Wild Hares and Hummingbirds (9 page)

Not that the male is entirely blameless. He, too, hedges his bets, mating with as many females as he can find during this crucial period. Again, this maximises his chances of having the greatest possible number of chicks, and passing on his genes to future generations.

To guard against her infidelity, a male will follow his mate around as she feeds, to make sure she doesn’t hop over the fence and find another male. He also copulates with her constantly – as often as a hundred times a day – although each act lasts only a fraction of a second. More extraordinary still, before this brief act of lovemaking the male will peck at the female’s cloaca – the opening just beneath her tail – and remove any parcel of sperm left by a rival.

For our Victorian ancestors, such shenanigans would have seemed utterly bizarre. Not only did they believe that most birds were faithful to their partners, they even held up the dunnock as the epitome of modesty. The Reverend F. O. Morris, author of a very popular book on British birds, was especially assiduous in recommending that his
parishioners
should follow the dunnock’s example in their marital lives. If he knew what was going on in my garden, he would surely have changed his mind.

M
EANWHILE, THE WAITING
game continues. As the vernal equinox approaches, marking the date when the sun’s favours shift from the southern to the northern hemisphere, people all over Britain are expectantly awaiting a sign – any sign – that marks the arrival of spring. For some this is the sight of a bumblebee lumbering through the air; for others, the colourful wings of an early butterfly – a brimstone, peacock or small tortoiseshell – taking advantage of the first warm, sunny day of the year.

In our village, washed by winds from the Atlantic, we enjoy a milder climate than most of the country. So our bumblebees and butterflies sometimes emerge as early as the middle of February. But after a really hard winter they stay put for much longer; the bees curled up tight in their log-pile, the butterflies hidden away in the corner of one of the many sheds, barns and outhouses dotted around the parish. Warmth is the key to their appearance: as soon as the temperature rises, and the sun shines, they will emerge to feed. But for the real stars of the spring show, another factor is just as crucial: light.

In the brains of billions of birds wintering south of
the
equator, a chemical change is now being triggered – a change that will make them feel restless and uneasy. It was a German scientist who named this
Zugunruhe
. This can be translated as ‘migratory restlessness’: the impulse to travel vast distances across the surface of the earth, to reach their natal home.

So even now, as I listen to the resident chorus of tits and finches throughout the parish, many thousands of miles to the south a mass movement is just beginning. Even the phrase ‘mass movement’ seems inadequate, for this is the greatest natural phenomenon on earth. Not just tens or hundreds of millions, but
billions
of migratory birds are involved. Swallows and martins, chats and cuckoos, warblers and flycatchers, are all embarking on their epic journeys, heading back to the vast Eurasian land mass from their winter quarters in Africa.

Like some massive, unseen wave of energy, they pulse slowly across the surface of the globe towards us. With such vast numbers involved, it is easy to forget that each bird is an individual, undertaking an extraordinary journey; a journey many will fail to complete.

Predation, heat, cold, storms and sheer exhaustion are just a few of the ways a bird may meet its death while on migration: a falcon powering down out of the blue, sinking its talons into soft feathers and flesh; rain battering onto delicate wings, forcing the bird down into the sea; or simply a failure to get enough to eat, to replenish lost energy resources expended during this epic flight.

But for those birds that survive all the hazards the journey can throw at them, and do make it through, there is a prize at the end of the journey. They have won the chance to breed and raise a family, in the barns of the parish farms, under the eaves of the houses by the village hall, or in the tall ash tree at the bottom of our garden.

Now, in every village, town and city in Britain, far beyond our shores, throughout Europe and Asia, and across the Atlantic Ocean in North America, we await the return of the first migrant. It is this single, precious encounter between human and bird that will, for tens of millions of us, mark the exact moment when the cold, grim northern winter finally gives way to the warmth and joy of spring.

A
MONTH OR
so ago, that crucial chemical trigger went off in the brain of a small, sleek, swallow-like bird, as it swooped down to feed on insects beside an African waterhole. Soon afterwards, it left behind the elephants, zebras and other big game, and headed northwards.

By mid-March this little bird had passed over the jungles of Central Africa, flown across the Sahara Desert (stopping every now and then to grab precious fuel in the form of flying insects), and then crossed the Mediterranean Sea, eventually reaching the shores of
the
English Channel. Here it now waits, checking the skies for the right weather conditions to fly across this short stretch of water. Very soon, around the time of the spring equinox, it and its travelling companions will finally reach our shores, and the sanctuary of their summer home.

The bird is a sand martin: the smaller, browner relative of the more familiar swallow and house martin. Not much more than 4 inches long, and weighing barely half an ounce, the sand martin is among the first migrants to return each spring. Given that it feeds exclusively on flying insects, this has always seemed a bit of a mystery to me; but the key to the sand martin’s survival is that it lives and breeds near water, making its nest in holes in the sandy banks of rivers or gravel diggings.

As soon as sand martins arrive they make straight for lakes and reservoirs. Here they can replenish their energy levels, by feeding from dawn to dusk on the tiny aerial plankton which float unseen above the surface of the waves. And so I too have travelled a few miles to the north, to a vast, round bowl of water in the shadow of the Mendip Hills: Cheddar Reservoir.

The scene is remarkably spring-like, as families, accompanied by noisy children and even noisier dogs, wander around the perimeter while the sun glints off the surface of the water. The winter population of ducks, coots and other waterfowl has dropped from a few thousand at its peak to a few hundred now; though the usual
gaggle
of mallards remains, jostling to be the first to grab morsels of bread thrown from the bank.

And yet, despite the apparently perfect conditions, there are still no sand martins. Perhaps they have been held up by bad weather further south; or perhaps the skies are so clear that they have pressed on further north. I recall the last time I came here in March to see them, on a grey, blustery day, when several hundred of these sleek little birds were feeding low over the water.

D
AYS PASS, AND
still no spring migrants have arrived. Frustrated with waiting, I head out to Tealham Moor, a mile or so south-east of the parish. This is the finest wildlife site within easy reach of my home: a carefully managed patchwork of grassy meadows, flooded in winter and damp in summer. Intelligent planning has created a replica of how the whole of the Somerset Levels must have looked in our grandparents’ day.

A long, straight road runs east to west across the moor, rising only 2 or 3 feet above the surrounding fields. This extra height is crucial, for those fields are currently awash with a thin layer of water; in some places a foot deep. Using the car as a hide, I drive slowly along, stopping occasionally to scan with my binoculars.

The flat, silver surface of the water is broken by tight green clumps of rushes, not yet in flower; and little blades
of
spring grass, poking through to reach the sunlight above. This is ideal for a host of freshwater waders, including the glossy and extrovert lapwing. The air echoes with their early-spring calls, as they tumble across the sky in their elaborate courtship displays. One lapwing has a brief spat with a nearby redshank, another wader which has already begun to defend its watery territory here.

Among the lapwings and redshanks are a score of black-tailed godwits; tall, rangy wading birds, standing ankle-deep in the water. Some are asleep, heads tucked beneath their wings; others probe into the mud with their long, slightly upturned bills. They are accompanied by a pair of dunlins, and four golden plovers, one of which has already acquired his smart breeding dress of jet-black and spangled gold.

Most of the godwits are still in winter plumage, a muddy, greyish-brown shade. But a few are already beginning to moult into their splendid summer garb, suffusing their head, neck and back with a deep, rich shade of pinkish-orange. Black-tailed godwits do not breed here on Tealham Moor; indeed only a handful of pairs breed in Britain at all. These birds are heading back north to Iceland, where they nest on flower-filled meadows against a backdrop of glaciers, taking advantage of the long hours of summer daylight to raise their family.

At the back of the moor, in the deeper part of the water, several hundred wigeon are bobbing about in the water, dipping their heads down to nibble the sweet grass.
They
, too, are passing through on their way north; in their case, to Siberia. But still no true spring migrants – long-distance travellers from Africa.

Then, just as I am about to leave, I notice a small movement much closer to me. By the edge of the road, dwarfed by an accompanying swan, is a small, brown wading bird, sporting a notable black mask. A glance through my binoculars reveals a narrow yellow ring around its eye. Finally, after what seems like weeks of waiting, my first returning migrant of the year: a little ringed plover, newly arrived from the tropics of Africa.

Little ringed plovers have an iconic status among British birders, especially those of my generation. In the years after the Second World War, when the countryside was suffering so much destruction of habitat, this wader bucked the trend, colonising Britain from mainland Europe.

It did so, ironically, by taking advantage of progress. The millions of roads and homes built during the post-war economic boom required tons and tons of gravel; and this led to the digging of gravel pits, mainly around the London suburbs where I grew up. Little ringed plovers usually nest on bare riverbanks, scoured clean by winter floods, as this helps them to camouflage their eggs and chicks from predators. Gravel workings provided the perfect analogue to this natural habitat.

Soon after the little ringed plover’s arrival, in 1949, the naturalist and writer Kenneth Allsop published a
charming
novel about them,
Adventure Lit Their Star
. He was drawn to the birds precisely because they had chosen to breed not in some remote wilderness, but in what he memorably described as ‘the messy limbo that is neither town nor country’.

I grew up in that same ‘messy limbo’ of London’s suburbia, very close to where the little ringed plover began its conquest of Britain. As a result, I developed a strong attachment to this modest bird. So encountering this returning traveller today, almost within sight of my home, is both a surprise and a joy.