Danny had seen his first blue t.i.t.

'I can't believe I've never seen one before! Are they rare?'

'No, very common. One of our commonest birds, in fact.'

'So why have they been hiding from me?'

Well, Danny, in a way you've been hiding from them. But this one wasn't the first one he'd seen, literally, with his eyes. This one was the first one he'd seen with his brain, his heart. And now he knew it was called a blue t.i.t, and from then on he would see them all the time and become joined to a new bit of the planet. As the lovely JJ had said all those years ago, the name connects you to something, and to others who also know the name. You begin to share the world because of the name. I wouldn't lumber Danny with these musings just yet.

A blue t.i.t is a great start.

Par us cacruleus could wait as well. could wait as well.

LATE SHIFT IN THE REED BEDS.

We were up again at the crack of lunchtime and were back in the bar of the Black Swan to have a restorative pint of orange juice and fizzy water. There are many unwritten rules of birdwatching and I think our late night with the Rooski had broken several of them. Certainly our absence from the reserve at six in the morning would have been noted by the Watcher in the sky. But, hey, we were just beginners.

A useful and interesting discovery made that lunchtime was that the gents was a good place to pick up twitching t.i.tbits.

I was sitting there in a cubicle eavesdropping on the urinal conversations when I heard one bloke say to another, 'Great morning. I'm going back late afternoon to see if I can see that yellow-browed warbler again.'

'Really?' his co-p.i.s.ser said non-committally.

'You see it, did you?'

'Er...no. 'Fraid not.'

I was pleased to hear that not only was there a yellow-browed warbler, whatever that was, on the loose, but also that it was quite respectable, in bird circles, to twitch in the late afternoon. Tori was very keen to see some new things, though I didn't think we could top the morning's marsh harrier. I was at the bar when a friendly beard nodded and asked, 'How's it going? Your first time, the Russian tells me.'

'That's right.'

'Have a good morning?'

'Marsh harrier and s.h.a.g,' I answered.

'Not bad. Plenty more out there today.'

'Yes, I know. Going back later on this afternoon.' I paused; should I or shouldn't I? Oh what the h.e.l.l, let's give it a go. 'I haven't seen the yellow-browed warbler yet.'

He turned to face me and then let out a disparaging snort.

'Someone in the bog just told me he'd seen a yellow-browed warbler. He's a well-known bulls.h.i.tter. He's talking b.o.l.l.o.c.ks. It was probably a willow warbler.'

'Ha!' I nodded. 'Just what I thought!'

Though I was secretly excited. I had never seen a willow warbler before either.

The t.i.tchwell Marsh reserve is one of the best of its kind. We got there around four o'clock. The car park was packed, which I found rather alarming. In a few of the cars, couples munched sandwiches and drank tea from Thermos flasks. It could have been my guilt, but they seemed to eye us with suspicion, if not scorn. No, there was definitely a hint of 'oh, they've finally made it out of bed, then!' in their perusal of us.

There is a very good shop and visitors' centre before the path on to the marshes.

By the exit of the shop there is a book in which you are invited to list what you've seen. This was going to be a great help. We could make a note of what others had seen and try to fit any unknown bird to the name.

And what a lot of unknowns there were: scaup, scoter, purple sandpiper, whimbrel, glaucous gull, Kentish plover, smew and merganser. I'd never heard of any of these. They must have been on the black-and-white pages of the Observer's Book of Birds Observer's Book of Birds.

'What's a scoter?' I asked Tori.

'I've no idea. Ask one of this lot.'

I was too worried about being scoffed at to ask a question like that to one of the many experts milling around the shop looking at telescope upgrades.

'A scoter?' I imagined they'd say. 'Don't you know what a scoter is? You ignoramus! What are you doing here if you don't know what a scoter is?' I was in the mood for avoiding humiliation when Tori made a unilateral decision and grabbed a pa.s.sing twitcher to ask.

'Excuse me, what's a scoter?' The man couldn't have been more charming.

'A scoter. Oh, it's a black sea-duck...er, that's about it, really. There's the common one, very black, and a dark greyish one called a velvet scoter. There's quite a few out there today actually. Why don't you come up to the beach with me and I'll show you?'

Not so fast, mister! I thought to myself. You're not taking my missus up the shingle to show her a velvet scoter.

'He was quite good looking,' she later informed me. 'And charming!'

'Don't fall for that,' I enlightened her. 'You're a good-looking woman. Just coz he's a birdwatcher doesn't mean he stops being a bloke.' Though, I confess, I hadn't thought that the issue of eye-candy would crop up on a birdwatching trip in the Norfolk marshes.

Behind the visitors' centre at t.i.tchwell is a row of well-stocked bkd-feeders. And what a lot of bkds. I'd never seen such a collection in so small an area. Sparrow, chaffinch, goldfinch, greenfinch, blue t.i.t, great t.i.t, coal t.i.t, wren, dunnock and, for Tori and me...(drum roll)...two new species!

Now that was gratifying. We hadn't really started our walk and already we could welcome a couple of new boys to the list. It must be admitted, though, that we probably would not have noticed them had it not been for a keen father talking his son through the visitors to the feeder.

'And look, Raymond. You see the chaffinch.'

'I think so,' said Raymond, who was clearly bored rigid and whose binoculars weren't quite in line with his eyes. Or any of his face, for that matter.

'Yes, you do. You know the chaffinch, Raymond, it's the one we call the pink bird. Well, look at that one next to it. The one that looks like an off-coloured chaffinch...'

I was looking at the same bird. I certainly had it down as an off-coloured chaffinch.

'...well, that's a brambling, Raymond.'

Is it? b.u.g.g.e.r me, so it is. I've never seen one of those. Tori nudged me and whispered, 'That's a brambling!'

'So I hear. Fab! That's a first for me.'

'Me too.'

Raymond's dad then, in a rather neighbourly way, turned his attention, and his son's, and ours, to the little greeny, black and yellow bird that Tori and I were perfectly prepared to pa.s.s over and dismiss as a baby greenfinch, or possibly a mutant adult. 'Look, Raymond, you see that one that looks like a little, streaky greenfinch?'

Yeah, that's not a bad description.

'...well, that's a siskin!'

Tori and I looked at each other with genuine excitement. A siskin. A little, streaky greenfinch. Write that down in the list of firsts.

This was turning out to be fun fun.

But for the headache.

FINCHES.

It was the first time I'd seen a brambling. Or a siskin, in fact. Two very different but very lovely types of finch. If you want to see a siskin in a hurry you need to go to the RSPB headquarters at Sandy in Bedfordshire in the winter and look at the feeders there. There are hundreds of them.

I love finches.

They're easy starters for new birdwatchers. All finches are roughly the same size and shape but they are generally very nicely coloured. And they don't mind mixing with each other so you can see goldfinches, greenfinches, chaffinches, bramblings, linnets and siskins all in the same place. This would be an excellent sight for the beginner and an eye-opener for Danny-like people who think that colourful birds in Britain must be escapees from a zoo.

The brambling, an orangey, northern version of the chaffinch, is a charming bird to see. A welcome change from the abundant chaffinch but not too dissimilar to be frightening. It comes with the binomial Fringilla. montifringilla Fringilla. montifringilla, meaning 'finch of the hills finch'. Its English name means something like 'little creature from the brambles'.

And what a pretty little bird the siskin is! The sweet name for this canary-like bird is apparently an eastern European word, for a canary-like bird, which has come into English via Dutch and German. Its old name was the 'aberdevine', which sounds suspiciously Scottish to me, or possibly even Welsh, so I'm sticking with 'siskin'. Its 'brainy' name is Carduelisspinus. Spinusno Carduelisspinus. Spinusno doubt refers to the spiky trees of its habitat-conifers and the like-though doubt refers to the spiky trees of its habitat-conifers and the like-though spinusis spinusis the Latin for the blackthorn (or sloe), and actually the bird is mainly partial to alders and birch. the Latin for the blackthorn (or sloe), and actually the bird is mainly partial to alders and birch. Carduelis Carduelis comes eventually from the Latin for 'thistle' ( comes eventually from the Latin for 'thistle' (carduus), which gives us, among other things, Carduelis carduelis Carduelis carduelis-the thistle finch, or goldfinch as we call it. Now there's a wonderful bird. If you ever get a close-up look at a goldfinch, I guarantee you will want to take up birdwatching.

Then there is the Carduelis chloris Carduelis chloris, the greenfinch-from the Greek chloros chloros, meaning 'light-green', the colour of a certain deadly poisonous gas. (Atomic N17, if you're revising GCSE chemistry.) You cannot argue with the word 'greenfinch'. It's a finch and it's green, which I think is all you can reasonably expect from a bird with a name like that. But as a striking extra they have bright yellow flashes on their wings and tails. The beak is noticeably larger and heftier than that of other finches, a perfect tool for this inveterate seed-eater. The greenfinch is a gift for someone like me who is not very good at recognizing the sounds of birds, especially when, in spring and early summer, it utters its unique sound: a sleepy, decaying wheeze. I think the word is 'dzzzweeooo' or possibly 'zweeooooo', but spelling birdsongs has also never been a strong point of mine. But I a.s.sure you that it is very rewarding to be able to identify a bird, categorically, from its song, and this one is easy. Once you recognize the descending droning buzz of the greenfinch, you will hear them everywhere. Impress your friends.

Carduelis flavirostris is the amusingly named 'twite'. is the amusingly named 'twite'. Flavirostris Flavirostris means yellow-faced because the male in summer has a noticeable pink rump. In the winter, however, the twite changes the colour of its bill to pale yellow. Well, there's not much else to do, is there? means yellow-faced because the male in summer has a noticeable pink rump. In the winter, however, the twite changes the colour of its bill to pale yellow. Well, there's not much else to do, is there?

The redpoll has a pale pink chest and a reddish patch on its forehead so it gets the hard-sell name Carduelis flammea Carduelis flammea-the 'fiery' or 'blazing' finch.

But what about the bullfinch? Aaah (pulls sad face), the bullfinch. Such a great bird to draw and colour in. A new set of felt-tip pens. Must draw a bullfinch. What a challenge to get that breast right. Such a vivid blaze of pinky, orangey red. In my childhood Cornwall, where every garden seemed to have a flowering cherry tree, we used to see bullfinches all the time. And they keep very still, so when you know where one is, you can watch it for hours, if you've got nothing better to do.

And there can't be that many better things to do, can there?

Besides, your time may be running out to see the bullfinch. Its taste for the flowering buds of fruit trees means that this plump pink beauty has been and is being persecuted.

Rather excitingly for me, there is a bunch of British finches I've never seen. I am not the sort of person who keeps lists of names and times and places. With birds, you do not forget whether you have seen one or not. And invariably you remember exactly when and where you saw your 'first' something: spotted flycatcher, Bait's Bite Lock on the river Cam; dipper, Middleton-on-Tees; blue rock thrush, El Toro in Menorca; chiffchaff, dog-s.h.i.t lane (of which, more later); marsh harrier, bedroom in Black Swan; red kite, junction 3, M40; lammergeier, London Zoo, etc.

You definitely know what you have not not seen and I'm looking forward to my first citril finch, serin, scarlet rosefinch, crossbill and what about seen and I'm looking forward to my first citril finch, serin, scarlet rosefinch, crossbill and what about Coccothraustes coccothraustes Coccothraustes coccothraustes, the hawfinch? What can you say about this one? Scary beak, scary eyes, scary scientific name.

Then we have Carduelis cannabina Carduelis cannabina, the linnet. 'Cannabis', I believe, is a widespread, straggly weed and has a variety of interesting uses, including rope-making and canvas. The linnet, because of its pretty song, was a popular caged bird. You'll recall, no doubt, the music-hall favourite from the 1880s 'Don't Dilly Dally', which contains the line: 'My old man said follow the van, and don't dilly dally on the way; off went the cart with my home packed in it; I walked behind with my old c.o.c.k linnet...' 'Don't Dilly Dally', which contains the line: 'My old man said follow the van, and don't dilly dally on the way; off went the cart with my home packed in it; I walked behind with my old c.o.c.k linnet...'

And so it goes on. Incidentally, we a.r.s.enal supporters have a song based on this, which starts: 'My old man said be a Tottenham fan!' The rest of the lyric does not come within the scope of this book, I'm afraid.

A GOOD HIDING.

After siskins and bramblings, another first for our first day: going into a hide. A hide, as it says in the dictionary, is 'a place of concealment for the observation or hunting of wildlife'.

Well, let's skip the 'hunting' bit for now; an industrial-sized drum of worms would be opened if we started discussing hunting in a book about birdwatchers. Not that I'm by any means indifferent to an occasional bit of freshly caught, wild bird meat. Pigeon pie...yummy? And there's no denying the appeal of pheasant or grouse. Partridge and quail cook up nicely, as do wigeon, teal and all manner of brightly coloured waterfowl. Woodc.o.c.k and snipe are always a bit special on the tea table. The puffin, apparently, made for an agreeable supper for seafaring and coastal folk at one time. The Scandinavians, Faroese, Icelanders and people from eastern Canada were all more than a tad partial to puffin. And I imagine it must have looked d.a.m.n fetching on the serving platter with its large red, yellow and blue bill. Though someone once told me that those people were, in fact, eating Manx shearwaters, whose scientific name-as, indeed, you know-is Puffinus puffinus Puffinus puffinus, hence the confusion. I'm not quite sure of the veracity of the source as the man in question went on to tell me that if you were were going to cook a puffin, you shouldn't microwave it; apparently, they tend to explode and your kitchen will smell of burnt sardine for months. going to cook a puffin, you shouldn't microwave it; apparently, they tend to explode and your kitchen will smell of burnt sardine for months.

Any decent birding site will have strategically placed hides dotted around with good, un.o.bstructed views of various habitats: tidal marshes, reed beds, rivers, woodlands, etc. They're usually wooden cabins with letterbox-like slits round the walls just wide enough to stick a pair of binoculars through.

The hide we were heading for was on a spit of land between two huge tidal pools. More firsts for me and Tori. Our favourite: the avocet. This bird must be on a shortlist for prizes in several categories. Tall, slim, elegant. Pure white with pure black lines and a fine, dark, delicately upturned bill. This it uses for sifting for food through the silt, sweeping its head from side to side.

It is the logo of the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds, and it's hard to imagine a better bird for the purpose. And that is not just because it must be a gift to draw for the logo-artist, even one without coloured pens. Before the forties, this bird had all but disappeared from our sh.o.r.es, and the large numbers of avocet around today are the results of one of the first and most successful conservation and protection schemes ever undertaken in Britain. Among the ma.s.sed flocks of streaky, brown and grey waders, this graceful bird is a star.

I was excited and nervous as I unlatched the door of the salt-marsh hide. Holding my breath, I went in and Tori followed. It was warm and dark and smelled of that stuff that does what it says on the tin.

I peered through the gloom. There was total silence. I breathed out and said heartily, 'Ah, good, there's no one here!'

Twenty-five people hissed 'Ssshhh!' at us. We jumped.

Ah yes, as my eyes got accustomed to the dark, I realized that quite a few of our fellow birders were in there. Through the narrow letterboxes, they were all peering intently across the wide expanse of water. We joined them. There were mainly ducks and seagulls. But an incontinent number of both. It really was quite special.

And more superb avocets.

'A few ducks out there, I see,' I said amicably to the earnest lady next to me. I wish I hadn't.

I soon realized that we didn't have the vocabulary, let alone the knowledge, to hold a conversation in 'hide-speak'.

'Barwit's off again.'

'That American wigeon's back.'

'Where?'

'Behind that female greenshank.'

'Are they ices out there?'

'Glaucs, I think.'

'No!'

'Yes. I've seen ices today but I reckon at the moment we're talking glauc.'

'Whoa, look at that! That's very acrobatic for a sandwich!'

'No, that's normal.'

My binoculars were jerking left and right, up and down, in an effort to keep up with this outlandish dialogue. And when someone said, 'Look at those juvenile ruffs,' I focused my bins and immediately started scanning the horizon for some hoodies down from Cromer.

All business in the hide is conducted at a whisper. This becomes a slightly louder stage-whisper if you happened to have seen something rare or something that n.o.body else has seen. It's not considered twitching 'cricket' to emit a skittish yelp of 'Wow, what's this?', as Tori did when she saw something large and dark and quite unlike any bird she'd seen before appear in her object lens. All eyes turned to her, part annoyed, part expectant.

'Oh, it doesn't matter!' she said to a communal 'tsk'. They all went back to their own private twitch.

'What was it?' I asked.

'A spider crawling over the end of my binoculars.'