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.

The Chronicles of an Amateur Wildlife Gardner: Volume II - One Year In

Happy January everyone! What a murky, miserable time to be alive but at least the days are getting longer. That is legitimately one of the only positives to say right now.

It’s almost impossible to believe that we moved into our house a whole calendar year ago and in that time, all four seasons have played out in dramatic fashion. I’ve seen it blanketed in snow, blossoming in spring and baking in a heatwave. I even had a fence panel come down during storm Arwen! I know, drama. Managing a garden for wildlife on my own for a year has been filled with intrigue and has allowed me to reflect on my expectations about it. I’ve been surprised by some things and my assumptions have only been reaffirmed by others. 

So what are some of the lessons I have learned since getting the garden?

1. You can’t stop cats

Full disclaimer, I love cats. Their independence and intelligence makes them an ideal pet. But when you all of a sudden have neighbours with cats, they basically become the most irritating and vile creatures on the face of the Earth. They can’t help being curious and wondering what pigeon tastes like. If you’re trying to build your own haven for wildlife, having moggies spill through daily scuppers any dreams. I’ve tried cat repellents that are about as useful as a toothless beaver. I’ve tried blocking entrances to the garden and they still find a way to sneak in. If you build a wall higher, they’ll just jump over it. I’m unintentionally putting on a buffet for them all and like a meteor hurtling towards Earth, I can’t do anything to stop it. I’ll keep trying to deter them but chasing them in my bright pink crocs has its limitations.

2. Mix it up

When catering for the birds in your backyard, it’s unfortunately trial and error. There’s no way for them to knock on the window and request their meal via a menu, so it’s annoyingly taken a lot of guesswork. I have tried almost every variety of food available with some hits and spectacular misses. Peanuts and fatballs have turned out to be massive failures whilst sunflower hearts and suet blocks have gone down a treat. I even quickly managed to lure goldfinches by putting out nyjer seeds, which was an unexpected plus. I’ve also realised that different foods are more popular at different times of the year. I only seemed to attract starlings in the spring so by the summer, the suet blocks sat gathering dust. My advice would be to not persist with food that just isn’t being eaten. There’s no point in letting it turn mouldy, revamp your menu to see what sticks. Birds can of course be incredibly fickle.

3. Be grateful for what you have

I’ve lived alongside two gardens in my lifetime. My current Essex garden in an urban backdrop and my childhood garden in rural Norfolk that attracted bullfinches, barn swallows and barn owls. The bar was unfortunately set very high. Imagine my buzz when I first had a woodpigeon visit the yard. I soon became overloaded with feral pigeons that gregariously dominated the bird table. Initially I was miffed that this was the only semblance of biodiversity out of my window but I soon realised that they were in fact the trailblazers. With a garden full of pigeons, other birds felt at ease knowing there were multiple sets of eyes on the watch for cats and other predators. Great tits, collared doves and starlings soon followed, comforted by a literal barrier of feathers. We can’t all have capercaillies coming round for tea so the best solution is to simply manage your expectations.

4. Get your neighbours involved

Living in a mid terrace has its difficulties and what has certainly been a hindrance for me is the isolation of my garden. The patch is simply an island surrounded by an ocean of trampolines and paddling pools. There’s a lack of thick vegetation that provides shelter and of course, there are enough cats to sink a battle ship. If you collaborate with your neighbour to plant a hedge or simply put food out for wildlife, it will surely expand your theoretical nature reserve. I haven’t tried to myself as I’ve obviously only recently moved in and I’m frightfully British but if you’re chummy with your next doors, get them to lend you a hand.

And finally:

5. Don’t put suet pellets on your lawn

They essentially melt, stick to your grass and leave an immovable stain that can’t be eaten by anything. Put them on your table to prevent any embarrassment. I learned this from a friend.

What do you love/hate about your garden? If you don’t have a garden, just go and get one. We have the same 24 hours in a day…

My Honest Thoughts on Clarkson’s Farm

Like marmite infused with soy sauce, he’s a man more people hate than love. Controversy follows him wherever he goes and there are few nations on Earth that haven’t been directly offended by something that’s come out of his mouth. The bottom line is, he is an entertainer. Clarkson may well be branded as a presenter but his schtick is clearly documentaries draped in comedy. His reputation from the days of ‘top of the gears’ mean that even if you despise the bloke, it’s sometimes difficult to completely ignore him.

To hear he’d sold out and made an entire documentary series about farming, I was hesitant. James May’s cooking show was irrelevant and Hammond made a survival show so forgettable, it basically got lost. As a resident of ‘Britain’s bread basket’, my East Anglian blood was weirdly drawn to this premise though. Knowing Clarkson, I expected this to be an ego-flailing, petrol heavy, environmental disaster. What was the reality? Well, here are my thoughts.

Spoilers, if you hadn’t realised already.

Genuine problems made for authentic viewing.

Anyone who has watched the car show, and who don’t look up when someone says gullible is written on the ceiling, will know that many of his elaborate capers are staged. It’s an entertainment product and at the end of the day, he’s not hurting anyone. Besides all the people he’s offended over the years. With Clarkson’s Farm, his elaborate tractor and random desire to buy a flock of sheep are clearly side gags with the artistic licence wand being waved. However, the real entertainment for me wasn’t the overly unnecessarily drawn out set pieces that caught the imagination, it was when life came at Clarkson real fast. The legitimately vile English weather was one of the main villains but no producer or director could have created clouds out of thin air. We all remember that damp autumn of 2019 followed by the scorching spring of lockdown in 2020. There was no fabricating the anguish of being in the hands of the gods and needing to simply wait. Likewise, I’m certain that when the series spawned two summers ago, a global pandemic wasn’t planned to serve as one of the main obstacles. Clarkson’s problems were real, rather than scripted and that for me gave it an undeniable sense of jeopardy.

The joy of an unreliable narrator.

The charm of Clarkson’s farm is that you’re not witnessing a fresh face in your TV screen. His reputation goes before him so you can preempt largely what his reactions would be. It’s his story told from his perspective but the blatant entertainment value is knowing that he’s rarely right. Cheerful Charlie is always portrayed as the burden of truth but his good cop to Clarkson’s bad cop only makes their dynamic more intriguing. Little old Caleb is made out to be merely a foetus but could probably name every blade of grass on Jeremy’s land. Clarkson’s approach to being the all knowing king surrounded by peasants just makes it all the more comical when his castle comes crumbling down around him. But let’s be clear, most of this is staging. Jeremy is an undoubtedly intelligent man and sometimes his hair-brained capers do seem stretched. It keeps the viewers eyes peeled but the light between caricature and reality is hazy. Still, the perspective of Clarkson arrogantly believing everything is under control is what makes such compelling viewing.

A frank approach to vegetarianism.

The Clarkson we know detests anything green, unless it’s a Jag. The very notion of veganism would send shivers down his spine. So imagine my surprise at a genuinely tear jerking moment at the abattoir. The man simply wanted to say one last farewell to three ewes he’d befriended but it was all too late. They were already gone. Tonally, this moment banged as it pulled right at the heartstrings. Macho Clarkson genuinely crestfallen by the slaughter of some sheep. All of a sudden, the motivation for vegetarianism could not be clearer. Ironically, and arguably controversially, eating his very own home made shepherds pie was the perfect way to round the episode. It struck home the unfortunate truth that farming can be unforgiving and it’s best to distance yourself from livestock rather than personify them. In a dark way, it was the circle of farming life dished up on a plate. For me, what this proved, is that vegetarianism is far from an alien concept and very much a personal choice. For a farmer at least, it’s a near enough impossible choice to make.

An unexpected aptitude for wilding.

Yes, he brands environmentalists as sweaty and hairy. Yes, he finds the biggest, most carbon emitting tractor he could get his hands on. Yes, he’s spent his career burning fossil fuels like there’s no tomorrow. But, the focus on benefitting biodiversity could not be stronger. Sure, it may have been a directorial decision to devote an entire episode about wilding, but Clarkson didn’t have to agree to it. He didn’t have to plant field margins and wildlife corridors. But he did. The very idea of Clarkson getting giddy over a baby barn owl absolutely boggled my mind. His understanding of the loss of insects and destruction of habitat is what naturalists and ecologists have been screaming for years. The very point of Springwatch this year was to highlight rewilding and eco-friendly agriculture, but not many heads were turned. The difference is that Clarkson is a star in his own right, with literally millions of followers. To quote that 97% of wildflower meadows have been lost, along with hundreds of thousands of miles of hedgerow since the war, it’s a sign he actually cares. He doesn’t just drag any old birder to his farm, he sought advice from none other than Roy Dennis, a living god of ornithology. This pick may have gone over many peoples heads but his cameo added that layer of credibility. Agriculturalisation is an unfortunate driver of biodiversity loss, but his contrast with Caleb, who’s mostly concerned about his loss of yield, is a perfect example of how difficult this all is for farmers. Alongside all the pragmatic and financial barriers, what it demonstrated to me was that it’s not as straightforward as just replacing wheat with woodland. The hope is that farmers watch this and at least appreciate the value of welcoming wildlife to their land.

Exposing the harsh realities.

Picture a farmer. Tweed jacket. Wellies. Flat cap. A collie named Jasper. A Range Rover with a private number plate. A shotgun cocked under one arm with some fresh eggs in the other hand. Sound about right? Farming is not something in the wider media so what actually goes on behind closed barn doors isn’t known broadly. The fact is that the mostly urban population of the UK don’t really care, as long as they get enough barley for beers and potatoes for chips. Rural life is the butt of many jokes and a universal perception is that they complain too much. Either too much or not enough rain, badgers are the spawn of Satan and milk is too cheap. What Clarkson’s Farm displayed is that farmers truly do have plenty oto bemoan. No scene demonstrated this better than when he was surveying his failed field of oilseed rape. Acres and acres decimated by a single parasitic insect. Can it be harvested; no. Can you get rid of the insect; no. Will money be lost; 100%. In what universe is that fair or logical? When you strip back the jolly idea of rural life and expose how much meticulous planning is required, along with how delicately reliant everything is on the elements, you grow to appreciate how much anguish farmers go through on every calendar month. The climax of the entire programme comes down to uncovering the profitability of it all. After outlining all the costs of equipment, the poor yields and taking into account a global pandemic, a profit of just over £100 isn’t shocking. Farming is either vilified or surrounded in fluffiness, as far as the public is concerned. To bring home the reality that it’s categorically unrewarding really does infuse empathy. As Jeremy admitted himself, he could only afford to stay afloat based on his existing media career. What about farmers that solely reliant on this as their income? The agricultural industry may well be environmentally troublesome but it’s a crucial contributor to our national economy and it’s an industry dying before our eyes. So yes, it’s not all quaint farm shops and quirky sheep.

In summary, very few people could have pulled off a series such as this.  He took a potentially bland subject matter and made it his own. He made cultivating look cool for crying out loud. He crafted a cast of colourful characters and created a series that was universally adored, even beyond the farming community. Did it make me want to go back into the old family business though, absolutely not!

The Bird That Made Me Question It All…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now what?

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

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

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

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

Adiooooos…