This Birding Life (29 page)

Gulls are among the most adaptable of birds, and although they were not the very first avian visitors here (that honour is shared by the Black Guillemot and Fulmar), they have certainly been the most successful. The green patch I could see from the helicopter is the site of the gull colony, and its verdant colour is a result of the birds returning to the mainland to feed, picking up seeds and then depositing them on Surtsey via their droppings. Once the seeds germinate they are fertilised by the gulls' guano, so that this part of the island resembles a rather bumpy lawn.

The feeling of being on the edge of Creation is accentuated by the noisy cries of the gulls as they defend their territories against incursion from their rivals. As I was watching them, I saw the Swallow again, taking advantage of the sun on its back to feed on the concentration of small flying insects attracted by the gulls.

After just two hours – far too short a time to explore this amazing place – the arrival of the helicopter signalled that my stay on Surtsey was over. The stay was so brief that it almost seemed like a dream – but in a way that is appropriate for an island that has only existed for 40 years.

I have a love–hate relationship with seabirds. I love them for their grace and beauty, and for their ability to survive in one of the world's harshest
habitats. But I hate the agonies you have to go through to see them, especially seasickness.

From time to time, my desire to see these wonderful birds in their natural habitat overcomes my fears. So this autumn I went not once, but twice, on the best-known seabird-watching trip of all: off the coast of Monterey in northern California. It was led by the legendary Debra Love Shearwater, who is so obsessed by seabirds she changed her name to one!

Unlike the usual British experience, which involves long periods staring at an empty sea, we saw birds from the very start. Black Turnstones on the sea wall, Pigeon Guillemots in the harbour, and great rafts of Sooty Shearwaters just offshore. This is because unlike most coastal areas, Monterey is on the edge of a huge underwater canyon, with continual upwellings of cool water mixing with warm on the surface. This provides a perfect place for fish and other undersea creatures to thrive, in turn attracting thousands of seabirds from far and wide.

And I do mean far and wide: Buller's Shearwaters travel from New Zealand, Pink-footed Shearwaters from Chile and Black-footed Albatrosses all the way from Hawaii. These majestic birds spend up to a fortnight flying to Monterey, where they stock up on food, before returning to feed their very hungry chicks.

Pelagics can be very hit or miss, but for a change I was in luck: my first trip, in mid-September, was the best of the year. We saw five species of shearwater, three different jaegers (skuas to you and me), and four different kinds of storm-petrel, fluttering over the waves like marine versions of a House Martin. All this, on seas as calm as a millpond.

So when we assembled for the second trip, in early October, I was worried that it would not live up to expectations – especially as we were filming this time. Birdwise, it was not quite as good, as the huge shearwater flocks had departed, and despite extensive searching, we could not locate the storm-petrels. But what it may have lacked in birds, it made up for with marine mammals. Risso's and Pacific White-sided
Dolphins rode the bows, while Humpback Whales appeared in the distance.

Then came the big one, in every sense. On the far horizon, what looked like a fire hydrant went off, then another, closer spurt. Over the intercom, Debra uttered the words: ‘We've got a Blue Whale!' We held our breath as the whale did the same, and watched as it emerged momentarily above the waves. Then, as we waited for another sighting, what appeared to be a small island surfaced right beside us: a smooth lump of grey, like a rock exposed by the receding tide.

The whale was there for a moment or two, before disappearing beneath the waves. It was a moment of pure magic. Ever since I first visited the Natural History Museum as a child and saw the life-size model of the Blue Whale, I had wanted to see the largest creature to have existed on Earth.

Dawn in the Sahara may sound romantic, but the reality was a chilly wind and temperatures more like England than Africa. Nevertheless, we set out early in search of one of Morocco's most elusive birds, the African Desert Warbler. It was a quest which seemed likely to fail, with the stiff breeze keeping activity to a minimum. But after persistent searching, the bird finally performed, perching on top of a tiny bush to sing its scratchy but tuneful song.

I was on a tour of southern Morocco with Limosa Holidays, and the north-west African target species were coming thick and fast. In equally unpromising weather we found Tristram's Warbler – similar in shape to a Dartford Warbler and named after Henry Baker Tristram, a Victorian country vicar who discovered the species while collecting birds in nearby Algeria. Later on we saw Egyptian and Red-necked
Nightjars, Fulvous Babblers and, rarest of all, the Northern Bald Ibis – of which only a few hundred individuals survive in the wild, virtually all in Morocco.

This particular day we were on an expedition to look for the species which every visiting birder hopes to see: Desert Sparrow. As a close relative of our familiar House Sparrow, this is not a bird to set the pulses of non-birders racing. But for the connoisseur, it is a real prize.

We had ditched our usual minibus for a trio of Land Rovers and set off down the bumpy track like competitors in the Paris-Dakar rally. Deserts are not noted for their abundance of birds, and we travelled several kilometres without seeing anything. Then the leading driver stopped and indicated the area in front of us. There, beautifully camouflaged against the sand and stones, stood a Cream-coloured Courser – one of the most elegant of all desert birds. Aware of our presence, it ran forward on its long legs, paused, and finally flew, revealing distinctive black underwings contrasting with its sandy coloured body.

Delighted with this unexpected sighting, we travelled on to the Café Yasmina, at an oasis on the edge of the Sahara. Oases act as a trap for migrants, and this one was no exception. Subalpine and Olivaceous Warblers, Black-eared Wheatears and a Rufous Bush Robin foraged among the trees, while both European and Blue-cheeked Bee-eaters hawked for insects overhead. The latter is one of the most beautiful birds in the world – but we dedicated sparrow searchers would not be sidetracked from our task.

Then a small, pale bird flew up into a tree and delivered a chirpy little song. It was our first Desert Sparrow – a fine male. Sighs of relief all round. We then set off for a nearby lake – the temporary result of recent rainfall. Here Black-winged Stilts, Ruddy Shelduck and Greater Flamingos were all taking advantage of this sudden gift from the heavens.

Time to return to our hotel, but not before our sharp-eyed driver found a pair of Desert Sparrows nesting in a lone palm tree. Cue a
frenzy of photography, led by David Cottridge, one of Britain's leading bird photographers, and our co-leader, Dutch ornithologist Arnoud van den Berg.

British birdwatchers abroad are sometimes accused of being so single-minded in their pursuit of birds that they fail to notice the cultural wonders of the places they visit. Likewise, watching birds on an organised tour can insulate you from the very people through whose land you are passing. But sometimes you just can't help noticing something other than birds: as I discovered earlier this month on a visit to Iguazu, on the border between Argentina, Brazil and Paraguay.

For a start, there are the famous Iguazu waterfalls themselves. Rated by many as one of the seven natural wonders of the world, the volume of water passing through the cataracts is unbelievable. Even so, I was momentarily distracted by flocks of Great Dusky Swifts, which literally fly through the streams of water, in order to reach their nests behind. Presumably they do so to avoid attack by predators, but their lifestyle choice brings other hazards: the morning after a cloudburst the extra rush of water appeared to have swept most of the nests away.