8
SPECIAL JOURNEYS
In which our author honours a remarkable woman, runs the gauntlet of tern attack, and succumbs to the heady lure of the twitch
It’s not going to turn up.
I’ve stood patiently for half an hour or so, staring at a stand of conifers in the middle distance, and the only activity to speak of was a dunnock scrabbling around on the path behind me. It looked at me with a defiant glint in its eye, as if to say, ‘It’s not going to turn up, you know’, and then pinged off into the gorse.
It’s not going to turn up.
Story of my life.
I haven’t been there long, by some people’s standards. A dedicated birder will think nothing of standing by a telescope for seven hours in gale-force winds, waiting for a Siberian accentor to show its face. My approach is generally to wander around a place and see what, if anything, is around.
But I’m in no hurry, the day is warm, and even without the bird it’s a pleasant spot. Besides, this would be a bonus sighting rather than the object of the whole visit. I was there anyway, and when they told me at the visitor centre that there was a hobby knocking about the place, and that it had been putting on a show, it seemed a sensible thing to hang about for a bit and see what happened. Warm sun, nice scenery. What more could one want?
One could want a hobby putting on a show. Just for a bit.
Perhaps I’ve been spoiled. Most of my encounters with this particularly thrilling bird of prey have caught them in show-off mode, flinging themselves acrobatically across the sky in pursuit of dragonflies, their ability to turn at speed and outmanoeuvre even the nimblest of prey breathtaking to behold. Roughly the size of a kestrel, but more angular, they’re a summer visitor from Africa, and very much worth the effort.
It would, in short, be nice to see one. At this stage I’d even settle for five minutes watching the bird doing absolutely nothing.
‘Absolutely nothing’ is a fair description of what goes on when birders gather together in anticipation of the appearance of a rarity. The pattern often goes something like this: rare bird appears in unlikely place, is seen by birder; word spreads, birders appear; bird decides it would rather skulk at the back of a hedge for the next three days, thanks very much; birders hang around anyway; bird shows its face for ten seconds, to cries of hoop-la and a barrage of shutter clicks.
There’s more to it than that, of course. The few such occasions I’ve attended have been uniformly friendly affairs, gatherings of like minds with a penchant for the outdoors and the unfashionable and underrated ability to while away a few hours doing nothing much.
I’ve deliberately avoided using the word ‘twitcher’, the layperson’s catch-all word for anyone interested in birds. A twitcher, specifically, means someone who travels – sometimes a very long way – in search of a rarity. This hobby isn’t a rarity as such – they’re common enough summer visitors from Africa – and the purpose of the journey, a short detour on a journey northwards, wasn’t to come and see it; but my hanging around waiting for it to appear puts this excursion firmly in the quasi-twitch category.
I’ve come to The Lodge, in Sandy in Bedfordshire, to pay homage to an institution that was a great part of my life during my formative years, and to the women who brought it into existence. In my youth, The Lodge was a place of almost mythic resonance. From there, every quarter, emerged a publication almost as eagerly anticipated as my fortnightly comics. Bird Life, the magazine of the Young Ornithologists’ Club.
I have a copy here, from January 1972. From it I learn that my annual subscription set me* back 60p, that YOC arm badges should not be laundered or dry-cleaned, and that I was not the winner of the ‘Name These Birds’ competition held in the previous quarter.
In the section ‘RSPB Reserve News’ I read that ‘the RSPB now owns over forty reserves’. Today that number is over two hundred, and the society’s membership has grown from a hundred thousand in 1972 to over 1.1 million. How far it has come in the intervening forty-eight years, and indeed since its formation in 1891.
The circumstances of that formation were unusual, the result of the meeting of two societies with complementary aims. The Fur, Fin and Feather Club’s monthly tea gatherings in Croydon were instigated in protest at the excessive use of feathers in fashion. Meanwhile, the Society for the Protection of Birds held similar meetings in the Manchester suburb of Didsbury. It might seem an unusual concern nowadays – and was regarded as ludicrous by the general public at the time, much as the idea of banning smoking in public places would have seemed ludicrous in the 1950s – but the plumage industry was massive business at the turn of the twentieth century, worth about £20 million (approximately £204 million today), and causing untold death and suffering to the birds whose lives and feathers were taken so that society ladies could outdo each other with ever more extravagant adornments. This wasn’t just a matter of picking the feathers up from the ground. The fashion reached such levels of lunacy in the 1890s that hats were commonly adorned with multiple corpses of whole birds. And even if only the plumage was required for the decoration, the birds had to die for the harvest to take place. In some cases, this mania had catastrophic effects on populations of individual species. The head feathers that give the great crested grebe its name, for example, are at their most resplendent during the breeding season, and demand for them had seen the bird driven close to extinction.
The common distinguishing feature of both organisations was that they were founded and run by women. The names of Etta Lemon, Eliza Phillips and Emily Williamson aren’t as familiar as they ought to be, considering that their bold campaigning was the catalyst for what has become the largest conservation charity in Europe. In both cases, the fledgling organisations had their roots in rejection by the male establishment. The clubs and societies that might have been fertile ground for the women’s ideas – the British Ornithologists’ Union, Linnean Society and so on – were exclusively for men, so the only course of action for serious female activists was to form their own clubs. And the tea party, for all its genteel image, was at the heart of much political activity at the end of the nineteenth century.
In order to prevent the two organisations treading on each other’s toes, a meeting was brokered by the RSPCA, an agreement was reached, and they were amalgamated, retaining the more formal name, the Society for the Protection of Birds. Royal charter was approved thirteen years later.
After the amalgamation, Emily Williamson stepped back from frontline activities, accepting the honorary role of vice president and involving herself more with local affairs as a social worker and secretary for the Didsbury branch of the RSPB. It was Phillips, and especially Lemon, who waded into the fray, campaigning and agitating and ruffling the feathers* of the male establishment.
By any standards, Etta Lemon was a force to be reckoned with. She was fuelled by a passionate love of wildlife, and especially birds, and refused to accept defeat. As a young woman she took note of all the plumage adornments worn at her local church in Blackheath and wrote personal letters to all the women responsible, admonishing them for their role in the barbaric slaughter of innocent birds. And as the activities of the (R)SPB moved into full swing and the organisation grew in size and influence, she developed a dual reputation, summed up by her two contrasting nicknames: ‘The Mother of the Birds’ and ‘The Dragon’. So fearsome was she that a director of the Natural History Museum once hid in a stairwell to avoid her wrath, and according to pioneering birder H. G. Alexander, ‘She knew exactly what she wanted the RSPB to do, and she usually got her way . . . There was no point in fighting Mrs Lemon. She would defeat you sooner or later.’
What she wanted the RSPB to do, in the early years, was enshrined in their constitution:* ‘Members shall discourage the wanton destruction of birds and interest themselves generally in their protection.’ It was an indication of the society’s sincerity that membership also carried an obligation to ‘refrain from wearing the feathers of any bird not killed for the purposes of food’ – it might also have helped that, in those very early years at least, it was almost exclusively an organisation for women. The growth of the society – from one thousand to ten thousand members in just two years – was down to skilful organisation. Fifty local secretaries had an obligation to recruit members, a task they carried out with great efficiency, no doubt galvanised by Lemon’s relentless cajoling.
Meanwhile Lemon herself defied the inevitable mockery that came her way, and lobbied the powerful with unyielding determination. Even though she had to give up her position as honorary secretary when the society received its royal charter in 1904 – women weren’t allowed to hold such positions – she remained the driving force behind its activities for many years. It was in no small measure down to her efforts that the Plumage Bill was introduced to parliament in 1908. It took fourteen years to pass, and even then it was something of a hollow victory. While the importing of exotic plumage became illegal, it remained legal to sell and wear it. As she wrote in the society’s annual report for 1921, ‘It is impossible to say that the Act is a wholly satisfactory one.’
But these battles are slowly won. By now, the issue of avian welfare was entrenched in the public’s consciousness, and even though Lemon’s time at the RSPB came to an unhappy end in the 1930s – victim of a campaign led by young men who felt that the society needed a change of approach – she could point with justification to a lifetime’s hard work championing the rights of birds, and the establishment of a national institution.
The aims and activities of the RSPB have come a long way since its formation, but at its heart remains an honourable ideal, and for all the inevitable faults of any organisation that has become far larger than its founders could have imagined, its contribution to the welfare of birds can’t be denied.
Nowadays, the RSPB provides many people’s introduction to nature in general, and birds in particular.* Unlike the Wildfowl and Wetlands Trust, there is no captive element on the RSPB’s reserves – all the birds are there by choice, and they can come and go as they please. They mostly come, often in abundance.
A lot of the RSPB’s members are content with passive membership – happy to ‘do their bit’ by joining, but limiting their activities to the annual Big Garden Birdwatch and buying the occasional blue-tit mug from the online shop. They never actually get round to visiting a reserve.
But if you do visit, you’re in safe hands. If the size of the RSPB inevitably means it’s unable to please everybody – Etta Lemon would be unsurprised to see that wildlife conservation remains a highly politicised area – that’s not an accusation you can level at the blue-polo-shirted volunteers at their reserves, who for many people are the first and only human contact they have with the organisation.
They are cheery; they are helpful; they are informative. They will tell you where the black redstart was seen, which trail to follow if you want to catch a glimpse of the cattle egret, and the precise spot where you’re most likely to see the hobby doing, or in this case not doing, its thing.
Just as I’ve decided to leave, I’m joined by two people, a man and a woman. He has salt-and-pepper hair, a dapper appearance, and a solicitous manner; she is frail, stooped, holding his arm with one gnarled hand. Mother and son, at a guess. We are some way from the visitor centre – quite a walk for her on uneven ground. But she gives the impression of one who gets there in the end. I wish I had better news for them.
‘Any sign?’
On occasions like this there is no need to be more specific.
‘Sorry, no. It should be over there somewhere.’ I gesture vaguely towards the conifers. ‘But it seems pretty quiet all round.’
‘Pretty quiet all round’ is birding code for ‘there’s fuck all’.
There’s nowhere for the woman to sit, but she’s obviously made of stern stuff, and they settle in alongside me, scanning the trees. She has a small pair of binoculars looped round her wrist, the left lens mended with tape.
Minutes pass. It is a pleasant enough scene. Calming, restful. There is a tacit agreement between us that small talk is not required. Nothing happens, but it does it in an entirely benevolent way. A red admiral butterfly flits across above the expanse of scrub and gorse in front of us. I wonder vaguely whether, if you traced its path, it would reveal a secret message: ‘HOBBYS NOT COMIN M8.’
After about twenty minutes, she turns to him. A sturdy voice, at odds with the frailty of her body.
‘Shall we go back? I’m seizing up.’ She gives me a look of sharp intelligence above her glasses, one eyebrow raised. ‘Birds.’
We exchange farewells, briefly bonded in friendly failure, and they shuffle off round the corner, back the way they came, understandably taking the shortest route back to the car park.
I check the time. I should make a move as well. Perhaps I’ll complete the longer loop, taking in some bits of woodland and views across the heath.
I hear footsteps behind me.
‘Excuse me?’
I turn. It’s the man. Fast now, still dapper, slightly breathless.
‘It’s turned up.’ He makes a vague gesture behind him. ‘Just seen it catch a dragonfly.’
I’m strangely touched by this small gesture, a moment of solidarity towards a complete stranger. He could have stayed there, watching the hobby. But he didn’t, and I thank him for it rather more effusively than he seems to think necessary as we walk back round the corner.
The path opens out, and to the left there is a clearing. I walked past this spot forty-five minutes earlier. There wasn’t a hobby here then, and there isn’t one now. Just the old woman, with a wry and wicked glint in her eye. She speaks loudly and clearly.
Birds.
Hundreds of guillemots and razorbills stand on the cliffs, each one holding on to a tiny nesting spot against stiff competition. On the water, hundreds more, bobbing benignly in loose rafts. A guillemot launches itself off the cliff, plops onto the water and propels itself across the surface with frenetic scrabblings of its little wings. Like all members of the auk family, they’re excellent divers, but not so good in the air, their wings evolved more for flipper-like underwater manoeuvrings than aerodynamic efficiency. As a result, everything about their flight screams, ‘Ohgodohgodohgodohgod I’m going to crash please don’t let me crash.’
And then there are the puffins, for many people the main feature. They are undeniably attractive, peeking out from their burrows, hopping up onto a rock, apparently showing off to the crowds. Our anthropomorphic nature is drawn to their quirky appearance. It’s not just the distinctive kaleidoscopic bill – there’s something in their facial expression that appeals to us, a clownlike, happy-sad demeanour that is entirely a figment of our imagination. Yes, their appearance catches the eye, but they’re not as special as we like to think they are. If I had to pick just one species from the abundance of breeding birds on these islands, I’d choose the shag, that diminutive bottle-green cormorant, with its perky crest, steep forehead, hooked beak and hint of the prehistoric.
All these and more can be found on the Farne Islands, off the Northumberland coast, a favourite venue for anyone wanting an intimate encounter with wildlife. You get closer to the birds there than you would at any zoo, and even before the boat lands at our first stop, Staple Island, we’re treated to a display of seabird activity that would count as a highlight of most trips.
‘We’, on this occasion, are a boatload of about thirty people. Casting my eye around my fellow passengers as we leave the harbour at Seahouses, I’m struck – not for the first time – by certain similarities. We are mostly adults, mostly men, mostly photographers. All white.
The imbalance in the demographic of nature-lovers is deeply entrenched, and while it is to some extent being addressed and corrected – not least by tireless campaigning by a few bold and committed individuals – it sometimes feels as if progress is glacial. The stereotypical image of a birder – middle-aged white male in some sort of camouflage gear, probably bearded, definitely nerdy* – might have been based on reality once upon a time, but even if it no longer completely pertains, there are strong elements of that type still in circulation. And they can, even if unintentionally, exude an intimidating vibe.†
I speak from experience, albeit of the mildest kind. When I started birding a few years ago, I felt nervous about going into hides occupied by other people. Somewhat irrationally, I felt I wasn’t qualified to be in there, that I needed to know more before being admitted to the club. As I gained confidence, I realised that these inhibitions were entirely of my own creation, but if I, with all my privilege, can feel nervous, I can only imagine the levels of intimidation felt by people who spend their lives feeling excluded, for whatever reason. And for all the people I see on my visits to these places, I think of all the others who aren’t there but might be, and wonder what it is that stops them from visiting.
These barriers – real and imagined – are like blueberry stains on a white shirt: absolute hell to shift. So, for all that I have seen more diversity in my journey round the country than I would have seen even five years ago, the evidence is copious that people who don’t fit into certain categories feel excluded from an appreciation of nature.
There are all sorts of reasons for this, beyond the scope of this book. Perhaps they’re just not interested; perhaps they don’t feel it’s ‘for them’; perhaps they do feel it’s for them, but are bullied by peergroup pressure into thinking it’s uncool – it takes bravery to defy that kind of thing; perhaps there is indeed a conspiracy, however tacit, to exclude people who don’t somehow ‘belong’. Whatever the reasons, it needs changing. This stuff – what we call nature – should be for everybody. But it isn’t. Not really. Not while these unconscious biases abide.
Right, where was I? Oh yes, shags.
While shags would be my bird of choice, there’s no denying that the lure of the puffin with sand eels in its mouth is strong. And the desire to get the perfect shot can lead to behaviour more suited to Boxing Day sales than a nature reserve.
We’re patient enough getting off the boat at Staple Island. The British instinct for ‘no no after you’ holds firm. But give a wildlife photographer a sniff of a puffin and the veneer wears thinner. There’s no outright rudeness – courtesy is maintained at all times – but there’s an intent look about them, a firmness to their resolve. They will take superb photos; I will look to spend my time communing with seabirds instead.
It doesn’t take long to walk round Staple Island, but progress is slow, not just because you have to take care not to come a cropper on the uneven rocks, but also because you might trip over an eider duck. It sits stolidly on its nest, watching the steady flow of human traffic passing by within a couple of feet, but not budging an inch. These encounters are common, and it’s striking how many birds are apparently unconcerned by the proximity of the human visitors. A shag sits on its nest, staring defiantly at the loose throng of people who stand behind the rope watching it; a razorbill shifts its position, revealing a single speckled egg, stretches, flaps its wings, settles again; two black-headed gull chicks, salt-and-pepper fluff, make a tentative foray from the confines of the nest, watched over by a concerned parent. There’s a great black-backed gull a few yards away. It will have them on toast given half a chance.
There’s no need for binoculars to study all this – the birds are within touching distance. And the humans mill around like visitors to an art gallery, looking, assessing, moving on.
While the proximity of thousands of birds brings a thrill to the heart and a whiff of ammonia to the nostrils, the activity on Staple Island is gentle compared to the frenzied attack of the Arctic terns that greets us when we land at our second stop, Inner Farne.
There’s one on the path ahead of me as I trudge up from the harbour, and it is, to say the least, a noisy bugger. For the moment it restricts its protests to noisy squawks from its nest on the ground, but up ahead its colleagues are more active in their defence. They fly up, angular and aggressive, shrieking, flapping, doing everything they can to repel the intruders. Some are in your face like an argumentative drunk; some opt for diving and swooping attacks, more bluster than action, and some give you a sharp peck on the head for your troubles before turning their attention to the next in line. Protective headwear is recommended.
Just a normal spring day on Inner Farne.
I’m inclined to side with the terns. All they want is to nest in peace – they’ve come a long way, after all. Their migration is the longest of any bird. One individual, fitted with a tiny geolocator that used light levels to calculate latitude and longitude, left the Farne Islands on 25 July 2015, skirted France, Spain and western Africa, rounded the Cape of Good Hope, then spent time in various staging areas in the Southern Ocean before returning to the Farnes on 4 May 2016. Its total journey, in search of perpetual summer, was nearly 60,000 miles. Over a lifetime of fifteen to twenty years that adds up to about a million miles, give or take. Fly me to the moon four times, O Arctic tern.
There’s one path from the landing stage up to the information centre, then a circular walk round the island. None of it takes long, but it’s easy to be distracted by the terns. They nest everywhere: on the path, by the path, in the courtyard, in the entrance to the chapel. And they spend most of their time warding off potential predators. Even though the National Trust restricts the times when tourists are allowed to visit the island, this adds up to a lot of energy expended that might usefully be saved by nesting somewhere else, away from human interruption. I’m enthralled by the closeness of these birds. But I’m also uneasy. This is nature tourism at its peak. The birds do well here, but I can’t help wondering if they’d do even better if we left them entirely alone. I put it to one of the volunteers.
‘Yeah, it does seem odd, doesn’t it? But it turns out that they use us as protection. Their natural predators, the bigger gulls, don’t come near this area because of all the people, so these birds nesting here actually have a higher breeding success rate than the ones on the beach.’
Well I never.
Misgivings aside, the experience is undoubtedly thrilling. The combination of sheer abundance and close contact overwhelms the senses. And much as I appreciate the purity of observing the ebb and flow of the year’s rhythms on my local patch, from time to time you yearn for something different. Allowing nature to come to you is all very well, but for some spectacles you need to travel. The day I see hundreds of Arctic terns sitting in my back garden in West Norwood will be a very strange day indeed.
The experience is made all the more extraordinary for the knowledge that these are truly wild birds apparently willing to live, for a short season at least, in close proximity to us. And if I find the existence of zoos acceptable, surely I can approve of this place, where people can have an intimate nature experience?
As I walk round, enjoying the views back to the mainland and the constant hive of activity around me, I become aware of two people whose nature experience isn’t panning out quite as they’d hoped.
They are, I assume, a father and daughter. He’s tall and slim, and to my eyes far too young to have what appears to be an eight-year-old daughter. What they’re trying to do is get past an Arctic tern’s nest on the path in front of them. The tern is having none of it, coming at the father with persistent fury. His reaction, possibly exacerbated by his lack of protective headgear, is not notable for its calmness. He flaps, he hollers, he makes a palaver omelette. Behind him, the daughter, likewise unbehatted, cowers. Her fear is understandable. The bird is intimidating, and the father makes no attempt to reassure her or help her in any way. And to be fair, this is one of the more aggressive birds we’ve come across.
But I’m not inclined to be fair. It’s not as if we weren’t warned. You can’t come to the Farne Islands without being made aware of what these birds do. From the National Trust’s website to the safety announcement on the boat, it’s impossible to avoid the message: wear a hat.
But people don’t read stuff. It’s a simple fact of life.
The father makes it past the danger zone, then turns and commands his daughter to come on poppet we’ve got to catch the boat.
I mean, honestly.
I’m overcome by an overwhelming urge to interfere, my irritation surging up and nearly taking control. I want to say to the girl, ‘Don’t worry about the bird, it really isn’t going to hurt you. Be brave, walk slowly and calmly, and you’ll be fine. Oh, and don’t listen to your father – he’s an idiot.’
But wisdom prevails, and I hush my mouth. And at that moment, a photographer barges past with a muttered ‘Give me a break’, diverting the Arctic tern, which flurries round him for a few seconds, giving the girl her chance. She plucks up courage, makes a dash for it, and evades the attention of the tern, scurrying off to join her father. The tern throws in the towel and turns its attentions towards me. As a reward for my curmudgeonliness I get a sharp peck on the head that, even through my hat, draws blood.
Sometimes, karma works very quickly indeed.
*
The question comes out of the blue – my internal monologue, insistent like a child.
‘What exactly are you doing here?’
‘You know the answer to that. I’ve come to see the thing.’
‘Yeah, but why exactly?’
God give me strength.
‘It’s . . .’ I don’t want to say ‘rare’. ‘Different.’
‘So were the seals. And you didn’t spend two hours on the riverbank waiting for them to appear. They were just there.’
‘This is . . . different different.’
The appearance of the internal doubting voice isn’t a surprise, in truth. I’ve consciously wondered what I’m doing there. An innocent morning’s birding has turned into what I can only describe as a twitch. And I’m not even looking for a bird.
The scheduled part of the morning has gone well. Up betimes, heading to north Kent and the RSPB reserve at Cliffe Pools. It’s a regular haunt, easily and quickly accessible from home, especially if you get up early enough to beat the traffic. On this occasion I’ve had the extra incentive of a harvest moon. I’ve watched day break from the viewpoint they call the Pinnacle, the heavy moon hanging large over the lagoons and pools and the Thames estuary beyond. Then a leisurely walk around the lagoons to the sea wall. Avocets, godwits, a bonus kingfisher. Birds, birds, birds. Lovely stuff, enhanced by the complete absence of humans and the general pleasantness of the surroundings.
From the sea wall I look across the Thames, finally picking out a dozen seals hanging around on the opposite shore. And then the idle thought at the back of my mind coalesces into action.
It was first seen the day before. I read the reports, noted that it was a couple of miles from my planned excursion, logged the information for possible use.
And then someone saw it again and curiosity got the better of me.
Beluga whales don’t usually hang out in the Thames. It should be in the Arctic. That’s quite a detour. But accidents happen, and now instead of socialising with its friends in the waters around Svalbard it’s found itself outside Gravesend. Quite the comedown.
The decision once made, finding out where to go is simplicity itself, thanks to the active online network that shares news of unusual sightings.
I drive, park, walk, assuming that somewhere along the banks of the river there will be a gaggle of twitchers, optical equipment pointed towards the murky waters.
As ordered.
I come across a man, his face as long as the massive telephoto lens on his camera. Ten yards down the path, a group of four. And about twenty yards further down, a disconsolate looking pair of middle-aged men with binoculars.
I might have come to the right place.
I stop by Massive Lens Guy.
‘Anything?’
‘Nah.’
‘It has been seen today, though?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Thanks.’
He’s not unfriendly. Just bored. There’s something about his demeanour that speaks of an unwillingness to be here, which makes me wonder why he is, in fact, here. I try my luck.
‘You a whale watcher in general?’
He lights a cigarette and throws me a disdainful look.
‘Photographer. Paper says go, I go.’
‘Ah. I see.’ And I do. The whale was first seen late the previous afternoon by a sharp-eyed birder. Word spreads quickly, and soon enough news outlets had picked up on it. A beluga in the Thames is unusual enough to be newsworthy. Photographs and video footage, for a while at least, have currency.
After a couple of minutes he throws his cigarette away and seems to decide to give me the benefit of the doubt.
‘How about you? Whale watcher?’
‘Birder.’
An upward nod, soft grunt.
‘Come far?’
‘I was kind of in the area anyway, just down the road.’
Another nod. Then he holds his hand out.
‘Steve.’
‘Lev.’
It feels somehow old-fashioned.
It’s a nice enough morning, without being spectacular. Thin high cloud stops the sun from working its magic, and the Thames looks an unappealing prospect, brown and murky. It’s warm enough to be able to hang around without ossifying, but not balmy.
Time passes. The beluga stays resolutely out of sight.
‘Course, it might not appear this side.’ He gestures across the river, about a kilometre away. ‘Might choose to go Essex side.’
I raise my binoculars. There’s a similar-sized gaggle of people on the far bank.
‘Is that where it was yesterday?’
‘Nah. It was this side. We’re OK.’
More time passes. The surface of the Thames remains untroubled by cetaceans.
A cyclist, lean and Lycra-clad, trundles towards us.
‘You looking for the beluga?’
We nod. He points to where he’s just come from.
‘Up there, about two hundred yards. Been doing its thing for half an hour now.’
I blame myself. I’d seen Steve and assumed he knew this was the best spot. Rule One: never assume anything. The other guy doesn’t always know best. I’ve had some of my best sightings by looking in the opposite direction to the one chosen by the serried ranks of telescopes.
We walk along the river, and sure enough, there’s another group of six people lined up on the bank. We join them and wait.
It doesn’t take long. And naturally I miss it. All I hear is the chattering of camera shutters. Tchrrrrrrrrrtch. And by the time I’ve looked, it’s gone. But I don’t have long to wait. I scan the area, unblinking. After a few seconds, the murky water is breached again. The merest glimpse. A milky parcel, rolling through the water, and then gone. There are two more sightings, frustrating in their brevity, and then it goes quiet, and we’re left looking at the murky water and wondering when it will appear again.
Behind us, meadow pipits, dunnocks, starlings and goldfinches provide an everyday display of brilliance, if only we could be bothered to turn round. But we are, temporarily at least, immune to the seemingly mundane.
Overhead, the drone of a helicopter disrupts the peace of the morning. And now a boat appears, two figures at the front, long lenses clearly visible from where we’re standing.
Slow news day.
The boat’s proximity to where the whale was last seen causes agitation in the ranks of the twitchers.
‘That’s too close! Too sodding close!’
‘Idiots.’
Steve smiles quietly.
‘It’s OK for some, isn’t it?’
‘Know them, do you?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘What paper?’
He tells me. I’m not surprised. The sun chooses this moment to appear from behind a cloud.
‘To be fair, they’re just doing their job. I’d do the same. I wouldn’t like it, but I’d do it. Work is work.’
‘They’re not overly concerned with the welfare of the whale, then?’
He flicks me an amused look.
‘Nah, they couldn’t give a shit.’
Somehow the message gets through to the boat that its presence is frowned on, and it moves upstream. But its work is done. The whale might be hunkered down a little lower in the water, waiting for the fuss to die down; it might be making its way by stealth towards the Essex side; it might have found its bearings and started the long journey back to the Arctic.
I stick around for a bit, but soon the sun goes in and there’s a hint of drizzle in the air. I’m done. I’ve seen it, ticked it off.
I’m simultaneously moved and underwhelmed by the experience, and not quite sure whether I feel better for it. On the one hand, it was just a fleeting glimpse of a pale white tube breaching the surface of the water; on the other, it was an insight into the life of an alien being, prompting thoughts of vulnerability and strength and perseverance, but undercut with the knowledge that in ideal circumstances I wouldn’t have seen it at all.
And I can’t shift the memory of the shameless, nameless photographers on the boat. The contrast between their lack of regard for the beluga’s welfare and Etta Lemon’s utter dedication to the idea that nature requires and deserves our help couldn’t be starker. And the realisation that ‘couldn’t give a shit’ sums up many people’s attitude towards nature – more than I care to think about – is profoundly depressing.
But then the memory of a forgotten moment, triggered by the vulnerable cetacean I’ve just seen briefly in the murky waters of the Thames, surges up. A moment on the journey back from the Farne Islands, when the surface of the water fifty yards away was breached by one, two, three dorsal fins, and someone shouted, ‘Dolphins!’, and everyone turned and looked, and there they were, five of them now, a pod of bottlenose dolphins, their progress fast and clean, their rhythm and flow somehow expressing a freedom to which we all aspire.
Dolphins are like that. We see them moving through the water, picture their smiling faces, and we get all anthropomorphic, imagining them carefree and joyous, the embodiment of the glories of nature. And as I watched, suddenly smiling, a man next to me helped his small son stand up on the seat, gave him his binoculars, and held him steady while he watched with an expression of breathless excitement and wonder.
A moment to give you hope, to remind you that in the vast gulf between the two extremes of engagement there is more good than ill, that if you chip away, show enough people the magic of a dolphin or a hobby or even the dunnock on the path, the tide will, against all the odds, make a turn for the better.
* OK, my parents.
* I am so, so sorry.
* Drawn up by Etta’s barrister husband Frank.
* The WWT does as well, and it would be remiss not to mention the many local wildlife trusts around the country doing exceptional work behind the scenes.
* Yes, hello. That’s me. In part, at least – I can’t grow a beard and camouflage gear turns me off. But at least three and a half of the other four designations apply. Sorry.
† There are a very few who do it intentionally. Needless to say, they are beneath my contempt.