Sunday 20th April
2008 was the day after my youngest son’s third birthday party. The morning was drizzly and overcast, and the
easterly wind which had been blowing for three days was still persisting. Over the last few days I’d been watching the
wind maps with mounting excitement, as the little arrows all steadfastly
marched due west, right across the continent.
But Winterton dunes, my local patch, had remained cold and quiet, with
hardly any signs of migration. We were
putting it down to poor weather in Europe stopping anything from moving.
After a day of family outings,
it was nearly 4pm when I finally made it into the North Dunes, just as the wind
appeared to have dropped a little and the sun had come out. I figured that if anything had got through from Europe then now was
the best time to look for it. I began to
search in all the usual nooks and crannies.
I saw nothing (except a rather nice Adder). The dunes are often like
that, and normally in these conditions my enthusiasm dwindles and I begin to
dawdle and daydream, ignoring all the potential bird cover around me, wandering
uselessly along the main paths until it’s time to go home and resume family
duties. This is probably why in the four years I’ve been living here I’ve yet
to find anything rarer than a Firecrest or a Ring Ouzel (a fact which my
birding friends in the village seem to relish pointing out to me whenever they
manage to get it into conversation). So this Spring I had decided I would try
to keep my concentration level higher, even on seemingly birdless days.
I did a big scan round with my
bins. Right off in the distance, flying
south along the last dune ridge before the sea, I saw a Sand Martin. Given how terrible the spring had been so far
in terms of common migrants, this was pretty exciting stuff. I decided to make
my way across to the ridge, where I would be able to see any other hirundines
moving through, and have views of both the sea, in case any terns were moving
past, and the dunes, where I might perhaps pick up a flying Ring Ouzel if I was
lucky. I set off in that direction. Within
about ten minutes I had broken my new rule and drifted off into another
dawdling daydream…
The tail-end of a Wheatear,
disappearing over the brow of the dune ahead of me, reminded me of what I was
supposed to be doing. I walked up the slope to see if I could get a better look
at it. What happened next is etched
vividly into my memory. I got to the top
expecting to see the Wheatear close by.
Instead a significantly larger, all black bird took off from a little
hollow about 15 metres in front of me and flew a very short way, landing out of
sight behind the next small hillock. For
a moment I was completely confused. I just couldn’t work out what I had
seen. This will seem a bizarre analogy,
but at the time I thought it was like a sort of pygmy Jackdaw, flying as though
it was pretending to be injured. I moved carefully until I had a view into the
next hollow and there it was. Close and
clear in the short grass, walking quickly and easily, then standing still in
glorious profile, only a few metres away.
Thick set, all black with lovely irregular mottled whitish scalloping on
its back, and a large, stout pale bill.
Suddenly the flight pattern clicked.
Of course! It was a lark! I was looking at the third ever British Black
Lark! And yes, it did have the build of
a mini-Jackdaw! (I bet that’s not in the
field guides!)
Immediately the adrenalin
hit. I felt incredible elation and
euphoria. I’d found a massive rarity,
which was completely easy to identify, and was walking about in the open on
short grass instead of skulking in thick undergrowth. My type of bird! But my elation was instantly mixed with
anxiety. I had my mobile phone on me,
yet I knew I had hardly any battery power left.
When I’d set out I’d seen that there were two bars of power left. Normally when I try to make a call with the
battery at that level it just goes dead.
I wrestled in my coat pocket to get the phone out whilst trying to keep
the bird in view. With heart in mouth I
dialled my good birding friend and next door neighbour Peter Cawley, who was at
Hickling Broad doing conservation work.
Heroically my phone made it through and soon I was shout-whispering down
the line like a stage villain: “I’m in
the dunes and I’ve got a Black Lark and no battery power and I’m not
kidding! Call everyone!”
I managed to phone two more
local birders, but in the meantime the bird had flown a little further
away. I relocated it and then told
myself to keep calm and take a careful description, starting with the bare
parts then moving carefully through all the feather tracts. The trouble was, I
was too amazed and excited, and the bird was too obvious for this to seem
important. It was a lark. It was black.
What else do you want? However, for
those who prefer a more thorough approach however, here are my notes:
Seen very well down to about
10m through 10x42 bins. Starling sized but thicker set, stocky. Immediate impression sort of like pygmy
Jackdaw(!). Walking and running at
varying speeds, always on the short grass, stopping every few seconds to look
around or feed. Occasionally flying low
to another area - slightly undulating flight – classic lark flight action, with
short tail and “triangular” wings.
Large, stout, pale creamy horn coloured bill, with cutting edge and
lower mandible curving downwards back into the head, giving it a sort of aloof,
glum expression. Dark legs and dark
eye. All plumage sooty black except for
irregular mottled scalloping effect on feather edges of upper and lower back,
scapulars and wing coverts, seemingly varying in visibility depending on angle
of viewing and the angle of the bird to the wind; sometimes looking mostly
black and sometimes very pale-fringed and scalloped, particularly in an area on
the lower central back.
That was as far as I got with
my mental description because I was getting increasingly worried that the bird
was going to disappear, as it had definitely got slightly warier and was
beginning to range further each time it flew.
I was beginning to imagine the nightmare of claiming to be the sole
observer of a first for Norfolk, and the gentle, patronising looks I’d get from
my birding friends as they concluded amongst themselves that I’d made a
dreadful mistake. So thank the Lord that it wasn’t long before local birders
arrived, toting various photographic items, and managed to get the bird on
camera. When Andrew Grieve showed me his
first shot – a rear view with the bird looking off to the side with all the
diagnostic features visible – I felt a wave of relief sweep over me.
During all this time the bird
had not called, but as more people arrived it began to do so in flight, a
lovely, warm, rippling call which carried resonantly across the dunes, and my
final memory of it, calling loudly and bounding across a sea of appreciative
faces, will live with me for a very long time indeed.
Another about 1 mile south of this one would be ideal this year ;-)
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