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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?)
