Total birding One of the secrets for amassing a respectable tally is to spin thin chances into whole cloth. In the murky conditions we couldn’t see Ring Ouzel, Black Redstart and Water Pipit but we could recognize them by sound. Or, rather, my team mates could. As we zigzagged down through a succession of habitats, the cross-hairs of eyes and ears tuned to the sensitivity of hair triggers plucked species out of tree canopy, scrub and sky. The pace was electric. We stuck to the list manager’s tight schedule, which meant that one bird-rich vein had to be vacated for another by a deadline that was unshakeable: ‘Two minutes to get Dipper, Grey Wagtail, Bullfinch and Song Thrush.’ The team rallied and produced a series of last-gasp tackles on a par with Roy Keane at his most glorious. By lunchtime (ha, ha) we were back at Llobregat. I got a feeling that it was payback time for the delta’s birds. If they didn’t show up and be counted Ricard would send in the pagan evil of developers next week. They showed up. Not one but seven Great-spotted Cuckoos sat together on the airport’s fence, a Montagu’s Harrier flopped past, a Purple Gallinule came out after weeks spent undercover, and a lone Red-rumped Swallow reported for duty among ranks of hirundines that numbered 1000s. Even the weather cut us an ace. The rain stopped and a cool east wind blew seabirds inshore as if it was September, not May. Gannet and Shag were quickly in the bag. Right then it happened – the ornithological domino effect. A Little Tern led to a Gull-billed Tern; a flock of Balearic Shearwaters attracted a trio of Arctic Skuas; a squadron of incoming shearwater shapes metamorphosed into a posse of 16 Pomarine Skuas – flanked by two European Storm-petrels. There was hardly a
dry eye left after that parade. Onward. The light and our luck held. Coastal maquis and mesquite were blitzed for Dartford Warbler and shrikes, crumbling cliffs scanned for Black Wheatear and Blue Rock Thrush. The day ended in triumph. At dusk we hit 173 species. Our last bird was a roosting Red-billed Waxbill – we weren’t fussy by that stage. Ricard started throwing around big fatherly hugs like a Spanish Mick McCarthy; I finally got to finish breakfast. Catalunya is a province steeped in birds and birdwatchers that seem to me to have a unique talent. These guys are not closet birders but scientists, researchers, PR men and women for the natural world, who get their hands dirty in the cause of wildlife and habitat protection. In short, green evangelists. This is a land free of deadfrom-the-neck-up, windbag career conservationists who talk a good game and feign a concern for the environment. Aside from the bird race, I was privileged to meet government conservation directors and fieldworkers preaching bird protection with the fervour of Billy Graham – and then putting their money where their mouth is: for example, by visiting farmers to win their support for a last-ditch effort to hold on to Catalunya’s (and Spain’s) last pairs of Lesser Grey Shrikes. May their tribe multiply. Not usually a compulsive shopper, Davy disappeared into the duty-free mall at Barcelona airport as John and I waited to board the plane home. He returned with an air of celebration, jangling three bottles which he distributed, one apiece. ‘What’s this?’ we asked, expecting to sample a rare vintage. ‘It’s fake tan’ he said, ‘I don’t know about you two but I’m not going back to work looking like I spent ten days in the rain!’
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