I often find myself searching my memory as far back as I can go for the spark that started me birding. I know where and when I started being a birder, that bit is easy. A warm summer morning in the late eighties, a fretful baby waiting for a hernia operation and a long calming walk in the hours when only the birdsong and milkman were company. We stopped on a small bridge over a stream, a Grey Heron stalked slowly downstream amongst the streamside vegetation, then a burst of iridescent blue tore along the watercourse and my first Kingfisher left me wanting more.
I go further back into the origins of my interest in birds, how I knew that a Kingfisher was a Kingfisher even though I hadn’t picked up a bird book for many years. A schoolboy egg collection and a house near the sea, as well as a childhood that allowed me to become acquainted with almost every nook and cranny for 4km in any direction. was perhaps no different to many of my peers. National Geographic Angry Bird
No comments:
Post a Comment