with insects and wildflowers but thought - I wish this was like tupperware. For context, natural lawns are difficult to manage and not suitable for everyone, however if you’re plonking one in there for laziness on it’s own, that ought to get a few birders fighty. When natural habitats are being diminished, stripping a backyard of its last remaining ecosystem is a middle finger to wildlife. It was bad enough that likely a meadow or a forest was destroyed to make way for housing to start with but now there’s 0% nature to be seen. There’s enough plastic in the ocean already, don’t carpet it over where grass should be.

Ask them to ID a generic bird

‘I saw a bird the other day. It was between the size of a sparrow and a pigeon. I didn’t get a picture or a video or a sound of its call but it did have wings. What was it?’ Every birder has had this sort of question. The key is to be tested in terms of of an ID, trying to uncover any slight quirk that may give it away. If it looked glossy, a likely starling. If it’s song was punchy but the bird itself difficult to see, a probably wren. Obscurity doesn’t help a birder and whilst they’d love to be able to officially verify what was there, it’s guesswork if there’s nothing to go on. This shouldn’t upset most people but then again, birders are obsessive nerds that must be 100% correct about anything feathered.

If there are any other birders left reading this, let me know how awful you feel on a scale of 1 - 10. For any non-birders, you have plenty of ammunition to get you started. Enjoy annoying all of the ornithologists out there!

Adios…

I am not a Wildlife Photographer

Yes, I have a camera. Yes, I take pictures of wildlife. Yes, you’re probably reading this because of seeing some of these pictures. However, I regret to inform you; I am not a wildlife photographer. 

Here’s how I see it:

Firstly, to add a sprinkling of context, all of the pictures you see from my Instagram are mine. You don’t need to dust off your pitchfork and start a WhatsApp group chat entitled ‘Angry Mob’. I’m not claiming that my photos have been stolen from Google, everything you see has been shot from down one of my lenses. I’m so totally authentic, trust me.

I get this kind of comment a lot, most recently when I was out in the woods taking pictures of the bluebells. An elderly couple stopped me and said I ‘must be a professional’. I could’ve lied and created an elaborate facade but I was far too Britishly bashful. Their face when I admitted I was merely an amateur was like if I told my parents I was selling all my belongings and moving to Peru. Befuddled disappointment. Sorry guys, the truth is I’m a smuck with a camera. Random old people from the woods, I’ve let you down.

I’ve always been that annoying bird nerd and have always preferred to gaze out of a window rather than concentrating on something I probably should’ve been listening to. It was only until I was gifted a DSLR camera that I realised there’s a whole new avenue by which to appreciate the natural world. All of a sudden, instead of just loose memories, I had physical captures of individual moments. I could recall exactly what I’d seen as opposed to scraping the back of my mind. The photos were actually decent quality as well so in the early days, I’d take pictures of almost everything. Just because the camera did most of the work, I tricked myself into thinking I had acquired a skill. Far from it.

Having a camera and calling myself a photographer would be like if I called myself a chef for having an oven. For one, I don’t have the disposable income to actually improve any equipment I have. Forking out a grand in order to make my pictures ever so slightly clearer is not a sound investment. Sure, I’ll never be able to get the best photograph ever but I can always graft. After spending a lot of time around other birders, there’s sometimes a toxic one-up-man-ship about lenses. You whip out your 70-200 and someone else proudly protrudes their 150-600, with camo of course. To put it bluntly, it’s all about comparing each other’s sizes. Hilarious. The old phrase is of course that it doesn’t matter how big it is, it’s what you do with it.

I also have no idea about the technical side of photography. I’m sorry to confess this but aperture and ISO numbers mean about as much to me as Arabic. My camera has almost every setting under the sun but as long as it goes flashy flashy when I go clicky clicky, happy days. I even did a 6 month module at university about digital photography and even that frazzled me. Still got a 2:1 though didn’t I, cheeky. I can of course research about shutter speeds and file types but is that not just a bit dull if I want to go out and take pictures of pigeons? If anything, the fact that I can take half-decent photos with a minuscule understanding of the technicalities is testament to the hobby. Anyone can do it.

Time is also not on my side. I’d love to take a week off in order to track down capercaillies but my full time job and the requirement to have at least some money hampers that. I can just about manage a whole day of waiting for a kingfisher before my brain turns to mush and I lose a toe to frostbite. I went to see the BBC Wildlife Photographer of the Year exhibition a couple of years ago and that just filled me with jealousy. When I read the captions stating that some photographers waited for weeks just to get one shot, I felt a bit better about my badly croppped, hashed up snaps of a Woodchat shrike. My other option is to resign and take up photography as a career but then I’d need money for all the equipment. Catch 22.

If anything, that is the point I am trying to make. There are skilled professionals who are experts in their field and have grown businesses from photography. I’m just a weird guy with a camera. To compare myself with proper wildlife photographers would be like comparing Daniel Day Lewis with James Corden. The sucker punch is that photo envy is real. All those who take pictures of wildlife do it subconsciously though. We all look at extremely detailed or incredibly timed photographs and feel paled into insignificance compared to what we can muster. We feel as though we need to up our games and that our own photography is a grainy mess. Nonsense. There are always reasons why someone is slightly better than you and it’s probably for a reason out of your control. If it was in control, you’d be the best photographer in the world. I’m sure that if there’s such a thing as the world champion in wildlife photography, he too probably thinks his pictures stink.

In summary then, my goal has always been to try and educate my Instagram followers about wildlife and conservation, not to wow them with my awesome high quality pictures. If you’re a wildlife lover with a camera, just enjoy being out in the wild and capturing memories. No one needs to judge you, they are your experiences to cherish. Some of my posts are alright I suppose but they’re miles off being anywhere remotely professional. I reiterate my opening statement: I am not a wildlife photographer.

I HATE BIRDS

That’s right. I said it.

I really mean it though. I despise their feathery smugness. They’re as reliable as a bus made of concrete and spending time watching them is as bad as being run over by one. Every single bird I’ve ever seen has flown away from me and that should’ve been an indication. I’m packing up all my gear, selling it on Etsy for a fiver and becoming a trainspotter. Watch out Francis.

But how did it get to this point? What pushed me over the cliff edge and into the abyss? What finally made me realise that these beaked losers are not worth my time? Well, I guess I’d need to tell the story. Let’s go all the way back in time… to this Saturday just gone.

Without a car, any nature reserves I visit need to be within walking distance of public transport. This rules out minsmere, the Isle of Mull and about 98% of places with noteworthy wildlife in the UK. Of the sparse options I had, Walthamstow Wetlands was an absolute top notch prospect. Expansive reservoirs, wriggling waterways and it was a 10 minute walk from Tottenham Hale station. Bingo. Having just bought a digiscoping adapter, to connect my spotting scope to my Nikon camera, I needed a wide open space on which to give it a test run. What better vista to give it a whirl than a vast wetland? There’d be ducks! I famously love ducks! This day was surely going to be memorable. But then, like a flash of blue lightning, inspiration fell at my lap. There were confirmed (and regular) sightings of a kingfisher at one particular spot on the reserve. No skulking in a hide or camping for hours, this urban avian angler was, by all accounts, brazen and undeterred by the joggers and cyclists of E17. This gentle jaunt on a sunny Saturday had turned into a kingfisher hunt. With my new camera attachment, it also meant I was certain to get some GLORIOUS photographs of this bird as well. It was all falling into place nicely.

For context, kingfishers are extraordinarily vibrant yet shy birds. Their orange and blue colours stand out against any other bird you’d find in Britain but sadly, they’re not always scheduled like clockwork. Birders usually only steal a glimpse as they zap along a river, so the chance to actually spot one static is a gilt edged opportunity. The fact that they’ve taken up residence in such a densely populated area makes this all the more magical. Anecdotal evidence of one guy seeing a kingfisher once on one bit of river isn’t really much to go on. Rivers, by nature, tend to be quite long. Kingfishers, by nature, tend to fly around a bit so being able to guarantee coordinates for where they will always come out and perform is near enough impossible. However, in this case, there were daily accounts of these elusive recluses coming out to play on this specific stretch of stream. The stage was set.

1 hour and 25 minutes - the duration of my train journey. I was lugging my scope, camera, lens, tripod and binoculars all the way from Essex to Walthamstow. Imagine buckaroo but without the ability to flip out and throw everything. The only thing that wasn’t aching was my spirit. As I got off the train, with my stuffed backpack and hiking boots, the other commuters at Tottenham Hale couldn’t look less prepared to climb a mountain. You tend to get weird looks if you wear binoculars instead of AirPods in this neck of the woods. This didn’t bother me because off I went into the wilderness of Walthamstow. I arrived and even at the visitor centre, there was a sign pointing out literally where to stand in order to 100% see a kingfisher. It should have just said ‘if you don’t see one today, you are a certified idiot’. This was a good sign. As a trudged along the path, the glorious winter sun on my face, a fellow birder stopped me. I’m not sure what gave it away but the mile long tripod and chunky scope may have blown my cover. His opening line of ‘looking for the kingfisher?’ came across as almost insulting. Am I a basic birdwatcher drawn to easy bait drawn to the most colourful specimens? I then realised that was totally me and replied ‘uh… yeah’. He assured me that it was half a mile down this path and was spotted that very morning. THIS was a good sign. At this point, it was highly likely that I was going to trip over a conga line of kingfishers, so I was beyond confident.

In anticipation of definitely seeing a kingfisher, I had a lightbulb moment which was to test the digiscope. I’d need to be ready for those sensational kingfisher shots I was going to get, so it was vital I knew how the camera worked. A raft of tufted ducks on the lake next door were the perfect subject. After poking around for five minutes getting the focus right, I looked down the view and captured some brilliantly clear pictures. Except, when checking the gallery on my camera, these came through dark, blurred collages made perfect content for one of my future awful photography quizzes. I obviously couldn’t hack the shakiness and the aperture needed so the dream of having any crystal clear pictures flew out the window. Not ideal. Still, I was minutes away from staring face to bill with a kingfisher so all was well in the world.

On the walk up to this hallowed spot, all other birds paled to insignificance. Canada geese were 10x more boring than they already were. Great crested grebes barely grabbed my attention as my orange and blue tunnel vision set in. A capercaillie could have waltzed along and I wouldn’t have batted an eyelid. Like a carrier pigeon, my blind faith had finally led me to the promised land. The hallowed ground where this most royal of fisher-birds graces the public with its presence. It wasn’t a case of when I’d see it, it was guessing which perch it would choose first. This showman of a bird was only moments away and I was ready in waiting.

3 hours later, I gave up. No kingfisher.

Plenty of passers-by stopped me during that time, asking what I was waiting for. Whilst they were some delightful chats, they didn’t half pile on the pressure. If you have a fancy camera with a fancy scope, others look to you as though you’re an expert in your field. I had no clue what I was doing but they didn’t know that. The tantalising certainty of success was the driving force that kept me going but the gusting wind and freezing air drove me to leave. With my pride bruised and no kingfisher to tick off my list, I slogged home essentially empty handed. I’d spent almost a whole afternoon staring at a river with nothing to show for it. I felt as though I’d been on an away day and lost 5-0. I couldn’t even get a smeared photograph of a kingfisher through my poxy digiscope adapter. Nothing glorious at all. Certified idiot.

On that tainted trek back to train, the sun broke through the now-overcast sky and I had a moment of clarity. This was not what a day out in nature should have been about. All birders know how unpredictable it can be but sometimes it’s the chase that’s worth the rush. Whilst the pursuit of a single rarity can be rewarding, it channels the focus so that if you fail, the entire experience is ruined. It’s a huge gamble, but should that be what it’s all about? For me, my day had been ‘kingfisher or bust’. As pied wagtails pinged around me, a peregrine glided overhead and coots squabbled all around, it all just hit home that adventures like this should be about just spending quality time surrounded by wildlife. It should be about taking in fresh air and appreciating the wonder of the natural world. Having a list is a good way to keep track of sightings and is decent foundation to gloat to other birders, however it’s so important just to not get fixated with numbers and just enjoy the great outdoors. It’s also so difficult to not obsess over capturing the perfect photo in order to harvest those insta likes. Nature existed long before social media and will outlive it. You’ll survive without one immaculate post for your followers.  

So next time you go to a nature reserve, woodland or any wild space, don’t forget to take a step back and look at the bigger picture.

(Did I also mention someone saw a kingfisher in the exact same spot right after I left?)

My Environmental Studies Degree - Worth It?

The 15th August 2013 was one of the longest days of my life. At 6am, I was a sweaty ball of nerves mentally praying that I’d got the grades needed to study Ecology at Bournemouth University. By 11am, I was agreeing terms with the University of Kent to do Environmental Studies instead. I’d not heard of ‘adjustment’ (the opposite of clearing) until the night before. That day was a wild ride but after an anxiety-inducing morning, it felt as though the course of the rest of my life had been reset. In July 2016, I’d graduated from a Top-20 university having studied a subject matter than was hot on the political agenda. The world was a vast and cracked open oyster, ready for me to raid and conquer. Did it all go to plan? Well…

I’ve alluded to the direction of my career before and all of the hurdles in between. For further reading, I’d recommend ‘Why being a young naturalist sucks’. But after you’ve finished reading this. In summary, graduation opened very few doors which meant I essentially needed to rethink my career path pretty quickly. I could have studied a masters, got involved with unpaid internships or taken a year out to travel the world whilst simultaneously networking. Adult life unfortunately makes no exceptions for this and you can’t pay your gas bill on good vibes only. I needed a salary and I didn’t have time on my side. It would’ve been nice to have the bank of mum and dad offer me guaranteed financial security but much to my dismay, I was no longer a ‘child’’. An undergraduate degree from a decent university certainly helped me get a step up, regardless of the actual subject matter, so there’s no begrudging that. 

Did I choose the wrong degree? With Environmental Studies, the focus was on social sciences and taking on a more anthropological perspective on conservation issues. I’d always say that anything deeply scientific is not my strong suit, so zoology or marine biology would not have been an option. The difficult aspect to consider when you start a degree is where it will lead. You don’t worry about your career on results day or freshers week, you worry about what mixer is cheapest and whether you can genuinely die from a hangover. A degree feels like just one further step on the path you’re supposed to tread, a path that started in nursery and has been laid out for you ever since. I only panicked about getting a job and the rest of my life at the tail-end of my final year and in honesty, it’s not in a university’s best interest to carve out your career. Firstly, it strongly involves your own impetus and secondly, as long as they have your tuition fee, they’re satisfied.

Thus far, I’ve painted myself as a helpless victim in an unfair world. Is it as black and white as that? Definitely not. You can’t blame me for not focusing on the world beyond university. It’s frightening and I’d assumed the transition would be straightforward. Every other development in my life had involved an element of hand holding but this next chapter was clearly not going to be as merry. Undergraduate life only helped to create a false bubble of comfort with very little insight into what was coming next. I went to war with a shield made of cider cans. Being a student is a toxic combination between feeling adult enough to make independent decisions but with cushioned consequences. I shrugged off the notion of getting a part time job as a student because I wanted to surround myself with fun. I turned my nose up at volunteering because that sounded like effort. All valuable avenues for me that I wished I’d had a kick up the backside about.

Did I enjoy myself though? Absolutely. I thrived at university and built social circles that have stood the test of time, even today. I fully embraced the student way of life, much to the ills of my wallet. As far as lectures and seminars, I genuinely engaged with the subject matter. All of my classmates shared mutual passions and I actively wanted to learn. I joined university as simply a birder but left as a conservationist. I felt for the first time that i was amongst others that spoke my language and it was sensational. There were no other degrees readily available that weren’t simply focussed on science, so the marriage with anthropology very much aligned with my own perspectives on the subject. To put it simply, I was gutted when those glorious three years came to a close.

So to summarise: was it worth it? My student loan is a hefty price to pay (once I start paying it off) but even though I’m not Attenborough’s apprentice, I would say the whole university experience was so vital as my life has gone on. I certainly could have started an apprenticeship, cut out the tuition fees and experienced adult life earlier, but I may not have been allowed the same opportunities, plus what would be the fun in that? I expected a brilliantly paid job and a clearly set out career to be presented before me upon a silver platter with minimal effort. Yet, I’m surprised that it didn’t all go to plan. For anyone wanting my condensed advice, you can get an undergrad degree by all means but make sure you do all you can to prep for the big wide world out there.

Some people pursue their passions with their degrees acting as perfect springboards, others simply use it as another line on their CV’s. As long as you know you’d enjoy further studies and are prepared to graft beyond what is expected of you, you can have no regrets.