Ireland Through Birds. Conor W. O'Brien

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Ireland Through Birds - Conor W. O'Brien

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The beating wind, with no features natural or man-made to impede it, makes it difficult for birds to make any headway. Most cling to the ground, hidden amongst the thorns. Beyond the briars, the mouth of the river is whipped into a swell. Winter still holds the bay in a merciless embrace, like talons, borne in of an eastern breeze, grasping at the exposed belly that is where Dundalk meets the sea.

      But the battle of the seasons is a precarious one. By late morning, as I approach the spot where my sojourn began, the expanse of the Castletown River is bathed in sunlight. The breeze eases. If only for a moment, it feels like winter is in retreat, and has surrendered the town around me to the spring. In its wake, winter soldiers are left stranded on the muddy banks of the river: ruffs, in pairs, patrol the shallows, scalloped feathers unassuming, not yet succumbing to the aristocratic beauty they will soon assume. More stately are the godwits, long bills buried beneath the water’s surface, that sewing machine motion as they pry a steadfast worm from its burrow. And, among them, something special.

      Amidst the redshanks dotted across the riverbank, I notice one, paler and thinner than the others, pirouetting in the water, like a dog chasing its tail. A darker stripe through the eye, and a bicoloured bill narrowing to a droop (think a drop of blood pooling at the end of a syringe) clinches the ID: a spotted redshank, a rare winter visitor, and another bird with a penchant for Dundalk and its surrounds. It’s a good find – some would say better than a merlin. Spinning about in the water on legs that seem almost too thin for its body, the bird pitches forwards mid-circuit, as if its head is suddenly too heavy to hold up. From the footpath I watch this ensemble of waders, the rare mingling with the common, none of them nervous about my presence. With birdwatching, you sometimes don’t always get what you want. But often, you get so much more.

      My quarry has eluded me. But the search must go on. High-concept wildlife documentaries require months or years of toil, with untold near misses. Finding my merlin won’t be so arduous. On a wetland not so far flung, or a mountainside bog in spring, it’s waiting on its plucking post.

      The sun creeping higher over Dundalk starts to warm my cheeks. Spring is on the march. Soon the ruffs and the godwits and the spotted redshanks will all be gone, an army of winter lodgers departing for the far north. But in their wake will come other visitors to fill the void.

      A feast of spring and summer birding awaits.

      GOOSANDER

      Glendalough

Goosander

      It begins on the path. The sunlight of a March morning cuts through the lobed leaves of the oak canopy. Steam flows from every breath; scarves wrapped tight against the cold. A trickle of muddy water flanks the path on one side, overhung by mossy boulders. On the other, the land angles down towards the valley floor, forested all the way.

      Before long, my friend Mark and I come to an aisle of skeletal birch and ash shrubs, stripped of leaves by a winter just ended. Families of long-tailed tits pirouette about the twigs above us, hoovering up any invertebrates stirred to life by the inklings of spring. Fresh buds provide the only greenery. They also make a ripe harvest for bullfinches, flitting through the shrubbery.

      We soon emerge at the valley floor. At its heart lies the ancient church of St. Saviour, roofless from centuries of neglect.

      The holy men who sought God in Glendalough could scarcely have picked a better spot for their church. Even a sceptic can admit that it commands a captivating view of creation. The brook that tinkles beside the church is hemmed in by hills. They are crested with conifers on one side and threadbare deciduous trees on the other. It’s as if each clan has staked its claim to either bank, with occasional copses breaking the trend, the vanguard of some horticultural crusade across the valley, forays onto enemy soil.

      The conifers are crawling with songbirds. Siskin, blue tit and chaffinch all poke their heads out from between the needles. Blackbirds and song thrush are in full verse. Every half hour or so, there’s the squawk of a pheasant. Further afield, the drumming of great spotted woodpeckers adds percussion to the ensemble. But the great tit champions them all with its relentless two-toned cry. Great tits are notorious bullies at bird feeders, and their competitive personalities also manifest in song. Long after the other birds have desisted, the gnawing teacher, teacher call still rings out across the valley.

      So much is patience with birdwatching. I think of sitting in hides overlooking reed beds or staking out valleys for raptors that fail to manifest. But sometimes nature is generous. A morning such as this was proof.

      The stream bisecting the valley flows right past St. Saviour’s Church, which is itself ringed by a mossy ridge. No sooner had we poked our heads over this, to gaze at the amber stream below, and there they were. Four goosanders in two handsome pairs, as if taken straight from the pages of a guidebook; the females with copper heads and silver backs, the males with their stunning white chest, black saddle and green head, darker still in the shadow of the trees. For both sexes, a blood red bill, drooping at the tip, completes the package.

      It is so quick I only have time to note their fine details before the flotilla, hurried but not panicked into flight, makes its way downstream, heads turned at 45-degree angles to keep us in view. The tangled undergrowth soon obscures them, and they vanish around a bend in the distance.

      …

      Goosanders are one of a brace of breeding ducks we have known as the sawbills (a third, the smew, is a scarce winter visitor). It is the largest of this family of ducks, which derive their name from the notched, fish-eating accoutrement they carry. Not for the sawbills is the clumsy, spoon-shaped beak of the dabbling ducks, the mallards that throng on urban waterways begging for bread from passers-by or the flocks that colour our wetlands each winter. Most of these birds, despite spending so much of their time on the water, can scarcely upend to crane for a seed beyond the reach of their outstretched neck.

      Not so the sawbills. Never content to languish at the surface, they get their food by diving. And far from subsisting on debris floating on the water’s surface, or grazing on waterside meadows like avian ungulates, they’ve embraced a predatory lifestyle, pursuing fish and invertebrates with singular agility.

      As with most birds that have taken to the water, their webbed feet are placed far back on the body for maximum propulsion underwater. (This, though, leaves them at a disadvantage on land, where they can only amble awkwardly.) And like most avian fishermen, they track down their prey by sight. In the case of the goosander, they frequently dip their heads beneath the water, scoping out the submerged surrounds for a meal. Once a fish has been spotted (amphibians and insects are also taken) the chase begins. If successful, the goosander usually surfaces with prey in its beak. Tenderly tossing it around in its saw bill, the meal is then swallowed headfirst, ensuring no spiny fins get caught and easing its passage down the bird’s throat.

      Fishing is when the saw bill comes in handy. Running up and down its length are tiny serrations, hooking backwards to secure tight purchase on slimy prey. In this way, the sawbills harken back to some of the most primitive birds, flightless behemoths who snapped up fish with toothed beaks while their dinosaur cousins still dominated on land. The goosander, though, is a bird of flight. Like all modern birds it has abandoned teeth entirely in order to shed the weight needed to take wing. The serrations, though, are about as close as any modern bird comes.

      The bill also has use during courtship. In the mating season, displaying males elongate their necks and bills skywards to their fullest extent, cutting circles in the water as they bid to woo passing females.

      The goosander shares its saw bill with its close cousin, the red-breasted merganser. At first glance, they appear similar. But

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