Looking but not seeing

I often walk around my local patch (as birders call it) with binoculars around my neck and camera in my hand. The faces I see at certain times of day are familiar enough to warrant a nod and occasional conversation. Seen anything interesting? they may ask. Nothing special I usually reply, trying to conceal my ignorance. Birders can be fiercely competitive and quickly assess whether you have any useful leads. I never do. In fact, I try to avoid chasing rumours of sightings though, sometimes, you just get sucked in.

Last weekend we had quite a high tide. This pushes waders closer to the shore as they feed and can produce some spectacular murmurations too. Naturally, I thought I would check it out. On arrival it was immediately apparent that something was stirring as a small group of birders huddled together gazing into the distance with their binoculars and spotting scopes set to stun. They are usually solitary folk until something noteworthy appears.

As this wasn’t my usual patch their faces were unfamiliar and I approached slowly and plaintively hoping for an invitation to join them but things moved fast. The incoming tide disturbed the feeding waders so the group collected their gear and walked briskly past me for a better view further along the promenade. Have you seen the little stint? one of the group members queried as he noticed my telephoto zoom lens. No, I haven’t, I replied, I’ve just arrived (another of my ignorance-hiding responses, though true in this instance).

I loiter this time at an acceptable distance as they set up their new viewing point. Got it! One of the group calls out with excitement. Me too says another, and then another and another. I look seaward and see only sea. I look to the sandbank and see only birds. Thousands of non-descript, drab-looking generic grey birds. After a minute or two I ask one of the group members if I can take a look through his spotter. He stands aside and I step in. It’s locked on to five or six birds but which is the little stint? I wonder, realising that I have no idea what one looks like. That one’s a redshank for sure, I think, and those could be dunlin or maybe knot. I never can tell. Urgh, it must have wandered out of range, I mutter, as they start to pack up again to keep pace with the encroaching water.

The group moves on and swells in number as they set up on a small hill looking on to sandy grassland. The tide seldom comes in this far. Excitement erupts once more as the little stint returns. Where is it? I ask sheepishly. Straight ahead came the reply. Directly over that mossy rock but before the tuft of grass. With such good intel the little stint will surely reveal itself to me now. I look intently for a few minutes but again see nothing but drabness. I could of course ask someone to describe the bird for me but then I would lose all credibility so I just point my camera in the general direction and take a few photos, maybe I will get lucky, I can always check the images later.

Get any good pictures? Someone asks. I Pause. Not sure… I only came to see a murmuration, I eventually confess, as thousands of birds instantaneously take to the air in one beautiful eruption. Presumably, including the little stint. Yes! I whisper to myself. They seem disappointed but I couldn’t be happier. One of nature’s great spectacles.

Needless-to-say my photos revealed nothing when I got home so I took to Google Images. Much to my disappointment, and then relief, the little stint does indeed look like every other non-descript, drab-looking generic grey bird. It is however an unusual visitor here at this time of year; more common but still rare in in passage during spring and autumn – which is clearly noteworthy for those who care about these things.

I love birds but don’t particularly like birding which, unlike other interests I have, attracts a certain type of person: the nerd. Often derided, the OED describes a nerd as ‘unfashionable' and 'obsessive'. I am not a nerd. I am far too impatient and my connection with nature is emotional rather than cerebral. Yet the world needs nerds. Only a nerd would notice a single little stint amongst thousands of dunlin (or were they knot?) and only a nerd would care enough to track and record this, and every other rarity that occurs on their patch, in such meticulous detail.

The future of the planet depends on networks of nerds documenting anomalies and reporting patterns the rest of us do not see. How else would we be able to evidence what scientists claim about the impact of global warming and climate change on our wildlife? How else can we gauge the health of this place we call home? So next time you see a nerd counting pipits (or are they sparrows?) in a frosty field, say hello and thank them for seeing what is going on rather than just looking at it. One thing is certain, that nerd won’t be me.