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More than 100 species of birds are described as they are encountered in their habitats  including the crane, goshawk, red kite, honey buzzard, merlin, stone curlew and common ones like the curlew and dipper.

 Even this late in the day, through the dimness I could see conditions were ideal for the owl. The dyke was bordered on both banks by a wide margin of coarse, lifeless grass that bisected a set aside field covered with weeds. This habitat would surely yield a good supply of mice and voles. Suddenly two barn owls appeared flying together in tight circles over the field, hissing gently to each other in what was presumably a courtship ritual. I could clearly make out the pale under-wings of the nearest bird as it passed close by, flapped its wings as delicate as silk and disappeared silently into the night sky. Patiently, while exhaled breath turned to cold mist, I waited for the owls to reappear.  Dense grey clouds suffused with an orange-pink urban glow began to loom large as they sailed towards me from the city several miles to the south.  A slushy hum of distant traffic and a long line of misty yellow lights defined the position of a busy highway as a fog slowly enveloped the fields. There was no flicker of movement and I knew it was time to make my way back to the house.

 Then there are birds remembered from the past –  among many, the red-backed shrike, a pair of Montagu's harriers, a black redstart, a snipe drumming over wet meadows.

  A small shallow pool at the northern edge of a thirty acres plot of ground was the only feature to catch the eye in what was otherwise a bleak grey waste. I can remember seeing no other birds about but perhaps this was because we had eyes only for one small sandy wader that darted across the sky above the pearl ash. It repeatedly called an echoing ‘pew’ as it zigzagged over the site and finally came to alight on the ground. This was the first little ringed plover we had ever seen and its behaviour suggested it was breeding. In flight we had noticed it lacked the white wing bars of the larger ringed plover. Now it had landed we could see its different black and white head pattern clearly and the characteristic white ring around the eye. At first it stood still but soon became restless and ran in short bursts, first one way and then another. Taking up a position behind a low bank where we could observe the dainty bird through our binoculars we waited, heart thumping, to see what would happen next. The plover soon became less agitated but remained alert yet motionless for some time. After a while it started to walk, slowly at first and then at an astounding pace, the like of which I had seldom witnessed before. Sometimes it disappeared behind a clod of earth or sank below a shallow rut in the ground before reappearing once again. After travelling about fifty yards from the place where it had first alighted, the plover finally came to a halt. It looked around furtively for a minute or two to make sure the coast was clear, moved forward a few  paces and then shuffled into a slight depression in the ground. 

 Not all early post war memories are of birds:

 Turning towards Honiley I stopped to gaze at the Tipperary Inn where Harry Williams composed (with Jack Judge) that legendary music which consoled a million troops during the First World War. The pub used to be called ‘The Plough’ until the name was changed to commemorate its most famous tenant. A plaque outside the pub proclaimed ‘Its a long way to Tipperary,’ but it was not so far to the village of Shrewley just a few miles further west along winding country roads. I stopped my car to peer over the bridge that spans a deep railway cutting just beyond the far side of the village. My memory flicked back to a green, great western tank engine chugging up the incline towards the bridge, its golden dome gleaming in the afternoon sunlight. My nostrils smelt a whiff of that wonderful mixture of coal fumes and steam as the train passed underneath. The brown and cream coaches followed and the clanking train slowly receded from view until it became a mere speck in the distance. Within seconds I had been jolted back into reality. I could see no steam engine. Walking a little further I reached the M40 which runs parallel and close to the railway line. The clank of the steam engine was now the roar of the combustion engine, the fumes were those of burnt petrol and diesel, and the rhythm of steel wheels over rail joints was now the liquid slap of rubber on tarmac. The main artery of transport between Birmingham and Warwick had become the M40.

 There are descriptions of scenery:  farms, lanes, canals, fens, woods ------

 At the top of the lane I climbed over a stile and followed the footpath across two small fields towards the perimeter of Hollyberry Wood. Since it was early April the deciduous trees were still devoid of foliage but that detracted nothing from their naked beauty. At a distance, countless twigs and bare branches sketched a soft grey landscape delicately tinted with rustic tones of sienna brown and sage. The silver poles of birch shone in the sunlight while the finer stems reflected shades of winter purple.

  Below me the icy waters of the North Sea, whipped by a cold easterly gale, rushed in waves of angry white foam along the beach and receded with a gravelly roar below the cliffs. On a sandy part of the beach, silvery sanderling chased the receding tide and scampered up the beach on black legs as it rushed in again. At sea, a raft of black specks bobbing up and down, first rising then disappearing with the swell, denoted the position of scores of common scoters.

 The Call of the Country is informative.

 The Brecks have always been important for strange and fascinating birds. In the eighteenth century, flocks of great bustards inhabited the calciferous plains of Wessex and eastern England including the Brecks. In the end this habitat proved too restrictive for the Bustard, a bird the size of a turkey that at one time was as popular at the table of country gentry as the domestic bird is nowadays at Christmas. The last English bird was killed in Norfolk about 1838. Now thirty great bustards have been brought to Salisbury Plain from the Russian Steppes, the first consignment in an ambitious plan to reintroduce this heaviest of all flying birds back into England.

 There are personal memories of people

 Our form teacher ‘Ollie,’ a fifty year old man in pin-striped brown suit with closely cropped grey hair, would ask a pupil whether he wanted the fat cane or the thin one. If the boy asked for the thin one he would sometimes get the other and vice versa. The war had only been over six years and this was evident in the parade ground drilling we received four times a day before classes. ‘Ollie’ would keep each class waiting till the line of forty boys was perfectly still before marching them off to the command of ‘left right left right’. Anyone out of step would be ‘bawled out’ for slovenliness.

 And of wartime

My father reckoned he could tell a German bomber by the uneven beat of its engines and at night we would listen spellbound to the throbbing pistons of any passing aircraft. You could hear a pin drop as the older members of the family strained to identify any machine that was droning overhead.

 There is the excitement and anticipation that birders experience 

I was looking forward to renewing my acquaintance with both the canal and some of its birds. Perhaps the turtle dove had returned and maybe the nightingale was still skulking in thick scrub as it reputedly was in several secret places in the south of the county. The branches of hawthorns laden with fragrant blossom growing on both sides of the road looked quite beautiful. I felt optimistic as I suddenly found myself at the canal-bridge, confident that on a day like this the canal would harbour no secrets.

 There are conservation issues. The need to protect our environment and its birds is a theme running throughout the book.

 Birds face all sorts of hazards on migration. Rainless seasons drying up water holes, pesticides sprayed from aircraft to kill swarms of pestilent locusts, mist nets set to trawl birds for human consumption in their winter quarters in Africa. Birds that winter at sub-Saharan locations are especially vulnerable. This may partly account for the willow warbler being scarcer than the chiffchaff and the blackcap since both winter farther north. The hazards of a desert crossing may also explain the drastic variation in numbers of birds like the willow warbler and house martin arriving in this country from one spring to the next.    

 Total war against grubs, insects and weeds is a war against the base of the food chain. The logic is undeniable. This war of annihilation, if completely successful, will eliminate wildlife altogether.

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Telephone: UK: 01974 261350, International: (+44) 1974 261350

 Final Word

 I hope you enjoy the book!

Brian O’Shea.