will shoot into the air and over their heads, trapping them underneath. They will then be put into holding pens and the geolocators attached.
After a few hours of lugging and digging, everything is set for the next morning.
I leave the guesthouse before dawn; a hard frost covers cars and pavements. Scotland glistens under the streetlights as I drive to meet Bob and his ringing colleagues by the beach. Most of the group, like Bob, are retired, field-fit, passionate bird lovers. The birds are exactly where we hoped they would be, so if all goes well, we’ll have a large catch. Bob, with walky-talky and binoculars, creeps to the far side of the beach and into the bush with the detonator. The rest of us move quietly to the other side to hide in a small patch of woodland. As Bob sends updates about the birds’ position, we sort out who can run the fastest. Once the cannons have been fired, speed will be essential. The quickest sprinters will leave the bags and equipment with the slower ones, then race ahead to retrieve the birds from under the net. The birds would be panicking, so getting them to the safety of the holding pens is vital. This is where I feel I can contribute. Having run a few half-marathons, and being a keen gym-goer and jogger, I confidently put myself forward to go with the advance party. After what seems like an age of whispering and walky-talky instructions, Bob counts down. Five, four, three, two, one – FIRE! An enormous bang shatters the early morning air, followed immediately by alarm-calling birds. RUN! I race off at full speed. My fellow sprinters streak ahead so fast Mo Farah would struggle to keep up. I arrive only just ahead of the ‘slower’ group, who have had to transport all the bags. But there is no time to soothe my bruised ego …
Retrieving the trapped birds is fast and efficient. This well-oiled machine of seasoned bird ringers has been through this routine many times. The birds settle quickly. In all, over a hundred have been caught. The list reads: one wigeon, four teal, one oystercatcher, eight curlew, two dunlin, seventy-four redshank, thirteen black-headed and three common gulls. All are weighed, aged, measured, ringed and released. The curlews also have their geolocators fitted, and, for the first time, I get to hold a curlew in my hands.
Not surprisingly for wild creatures, some species of bird will peck and struggle when held. The more pointed the talons, or sharp the bill, the greater the caution needed. They glare fiercely at their captor with rage or terror. Some are notoriously vicious, like the sea-cliff-dwelling razorbills (the clue is in the name). Curlews, however, don’t do histrionics. Despite having a bill that could take your eye out, they simply sink into your hands and have a look around. They are gentle captives and exude a Buddha-like calm. It is as though being cradled in our hands takes away the pressure for survival for a short while. I am sure this is far from the truth, but the impression they give is one of serenity, not panic.
It is a special, life-giving moment to be so close to birds that I have loved and admired for so long. As I cradle them one at a time, I feel their hearts beat fast but steady. Under their soft feathers, they are warm and surprisingly fragile. We look each other in the eye and I fancy there is a connection. I stop short of giving each one a soft kiss on the head – that is way too infra dig in front of the Highland Ringing Group.
By mid-morning each bird has been released into the bright sunshine and the cold, fresh air. As they fly away I wish them well and hope they come back in the autumn so that the geolocators can be retrieved and reveal their secrets. The curlews call out their characteristic ‘curlee’ as they wheel down the beach. I worry that the exploding net and human handling might have traumatised them, but, reassuringly, after some indignant shaking, each one starts feeding. By the time we have packed up, the beach is once again calm, as though nothing has happened. Months of waiting now lie ahead before the birds return in the autumn and the cannon nets are laid out again.
Cannon netting might seem dramatic but it is a useful tool for birds like curlews that are hard to catch in any other way; and its use is spreading. Two weeks later, at the end of February, I find myself once again stumbling through woodland in semi-darkness. This time it was to find out more about a new inland cannon netting project in the Yorkshire Dales.
It is late afternoon and I am following (or trying to follow) a silent, stealthy, ex-army officer who barely cracks a twig as he moves through the shadows with ease. His training with the Irish Guards, and a Military Cross for bravery in Iraq, are obviously useful for birding. He floats over the ground and uses the tree trunks as cover. I, on the other hand, fall over every root, get snared on brambles and catch my rucksack on most overhead branches. I can barely see a thing.
Tom Orde-Powlett is in his late thirties, and retired from the army to help run the family business, which happens to involve the upkeep of a medieval castle and a 6000-acre grouse moor. For six centuries his ancestors have owned and managed Bolton Castle Estate. He also has four small children, so life is busy. Tom, though, is fired with a passion for birds and is involved in all kinds of ringing and monitoring projects around the area. I will return to the grouse moor later in the year, but this visit is to see the large number of curlews that winter in the fields along the River Ure, which tumbles through the valley below the castle. Most curlews in the UK winter on the coast, but some come inland to places like this in quite large numbers. A few hundred birds are known to spend the winter in Wensleydale, making the most of the rough, wet fields below the hills. This is a stunningly beautiful part of England. On this wintry day, the elongated, smooth moors are dusted with snow and produce stark, white wedges against a pale blue sky. England is a crowded country, but the Yorkshire Dales feel wide open and sparse. There is space to breathe.
The light is fading fast. The fourteenth-century fortress that once hosted the fugitive Mary Queen of Scots looms above us, dark and brooding. Tom leads the way through the small shelterbelt of conifers to the edge of the field where a hundred or so curlews often roost overnight. There is no cannon netting tonight; this is a reconnaissance trip to check their location. We settle on a log, telescopes ready, and chat quietly. Little is known about these Yorkshire birds. Do they breed on local hills or have they come from far away? Are they a mixture of sexes and ages? One theory suggests curlews that winter inland may be predominantly males, as their shorter bills are more suited to reaching food in wet, soft soil. The females, with their longer bills, are more adept at extracting food from sandy, muddy shores and rocky coasts. No one knows for sure, and so Tom, with the help of local nature groups, is trying to find out. In January, over forty birds had been caught using cannon nets and each bird was given a unique set of coloured bands for identification. While the rings were being fitted the birds were also weighed and measured. The majority were found to be male, supporting the theory that the sexes may separate to some extent in winter. More cannon netting is being planned, but in the meantime it is important to keep a lookout for birds already ringed. Once spring arrives it might be possible to see where they nest, or to hope for reported sightings if they are breeding elsewhere.
There is something tinglingly magical about woodlands, even small patches like this, in the half-light of a winter evening. They are steadfast and full of expectation; there is a sense of a change of shift from day to night, from the known, visible world to the realm of covert creatures that move in shadows. After the wet, warm winter the rotting leaves and rich soil give off a primeval, earthy smell. As a cold wind buffets the valley, the trees provide a sense of calm. I feel I am wrapped in a woody blanket.
A lacework of bare hedges defines the large field ahead. The ground is sodden and an area of standing water in the middle reflects the grey and pink sky. After a short time, the calls of curlews drift in from the distance. They sail overhead, landing by the water, touching down like fighter planes. Their long, pointed wings tilt to kill the lift and slow momentum. Their heads and necks stretch out and downwards, and their long legs, with pointed toes, dangle below. They delicately touch the earth. At first just a few arrive, then they are joined by more and more. They whistle and call to each other and begin to feed in a herd of about eighty birds, moving first one way, then turning and walking back. A brown hare appears in the background, sniffs the cold wind and lopes away. Occasionally, one curlew rises into the air and sings a succession of ascending notes before floating back to the group. They are
