Hitched to the twitch as a boy
duck
The fuzzy image of a nondescript duck viewed through an ancient telescope still flickers in my memory, some half-century after my first real ‘twitch’.
Twitching – the frenetic pursuit of rare birds – had yet to become part of my birdwatching vocabulary back in the early 1970s when our school club set off on its annual organised field trip.
What should have been a genteel day out at the RSPB’S famous Minsmere reserve turned into a wildfowl chase of epic proportions as news came through of a ring-necked duck arriving on the Norfolk Broads.
At that time, this obscure North American species was confined to the vagrants section of my trusty bird book and its standing as an official rarity was reflected in the excited faces of the adults leading our tour. In an instant, we headed off in a convoy of small cars down countless narrow lanes before reaching a spillway on the River Chet.
To be honest, I had no idea what I was looking at as I was ushered to the front of a queue of nonplussed teenagers and told to look through the telescope at a black and white blob bobbing among a flock of indistinguishable tufted ducks.
Since then, I have seen a good number of ring-necked ducks both in the UK and North America, be it in their breeding grounds in Canada or wintering in Texas and Florida.
Today, ring-necked ducks are no longer regarded as a rarity in Britain with as many as 40 birds sighted each year – a hint that the species may well be breeding on this side of the Atlantic – but when the call goes out that one has turned up close to home you cannot refuse the opportunity to pay homage.
My latest sighting on a flooded quarry was of a female bird in many shades of brown but with a distinctive facial pattern, white spectacles and a three-toned bill. At least this time I knew what I was looking at.
I looked down the telescope at a black and white blob bobbing