Grove Ferry 5th May 1999

Dave Carr

A cup of coffee, half empty, had gone cold, a dark ring beginning to form on the inside of the cup. Near by stood a breakfast bowl, its once crisp contents now turned to a fibrous mush, the cereals having soaked up all the milk. Draped on the stairs were a pair of trousers and on the landing a single slipper lay on its side, T-shirts and socks were randomly scattered around the bedroom. Cupboard and wardrobe doors had been left open, the whole house looking like a modern day Marie Celeste . What could have happened here early this morning? What urgency had taken over the resident to make him take flight and leave the house in such a state?

It was about 8:50 a.m. when the phone rang for the second time and gulping down a mouthful of cereal, I begrudgingly leapt up to answer it. Not more reminders from Jude about tasks I keep overlooking, it could only have been five minutes since her last call. An acerbic ‘hello' failed to disguised the frustration of being interrupted yet again during my breakfast. At the other end of the line a nervous, if not a restrained neurotic voice, said ‘Dave?' It was Chris Abrams, and realising I wasn't about to be reminded that the lawn needed cutting or that I should phone someone about something as I had the morning off, I lightened the tone of my voice. Before I could fully reply with a greeting the reason for his neurosis was out. ‘I've found a Slender-billed Gull at Grove Ferry!' his excitement filling the phone-box and probably slipping out through the gap at the bottom of the door. His mobile telephone was broken and with only three 10p coins in his pocket I was one of the people he phoned.

Like the deadliest of diseases the excitement was contagious and within seconds I showed all the advanced symptoms. From that precious moment the clocks may well have just stopped for nothing else mattered. I was focused to the point of having tunnel vision: I put the phone the down, I got dressed, picked up my bins and scope and was on the road. The drive was quick, at times white-knuckle, as I made full use of my car's two litres. On the straighter, less hassled stretches, I wondered into a daydream. I felt honoured at being one of the first to receive the news and, though I would have done anyway, felt obliged to respond quickly. I drifted back to previous sightings of Slender-billed; though I'd seen then only a few weeks ago in India my strongest vision was of my first sighting, a small flock on the salt pans of the Camargue some nine years earlier. These were the most beautiful of gulls, elegant, graceful and with, I would expect, the softest of feathers.

Decision time brought me back to reality: how to get around Canterbury and avoid the traffic. Several options were open but none of them ideal, having chose one I settled in for the obvious slow down in pace and increase in tension. What if the bird has gone and where exactly is it - Chris didn't say or was I too excited to remember? What if I miss it? While such thoughts began to pollute my heady state, experience tells me they only serve to prepare one for the possibility of failure, allowing for a restrained come down rather than a crash dive. Still, while driving along the Stodmarsh road and less than ten minutes away the site the thought of turning back lingered in my mind for a little too long.

The logic of the route I took worked out impeccably. Avoiding the slow traffic via Sturry allowed me to approach Grove Ferry the best way to figure out were Chris would be. I rounded a corner on the twisting marsh road and found his car. Stopping here I could see Chris a few yards up the road looking through his scope. He was alone, an hour had elapsed since his call and no one else had arrived yet – franticly he waved me over. Out of breath from my sprint up the road he offered me his scope and there it was, this most rare and elegant of British Ticks!

The Slender-billed Gull was flying low over a near by flood, accompanied by a Black-headed Gull. I should have been noting their respective differences: flight pattern, wing shape, plumage, etc. I did try but what the hell! I was out of breath, my pulse was racing and the sense of euphoria had my head spinning – I wasn't going to let cold scientific objectivity spoil the occasion. The Slender-billed soon settled on the water, swimming along, delicately taking insects from the surface. Even though the slightly fuzzy English sunshine couldn't match the brilliance of that in the Camargue this bird looked no less impressive than those of 1990 did. Its forward tilting gait giving it a slightly comical appearance, a feature supported by its long facial expression that seems to start at the back of its head. Yet, its ice-white colouring and slight pinkish flush to the breast make this the most subtle to gulls – not a quality we expect from a family of birds who show a preference for rubbish dumps and sewage outfalls.

The tension and anxiety had gone; the clocks could now start again. I was only the second birder to see the gull but soon others began to arrive. Jack Chantler was the first, he pulled up along side us cursing the slow moving A28, took a quick look through a scope before going off to park his car. With more local birders arriving the formal and informal network went into over drive as call after call was made on mobile phones. I stayed for about an hour and a quarter, enjoying not just the bird but the human story as one excited birder after another told of the sudden illnesses, forgotten meetings and car breakdowns necessary either to get out of work or not go in. For once my shift pattern worked to my aid, not having to be in the prison until lunchtime. In the warm post-twitch afterglow I took a leisurely drive home, reflecting upon my continuing good year and how fortunate I had been to be on the first wave of this ‘mega' twitch. Reality did return somewhat abruptly though, seeing the state of the house when I got back, for a moment I thought I'd been burgled!