The wind gusted in from behind us, blowing over the grassy path we were walking down and into the furrowed beet-field. As we walked along this completely exposed cliff-edge, my friend suddenly gestured out to sea and shouted ‘Short-eared Owl’ at me. It was quite a way off, loping into a tall cloud away to the north. This languid owl looked out of place over the water, usually seen hunting low over a grazing marsh, with a backdrop of winter sky behind them. It was what you call an ‘in-off’ bird, as in one that literally comes in off the sea. We spent some time watching it turn and soar into the cloud, lazily, yet with great power and purpose. As it faded into the grey, we turned and started to walk on, but he jumped again ‘what was that?’ His senses were heightened. He’d seen a small bird dart over the cliff edge and strafe low into the adjacent field. A female Wheatear. Yet another bird, ending their migration on our clifftop outpost. A journey concluding over weathered sea-defences and crumbling sand and clay.

We were out looking for migrant birds, at a favoured east Norfolk coastal site of mine, Happisburgh. Just for the morning, as time is precious when you have a young baby and birdwatching opportunities have to be savoured. There were two of us, me and a friend, and we’d both not been out to indulge in our hobby for a while. It was great to be out except, as the morning and then the rest of the day unfolded – a tide of negativity started to wash over me. It was those classic ‘easterly issues’ again, except usually, the issues came because I couldn’t get out. This time I was out but still, I just couldn’t stop myself from looking at what other people were finding around the coast. The fabled easterly winds had hit the county again and it seemed like everyone, except us, was finding scarce birds.

Now this is jars with my back to basics and mindfulness approaches to birdwatching that I extol and write about. I’ve covered this at length in the book and sometimes, stripping these layers away to expose the raw beauty of the hobby is a tough ask. Ultimately I think that part of me wishes I’d never tasted the marvels of bird-migration and finding scarce birds, in my early days of taking an interest. It adds an expectation, unnecessarily so, to these autumn forays, the likes of which I never experience back on the patch. Maybe that’s  it? At the patch, anything remotely unusual is a mega-reward for all the dedication and time, spent nurturing that relationship and intrinsic understanding of the land, that grows with having a local patch. Up on the coast, with favourable weather conditions, there becomes an expectation that there will be something ‘good’ (whatever that is) and so when those expectations fall – so can your mood.

I spoke to my friend and then another one, pondering why I felt so disappointed. The one I spent the morning with rightfully said ‘we saw some great birds, I had a good morning!’ and the other said that’s just the nature of our hobby, at this time of the year. I then go through a cycle, where I get really negative and despondent about it and soon come to realise that birdwatching is microcosmic. Those that are able to be out all the time, often have different motivations or reasons for being able to. It’s not representative of what most peoples lives are actually like. That’s comforting and reassuring, and I can bat those easterly issues way out west again.

Here are the two old blogs I wrote about this topic:

The work/birding paradox (2015)

Easterly issues (2016)

Yesterday, the Guardian newspaper ran an article titled ‘Scottish GPs to begin prescribing rembling and birdwatching.’ I had been shared the press release the day before, so knew it was coming, but was still interested to see what the reaction would be.

I was glad that NHS Shetland were keen to point out that it would be used to supplement other treatments and not replace. This is important. Nature is simply not a ‘cure-all’ and whilst it really can help, it is often alongside other ‘conventional’ methods. This is something I’ve explored and reiterated in my book as for me, birdwatching isn’t some kind of miracle cure, it has worked alongside other things – medication, counselling and mindfulness practice.

The article states that patients will be given information sheets, with walk maps, guides and wildlife calendars. Which is great in essence, but only if someone is able to self-direct their own therapy. I’ve done a lot of research into this, as one of the things I’ll be doing in the future, is offering structured birdwatching activities, to help people. Therein lies some of the issues.

For birdwatching to be therapeutic, I strongly believe in a back-to-basics approach – stripping away additional layers that come with it being a targeted hobby (twitching, listing, competing) and falling in love with the raw beauty of place and nature. To do this, there does need to be some element of guidance and not in the form of a piece of paper. Then there’s the accessibility (or lack of) in a lot of nature reserves and truly ‘wild’ places. What about socio-economics too? ‘Decent’ binoculars are not cheap!

Buddy systems, walks, silent spaces, basic bird ID sessions, community bird-feeding initiatives, linking to art and culture – there’s so much that can and could be done to help making nature (in this case, birdwatching) a feasible ‘treatment’, but there needs to be more collaboration. There are lots of effective projects out there, but we need to work together.

This is the approach I took to Downing Street when invited, although I don’t remain that hopeful of any progress. It’s also something that my local area is really far behind on. I recently spoke to an organisation involved in social prescribing in Norfolk, who said there wasn’t even a list of nature-based intervention-lead organisations anywhere. Just look at the excellent work of Natural Choices and Dr. Andy Mayers in Dorset.

My book will feature some tips at the end of each chapter, on how to apply the chapter theme, to nature and birdwatching experiences. Perhaps this will help put things into context, perhaps the book will too, but it’s tough to say what will happen. I remain hopeful that positive change will come though.

So, we’ve considered the value of field guides as a supplement to the ‘art’ of birdwatching and right now, you’re reading a book on the benefits of birdwatching for mental health and wellbeing. The wealth of available material means that there are always opportunities to expand your knowledge through reading. Of course, reading reams of research and guidance can help to inform you as a birdwatcher but the best resource that’s available is there all the time and costs nothing. Getting outside and actually  doing some birdwatching.

This is the kinaesthetic aspect, the actual act of watching birds. Almost every experience I’ve shared has involved me going outside and immersing within nature – not just an act of doing but also an act of being. Being attuned to nature is an act in itself and comes naturally to those of us who spend a lot of time outdoors. I can recall many occasions when I’ve been out at my patch on my own. My purpose usually starts with looking for and observing birds but I often just stop and fill up with joy at the wonder of being outdoors. A few days before writing this I had one such experience at a local site.

I was in what I call the ‘mindfulness butterfly glade’. It was incredibly sunny and, in its warmth, I stood watching Small Copper butterflies flutter from flower to flower in front of me. To my immediate right, in a pocket of gorse, a Whitethroat and a Garden Warbler scratched and bubbled their familiar melodies. I started to become aware of the fact that I felt very positive, elated by the warmth of the sun, the greenness of the flora, the colours of the butterflies and the sweetness of birdsong. I felt amazing and it was all because of the healing powers of the natural environment. Just being.

I know it’s unlikely that many people will see this, although it would be useful if regular readers would consider sharing on Twitter, as it’s essentially a plea for help.

Basically, I’ve started to put together the basic framework for a Bird Therapy teaching resource, to work alongside the book. I’m aiming it at KS3-4 and it will be a PSHE resource, with some outdoor/science activities mixed into it.

It will have lots of embedded videos, covering book readings and activity introductions. I’ve already got a number of people who have said they are willing to contribute video shorts on why they love being outdoors and how it helps their mental health and wellbeing. It would be good to expand this too. I also intend to make a series of worksheets to go with each one, including book extracts and extension activities.

I’m looking for suggestions and collaboration from anyone who teaches PSHE, or is involved with school enrichment or SEN; preferably with an interest in nature. I have a vision of what I think it should look like and I love planning and making resources, but nothing beats the input of others.

I managed to keep some contact details when I took Twitter hiatus, but I’m sure there are more people who would be interesting in helping. Please do share this if you can and if you would like to help, please email me at birdtherapy@hotmail.co.uk

Joe

It’s been a torrid time of late – well, only inside my mind. Previous blogs have documented my social media struggles, but hopefully that’s all been knocked on the head now, as I’ve allowed someone I trust, to login and change my Twitter password so I simply can’t access it. I can now sink back into a routine of work and family life, without trying to be something that I’m not. I can also focus on what I really enjoy – writing.

After work yesterday, I decided to offset some of the muddling thoughts I’ve been having, by making a long-awaited return to the water-bearing part of my patch. I parked up, readied my optics and walked out onto the luscious ‘fairway’ leading down to the main lake. Past drooping Willows and spindly Hawthorns, the walk was green and pure – cleansing my mind and cushioning my being. It felt amazing to be back.

I strolled into the shaded passage that leads to the lake edge. A natural underpass that opens out onto the lime-green waters, that in late-summer, resemble some kind of kale and kiwi smoothie that’s been poured over its surface. I was daydreaming – remembering why I love this place so much – when a ‘Tuuuuuuui, tu, tu, tui, tui’ punctuated the stillness. A Sandpiper. Green. There was more than one – where were they? My binoculars raised and I strafed the lake until one swept into my view with a flurry awkward and pulsating wing-beats. It desperately fluttered on the algal-blooms, looking for a footing, then realised that it’s favoured muddy edges don’t exist here. Two met up and hurriedly searched for a landing spot, then another joined them, before all three seemed to coalesce and form an upwardly-spiralling pirouette – up and over the far treeline and away. Their calls diminishing as they disappeared from view.

I scanned the lake some more. The ducks had started to amass there again; Gadwall, Mallard and Teal dominated. There were four Little Grebes by the reeds on the far edge, the most I’d seen there in a year or so. The Cygnets were almost adult-size now. Specks of snow-white starting to glimmer through their grey-lintel down. Then a chitter-chatter descended, as a small group of Martins and Swallows dropped in, to scoop up a drink from the lake in front of me. I lowered my optics, left my scope and just stood, watching them with the ‘naked’ eye. It reminded me of the innate wonder of birds – sometimes you don’t need the optics and you don’t need to get closer to be with birds. Their beauty is often best beheld in these moments.

I walked on, under the Alders and down to the dense scrubby area in the southeast corner. A veritable warbler warren, this scrub was often densely packed with birds and I noted the abundance of Elderberries this year. Had I noticed these before, or were my senses at that heightened stage where you become attuned to place and purpose? Autumn was shifting into play and this would be a good place to keep an eye on. To the here and now though, there was a fair amount of skulking movement within the intertwined branches – time to focus. Such an abundance of Chiffchaffs, communicating  with each other using gentle ‘hu-weet’ calls – a family party, I was sure. They kept flicking up and over into the same place in the scrub. Their home, I warmly thought.

A yellower bird, sleeker and more assured, came into view. A Willow Warbler, wearing that fresh lemon curd coat, then another. A bulkier bird bumbled along the branches, chestnut tones with a soft-grey face – a Common Whitethroat. Then I was distracted as a bird shot out of the Alder above me, only to return on the exact trajectory it left on and to the same spot. It did it again. A small bird, light in colour, but assertive in its flight course. I knew that motion. It was a Flycatcher. I watched until it flew again and I could track it back to the branch which it left from. Yes. A Spotted Flycatcher. Such demure and gentle looking birds. Beautiful and such posers, as this photo shows.

I had returned. Walked those familiar pathways and thought those rejuvenating thoughts. The thoughts that formed the underpinning of my book. I had fallen back into, and back in love with, the local landscape. My place. My patch. We were reacquainted,

Joe