BBC's Winterwatch visit to RSPB Old Moor
'On the Search for Bittern'
by Jacob Negus-Hill, RSPB Old Moor Residential Volunteer
It’s a very cold December evening and myself - Jacob, and two other residential volunteers are sat in Old Moor’s bird monitoring hide. Tom is scanning the extensive reed bed in front of us with a thermal imaging camera, Henry is talking out loud about the behavioral patterns of the bittern, and I’m breathing hot air into my cold hands. We’re losing light rapidly but that’s fine. We’re hoping a bittern - one that we know is hiding in the reeds - will show up as a red blob against a sea of blue on the thermal camera’s screen. The darker it gets the greater the contrast will be.
We’ve been sent here on a reconnaissance mission. Find the bittern! Tomorrow, we have the team from BBC’s Winterwatch coming with exactly the same goal. If we can find it now, it’ll make the next day a lot easier.
But it’s a bittern we’re talking about: a notoriously elusive, shy and exceedingly well camouflaged bird that’s known for secrecy. It’s cryptic coloration makes it so difficult to spot that counts and surveys of the bird are taken by listening for it’s famous boom - the breeding calls that males make during spring. It’s a peculiar noise unlike anything else in the avian world that sounds sort of like a five year old attempting to play the didgeridoo. They raise the wooden instrument to their mouth and exhale with all their might into one short exasperating bhohhhhmmm. It’s a noise that you can feel. Deep and guttural with bass and audible from up to five kilometer’s away. For those unprepared, the call is ripe for mythologising, and could reasonably be thought to come from the mouth of some ghoul or monster. It’s still a wonder how something so loud and commanding can come from a creature so small.
The next morning, the Winterwatch team arrive.
“I’m not leaving until I find a bittern,” declares Jack Baddams to the camera. He’s this episode’s presenter. I tell him that we held a stake out last night but didn’t have any luck. The team are determined and undeterred.
They cart their equipment onto the site and begin walking through the maze of paths leading up to the reedbeds. It’s a crisp icy morning and the power lines that run over parts of the reserve are noisily fizzing in the freezing air. It’s an eerie sound that gives our low visibility morning an ominous tone.
After filming several walks and statements, it’s time for Jack to interview Emma Tuckey, Old Moor’s Site Manager, who humbly declares in front of thousands of potential viewers that shes lost count of how many bitterns she’s seen here. Jack, a committed birder who is yet to tick the bittern off his life-list, is barely able to to hide his jealousy.
Emma Tuckey RSPB Dearne Valley site manager being interviewed by Jack Baddams - BBC Winterwatch
“So why is Old Moor so attractive for the bittern?” he asks.
Emma makes the case that Old Moor has a particularly rich reed-water-interface, essentially declaring that our purposeful management of the reedbed into a mesh of meandering pathways creates a desirable habitat for the bittern, who love nothing more than to sit on the perimeter of the reeds and fish for eels in the water. Sure, dense reeds are nice for staying warm, and especially useful in winter when the temperature plummets, but the bittern while away time on the edge of the water, fishing at their own leisure. Not a bad life, I think. I know many people with similar hobbies.
Word must have spread on the site, and two birders join us in between spots of filming. “Caught one yet?” they ask. The object of the statement doesn’t need declaring. “Don’t worry,” they joke, “we’ll find one for yer” and settle down onto the benches and begin to pour out flasks of tea.
Like many birds, the bittern has evolved to survive in its own niche environment. It’s almost impossible to spot a static bittern with the naked eye, especially when they freeze and point their necks upwards along with the direction of the reeds. But we’re in possession of a secret piece of technology that will make tracking them infinitely easier. Recall our failed recon mission last night; spotting a bittern with a thermal imaging camera through the dense reeds wasn’t possible as the heat sensor couldn’t penetrate the thickness of the reed. But if we were able to point the thermal camera down, from above, so that the reeds appear more sparse, we might have a chance. Cue BBC Winterwatch’s thermal drone.
The unassuming remote control craft whizzes into the air and I start imagining the poor thing buzzing into the pylons around us. Apparently such a thing isn’t uncommon and it’s specifically mentioned in the risk assessment. One member of the team has their eyes on the craft at all times while the others jostle around the pilot’s screen to view the camera.
It takes a while but eventually the team begin bouncing around and passing the camera screen back and fourth. The excitement is tangible.
In the reedbed, about 5 feet in from where we held the stake out last night, they’ve found a bittern, perched on the edge of the water. The red blob is static until it extends its unmistakable neck out and lunges into the water.
We re watched the footage on the ordinary lens and you can’t see a thing - there’s barely even movement. But when you watch it in thermal you can see the hyperextended neck leading into a long and pointy beak. The shape is unlike anything else. And then it retracts, presumably with a fish in its mouth.
There’s a heated discussion about whether this counts as actually seeing a bittern. Can Jack tick the bittern off his life-list? We’re leaning with no, but that only means he’ll have to make his way back in spring, where he’ll be able to hear the call and get a glimpse with his naked eye.
Jack, if you read this blog, this is what a Bittern looks like