Electing a national bird: the result

The result of the vote to elect an "official" national bird for the UK (see earlier post) was announced during BBC1's Springwatch Unsprung on 10 June 2015. The Robin was an easy winner, with more than a third of the vote. 

A total of 224,438 people voted for their favourite bird from the short list of 10 species on offer. The voting was as follows:

1. Robin — 75,623 (33.7%)
2. Barn Owl — 26,191 (11.7%)
3. Blackbird — 25,369 (11.3%)
4. Wren — 19,609 (8.7%)
5. Red Kite — 14,057 (6.2%)
6. Kingfisher — 13,922 (6.2%)
7. Mute Swan — 13,480 (6.0%)
8. Blue Tit — 13,123 (5.8%)
9. Hen Harrier — 12,390 (5.5%)
10. Puffin — 10,674 (4.8%).

Despite having previously claimed that the ballot would produce an "official" national bird,  the instigator of the vote, David Lindo (who favoured the Blackbird himself), now seems to accept that there is nothing official about the outcome. He announced his hope that the government will agree to recognise the Robin as the official national bird. 

Why I can’t get excited about the demise of "Lady A"

There was some fuss early in 2015 over the sighting of a splendidly plumaged Lady Amherst’s Pheasant in woodland near Lidlington, Bedfordshire. Why? Because this “Lady A” was allegedly the last remaining specimen of the species in the wild in Britain. 

Twitchers were falling over each other to add the UK’s only authentic Lady A to their personal lists of British species before the lonesome bird bit (pecked?) the dust — although, for all we know, this handsome male may have had a harem of hens nearby, since the drab lady Lady A looks much like a female Common Pheasant. 

Personally I cannot get too excited about the possible demise of the Lady A. Like the Common Pheasant and the rare Golden Pheasant and Reeves’s Pheasant, it is not a native of Britain. It is a 19th century introduction from Asia, where it is not under threat but remains widespread and common in south-west China and Burma. 

The bird was given its English name in honour of Sarah, Countess Amherst, whose hubby, the first Earl Amherst, sent a specimen to London in 1828, when he was Governor General of Bengal. Unfortunately, Lord Amherst's bird did not survive the journey, but the gaudy plumage of the male Lady A later made it popular with Victorian collectors. 

The male is certainly a colourful bird. On a YouTube video you can see a beautiful captive specimen being tormented (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wIGHtrtL1Io).

Not surprisingly, some Lady A pheasants escaped from captivity or were deliberately released into the wild. Small populations became established in several wooded areas of England and Wales, and the birding boffins eventually admitted it to the official list of British species. But then a decline began, perhaps because of increased predation by foxes, and the loss of the species from the UK has been on the cards for some time. 

A few years ago, The Independent hilariously compared the potential demise of the UK’s Lady A to the extinction of the Great Auk in 1840: “Unless it can find a previously unsighted mate, and breeds successfully, Lady Amherst’s will become the first bird species since the Great Auk to be lost from the British countryside.”

This comparison is ludicrous for two major reasons. First, the Great Auk, as a bird of the open seas, was never to be found in “the British countryside”. More importantly, the Great Auk was a native British bird that was completely wiped from the face of the Earth, whereas the Lady A is an artificially introduced species that still thrives in its natural Asian habitat.

Other birds threatened with extinction in Britain, such as the Red Kite, White-tailed Eagle and Chough, have made a comeback to former haunts through reintroduction programmes, but there are no such plans for the Lady A because the Wildlife and Countryside Act 1981 prohibits the release of non-native species into the wild. 

However, the Lady A may reappear anyway. Look on a website such as poultryads.co.uk or birdtrader.co.uk and you will see that the species is still being bred in the UK for private collectors. Several sightings in recent years have clearly been escapes rather than remnants of the naturalised feral population, and it is highly likely that more birds will abscond into the countryside — to the consternation of twitchers, who can add a tick to their lists only if convinced that a rare bird is truly wild rather than a “plastic fantastic”.

Electing a national bird

Back in 1961, readers of The Times voted the Robin as their favourite bird. Since then, this species has unofficially been seen as Britain’s national avian representative. 

And now, more than 50 years later, we have been asked to vote for an “official” national bird. I do not know what makes this choice “official”, since the entire process seems to have been devised by David Lindo, a publicity-seeking London bird-watcher who likes to be known as The Urban Birder. Whatever makes the choice “official” seems to be only inside Lindo’s head.

Long list

In Lindo’s poll, voters were in late 2014 asked to nominate their six favourite choices from a list of 60 species. The list included some weird options. 

Some of the suggestions were not even native British birds. For example, the Pheasant was introduced to Britain — admittedly centuries ago, possibly by the Romans — and the Ring-necked Parakeet, now common in south-east England, is descended from cage birds that escaped or were deliberately released into the wild only some 50 years ago.

Other long list species were birds that have declined to the point that they are at risk of disappearing completely from the UK, such as the Hen Harrier, Turtle Dove and Cuckoo. OK, so Mauritius has the Dodo as its national bird, but should the UK choose a species that is heading for national extinction?

The Waxwing was another ludicrous inclusion in Lindo's list. It may be a pretty bird, but it is not British. It is a Scandinavian bird that visits Britain in winter, but rarely in significant numbers. We did have large irruptions in 2011–12 and 2012–13, but in a typical winter — such as 2014–15 — we are lucky if the total influx gets anywhere near four figures.  

And the Barn Owl? Why choose a bird that is found in every continent except Antarctica but has seen a significant decline in its UK population over the past couple of centuries as a result of persecution and changes in farming practice? Should we be celebrating our failure to preserve this beautiful bird?

And was it a joke to include the Feral Pigeon, a disease-ridden pest also found almost worldwide?  

Several other suggested species should perhaps have been avoided because they are already the national birds of other European countries — Mute Swan (Denmark), Golden Eagle (both Germany and Italy), Kestrel (Belgium), Oystercatcher (Faroe Islands), Swallow (Austria and Estonia), Nightingale (Croatia) and Blackbird (Sweden).

Short list 

From the 60 birds on the long list, a shortlist of the 10 most popular suggestions has been drawn up, with final votes for the national bird invited from 16 March 2015 to 7 May 2015 (a date chosen cringingly to coincide with the UK parliamentary elections). The 10 shortlisted species, alphabetically, are: 

• Barn Owl
• Blackbird
• Blue Tit 
• Hen Harrier
• Kingfisher
• Mute Swan
• Puffin
• Red Kite
• Robin
• Wren

The choice of the three birds of prey presumably reflects national guilt over the way these species have across the centuries been persecuted to near-extinction. But that is no reason to elect any of them as a national symbol.

And what on earth is particularly British about the Puffin, Kingfisher, Wren, Blackbird and Blue Tit? The Puffin breeds in clifftop colonies round much of the North Atlantic but spends most of the year in the open ocean. The Blackbird, Blue Tit, Kingfisher and Wren all occur across most of Europe and much of temperate Asia.  

In my opinion, the only shortlisted birds worthy of consideration as our national bird are the Robin and the Mute Swan, even though these too can also be found across Europe and in parts of Asia (and the latter is already the national bird of Denmark). I’ll tell you why:

• Robin  Only in the British Isles is the Robin a familiar bird of parks and gardens and relatively unafraid of people. Indeed, it is seen in Britain as the gardener’s friend, and many bird-lovers buy mealworms and other food to put out for it. In contrast, Robins in continental Europe are  wary birds, tending to skulk deep in woodlands, because for centuries they have been hunted and killed, like many other small passerines. 
• Mute Swan  The Mute Swan also has a special place in British hearts. It can be found on almost any stretch of fresh water and is often bold enough to take food from the hand. This familiarity with man is probably because swans in Britain were for centuries domesticated for food, with all birds being the property of either the monarch or one of two London livery companies. Unlawful killing was a serious offence. But in continental Western Europe hunting was largely unrestricted, and Mute Swans were almost wiped out between the 13th and 19th centuries. Apart from birds introduced to ornamental waters, Mute Swans on the continent, like the Robin, tend to be wary of people. 

My own choice? Like the wise Times readers of 1961, I voted for the Robin.

Kiwis and yellowhammers

The Yellowhammer (Emberiza citronella) is a small bunting found across temperate Europe and Asia. 

Surprisingly, it is also common in New Zealand. 

But how on earth did this species get so deep into the southern hemisphere? 

The blame lies with so-called “acclimatisation societies”. In the days of colonialism, these organisations were set up in many British colonies in the belief that the local fauna was in some way deficient and could be improved by introducing species remembered from the British motherland. It is for this reason that the European Starling is now a widespread pest across North America and the rabbit has had a disastrous impact in Australia.

But Yellowhammers in New Zealand? In the middle of the 19th century, the country’s population was growing rapidly. To a large extent the settlers’ diet depended on introduced cereals. But these crops attracted insect pests such as caterpillars and black field crickets. 

Back in Europe, insectivorous bird helped to keep such pests under control. But Kiwi settlers had cleared away New Zealand’s forests, and many insect-eating native birds had disappeared with them. 

It seemed to make sense to protect the crops by introducing insectivores from Britain. But strangely, the main species chosen by the acclimatisation societies was the Yellowhammer — strange because the main food of this heavy-billed bunting is seeds rather than insects, although they do tend to use invertebrates as an additional food source in the breeding season, when they feed caterpillars and other insects to their nestlings. 

In the 1860s and 1870s, consignments of Yellowhammers were carried on no fewer than 25 ships sailing from London to New Zealand ports. A quarter of these shipments were organised by a family in Brighton, and many of the birds had been trapped around this East Sussex town.

At first Kiwi farmers welcomed the immigrants, but they soon began to realise that the newcomers actually aggravated the problem since, rather than eating the insect pests, they would feed on both the newly sown seeds and the subsequent cereal crops. 

Nevertheless, with government support, the acclimatisation societies continued to promote the introduction of Yellowhammers until 1880, when public pressure forced the rejection of the final shipment. (It was sent on to Australia, where Yellowhammers — unlike several other introduced Old World passerines — failed to thrive.)

From then on, New Zealand treated the Yellowhammer as an unwelcome immigrant and encouraged efforts to wipe it out by shooting, poisoning and egg collection. But, despite a bounty placed on the birds and their eggs, it was too late. With no major competitor among native species, the Yellowhammer rapidly became established. 

Today the Yellowhammer is a common inhabitant of open country across much of the NZ mainland and many of its offshore islands.

Rediscovery of a supposedly extinct bird

Hallelujah! A small Asian bird believed to have died out more than 60 years ago has recently been rediscovered.

Jerdon’s Babbler (Chrysomma altirostre altirostre) is an LBJ ("little brown job") about the size of a House Sparrow. It was initially described in the 19th century by a British naturalist, Thomas C. Jerdon.

Although his main interest was the birds of India, Jerdon discovered his eponymous babbler in 1862 in Burma (or Myanmar, if you must). At the time the bird was common in the grasslands of the country's flood plains. However, this natural habitat was doomed to gradual destruction by rice cultivation and the expansion of Burma's urban population.

Until its recent rediscovery, the last recorded sighting of a Jerdon’s Babbler was a single bird that was “collected”— does that mean shot or just trapped? — on  9 July 1941. This date, of course, was at the height of the Second World War. Soon afterwards the area was occupied by Japanese troops, rendering further scientific investigation impossible. 

Since the 1939–45 war, Jerdon’s drab little Burmese bird has been assumed to be extinct, although related subspecies — which may well be in line for reclassification as distinct species — have lingered elsewhere in Asia.

But the good news is that Jerdon’s Babbler has now been rediscovered. The expansion of rice paddies and a growing human population mean that Burma’s floodplains now bear little resemblance to the landscape that Jerdon studied. However, some tiny remnants of habitat suited to the babbler have managed to survive. 

In 2014, a research team surveying the remaining grasslands recorded a distinctive bird-call. When they played back their recording in the field they were rewarded with the sight of an adult Jerdon’s Babbler. Over the following days they also found more birds at other nearby locations. Using mist nets, they trapped several more babblers and obtained blood samples and photographs to confirm their identification.

It is always heartening to learn about the re-emergence of a creature assumed to be extinct. The rediscovery of Jerdon’s Babbler gives us us hope for the recovery of other Asian species that may have pessimistically been consigned to extinction. 

A murmuration about birding words

The fanciful word “murmuration” means the act of murmuring, complaining or grumbling. Ultimately derived from Latin, it is first known in English from Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, in which The Parson’s Tale (c.1390) includes a sentence beginning,“After bakbitynge [backbiting] cometh grucchynge [grouching] or murmuracioun . . .”.

For more than 500 years, the word has also been used as a collective noun for the Starling. It first appeared with this meaning in The Book of St Albans of 1486, an assortment of essays on hunting, hawking, fishing and heraldry. An appendix to the hunting section, written by St Albans prioress Dame Juliana Barnes, gives a gallimaufry of group names, including murmuration of starlings, gaggle of geese, parliament of rooks and exaltation of larks.

Few of these collective terms have remained in common use. Most are either long-forgotten or employed only pretentiously or jokily. But murmuration is different from the rest in that it has now acquired a precise, practical application. Instead of being found only as a jocular tetrasyllabic alternative to “flock”, murmuration has been used in recent years specifically to describe the spectacular aerobatic displays that large flocks of starlings treat us to on autumnal evenings before they settle down to roost at dusk.

By back-formation from this new usage, we now also have the verb “to murmurate”, meaning to engage in murmuration or to gather together for murmuration. You will not yet find the verb in any dictionary but I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before it is accepted.

I do not mind “murmuration” being used in this new and more functional way, but I do tend to engage in disgrunted murmuration about the way wildlife commentators are now abusing another birding word — fledge. If you believe the BBC’s Springwatch team you will think that a young bird fledges by taking its first flight away from the nest. No, it doesn’t. That definition is not in any dictionary. 

For hundreds of years, the verb fledge has related not to the action of leaving the nest but to the acquisition of the strong wing feathers that will sooner or later allow the young bird to take its first flight. There is always an interval between fledging and flying, since the fledgling (as it can now be called, rather than a nestling) needs to spend time exercising its wings and building up muscle strength before it can finally fly the nest. This may take many days in the case of some larger species.

By misapplying the word fledge to the bird’s first flight, Springwatch has devalued its centuries-old original meaning. The word first appeared in Middle English, when it simply meant feathered, and is derived ultimately from the Old English root word flycge, meaning “having feathers, or fit to fly” — fit to fly, but not necessarily flying.

By the way, and getting back to murmurations, no one knows why Starlings gather in huge flocks to perform their aerial ballets. It may be to attract other Starlings to join them and increase the size of the flock, either because large numbers confuse potential predators or because roosting in dense flocks helps Starlings to keep warm overnight. If you have seen a recent murmuration and want to help with murmuration research, you may wish to complete a Society of Biology survey here.

Doomed Sibes

Every autumn UK twitchers begin to twitch with excitement at the prospect of catching up with rare vagrant songbirds that turn up in small numbers in western Europe after leaving their breeding grounds in the temperate regions of eastern Europe and Asia. Many of these small passerines are known among birders as “Sibes” because their main summer haunt is in Siberia. 

These drifters are almost always juveniles on their first migration — birds that have somehow got their navigational knickers in a twist. Many should have migrated south-east to spend the winter in tropical regions of Asia, but they reach north-west Europe because they have a misaligned internal compass and have set off in the opposite direction. 

These vagrants may appear anywhere in the British Isles, but they are most commonly found on islands at the edge of the Atlantic, such as Fair Isle and the many islands of Shetland and Orkney, where they stop to build up their reserves before attempting to continue their misguided journey over the vast expanse of the North Atlantic. 

Many of these birds are identified after being trapped at bird observatories, such as the famous establishment on Fair Isle, or by bird ringing groups on other islands (or, indeed, anywhere on the British mainland). 

The main purpose of these ringing schemes is to check the movements of individual birds and to discover how long they live. But the chance of learning anything from UK-ringed Sibes is remote because, after their brief break for R&R, most of them will continue doggedly in the wrong direction, setting off across the Atlantic until exhaustion causes them to flop into the waves and either drown or succumb to a pelagic predator. 

We know this is their fate because researchers on the Faroe Island have attached tiny radio transmitters to vagrants such as Yellow-browed Warblers and Barred Warblers and tracked their direction of departure once they have refuelled (see here).

Here’s a recent example of a doomed Sibe. A first-winter female Siberian Thrush — an extremely rare vagrant to western Europe — was trapped and ringed at Husøy in Norway on 24 September 2014. Three weeks later it was recaptured at Scousburgh on Shetland Mainland, 600 miles to the south-west. Perhaps it had followed the Norwegian coast and then turned west when the coastline veered off in a more easterly direction. After its Scousburgh recapture at dusk on 15 October 2014 the thrush was released but was not seen again. Presumably, like other disorientated Sibes, it carried on over the Atlantic until exhaustion led to its watery denouement somewhere in the vastness of the ocean. 

Knowing all this, I cannot get too excited by the annual appearance of Sibes in western Europe. Instead, as a birder rather than a twitcher, I find it dispiriting that these disorientated young birds are almost certainly heading for an early death.