My Honest Thoughts on Clarkson's Farm TWO

Captain Controversy is back in his combine, with the much-anticipated agricultural epic getting its due sequel. Thwarting impending cancellation owing to his fruity opinions, the Amazon Prime hit was widely welcomed by the Diddly Squat ultras. The man behind the operation may be subject to scrutiny at every turn but there was arguable dispensation, given the success of series one. A sequel is a tough act to follow so would it glisten like its predecessor or stink like silage?

Warning!!!! SPOILERS!!!!!!!!! Get Amazon Prime, watch all eight episodes and start again.

If you can’t stand Clarkson, enjoy!

Three strikes and you’re out tends to be the rule. If Clarkson played baseball, he’d be massively outstaying his innings. The man is contentious and always has been yet he remains a star man in the media. His outspoken opinions have not yet seen his empire crumble, in spite of some heavy blows. I’m not sitting here defending him in any way but what I will say is that Clarkson’s Farm remains a perfect tonic if you indulge in schadenfreude. Let’s not escape the glaringly obvious fact that he’s the head honcho, the reliable TV frontman drawing viewers in. This doesn’t mean it’s solely reading from his script. As with the first, the second series works best when Clarkson himself is undermined. He slices half his thumb off whilst making crisps. He is literally attacked by a fence. His best-made plans fall apart at nearly every turn. If you despise the man, you’ll get an ironic chuckle or two from his misfortune. Most importantly, the fabric of the show is the supporting cast of relatable and grounded individuals focused on the realities of farming. Renaming the show to ‘Life on a British Farm’ or ‘A year in the countryside’ doesn’t have any appeal at all, think of Clarkson as essentially the mortar. Cut out Jeremy and let Kaleb run the farm; what a show that would be.

Forced antics?

Series one saw Diddly Squat welcome sheep, in a bid to supply fresh meat and wool. Along comes series two and the sheep are swiftly swept under the carpet. It’s out with the old and in with the moo, as Clarkson’s latest scheme sees cows rock up. You can’t help but feel that this is a move to spice up the content from one season to the next, given another year of shepherding would wear thin. From an entertainment perspective, adding the jeopardy of bovine tuberculosis into the mix made the ‘plot’ all the more tantalising. A strategy such as this could only be feasible on the farm run by the presenter of Who Wants To Be A Millionaire. There are probably plenty of sheep farmers who dream of being able to up tools and change their livestock completely. Is this a fair reflection of modern farming? Other moments include buying chickens to ‘ecologically’ rejuvenate the soil and driving a drill into a telegraph pole, deliberately whilst the cameras were rolling. Although the first series was rife with realistic challenges, the quandaries throughout the second feel just slightly more synthetic.

Wildlife wildlife wildlife!

This is something that probably went under the radar but how glorious were the filler shots of all the farmland flora and fauna? It didn’t go unnoticed by my nature nerd eyes and despite there not being an entire episode dedicated to conservation-friendly farming in this series, there was still enough transition footage to indicate a bio-diverse landscape. White fallow deer, buff yellowhammers and fields filled with finches; glorious. A personal highlight is one particular drone shot with a gliding red kite surveying the acreage below. An iconic bird with an immense backdrop. This series doesn’t shy away from painting an idyllic picture of what the English countryside should look like, with agriculture and the environment calmly coexisting. Let’s shy away from the reality that farmland species are struggling nationwide owing to continued habitat degradation, but at least Clarkson is trying? He’s got a lot of carbon to offset.

Badger belittling?

Clarkson giveth with one hand and taketh away with the other. I am in no way promoting the demise of cattle owing to bTB and from literally living in the countryside, I am very much aware of the disastrous consequences this disease has on the livelihoods of farmers. The series does this too without any sugar-coating. I admire that the public has supported Emma the dairy farmer, hopefully saving her from the brink, but how many farms aren’t or weren't that lucky? A unanimous agreement is that bovine tuberculosis is evil, we’re all aligned on that. From my naturalist side, I can’t help but feel that the badger cull debate was handled from a very one-sided perspective. It meant that badgers, the unassuming vectors, are now also evil in the eyes of the viewers. The Great British public doesn’t need any more incentive to despise a wild creature, it’s practically a predisposition. Drafting in a conservationist and an ecologist to give professional advice on the abundance of badgers on his land, I’ll give him that. I take umbrage with the fact the discussion only went as far as complaining about the stringent legislation protecting badgers. Call it nitpicking but perhaps there could have been a wider discussion about vaccines (which are being worked on) and the notion that culling individual badgers doesn’t show a significant decrease in the spread of bTB (as studies are showing). It’s a fractious topic at the most civil of times yet maybe a counterargument would’ve levelled the playing field.

Damn you, red tape!

Every good story has a villain and in series two, the antagonists come in many different forms. Primarily, it’s the rules and restrictions that fence off any ability for Clarkson to run his farm smoothly or with any semblance of fun. From the small scale village consultations to the giant political monster of Brexit, Jeremy is scuppered with hurdle after hurdle. His battles neatly highlighted the contradictions of farmers being deprived of subsidies but simultaneously not being allowed to fill the void left behind. The crux of the series is his pursuit of opening a restaurant, which would bring economic benefits to the local area, support neighbouring struggling farmers and give hope to others that diversification can work. However, because one councillor was worried about light pollution, this initial grand venture was given a hiding. Regulatory bodies are involved in planning applications for a reason, to make sure everything stays in line, but you can’t help feeling like raw opinion came into this? This plan may well have been deemed a media stunt, thus not given the time of day. Aside from this, are there any farmers watching this truly inspired that a similar idea could get off the ground, given the obstacles? Spoiler alert, the restaurant has now closed down for good, with the council winning in the end. As a bigger question; is the red tape in place for the greater good (the greater good) or is it defying logic at this point? If Clarkson can’t build a track on his own land, there’s a small indicator.

Farming is impossible.

Clarkson and Cooper rightfully won an award for flying the flag for British farming and in series two, the flag remained aloft. Albeit slumped in dismay, this otherwise heartwarming show continued to broadcast the struggles that agriculture in this country faces. Glossy and sentimental at times, the content stuck to its roots of exposing the constant barrage of theoretical manure that is thrown farmers' way. The lazy critique is to bring up the obvious fact that abundantly wealthy Clarkson’s exploits don’t reflect every other British farm, but the fact he still runs unprofitably, despite a fortune, proves truly how dire the situation is. It shone a light on the staff shortage struggles that the pork industry face, the pressure beef farmers have to rear their livestock and how Vladimir Putin invading Ukraine skyrocketed the price of fertilisers. No sign of government support, increasingly unpredictable weather and a debilitating cost of living crisis. Life is tough right now but imagine being a farmer. If you are a farmer, I feel for you.

In summary, it ticks the boxes for being both educational and entertaining with the only drawback being the enigma of Clarkson himself. I recommend this show to so many people and the general reaction is disdain. The man has more critics than fans, meaning that getting over his eccentricities is too much for some. My advice, for any doubters, is to look beyond the curly-headed poster boy and enjoy literally everyone else who makes the series actually worthwhile. It’s wholesome yet heartbreaking. It’s inspiring yet despairing. It’s binge-worthy entertainment at its finest, with shades of that usual top-gear-esque artistic licence.

Anthropomorphising Animals - Helpful or Harmful?

By now, you must have heard the jarring news that the BBC have made the radical decision to cancel Autumnwatch. I’m not gutted, honestly. This definitely was not a formative piece of broadcasting that helped to reinforce my love of British wildlife. Cutting costs completely makes sense(!)

The reaction has been wholly negative, aside from the Countryside Alliance, who have come out to welcome the decision, on the basis of the show’s ‘unrealistic and anthropomorphic approach’. This statement, whilst likely being designed to stir controversy, has in fact raised an interesting quandary that’s had nature lovers and scientists lock horns over the years. An unspoken undertone to an otherwise shared passion. Should the natural world be personified?

On the surface, this debate is pretty petty with a clear cut answer. There is nothing damaging about giving animals a personality. We do it all the time with our moody cats and and erratic dogs, what’s so wrong about admiring a feisty canada goose or a nervy grey squirrel? That’s genuinely what they are. Humans naturally communicate with one another both verbally and via emotional cues, so it makes sense that we’d imprint those same cues when trying to read animals. Adding a human quirk to your garden visitors won’t endanger them in any way. Your partner won’t get jealous if you go on about how beautiful the local robin is (hopefully). It’s not a crime, so you’re surely fine.

To contrast the feelings of the heart with that of the head, the opposition to this notion is that of distancing our wild world from society. The stock phrase that riles up biological science purists, that stems from Autumnwatch and its compatriots, is ‘cute’. This otherwise positively reinforcing phrase is arguably belittling and ranks certain animals alongside human babies and household pets. To grade a species as adorable is to discern respect and make it practically synthetic. By painting a picture of idyllic cuddly creatures living in harmony, you contradict all of the work of behavioural biologists. Millions of years of a species’ evolution, only to be compared to puppy or a doll. Our planet’s organisms are subject to scrupulous science, both for their and our own benefit. Studying them must be done within the bounds of professionalism, without delving into the dangerous waters of assumption. By anthropomorphising, it muddies the water between reality and fiction. Do birds sing for joy? Do young carnivores play fight for the vibes?

To quickly answer these potentially theoretical questions: Yes, and no. A study showed that some bird species have two types of song, a purposeful one and a rehearsal. This second type of song was found to produce opioids in the bird’s brain, a positively reinforcing chemical. Whereas play has widely been studied and linked to vital behavioural development in young animals. There isn’t enough evidence to suggest that such play results in ‘joy’, but it’s probably a stretch to label it as a fun activity.

The human race desperately wants everything on Earth to align with the same way of thinking. If we could talk to our cars and our houses, we would. The enigma of not being able to understand nature is beyond baffling, so adding relatable attributes is an evident coping mechanism. If we want to get philosophical, the two tribes at war likely disagree as to whether modern Homo sapiens are a part OF or APART FROM nature, which is a debate that has raged on for decades. It broadly depends on what flavour of anthropology that you’re into. Of course, more agricultural, industrial and exploitative brains want the great outdoors at arms length, whereas devout environmentalists strive to embrace and nurture it instead.

Is it immature to personify wildlife? A fair consensus is that younger outdoor explorers are susceptible to seeing animals in a fluffier and more characterful light, but this is hardly a negative. There’s not a single grown birdwatcher, ecologist or conservationist that was solely fed on a diet of Attenborough documentaries and journals. Bright colouring books, joyous animated films and interactive displays at zoos all help to spark a passion. Whilst leading children down the perceived slippery slope of anthropomorphism, it sets them off on their journey, filling a void that may have been consumed by another hobby. Without a sprinkling of poetic licence, wildlife wouldn’t be half as fun.

Shall we get to the point? The art of anthropomorphism gives the otherwise silent world of animal behaviour some tangible sound. It fosters a connection not too dissimilar with how we’re brought up to make friends. In the case of Autumnwatch, it’s attempting to present what is widely perceived to be a bland subject, whilst adding a bit of spice. The point of the series is to breakdown the barrier between the public and its surrounding wildlife. Call it crass or unethical but it’s trying to appeal with as wide an audience as possible. Strachan may put on a gushy front, but anyone who actually watches the show will know it’s also peppered with some insightful modern science. It isn’t all a flora and fauna love-in.

Should I anthropomorphise? My answer, do what you like. If you want to name your local badger, just don’t forget it’s a wild animal that mustn’t be interfered with. If you want to revel in the positivity of birdsong, don’t let any stiff-nosed know-it-all ruin that fun. Nature is of course something to analyse scientifically, but no one’s stopping your imagination run wild, if that’s what bonds your connection to it. It’s not a firm answer so… sorry if you wanted one!

(If you want to save Autumnwatch, I think there’s a petition. Up to you though.)

Garden Birds You Won’t See In Your Garden*

 *Huge caveats lie ahead.

Garden birds, by the very name, are simple to define as a group. Birds you generally find in a garden. Easy, right? With the RSPB’s big garden birdwatch on the horizon, it’s soon time to dust off the binoculars and give the patio doors a good scrub, ahead of an hour endlessly staring at sparrows. The greatest citizen science project on Earth is beloved by the nation and by all accounts, it’s largely due to the ease of it. No hides or hikes, a sofa will do. The most important part is the publics knowledge of garden birds, a common and colourful collective that’s evoked ornithological passions for generations. Forget pigeon-holing species by family, garden birds are grouped by simply the idea of being seen scampering on a lawn or hanging on a feeder, for example. Tea towels, posters, jigsaws; you name it. Everyone is unanimous in what a garden bird really is.

Hang on, are we though? Stalwarts such as blackbirds and starlings are undisputed but where is the border? The answer is, the line is grey and murky. So, to crack on, here is my definitive list of garden birds you’ll never see in your garden.

I hear you ask, if the definition is so broad, how can I even quantify this? Well, by combining every list of perceived garden birds that I can find, here are the clear outliers. The huge caveat, of course, is that it’s not impossible to see them, it’s just hugely unlikely. Capercaillies are obviously out but this is more an assessment of whether they can be a true garden friend, alongside robins and wrens. Ask yourself, is the garden the most obvious place to see this species, or is it better associated with somewhere else? Okay I promise, I’ll crack on now…

NUTHATCH

This may be my East Anglian bias but I don’t know a single British garden that regularly welcomes nuthatches. I admit, they’re far more populous up north but even then, they tend to be broad-leaf forest specialists. Unless you literally live in a treehouse, I’m not allowing these guys as certified gardeners. They belong in the woods, far from the cheesy gnomes and greenhouses. If you happen to have nuthatches frequent your feeders daily, feel free to fight me (or enlighten me).

BLACKCAP 

These guys are firmly branded as garden birds these days, why though? They’re WARBLERS. I simply refuse to allow a warbler to be considered a garden bird. BaCk In My DaY… they were an exotic summer migrant you’d spot in parks and woodlands. Now, thanks to our dear friend climate change clenching its grip, blackcaps stay in Britain all year round. Don’t ask me if I’ve ever seen one in my garden, that would undermine my point. Visitor to gardens, certainly. Resident of gardens? Too far.

BRAMBLING

An easy assumption to make, given most other finches are guaranteed garden ticks yet any birder will tell you that a wintertime visit from a brambling would warrant a gasp and a dance. A seed consumer like their cousins means they do sometimes pay a garden visit, however putting them on the same level as golds and chaffs is an over-exaggeration. If it could just as well be twitched, it has no place on the pedestal of garden birds. 0.4% of UK gardens recorded bramblings in the 2022 birdwatch, proving my point really. Far too niche.

TREECREEPER 

They’re small and brown so that basically makes them as valid as dunnocks. I’m using the same excuse as the nuthatch here but if you’re genuinely crediting a treecreeper as a garden bird, I need some tips. Yes, I’ve seen plenty of treecreepers in my time but only ever in dense wooded areas, never sneaking up a lawn-side ash tree. These timid trunk-scuttlers would never visit you if you have anything less than two trees in your garden, so basically, most of the population. They don’t eat mealworms or peanuts so they ain’t got no time for your food. Lifetime ban from garden bird accreditation.

GREY  WAGTAIL

I can’t wrap my head around this one. Do not be confused with pied wagtails, which just about make the cut given their widely accepted urban status. The greys, for me, are a far more obscure rural dweller, akin to bobbing along babbling streams. Our towns and cities just aren’t suited for these yellow-flanked bouncers and, despite having seen one from my garden, I’d count that as a rarity. They tick that box of being small and relatively common but I refuse to label them as ‘garden’ dwellers. You’d need quite the pond to entice them anyway, a simple bird bath won’t do.

SWIFT

Honestly, fight me. I’m well up for it. Come at me. Before you do though, hear me out. If we’re going by the rules of the BGBW, only birds that land in your garden can be recorded, no flyovers. Granted, no one will have ever seen a swift, given the survey is always in January, but at no point should one be counted. A swift isn’t ever seen in the close vicinity of a garden and no, a nest hole on your house wall doesn’t count. In defence of the swift, it would be rude to pin them down to gardens, they are the eternal wanderers of the sky! They go wherever they want, not just above our backyards. They’re better than garden birds, literally above them.

Well that’s my list cracked on with and whilst the full UK birdwatch list from 2022 also threw up some other weird outliers (grey partridges, barn owls and corn buntings?!), I think the above candidates meet the brief. Did I miss any in your opinion? Let me know!!!!

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!