Wingman: sharing the joy of birds

Tim and I played cricket for mighty Tewin Irregulars back in the Pleistocene era. I’ll be forever grateful to him, though not for his speculative medium-pacers. He took me birdwatching, and I’ve been birdwatching ever since. Because of Tim’s generosity I’ve been a missionary for many years. He showed me birds: I’ve been showing people birds long after the Irregulars plucked defeat from the jaws of victory for the last time.

Tim showed me how to look and where to go looking. I was a beginner; a childhood birder who lost the faith and then gloriously found it again. Tim took it from there, and we walked. Maybe a dozen times in all. And I learned, more by osmosis than direct teaching. We were both tuned into nature even when conversation slipped to James Joyce or Fulham Football Club.

I remember the Black Terns he found at Staines Reservoir: birds I had thought forever beyond my reach. Then there were the Short-eared Owls on the Essex coast: an illustration in the field guide miraculously became real. Perhaps the best moment of all was the eight Smew we found on the gravel pits: four male, white with spectacular black eye-marks. Tim gave me a series of miracles.

The best way to thank your teacher is by becoming a teacher yourself, and since Tim’s time I’ve shown many people many wonders. My father was perhaps my best pupil; Tim got me tuned in and I performed the same service for him. I remember him ringing me up one fine morning in February to shout “teacher-teacher-teacher!” down the phone. This is a mnemonic for the standard song of the Great Tit. I taught it to him, he remembered, he rang me rejoicing and I rejoiced in my turn – as a good teacher-teacher-teacher should.

I later tried to convey the joy of learning birds in a book, making the point that birdwatching is not just for obsessed experts, it’s an endless joy for everyone who ever had a heart stirred by a bird. My father somehow sneaked into the book and became a complete scene-stealer, as was always his wont. It’s a book about the joys of teaching and being taught.

I’ve carried on teaching in many other books since then, forever the missionary; after all, nature is not a closed shop, it’s there for us all and all you have to do is open your eyes and your ears. And every now and then I get a message from someone who tells me: “You changed my life.” I blush at the compliment, knowing that it’s not actually true. What changed your life was birds. Or butterflies or plants or whatever. What changed your life was nature. But at least I did the pointing. I, not marvellous, pointed at something that is marvellous – and life-changing.

Hear the Great Tits’ ‘teacher-teacher-teacher’ song

Teaching nature is something of a duty but it’s even more of a pleasure: that moment when the face lights up: so that’s a Great Crested Grebe, that’s the song of a Blackcap, that’s the flight of a Hobby. A joy shared is a joy doubled. There’s a still greater pleasure as the momentary fascination becomes a lifelong joy.

Later on I taught Ralph to listen to birds while he taught me to look at plants: perhaps the two richest gifts any old friends can exchange. And, of course, the lesson is never fully taught or ever fully learned, because the process goes on forever. Every now and then you see a familiar bird and you’re struck dumb with wonder: as if you were seeing it for the first time all over again. It happened to me just the other day with a Marsh Harrier… and as I lowered the binoculars, two words flickered through my mind. Thanks, Tim.