Stephen Rutt
A SOG Exile in London The morning was grey, as they all seem to be in October, and it was more advanced than I had intended. Typically, I had got lost — spectacularly, comprehensively, hung-overly lost — and ended up cutting through hedges, scrambling up banks and receiving the wet slap and scratch of leaves and branches against my face. At last I stumbled across the Birches, autumn-bronzed, by the lake filling up with winter wildfowl, and a small knot of twitchers, blankly staring upwards. They reported it hadn’t been seen for the morning. It took me ten minutes until I found it, shyly flitting around the top of the Birch with a Goldcrest and a Chiffchaff. I piece together leaf-broken views: a mossy green back and yellow stripes, two on the wings and two on the head. Somewhere between the Goldcrest and Chiffchaff in size and action. The Yellowbrowed Warbler. A good bird... for London.
Photo: Stephen Rutt
I never expected to see one surrounded by joggers and coffee-supping dog walkers against an endless backdrop of football pitches and tower blocks. But then I never expected that I would also find myself a long way from home, as a Suffolk birder exiled in London.
It is more than just the physical distance. Basic things have to be re-learned. Take the bushes in the local park: they will always remain empty, no matter how far east the winds have come in from. That Parakeets can be interesting too, if you look at them hard enough. That Meadow Pipits might not have much luck breeding in an island of long grass in the park, but that they sing in spring with volume enough to drown out the train line, the ring of fast roads and the ever-wailing sirens. I used to pass over them quickly, having checked they were nothing more interesting; now I spend time with them, enjoying their manic energy that drowns out the rest of the city. This is what the exile has. When pickings are slim, as they usually are, you develop a deeper appreciation of the mundane, the everyday extraordinariness of nature. You become grateful for what there is, rather than disappointed about what there isn’t. Shieldbugs and spiders, and the stuff beneath your feet become as interesting as looking up for the birds that aren’t flying overhead. It’s not that I don’t miss Suffolk, I plan my return every day. And when I make it back, I will have a deeper appreciation for every bird around me.
Ring-necked parakeets 18
THE HAR R I ER – W inte r 2 0 1 4
