For Ma, Da and Neil.
Thanks also to Mark for all his help
on my Wicklow journeys.
INTRODUCTION
A Nation and its Birds
By retaining one’s childhood love of such things as trees, rivers, butterflies … one makes a peaceful and decent future a little more probable
— George Orwell
Above, the pale March sky is flecked with clouds. Beneath the bridge I stand on, the aqua green water of the Leitrim River glistens. Gorse bushes coming into bloom spring from its banks. They add a rich yellow to the scene. The scent of the gorse, like coconut, lingers on the breeze. I expect a jogger to come pounding across the rusty iron bridge at any second. But if only for a moment, there’s not a soul to be seen.
During blissful vignettes like this, I like to close my eyes, and sink into the other senses. As I do so, the colourful palette before me wipes to crimson, and I let my mind drift to the sounds of the scene. I unplug my headphones, and flick my phone to silent. A faint rustle of the breeze resonates. From the nearby coast, the cry of a herring gull echoes. Much closer, a stonechat – they’re never far from gorse – gives off its distinctive weet-chat, like a whistle followed by two stones being smacked together. Were it not for the distant purr of a helicopter, there’d be no man-made noise whatsoever. I could be in an Ireland before (or after) man, instead of just ten minutes from my front door. Total immersion in nature.
It’s one of my favourite things to do with my spare time. In an age of constant beeps, by-the-minute updates, and a never-ending cavalcade of scandals and developments we have to stay abreast of, remaining attuned with nature, with organic sights and sounds, is a vital tonic for the soul. Many a stressful day or week, stuck in front of a computer or in a stuffy meeting room, has been salvaged or soothed by scenes like this. What makes it all the better is the company of creatures, great and small, adding dashes of movement to the portrait around me.
Of particular interest to me are the birds. I’ve been fascinated by birds since I was a child, when I crafted all manner of feeding contraptions from cardboard to tempt them to our back garden. Over time, my kit has grown more sophisticated, and my horizons have broadened beyond backyard visitors (not that they should ever be overlooked). When I’m at my desk, I often find myself yearning to be at an estuary or up a hill somewhere, looking for birds. They give you an excuse to get outdoors. I find myself poring through reports of the latest sightings, turning over logistics in my mind: where I’m going, how to get there, and what I hope to see when I arrive.
And yet, through all my excursions to wetlands, woods and cliffs near and far, there are still Irish species that have eluded me. Among them are the birds I will be covering in these pages; twelve species, each special in their own way. They include top predators of day and night; migrants who cross continents to be here; sea-going pirates; underhanded nest parasites; songsters of the high mountains; and ingenious forest dwellers – all of them beautifully adapted to vastly different lifestyles. In so doing, some of them have earned their way into Irish lore, a note in a rich ballad whose music I’ll strive to unwind.
I like to think it’s no surprise they’ve eluded me for so long. The twelve birds I will focus my search on for this book are not the easiest to see. Most of them are shy and wary. Some are highly localised; some need very specific conditions in which to flourish, conditions now found in only a few protected pockets across Ireland. Some are endangered – and still declining. And with some, it’s just a matter of being in the right place at the right time.
Places. This will be a book about birds. But it will also be a book about places. Now, when we can travel the world with ease, the treasures on our own backdoor can so often be taken for granted.
I’m proof of this. I’ve been to more than a dozen countries across three continents. And yet I’ve never wound my way through the scree-covered mountains of Kerry, seen the Connemara countryside in all its summer glory or hiked the barren islands of Donegal. This book is my attempt to rectify that, to get to know my country, its landscapes, its history and its birds that little bit better. With luck I can inspire you to explore and savour the wild spaces around you as well.
It’s not just new places I’ll be striving to see. Of equal import will be seeing old locations, scenes from a childhood long gone, and what creatures my eyes and ears (that bit more attuned to nature) can now discern there. For the beauty of birding is that you don’t always have to go far to find wonders. Species you’ve never seen before can suddenly turn up in your own county, your own town, your own patch. Or maybe they were there all along, evading your detection.
Modernity suits some birds, but not others. Many of the birds that will be covered in this book have made their homes in areas people have barely touched – remote islands, rugged valleys and slopes. Others still find their shelter amid the desolation left by humans in retreat (abandoned farm buildings and weather-beaten outhouses so often make ideal nest sites) or in the few places where traditional lifestyles still hold sway. It’s also, therefore, no surprise that some of the locations I’ll have to travel to (with a few notable exceptions, such as Dublin’s Phoenix Park) are about as far from the major population centres as it’s possible to be in Ireland. It’s a journey that will take me to all four provinces, across barriers of language, culture and history, and through virtually every habitat type this island has to offer.
Places are a reflection of their history, much as you are the person your experiences have moulded you into. This is something I’ve always loved about Ireland, and about being Irish. With few exceptions, it’s hard not to get a feel for history everywhere you go. In some places, it seems to hang in the air around you. So it’s instructive to me to see how these birds fit in amongst all this, their thread weaving through the rich tapestry that makes up our changing landscapes. Their fate is so often reflected in the human history of the regions they call home.
I’m not naïve enough to think that showing up in the right spot at the right time entitles me to tick every bird off this list. Birdwatching is rarely an exact science. You can traverse the country to show up at the right spot in the right season, only for your quarry to manifest back where you started from. Nature rarely conforms to the vanities of man. That’s one of its great allures. Plenty of times I’ve found myself wondering why I left a warm bed on a cold winter’s morning to go exploring a windswept wetland or forest pelted with rain. But, if you’re treated to a glimpse of a new or elusive species, however brief, you forget any hardship that led you to it.
One thing I’ve learned from my birdwatching sojourns near and far is that birds are vessels for a kind of lasting happiness that can be hard to find in other avenues of life. Nights out are great fun in the moment, but the memories soon fade with sobriety. The joy of immersing yourself in nature, of finding a new or rare bird, never leaves you. You can still recall every sensation months or years later.
Birdwatching harkens back to the primal state of man: stalking prey, zeroing in on a distant target, trying to get close without inciting alarm. It is perhaps this ancestral desire to track and discover that makes it so compelling. Only now, the hunt doesn’t end in blood. An appreciation of the bird in its environs is reward enough, a photo perhaps the only trophy.
In searching for birds rarer now than they once were, perhaps there is some way to arrest the ancestral disconnect that so plagues us in a world obsessed with the here and now. In the croak of the corncrake or the shriek of the barn owl, I’ll be hearing sounds much more common generations ago;
