Good Friday

April 4, 2026April 4, 2026 / Benjamin Barnabas / Leave a comment

Hotel Riviera Colonial, Arequipa. 19.00

Some days I am extremely grateful for being an optimist. Today was definitely one of those days.

I was up at 2.30am – by far the earliest start of the whole trip – to catch the tour bus to Colca from outside my hotel (or rather, the hotel I originally booked, as they made a mistake with their booking and put me in a sister establishment seven minutes down the road). Unlike the social media savvy PeruHop, I didn’t have an awful lot to go on as to precisely which bus I was meant to be looking out for… just a vague indication that I would be picked up from my alojamiento between 2.50 and 3.20am. I got there for 2.51 at a very brisk walk, passing a couple of buses along the way, and as the time went by and no bus appeared, I began to wonder whether I had missed it. It would be a first for South America – an extremely prompt bus – but your mind plays those sorts of tricks on you when you’re tired and traveling solo far from home.

Just as the numbers on my phone’s screen switched to 3.20am, a man jumped out of a small people carrier at the end of the road and asked if I was Benjamin. I was evidently their last pick-up, because as soon as I was on board we set out on the three-hour journey to Chivay, the gateway to Colca Canyon.

Unlike my companions – Peruvian to the last man – I’m not sure I managed any sleep. The windows were so heavily fogged up with their breath that my continued attempts to clear a viewing panel never lasted any longer than a few seconds. Even so, between the twilight and the condensation, I spotted my first herds of camelids out on the altiplano. Vicuñas, I suppose – I don’t think you get guanacos this far north.

Today’s journey took me up into the Andes for the first time. We stopped at a mirador some 4.910 metres above sea level, which is easily the highest I’ve ever climbed in my life – and this isn’t even the Andes proper. The ground was covered in a thin layer of frost, turning the many hundreds of stone cairns all around into petrified snowmen. A few hardy native women wrapped up from head to toe in colourful scarves were bravely plying their wares to each and every bus that stopped by – which, this being Good Friday and thus a national holiday, was no small number.

The snow-capped peaks of the Andes were all around us now. Away to the west, one of them was producing its own clouds, billowing slowly from its summit: Sabancaya, the Tongue of Fire, a volcano that erupted into life in 2015. I’ve heard an active volcano before, way back when I was looking for mountain gorillas on the Congolese border, I’ve experienced their terrifying tremors and I’ve even seen the sky glow red from their magma, but I’ve never actually laid eyes on one.

From the frozen heights of the Mirador, we climbed slowly back down into the valley below to the town of Chivay, where we stopped for a light breakfast of boiled eggs, flatbread and a watery but absolutely delicious kind of porridge. While the others dosed up on coffee, I made sure to sift through the teabags and find the one containing mate de coca. I had a feeling I was going to need it. I even took a couple extra for the road.

From Chivay, we made straight for the canyon. The sun was just about at that optimal point in the sky for thermals, and everybody knew it. Our daring driver tried to overtake a particularly stubborn tour bus on at least four occasions, but their driver was having none of it.

Fortunately, despite the potentially alarming number of graves and shrines at the side of the road, the bus cut a safe path through the canyon, treating us to spectacular views along the way.

We reached the Cruz del Condor at around 8.45 – along with the rest of Peru, by the looks of things. And we couldn’t have timed it better! I had barely managed to get the camera strap around my neck when our guide pointed out a huge shadow cresting the ridge, right over the heads of the gathering crowd: a juvenile Andean condor. I didn’t need the lens to work that one out, since only the adults have the telltale white scarf.

I had to make a choice: climb up to the melee of the Cruz del Cóndor itself, or try my luck at the quieter vantage point further along the ravine.

I went for the former – which, in the circumstances, was absolutely the right thing to do.

I found a space for myself near the top, where a young couple had lately been taking selfies. I didn’t have to wait long. Another enormous shape – this time a fully-grown adult – came soaring up the canyon toward us.

I knew the odds at Colca were good, but I had no idea the views would be quite this good. As my guide put it, I “came prepared with the big gun”, but I might just as well have brought the 300mm, since they came so close. I might even have got the whole bird in the frame, especially when one of them flew straight overhead at so low an altitude that I could hear the whoosh of the wind in its massive wings.

I’ll be honest with you – and with myself. This is why I’m here. It was condors or bust. The Amazon tour awaits – though that feels like a very distinct holiday – and the things that I have seen so far have been incredible, but it has all been a crescendo up to this moment. I am, unashamedly, a vulture fanatic, and there probably isn’t a greater quest out there for a vulture fiend like me than tracking down the largest vulture on the planet.

Genuinely, I’d have settled for a distant sighting against the backdrop of the mighty Andes, like the one below, but somebody up there is being extremely generous.

My only regret is remembering the continuous shoot mode on my camera after I had got back onto the bus. Then again, with 1,400 photos already on my memory card out of a possible 4,000 and six days in the Amazon still to go – other adventures notwithstanding – perhaps I could afford to be conservative!

There are plenty of other high montane species to be found around the Colca Canyon, including giant hummingbirds and hillstars, but I was quite happy to give all of my time to the condors – especially as we only had forty minutes. It’s moments like these that remind me (with no small amount of relief) that I am a naturalist and not a twitcher.

That said, I did finally manage to catch up with Peru’s answer to the house sparrow, the handsome rufous-crowned sparrow, as there were a few of them scampering about the car park.

Leaving Colca and its condors behind, we returned the way we had come, stopping in the mountain hold of Maca for a bit of souvenir shopping. I’m useless at buying souvenirs, so I used the time to explore the town and its church. Earthquakes are common in this part of Peru, and Maca’s church – like every other church in the canyon – was held up both outside and in by a scaffold of supportive struts. Many of these churches date back to the time of the reducciones, when the Spanish forced the indigenous Quechua people out of the mountains and into the towns and villages, where they could be counted, controlled and – most importantly – taxed.

There are a number of statues and sculptures in town, but the one that really caught my eye was one I’d spotted on the way out, featuring an Inca warrior fighting off a conquistador. Apart from the churches, this is actually the first obvious reference to the Spanish invasion I’ve been able to find. I was expecting more. Perhaps they will become more obvious in Cusco.

The next stop on the tour took us to a river valley near Chivay famous for its hot springs. Most of the others went for a dip in the baths, along with hundreds of other Peruvians enjoying their Good Friday holiday. Following a tip-off from a blog I’d read recently, I set off in the opposite direction and climbed up into the hills, where it was significantly quieter. From there, you can see all the way up to a range of snowbound peaks where, if my guide is correct, the Amazon river is born.

I had another run-in with the tiny, sparrow-sized ground-doves that seem to be the only animal in Peru with a healthy fear of man – I hadn’t been able to catch a photo of one for love nor money! I also disturbed a tinamou, a Peruvian gamebird more closely related to the ratites (rheas, emus etc) than to the partridges and pheasants which they resemble. It too was much too quick for me, disappearing into the scrub below before I could distinguish anything more than a jagged crest. I’ll have to check later when I have signal, as there’s been precious little up here in the mountains.

Lunch was a spectacular buffet with a wide array of Peruvian options, including alpaca (tough and beefy), lamb (in a delicious green Andean sauce) and chicharrón, an old favourite. The trout soup I had for starters was one of the best I’ve ever had in my life, and tasted almost exactly the way I always imagined Yeto’s superb soup in Zelda: Twilight Princess (right down to the rich cheesy flavour).

Half of our group was suffering from the effects of mal de altura, especially the young family of four from Lima (with the possible exception of their eight-year-old daughter, who seemed utterly immune to its debilitating effects). I thanked my stars for my constitution, my luck or the coca tea I had earlier in the morning, because I didn’t seem to have been affected at all.

The return journey to Arequipa took us back across the altiplano which we had crossed in the darkness this morning. Once we were down and out of the high mountains, we reached a large stretch of Andean prairie, pockmarked with spongy pools. There was a small herd of alpacas grazing, but they weren’t alone. With the weather still holding out (and only just), I had the chance to see the vicuñas I’d only glimpsed this morning, grazing not too far from the road.

Alpaca wool is world-famous for its warmth and softness – and justifiably so – but vicuña wool is in a class all of its own. Like chamois leather, there must be something about a life lived high up in the mountains that makes their pelts unbelievably soft. I’m quite happy to see it on the body of the animal it belongs to, but I was concerned that this blog was becoming less informative and more “I went here and saw this”, so I thought a fact or two might even things out!

As well as the vicuñas, there were four other altiplano specialists in and around the pools: Andean geese, Andean gulls, a number of very handsome Puna teals and, further off, the swamphen-sized giant coots that can only be found high up in the mountains. It was only a five minute stop, and I’ll be back tomorrow to explore this part of the reserve, so I prioritised the gull and teals.

Teals of any variety are always well-dressed birds, as though the Creator gave them first choice of evening wear, but I thought these blue-billed mountain ducks were especially smart.

One last stop – a glorified toilet break, I suspect – set us down at the edge of the altiplano, with stunning views of the conical volcano that lords over Arequipa, known as El Misti. It was quite a sight as I touched down in Arequipa yesterday, but even more impressive without the sprawl of the city at its feet. The influence of El Misti is everywhere in Arequipa, also known as the White City, since most of the buildings are constructed out of the white volcanic ashlar stone that gave the city its title. It hasn’t had a major eruption since the time of the Inca Empire, more than five hundred years ago, but it remains an active volcano – and a potential threat to the city of Arequipa which lies at its feet.

Today started out potentially dicey and wound up being the best day of the adventure so far. I’ve had Good Fridays that were memorable, but this one really takes the biscuit. This was a very, very Good Friday. I’ll be sure to give the Lady of the Marshes the thanks she deserves tonight.

Once again, I am reminded that optimism is the right outlook, no matter how bad things get. It’s also categorically impossible to be worried or sad in a country as full of natural wonders as Peru.

This country has won me over. The Peruvians are so kind and seem to care a great deal more about the natural world than the average European. The salespeople understand boundaries. The food is incredible (I’m aware I’ve used the phrase “best ever” at least twice now). The mountains take my breath away, without leaving my head spinning (so far). The women are beautiful – and they give you the time of day. The plants are fascinating, the animals are incredible and the birds are nothing short of spectacular.

I’m often asked by my students which, of all the places I’ve been, is my favourite country. Spain has been uncontested for all my life, and it always will be. But at least now I have a definitive second place where there wasn’t before. Someday, God willing, I’ll be back. BB x

Penguins in the Desert

April 2, 2026April 7, 2026 / Benjamin Barnabas / Leave a comment

Hostal Pariwana, Lima. 8.05.

Today is a travel day. My onward flight to Arequipa doesn’t leave until 5pm – a luxury in a trip full of early starts – so I’m having a proper rest this morning.

It also gives me ample time to give yesterday’s adventure the write-up it deserves.

When I leave Lima for Arequipa on Thursday, I won’t see the Pacific again until I return to the capital for my flight home in just over two weeks’ time. That means saying goodbye to something awesome and powerful that has been the eternal backdrop to my Peruvian adventures thus far, and trading it in for the majesty of the Andes, the longest mountain chain in the world.

I couldn’t leave without going out onto the waters of the Pacific at least once, so today I jumped onto a trip to the Islas Ballestas – the Ballista Islands – run by the Peruvian tourism colossus, Peru Hop.

Paracas is a proper schlep from Lima – four hours, to be precise – so the company’s iconic red bus picked me up at 5.30am. One of the backpackers from my hostel panicked because it wasn’t there bang on half past, which I thought was surprising from a person who had been traveling South America far longer than I. In any event, the guides came looking for us at each hostel along the way, which I thought was bloody efficient, given the size of Lima itself.

Peru goes to the polls to elect its next president on the 12th April, and there are billboards for the various presidential candidates everywhere. Comedians. Bankers. Career politicians and military generals. Relatives of former presidents. Every district seems to have its own champion. If it’s a two-horse race like it so often is elsewhere in the world, you’d never know at a glance.

I’ll be deep in the Amazon rainforest when it all goes down, but at least I’ll be here. What a time to be in Peru!

The bus to Paracas was packed – every seat taken. Mostly young backpackers, but a scattering of older couples as well. A British woman all in pink ended up next to me – pink crop top, pink smartwatch, pink nails, pink leggings, pink lipstick, pink stripes on her shoes, pink cover for her phone, pink handbag… An Essex Elle Woods if ever there were one. I suspect she was off to Pisco and Huacachina for wine-tasting and dune-buggying, rather than a tour of the national park. To quote an old friend, “you don’t need foundation for a safari”.

In Paracas, all three buses in our convoy were disgorged onto the steps of the Hotel Residencial Los Frailes, before being led straight to the jetty for the boat trip to the Islas Ballestas. Honestly, I was expecting more hassle from local touts on route, but my experience so far of Peruvian hawkers is that they are considerably less aggressive in their tactics than their African and Asian counterparts. I wasn’t hassled once.

There’s plenty to see before you even leave the still waters of the harbour. Neotropic cormorants are just about everywhere, perched on the hulls of almost every skiff in the bay, but they’re far from the most obvious residents of Paracas.

Far larger and more impressive are the pelicans, with a seven foot wingspan and standing at around five feet tall. That’s as tall as the average Peruvian woman. They’re not exactly shy, either. While they’re more commonly observed resting on boats and skiffs or crashing headfirst into the sea in a clumsy imitation of the Peruvian booby, they can often be found right at the heart of human activity. There were a few loitering around the jetty in Paracas, but I had a boat to catch, so I made a mental note to swing by later.

The Peruvian coastline from the sea is nothing short of mesmerising: undulating deserts of marbled rock set against a powder-blue sky that lightens toward the horizon. The cliffs are scored with white, a combination of thousands of years of accumulated salt and guano, the bird droppings that once made Peru one of the richest countries in South America.

One of the most iconic sights in this corner of Peru is the enormous geoglyph, “El Candelabro”. This 170 metre tall symbol was carved into the earth some 2,500 years ago and, due to the extreme scarcity of rainfall here (it rains for an average of thirty minutes a year), it has never been washed away.

Scholars believe it may be related in some way to the Nazca lines, which can be found further inland along the coast. I had originally planned to see these for myself, but they aren’t on my itinerary this year. Maybe next time.

Everyone on the boat got up on their feet to get a photo or selfie with the enormous geoglyph, but I was quite happy with the one picture I had. I was a lot more trigger-happy with the feathered denizens of the cliffs – the pelicans, boobies and Inca terns – which were fishing all around us. They made for quite an awesome sight against the backdrop of the desert.

After visiting the geoglyph, the captain turned the boat around and stepped on the gas in the direction of the islands. The Islas Ballestas take their name from the crossbow used by hunters long ago against the thousands of birds who call these craggy cliffs home.

Incidentally, that’s also where the name “booby” comes from. These beautiful seabirds were bobos to Spanish sailors – stupid – because they were so unafraid of people that they came right up to the boats, only to be captured and clubbed to death. Boobies are extremely monogamous, usually pairing just once during their lifetimes. It is said that they will perish of a broken heart if their partner is killed. As such, they are also known in Peru as “bobos románticos”.

It says a lot about the human character that we once saw such devotion as something foolish.

These islands were once home to an enormous colony of guanay cormorants – the primary source of the guano on these cliffs – but they have all but evacuated the place. The reason is not hunting or overfishing but the vicious avian flu epidemic in 2022, which cost the lives of nearly six hundred sea lions and fifty-five thousand seabirds, decimating the islands’ populations of boobies, pelicans, cormorants and penguins. The colony is slowly recovering, but the cormorants that once turned the sanctuary cliffs black and white are now just a shadow of what they once were, especially outside of the breeding season.

One of the biggest draws on the islands remains its dwindling colony of Humboldt penguins. We saw only seven of them, but there may have been others out hunting in the open ocean, as the breeding season is now long behind us. How these bipedal creatures made it high up onto the cliffs beats me, but it was fun to see them waddling down to the edge to watch us sailing by.

The last of the feathered residents of the islands that deserve a mention are its Inca terns, an especially smart seabird with handsome “whiskers” beneath its eyes. They’re known colloquially as “ladrones del mar” on account of their habit of stealing fish from the neighbouring cormorants and boobies, but I didn’t see any thieving today. On the contrary, they were showing remarkable success in their own fishing endeavours around the islands, and like most terns, they’re tremendously acrobatic and quite a joy to watch.

It would be remiss of me not to mention the fur seals and sea lions that live on these islands. They’re not as fun to photograph as the birds, and as we’re in the middle of their breeding season, we weren’t allowed to get too close to their sanctuary beach (males and females live apart, with only the dominant male having access to his mighty harem). The fur seals were mostly lounging around in the midday sun, but I did see a few sea lions chasing our boat there and back, and a mother and pup playing in the surf not too far from the boat.

The return journey to Paracas stops at a buoy, which is apparently a favourite haul-out for the seals. Why here, halfway between the islands and the coast, was not explained, though I suspect it’s because the waters are especially rich in this spot. There was a huge amount of activity from both birds and fishermen around here.

The captain drove right up to the buoy, which spooked the fur seal that was already in the water, but the others didn’t seem to troubled. It was already pretty hot, and with the waters in these parts carrying the Antarctic chill of the Humboldt current, it must be nice to have an isolated spot to come and warm up, out of reach of the blue sharks that hunt them further out to sea.

Back in Paracas, I made sure to revisit the pelicans, who clearly hadn’t gone very far since we set out. I suspect they’re enticed by a couple of savvy local touts who hope to draw in tourist traffic by keeping a few of these mighty creatures close at hand, but they didn’t give me any trouble. One advantage of having the mighty zoom lens on me is that I don’t need to get too close, especially when to comes to birds as big as the Peruvian pelican.

Swooping in to steal the spotlight, however, came a cousin of the gallinazos I spent so long with yesterday: a turkey vulture. If black vultures were the stars of yesterday’s adventure, the turkey vulture worked overtime to take its place today, starting with this happy chappie who had a large fish all to himself – once he’d scared off the kelp gulls who had found the thing first.

Seeing the vulture tucking in reminded me that, bar a light street food snack the night before, I hadn’t really eaten a square meal since departing Colombia on Monday. As such, I was quite prepared to go all out for lunch. There were plenty of spots offering ceviche, a Peruvian specialty, but I was much more interested in the parihuela, a crab-based seafood stew laced with Peruvian lime.

Honestly? One of the best meals I’ve ever had, and that’s not only because my hunger was keen. They left the entire crab in the bowl to intensify the flavour, and I very nearly ate the entire dish, defeated only by a couple of spoonfuls.

One large bowl of the stuff was enough to keep me going all day and well into the following morning. I wonder if that’s a healthier way to live? It sure makes a nice change from three school meals a day.

After lunch, I swapped buses with the tour heading into the national park. There were only nine of us including the two guides, Deborah and Paul, which made for a much more peaceful and reflective adventure into the desert. I wound up next to a chatty English girl on her gap year, who was headed for Panama and had struck it out alone for most of the journey. There seem to be quite a few types like that out here, wending their way up the continent, and with bus and flight prices being why they are, I’m hardly surprised.

The Paracas peninsula is special in that it is one of the last stretches of the Atacama Desert, the driest desert on the planet. True to form, there was very little to see by way of life from the bus. No vegetation, no water, almost no sign of life at all.

That is, except for the turkey vultures, which have a colony of their own along the cliffs.

In the late afternoon, with the wind picking up, these handsome creatures ride the thermals along the coast and can be seen at eye level as they glide up towards you from the bay below.

It’s always special to see a vulture from above, as they’re usually specks against the firmament. I’m fully expecting that to be the case with the condors, but if I should be so lucky, I might just get the same experience in Colca tomorrow. Fingers crossed!

Right – that will do for today. That took me the best part of two hours to write. Now I should really think about packing up, checking out and heading into Lima for lunch before taking my onward flight to Arequipa, the next stop on my journey.

The world around me is about to change. Quite literally, it’s only up from here. BB x

Vermilion City

March 31, 2026April 1, 2026 / Benjamin Barnabas / Leave a comment

Miraflores, Lima. 15.00.

Where do I begin? Where do I even begin?

I’ll start with Uber. Lima is absolutely enormous – a 2,672 square kilometre metropolis with over ten million inhabitants – and it’s pretty daunting to get even from Miraflores to the coast, and especially when you’re lugging around some pretty expensive gear.

Uber to the rescue! For little more than the price of a meal deal, I was able to get to my destination this morning: the Pántanos de Villa, a wetland reserve sheltered within the city itself.

I actually had cold feet about my plan this morning. Was I doing some ridiculous by striking out on my own to a corner of Lima well off the usual tourist trail?

Then again, if I didn’t, would I regret it? The answer was a resounding yes, so I hailed an Uber and set out. But not before seeing my first Peruvian bird of the trip: an eared dove which was kind enough to wake me up this morning.

Uber drivers aren’t a very talkative lot, but their choice of radio is always interesting. My first had YouTube on and was watching/listening to a bizarre Peruvian comedy show featuring two men with oversized prosthetic noses commenting on the imminent Paraguay/Brazil football game. Whatever they were saying was hard to follow beneath an overactive soundboard, rotating between all the classic meme sounds after almost every line. Soundboards seem to be a feature of modern mass media, but I confess myself surprised to find it already taking root out here.

The most obvious sound by far is car horns – which are technically banned in Miraflores, though that doesn’t stop them being part of the sinfonía limeña.

The Pántanos are a sanctuary within the hustle and bustle of Lima. Even if birds aren’t your thing, it’s good to come here for a bit of peace and quiet. I got there for 8.30am, which is when the website said the reserve opened its doors, but I was told very politely that the guides would be there at 9am, if I would be so kind as to wait.

I had no issues waiting – one of the thing I was most excited to see in Peru was already here. So many of them, in fact, that I lost count.

Introducing the black vulture, known in Peru as the gallinazo, which might be translated as “enormous chicken” – which fits quite nicely, I think.

They’re about the size of a turkey, and the only sound they make is a sort of grunted sneeze. My guide, a knowledgeable young tourism grad who was working her way toward a posting in Arequipa, pointed out how skittish and shy they can be – which was the only thing she said that made me raise an eyebrow, because it feels like nothing in this country fears the presence of man like they would in Europe. I’ve never been so close to so many species in a single day. I wonder why that is?

The Pántanos’ star resident is the Siete Colores de la Totora, a seven-coloured gem of a bird that is surprisingly hard to spot as it feeds among the stems of the reeds. Seeing one would, according to my guide, be a very “buen augurio” (good omen), but I made it plain that I wasn’t here to tick boxes – I just wanted to see any and all of the magic that Peru would offer. We got incredibly lucky and saw a wild cuy, a species of guinea pig that are native to the marshes, but it was much too quick for my camera.

I had more luck with one of the reserve’s most beautiful treasures: a vermilion flycatcher, surely one of the most spectacular birds to be found in Peru – and they’re quite literally everywhere!

I needn’t have worried about the Toledo night heron being so distant, because there was one sitting right next to the visitor’s centre. I’ve never had the chance to appreciate their bright red eyes from so close, an evolutionary adaptation to hunting by night – hence the name!

Not to be outdone by the vultures, a young Harris hawk swept in to investigate the cuy situation. These incredibly intelligent birds are a favourite of falconers – if you’ve been to a bird of prey show, you’ve almost certainly seen one – but they’re native to this part of the world. They’re also one of the few species here I knew on sight!

I saw my first hummingbird of the trip: an Amazilia, I think, though I haven’t gone through my sightings with a guidebook yet. They’re damned near impossible to photograph until they land, being about the size of a finger and moving with all the agility of a butterfly. I’m trying to snap everything I see so I can log them later, but at least I recognised this little fella: a striated heron, one of a number of familiar species that are shared between Peru and – of all places – Uganda.

To reach the last circuit of the Pántanos de Villa, you have to leave the wetlands and walk about ten minutes further along the road to the coast. The road passes through a private residential estate, but they’re quite used to naturalists from the Pántanos passing through, so I was waved through without any ceremony. I could have stopped a number of times in pursuit of an unfamiliar birdcall, but I didn’t particularly want to draw attention to myself by pointing my zoom lens into somebody’s garden, so I contented myself with the mockingbirds that followed me inquisitively for half of the journey.

Out past the condominium is the Circuito de Maravilla, which – at the right time of year – hosts an enormous flock of Franklin’s Gulls, which come all the way down to Peru from their breeding grounds in the prairie lakes of central Canada and the Dakotas.

This was obviously the right time of year.

Hundreds of them had gathered at the lagoon, making ready to begin their 15,000 kilometre migration to their nesting grounds. Some were already sporting the handsome salmon pink chests and black hoods. They were joined by a huge flock of skimmers, a bizarre bird whose lower mandible is longer than its upper, so that it can skim the surface of the water to catch its prey.

Beyond the lagoon, however, is a sight even more impressive than anything I’d seen thus far. The Pacific.

If I’m mentioning it a lot, it’s because I’m bewitched. I’ve never seen or heard an ocean quite like it. It booms just like I’ve read about in books. Not the slow, salty roar of the Atlantic, but a genuine boom like a distant cannon. It has to be heard to be believed.

I had to sit and watch it for a while. I wasn’t the only one with that idea, either: I was joined in my vigil for most of the morning by a local man with a baseball cap and a Disney princess carrier bag. He simply stared out to sea for the best part of half an hour.

So did I. It’s nice to know I’m not the only one who can lose time just staring at the beauty of nature.

The Humboldt current which flows up the South American coast from Antarctica keeps the water cold – and extremely productive. This is one of the richest seas in the world, and you won’t be allowed to forget it for even a moment. Gulls, terns, cormorants, boobies, pelicans and an attendant host of shorebirds are constantly in sight. I suspect I’ll have better results at Paracas tomorrow.

It wasn’t just birds, either. While I was scanning the open ocean from a washed-up palm stump, I saw something dark cresting the water, then another – and another. A whole family of dolphins were feeding just off the shore. They didn’t breach, but they stuck around long enough to count them: eight of them in all. And all because I stopped to watch the waves for a while.

The sun came out from behind the clouds around 12, at which point I thought it sensible to consider a retreat – the Peruvian sun can be a cruel god, and I hadn’t brought my sun lotion (I hadn’t expected to stay so long!). Some of the Franklin’s gulls came to say goodbye, looking even more smart in the sunlight.

I made it back to the shade of the Pántanos visitor centre and rested for a bit. I could have hailed an Uber there and then, but I wasn’t quite done with the wetlands, and when I saw a couple of visitors head into the reserve on their own, I followed suit.

No sign of the cuy, but while I was searching I saw something moving among the reeds. My buen augurio had come to see me off: a seven-coloured rush tyrant. It’s only a youngster, so it’s not as dashing as it will be in a year’s time, but that’s neither here nor there. Peruvians say they grant wishes. So I have made mine.

I could have included even more photos, but I’ll try to pace these posts – there’s simply too much to report, so I must be choosy!

I’m currently taking it easy back at the hostel. My camera definitely needs charging after a serious workout, as do my own batteries – and I could use a shower.

That’s enough work for the Nikon today, I think. I’ll switch things up tonight and explore the human side of Peru for a change! BB x

Pit Stop

March 29, 2026 / Benjamin Barnabas / Leave a comment

Hostal Alonso, Madrid. 20.56.

Of all the days to have for a twenty-four hour pitstop in Spain, I had to pick the one where the temperature dropped a full ten degrees. My light fleece couldn’t handle the Arctic chill of 11°C (a good warning for Peru). Tomorrow it’ll be back up to 24°C here – but this time tomorrow I’ll be far away, waiting for my connecting flight in Bogotá. I still can’t quite get my head around that.

After an exquisite dinner of rabo de toro at Las Brasas del Vulcano last night (easily one of the best if not the best that I have ever eaten), I managed a relatively early start this morning to catch the first bus to Toledo. I think I had it in my head that I’d see all sorts of wildlife along its riverbanks, but it was very windy today, and I had also promised myself I’d do Palm Sunday Mass – a much-needed blessing to give me luck in the weeks to come – so it wasn’t as busy on the nature front as I had imagined. All the same, I saw what I came all the way to see: a night-heron.

Seems a little foolhardy, no? After all, night-herons are one of the very few Old World species that you can also find on the other side of the Atlantic. However, night-herons have a special place in my heart because I can date my career as a birdwatcher to the day I first saw one of these handsome fellas in Córdoba in 2005, on the day Pope John Paul II died.

The last time I visited Toledo was in 2013, when I was backpacking across Spain on a budget of 200€. I was eighteen, my Spanish was passable and I was already dangerously underweight, on account of not really considering food and drink a necessary expense. Fortunately, I have grown up a lot since then, and learned that, of all things, food is the last thing that should be omitted from the budget.

On that mad adventure, I have a particularly distinct memory of treating myself to a sopa castellana – my first meal out in a week – and feeling like my whole body had been healed at a stroke. As such, to my mind, that simple peasant dish remains the sultan of soups. If it is on the menu, I will have nothing else.

I treated myself to an upmarket lunch as a Spanish sendoff at Restaurante Palencia y Lara – and what an incredible find it was! I can’t decide which of their sopa castellana, cordero lechal or tarta de queso was the standout.

Sopa castellana isn’t an extremely complicated dish. It only really consists of bread, egg, stock and a good few cloves of garlic. But it is a restorative like none other.

I will be traveling around a lot during Semana Santa, so while I will be in a country that also celebrates Easter properly – even if it is on the other side of the world – I will probably miss a lot of the festivities. That’s one of the reasons I insisted on seeing Toledo’s Domingo de Ramos procession, celebrated from its Catedral Primada de Santa María.

It’s been a while since the time I celebrated Palm Sunday in Rome with Pope Francis, so I’d forgotten how long the reading is (they relate the entire Passion). All in, the ceremony lasted just shy of two hours. But I have come away with a sprig of an olive branch, and I hope it will bring me luck on my travels around the Americas. I’d have brought my lucky vulture feather, but I’m a bit too attached to that to chance losing it along the way.

Toledo was stunning in the sunshine. I’m glad I came here for a pit stop, even if only for a day. It’s nice to be somewhere familiar and nostalgic before pitching myself headfirst into a world that is totally alien.

T minus ten hours. I’ve decided not to chance the first Metro of the day and booked an Uber for peace of mind. Once I make it to Barajas, I can relax a bit.

After that… well. It’s in God’s hands, I guess. See you on the other side! BB x

Five Hundred

March 24, 2026 / Benjamin Barnabas / Leave a comment

When I set out for Peru next week, the number of bird species I will have seen in my lifetime will be a clean five hundred. I’d like to say I’m not usually the record-keeping sort, but that would be pretty unbelievable. The fact that I’ve kept this blog going for the best part of eleven years says otherwise. It’s not that there’s anything wrong with list-keeping, but it does border on the nerdier, birder side of birdwatching, and there is a lingering part of me that still raises a wary eyebrow at the prospect of becoming an anorak. However, since Peru is generally considered one of the world’s finest destinations for birdwatching, I thought I’d cave in for a change, do a little spring cleaning and get my affairs in order before I go. And that means working out just how many birds I have seen over the last thirty-two years or so. It took me a few days to collate the various lists I have held onto over the years, and longer still to whittle down some of the more fanciful additions that may or may not have been added in haste, leaving me with a perfectly square total of five hundred species exactly. It’s a start.

I have been very lucky. I haven’t been as committed to my old hobby as others my age, but even so, my travels have afforded me encounters with a number of species I might otherwise never have seen: pygmy cormorants in the silent marshes around Torcello, Berthelot’s pipits in the Teide caldera and Rwenzori double-collared sunbirds in the clouded hills of Uganda’s Bwindi Impenetrable Forest. I thought I’d share a few of my favourite encounters below.

Griffon Vulture

Vultures are far and away my favourite creatures on the planet and I make no secret of that. Cinerous, Egyptian, Palm Nut, White-backed, Hooded or Griffon – I’m not fussy. Something about their enormity, the way their wingtips spread wide like fingers, the silence with which they rule the skies… It’s spellbinding. They’re easily the fondest memory I have of my year in Spain when, aged eleven, I traded herring gulls for griffons for a year. I think I can be excused for being occasionally distracted in class when a tawny giant with a nearly three-metre wingspan happened to be passing by the window. I still get the shivers when I see that silhouette, so I’m keeping my fingers crossed for an even greater shadow in the sky when I go in search of an Andean condor in Peru’s Colca Canyon.

Nightjar

Something of a late discovery for me and inseparable from the Camino de Santiago, where it is the nocturnal yin to the diurnal yang of the stonechat – since both species seemed to follow me all the way from the French Pyrenees to Santiago. Nightjars can be found in the UK, but I’ve never seen them, despite searching the forests and heathlands where they are said to breed. On the Camino, however, one is so often up before the break of dawn that it’s virtually impossible not to run into these cryptic creatures at some point. Their endless churring sound must be very strange indeed to those who aren’t aware of its maker, sounding more like a giant cricket or a miniature UFO than a bird. Reports from Manu NP indicate that there may be nightjars to be found along the Madre de Dios river – I shall be keeping my eyes open.

Abyssinian Roller

I could have put any number of the more than two hundred and fifty species of bird I saw in Uganda on this post, but this one takes the top spot because of our story. Having never had any luck with European rollers in Spain, I was amazed to learn on the very first day of my stay in Uganda that there was a particularly handsome Abyssinian roller in the neighbourhood. But I’ll be damned if I thought photographing it might be a cinch – the bird gave me the run-around for most of my three-month stay, fearless and indifferent to my presence when I didn’t have my camera to hand and skittish in the extreme when I came prepared, as though it were camera-shy. In the end an act of God intervened on my behalf: an explosion of winged ants in the neighbour’s garden brought every winged insectivore within a hundred miles to the yard. With more than forty kites to worry about, plus a host of other raptors including shikras, lizard buzzards, grey kestrels and falcons, the roller had his mind on other things and I was able to get in a good shot or two. Sometimes it’s hard-fought encounters like that one that make a photo more compelling than all the editing in the world.

European Bee-Eater

Much like the roller, the bee-eater is an explosion of colour in avian form – at least, to a British birdwatcher’s eye, since most of our native birds are rather drab by comparison. They’re incredibly captivating creatures to watch as they flit through the air like oversized moths, but it’s their call that I love the most: a cheery whirrup that heralds the spring in Spain just like the merry twitter of the swallow in Britain. The sound alone makes me feel warmer – it takes me back to the sands of El Rocio and the dusty scrubland between the Madre de las Marismas and the Palacio del Acebron. One day, it may be warm enough for bee-eaters to colonise the UK. They have bred here with occasional success in the last few years, but it remains to be seen whether they will follow the example of the egrets and move in for good. A part of me hopes they don’t – they are far too tied to my image of Spain as a special paradise. Some things you should have to travel to behold, to see with your own eyes. That’s what I think.

Purple Swamphen

What list would be complete without one of my all-time favourites – the bird that probably kickstarted my obsession with Spanish birds? The purple swamphen is unmistakeable: a moorhen on steroids, with bigger feet, a bigger face-shield and a bigger attitude. I saw them first in El Acebuche, but since then I have found them in several other places: the rice paddies of the Brazo del Este, Uganda’s White Nile river and under the Roman Bridge in Merida. Like griffons, they lose nothing with each successive encounter, and I confess that my eyes are always on swivel-stalks whenever I’m crossing the bridge in Merida in the hope of catching one of them in the reeds below.

Red and Black Kites

WordPress won’t let me upload the images I have of the hoopoe, Iberian magpie and Montagu’s harrier, which would bring the total to ten, so I will have to finish with another old favourite: the kite. Specifically, it’s black kites that have always held sway in my heart, due to their association with the Elysian stone-pine forests of the Raya Real, but since red kites have pretty much exploded in number in the UK in my own lifetime, they’ve earned a spot in this list too. Despite nearly twenty years of active pursuit, I have yet to take a decent photograph of a black kite (in my defence, I have often been without my camera when the right moment presented itself). Had I brought my DSLR with me on the Camino last summer, I would have had the opportunity of a lifetime when I stumbled – quite by chance – upon a feeding frenzy for the local kite population in a rugby field a day’s march from the Spanish frontier. But, I didn’t, so I just took a few photos on my phone and watched the spectacle.

Kites are something of a bait-and-switch story for me. Since their whistling call was used in the BBC’s Land of the Tiger whenever vultures were on screen, I came to associate that sound with those kings of the sky. It wasn’t until I was much older that I realised that vultures are pretty much silent (when they’re not squabbling over a carcass, that is), but by then the spell had already been cast. I would travel all the way to the Raya Real just to hear that sound. Of course, I’d go for more than that: the music-box melodies of a nightingale, the flute-song of a golden oriole, the oop-oop-oop of a hoopoe, the beak-clacking serenade of a stork and the descending whistle of a woodlark. But even if all those voices should fall silent, leaving nothing but the trill of a kite, I’d still make that journey. That’s how precious a single sound can be.

T minus one week. It’s getting closer! BB x

Bitterns and Boomers

March 21, 2026March 21, 2026 / Benjamin Barnabas / Leave a comment

The Flat, 21.03.

It can be done! After living in Somerset for the best part of two years, I finally made it to the Avalon Marshes. It’s a little out of the way – as fenlands often are – and, being without a car of my own, impossible to reach outside of term-time, but with a little planning I managed to successfully navigate the one bus there and back again after school this morning. Worth it? Absolutely!

The Avalon Marshes are a network of pools, channels and reedbeds that stretch from the west of the festival town of Glastonbury across the Somerset Levels. Being naturally averse to crowds, Glastonbury and its ilk have never even crossed my mind as a way to spend the summer, so I’ve never had any cause to come this way before. Evidently, I was missing out. This mystical corner of the British Isles has a real charm to it. The 376 bus dropped me off outside The Royal Oak in neighbouring Street and I struck out across country for the marshes from there. Along the way, I walked in the sightline of the legendary Glastonbury Tor. It was a balmy spring day – the fourth in a run of consistently sunny days – so the Tor was drawing a growing crowd of sun-seekers, like a sweet on an anthill. If I had a little more time, I might have gone and had a look myself.

The magic started before I even reached the Glastonbury Canal that runs into the fens. I had just come upon the first of the reedbeds that herald the Avalon Marshes when I heard the sound that I had come here for: a low, pipe-like boom. A sound that inspired many a myth and folktale in the British Isles, and that once was surely heard all across this island. The noise belongs to the great bittern, a singularly beautiful and cryptic variety of heron that is surely the prince of the fens. I can’t remember whether or not I have ever conclusively heard a booming bittern before – my memories of a possible encounter with one in Stodmarsh when I was a lad are a bit hazy – so I have hesitated to add them to my life list thus far.

Today, however, I was left in no doubt. I must have heard at least six different individuals booming all across the fens, including one that was so close that I could swear I heard its resonant intake of breath before each boom. The great bittern is a master of camouflage, however, with a plumage so perfectly suited to its life within the reedbeds that it is almost completely invisible when “bitterning”, so despite the fact that they were making enough noise to be heard from Glastonbury, I never saw so much as a feather. But I wasn’t disheartened in the slightest. Just to hear that booming sound was worth the journey out here. I’ll have to do it again sometime.

While I was scanning the reeds for one of the bitterns, a swan came swimming by, giving me something to train the lens on.

The swans weren’t the only great white birds in the marshes. Another species that has drawn me to the Avalon Marshes today is the Great White Egret, a relative newcomer to the British Isles. The largest of the egrets is actually a heron, a fact that is obvious from its size, which is considerable. I’ve seen these beautiful birds before on the continent, but this would be the first time I’ve seen one here in the UK. When I was a kid, this would have been a very rare find, but much has changed since then. The Avalon Marshes have around fifty breeding pairs, which is frankly ridiculous, considering that they only started breeding here a few years ago. Even the other birdwatchers in the Avalon Hide barely batted an eyelid when one flew into view. It’s a sign that, no matter how bad things may seem, life always finds a way.

On that note, I feel I have to talk about one of the things I haven’t missed about birdwatching: the manspreading. The term didn’t exist when I was a kid, but it certainly does fit the bill.

I thought I’d check out the Avalon Hide to see if I could find one of those elusive bitterns, but it had been staked out by a very different group of boomers, who had each selected a window to themselves and laid out their gear all about them: a panoply of scopes, binoculars and cannon-like lenses that made even my monster zoom lens seem like a hand gun. Only one window was available, which looked out back the way I had come. I stuck around for about twenty-five minutes, listening to their familiar birder-talk, but it quickly became apparent that they meant to stick around until sunset to see if either the bitterns or the resident barn owl would make an appearance, and as I had to catch a bus home, I had to cede the hide to them.

I explored the “cattle class” alternative screens below the tower, very much aware of the scopes poking out of the windows above me like artillery. Sometimes a bird-hide can look a lot like a pill-box.

A friendly chap and his wife restored my faith in the hobby when they pointed me in the direction of a water rail they had just seen, but it never did reappear from its hiding place in the reeds, so we went out separate ways with a shrug. Fortunately for me, there was plenty to see: perhaps sixty or seventy shovelers out on the lake, along with attendant flocks of gadwall, mallard, tufted duck, teal and coot, as well as a few noisy great-crested grebes. Most of them were much too far for even my faithful 500mm, but a robin that followed me out of one of the hides was perfectly happy to let me take his photograph, which definitely made up for it.

As this was my first sortie to Avalon, I didn’t want to end up stranded by missing the last bus home, so I left with plenty of time to get back to Glastonbury. It was a quiet walk once I’d put the birders and the bitterns behind me, and I only ran into two other walkers out with their dogs along the trail. There seems to be a small gypsy community on the edge of the marshes – something about the layout of their encampment seemed strangely familiar, not to mention the presence of two old and very battered horse-drawn caravans in the yard. When I reached the edge of the marshes, I stopped to look back in the direction I had come, and when I turned back to Glastonbury I saw something staring back at me from the edge of the reeds. I thought it might have been a muntjac at first, but it was much too big for that. It was, of course, one of our native roe deer. Fearless as ever, it didn’t even flinch when I raised my camera.

One thing’s for sure: I’ll be back. It’s only a £3 bus ride from Taunton and, while the return journey is broken up with a layover in Somerton, it’s perfectly doable in a day. I’ll be back for the bitterns, either later in the spring or next year, depending on how busy my duty weekends are after the holidays.

This time next week, I’ll be in Madrid. From there it’s only a matter of hours until I set out for South America. That has come around shockingly fast. I’m starting to get very excited! I’ve had a full month to put the camera through its paces and I think I’ve got the hang of the lens and its demands now – the way it handles, the settings it requires for optimum output and, of course, its weight. Now all I need is to be out there already. Thank you Avalon for being the last stage of boot camp for my trusty Nikon companion. Here’s to the next grand adventure! BB x

Minor Adjustments

March 16, 2026 / Benjamin Barnabas / Leave a comment

The Flat, 21.56.

Two weeks from now – right now – I will be sitting somewhere in the transit lounge in Bogotá’s El Dorado International Airport, awaiting my connecting flight to Peru. That’s about 5,300 miles (or 8,500 kilometres) from home, which will be the furthest I have ever been from home by a long shot, beating both Kampala and a brief layover in Dallas last year – and, if things go to plan, I may well find myself even further afield before the year is out. I will also be a full five hours out of sync before I even reach my final destination, so I will need to be careful and try to acclimatise with an altered sleep schedule a few days in advance.

We are very much into the preparation phase now. I have arranged the last of my accommodations for the journey in Ollantaytambo, where I hope to end my Peruvian adventure in the peace and quiet of the Sacred Valley. I have ordered a new pair of sturdy Merrell hiking books to see me around the altiplano and beyond. I should do a preparatory pack this weekend to see if I can fit everything into my rucksack. I’m a light traveller, but the zoom lens is likely to be the largest and heaviest of the equipment I will be lugging around. The jury’s still out as to whether I should take a book with me or simply use up the last of my Audible subscription credits and download more audiobooks than I could possibly hope to finish in that time. I’m leaning toward the latter, if only because I’m not particularly good at leaving a good book behind.

I’ve been meaning to get out and about and keep practising with the lens, but my time is very limited. Last week I managed to escape for just over an hour on Friday afternoon while the sun was out, but between report-writing, lesson planning, taking my team to Oxford Schools on Saturday and being on duty almost all of Sunday, I haven’t had much luck. The Netherclay Community Wood isn’t too far from home, but it had rained a lot on Friday so I didn’t explore the woods too much, as the ground beneath my feet had become little better than a squelching quagmire. Little wonder, then, that there were so few walkers out and about.

I went looking for the water rail that I heard last week, but I didn’t see or hear it. I did disturb a kingfisher on the other side of the pond, though, and while the halcyon bird was much too fast for me, I did have more luck with a young cormorant in the momentary interlude when the winter sun deigned to show its face.

Having something incredible to look forward to always makes the Lent term – by far the hardest of all the school terms – a lot easier to bear. Last year, the knowledge that I would be spending all of three weeks in and around Spain was enough. This time, I have pushed the boat out so far that there is a very real danger that the tide will carry it away. And once it does, where will it take me? I’ve lost track of the number of times I’ve caught myself exploring other destinations, other wildlife adventures, other places where I can run while I still have the light of life. This year it’s South America’s turn, but in the years to come, I would dearly like to see the rest of the world, now that the wanderlust has returned. I still harbour dreams of seeing the eerie saguaro stands of Sonora, but a number of other old ideas have started to rise to the surface, like bubbles beneath a frozen lake: KwaZulu-Natal, Kanha National Park, Svalbard and Borneo.

It may well be that in abandoning my search for Her, wherever she may be, and indulging in the thing that has always brought me the most joy, I am putting off the thing I want the most in life. It may also be that I find Her along the road. Either way, I am done waiting. The apps are drier than the Atacama these days and the conversations drier still. There is a world of light and life and joy out there and I can no longer ignore it. It is time for a change of scenery. BB x

Wish List

March 9, 2026 / Benjamin Barnabas / Leave a comment

With Chile now a very real possibility this summer, it’s time to bury the heartbreak hatchet with the Americas and accept the fact that I’m ridiculously excited about crossing the Atlantic again. Somehow, between the red hair and the po’ boys, I missed out on the opportunity of a lifetime to linger in the New World and enjoy all the sights and sounds of a place I’d never seen before. Instead, I beat a hasty retreat home to nurse my wounded pride. This time I have my priorities straight: I’m going out there for me.

There is so much to look forward to this year: from a brief pitstop in Madrid and Colombia’s El Dorado Airport to my first ever encounter with the Pacific Ocean on the grey shores of tearless Lima; the guano colonies of Paracas and the altiplano around Arequipe; the cloud forests of the Sacred Valley and the pristine jungles of the Amazon; and then, after a brief return to reality, the snow-capped mountains of Santiago de Chile, the starlit expanse of the Atacama Desert and the desolate shores of Tierra del Fuego; and at the end of it all, a wedding in Athens and the quiet of Lake Kerkini. If the world is going to hell in a handcart, I’m going to see it all before it’s gone.

My only real wild encounters during my last trip to the Americas – if you don’t count a brief glimpse of a bald eagle from the train – were in the Louisiana bayou, where I chartered a boat and captain to take me up the Pearl River of Slidell’s Honey Island Swamp (which you can read about here). During my six days in the States, I saw only a handful of American birds, and most of them were on my Bayou side-quest: cardinals, chickadees and blue jays around the visitor centre (commonplace to most Americans but brand new to me), wood ducks and whistling ducks in the forest and spoonbills and anhingas along the river. The alligators, on the other hand, were everywhere. You could hardly miss them. I also saw a family of scruffy-looking racoons, rounding out the American classic collection. Short of a white-tailed deer or two, I think I ticked off most of the North American beginner’s collection.

But South America… now, that will be a different ball game entirely.

I included Patagonia on my wish list years ago, but I never thought I’d actually end up going there someday. Now that it’s real, I can’t shake it from my head. There are so many things I want to see and do, and I haven’t even begun to learn them all properly.

So I thought I’d write a list – nothing obsessive, mind, just something to look back on when I return. My itinerary for Peru is nearly finished, and my plans for Chile will have to wait until I have a clearer idea of what lies ahead (and what I will actually be doing out there). For now, at least, I can indulge in a little harmless wish-listing – starting with the essentials…

Andean Condor – the only one that I’m really pinning my hopes on (my itinerary will accommodate multiple attempts)
Black, Turkey or King Vultures – in case it wasn’t obvious, I’ve got a real soft spot for vultures!
Hummingbirds – I’m not fussed about the species, I just fancy seeing the sunbirds’ transatlantic cousins!
Pumas – it’ll have to wait for my Patagonian adventure, but it would beat even the wolves of Poland
Jaguars – I’m not expecting to see them in Manu, but it would be incredible if I did
Pelicans – in my head, a line of pelicans flying over the water is the image of the Pacific I’m after
Guanacos – llamas are great and all, but nothing beats seeing their wild cousins
Howler monkeys – something tells me I may regret putting these muditos on the list
Giant otters – regular otters are rare enough, so maybe the Amazon will provide!
Capybaras – because my Year 7 & 8 students are counting on me to bring them photos
Rheas – another gem I don’t expect to see, but one that I will have to come back for!
Sloths – something that won’t disappear into the jungle in the blink of an eye, maybe?
Anacondas – to see just how large they truly are
Hoatzin – surely the most bizarre bird of the Americas!
Penguins – Humboldt, Magellanic or King, depending on the country
Tinamous – because their names are simply wonderful on the ear
Tapirs – the closest I’ll get to megafauna on this adventure
Boobies – not going all the way to the Americas just for the boobies this time, but they’d be a nice reward!
Macaws – the symbol of the Amazon, right?
Cacti – fine, this one’s no animal, but it’s definitely American enough to warrant a spot on this list

There’s a blackbird singing outside. They’re getting earlier and earlier as the year turns. I, too, should turn in. BB x

A Warren Buffet

March 2, 2026 / Benjamin Barnabas / Leave a comment

The Flat, 21.57.

I’m slowly starting to rebuild the life I left behind me. It’ll take a little while, but it’s starting to feel very familiar: the long walks, the eyes on swivel-stalks, the weight-training involved in swapping the zoom lens from one arm to the other. In a way, it’s like I never stopped – though it has been about fifteen years since I last did this sort of thing on the regular.

One of the first things to establish is a “patch” – that is, somewhere nearby that I can visit easily and regularly for a quick nature fix throughout the year. I’m still in the market, but I think I’ve decided upon the stretch of the River Tone that runs along Longrun Meadow and into the Netherclay Community Wood. It’s within easy walking distance and there’s plenty to see, including otters – though I dare say I’d be exceptionally lucky to find them out on a weekend wander.

The egrets around here are pretty fearless, though. The flooded banks of the Tone must be harbouring a number of small fish, because I was able to watch this one hunting for quite some time, catching a couple of tiddlers and a small eel. I wonder why great egrets are more skittish than the little and cattle egrets that have colonised so many towns and cities? Is it genetic, perhaps – or is it the memory of that obsessive slaughter for their feathers that keeps them at bay?

I added a few new locals to my “patch list” – namely, teal and buzzard – but spent most of the walk learning how best to cradle the heavy lens over a long distance. I think I’ll need a strap for the lens itself, because I don’t want to chance the weight of it putting undue strain on the camera itself.

I was looking at a tied-down weekend this week, but thanks to a couple of necessary swaps and the support of my wonderful Debating team, I worked Friday night instead and got the weekend off. Suddenly, I had a free Sunday. Coupled with the knowledge that my Railcard expired at midnight, putting a definitive end to many years of affordable train fares, I decided to put the lens through its paces in a new environment: Dawlish Warren.

I came out here at the end of October, when the sun was still shining and the beach was still packed with holidaymakers. In my memory it felt like the end of summer, but it must have been autumn, because the brants had already arrived in great numbers. They were very much in evidence today, numbering well over a hundred, and more than likely the same birds I saw back then.

Brant geese are a seafaring species of goose that spend the winter around the coasts of the British Isles, returning to their breeding grounds in the Arctic circle at the beginning of spring. Most of our geese – the dark-bellied kind – come from northern Russia and Siberia, though the odd light-bellied individual is often to be found among them, straggling over from its North American range.

In ancient times, before their migration routes were known, the people of the British Isles had no answer to explain what happened to the thousands of “burnt geese” that flocked to the coasts, saltmarshes and estuaries, only to disappear without a trace with the spring. Together with the closely-related barnacle geese – who once pulled a similar disappearing trick – they were believed to hatch from goose barnacles, which shared their colour palette. As such, being “not of flesh”, they were permitted on Christian fast-days – a practical solution in desperate times, it must be said.

It’s hard to see how anyone could have believed that old yarn about birds born from barnacles, but then again, the same people believed that swallows slept at the bottom of ponds during the winter. Sometimes we make up the most fanciful nonsense to avoid having to face the obvious reality, even when it is staring us in the face.

Out in the bay, I saw a silhouette I recognised immediately, diving and resurfacing in a small channel between the shore and a shrinking sandbank. The most common diving seabird around here is the cormorant, but in winter, there are quite a few birds that might dive beneath the surface: shags, sawbill ducks, scoters, grebes and divers. Only one of those comes close in size to the cormorant, and that particular bird holds its head level, unlike the cormorant, who swims with his bill upturned.

I didn’t need binoculars to know I had found a great northern diver – the first I’ve seen since my schooldays – and I went tearing across the beach to get a closer look.

The last time I saw one of these impressive creatures, it was far out to sea and flying east along the British Channel. I haven’t had the luxury of seeing one so close before – close enough to appreciate its terrifying red eyes, an evolutionary trait shared with grebes that filters light and helps them to see underwater.

I watched it hunting in the bay for a few minutes, before it decided to run the gauntlet of the shrinking sandbar and scour the southern shore. I counted the seconds between each dive. This one averaged out at 40 seconds, but the diver has been known to stay submerged for up to five minutes. Pretty impressive for such a small and fast-moving creature.

I made it back to Dawlish Warren’s station in plenty of time for the hourly train, but the sun was still shining and I hadn’t yet had enough, so I set out along the Warren Road to the north. The railway hugs the coastline, so the roads meanders a bit on its way north from the Warren. Eventually, after about an hour’s jaunt through the countryside, I came to the ferry town of Starcross. I decided against pushing on to the Exminster Marshes and set up shop at the station, which looks out over the estuary. I was rewarded for my patience with a family of punk-rock red-breasted mergansers, as well as a number of familiar waders probing the mudflats below: turnstones, redshanks, greenshanks and a couple of curlews.

There will always be a special place in my heart for curlews. Their mournful bubbling call was the backdrop to many a childhood adventure around Romney Marsh and the mudflats of Sandwich Bay, and followed me up into the highlands of Scotland on a couple of hiking adventures in my twenties.

Apart from that, they’re remarkably beautiful creatures, with their cryptic feathering and dark, thoughtful eyes. I’ve been very lucky with the egrets around Taunton, but I hope I can continue to observe these magnificent creatures and do justice to them with my new gizmo.

I might not get so flexible a weekend for a while now, so I’ve cashed in my chips early. But I’ll be back with more nature news in the near future, so stay tuned! BB x

Egret

February 23, 2026 / Benjamin Barnabas / Leave a comment

On my afternoon wander along the Tone yesterday I came across an egret fishing on the concrete steps of a flow measuring station. I’m so used to the snowy white shapes of these beautiful birds in and around the rivers and fields of the English countryside that it’s sometimes hard to remember a time when these were a very rare sight indeed.

When I was not yet ten, the presence of an egret in the area was something my family or friends found newsworthy. That’s not exactly surprising. Compared to our native (and undeniably stately) grey herons, they do have an exotic look about them. Maybe it’s the silky plumes (or aigrettes) of their breeding plumage, or maybe it’s the smart yellow galoshes they seem to wear on their feet. The speed of their colonisation of the British Isles gave the Roman Empire a run for its money: by the time I was fifteen, they were already such a feature of the Kentish wetlands and saltmarshes that they had somewhat lost their star appeal, if not their lustre. They no longer triggered a rare bird alert on twitchers’ pagers up and down the country, and their names no longer appeared in bold capital letters on the “Recent Sightings” blackboards at nature reserves.

But first, some myth-busting. It’s not as though the egret is an exotic immigrant to our shores. Far from it. Various species of egrets could be found in the British Isles throughout history, before a combination of over-hunting and the insatiable demand for egret feathers wiped them out. Such was the obsession for aigrettes – which once bedecked the headwear of noble lords and ladies alike – that the little egret and its cousin, the great white egret, were driven out of much of Western Europe as well, seeking sanctuary along the sheltered shores of the Mediterranean. It wasn’t until a pioneering group of Englishwomen came together in 1889 to form the Society for the Protection of Birds (the forerunner to the cherished RSPB) that the egret’s fortunes began to change, first by petitioning powerful high-society types to eschew feathers from their wardrobe, then lobbying the government to ban them outright. It clearly caught on, because the Americans set up a similar initiative of their own over in Oregon, where the native great and snowy egrets were suffering a similar fate. Gradually, with aigrette feathers off the market, the birds began to reappear in the fields and fenlands they had once called home. It would be another hundred years before they attempted to recolonise the British Isles, but once they did, they came back in droves.

I bought a magazine once in the late 2000s that predicted the arrival of the rest of Europe’s heron and egret species in the UK as global warming made these cold islands more favourable to birds more at home in southern Europe. It wasn’t wrong. Since then, both the cattle and great white egret have secured a foothold in Britain, with all three species present in the Avalon Marshes over in the Somerset Levels. If it weren’t for the fact that I work six days out of seven – and Sunday trains and buses are awful in this part of the world – I’d be over there like a shot. Somehow, I fear the open wilds of the Avalon Marshes will have to wait until I have wheels, because after a few sums, it would actually work out cheaper for me to fly to Europe and back than to spend a night or two in Glastonbury in order to visit the Levels. Mad how that works.

Not that I’d say not to being back in Europe, of course – though I am still waiting for my temporary ban to lift, as I hit the ninety day limit last year and would very much like to go back to my grandfather’s country without having to pay a fine. I always try to keep an open mind, but sometimes, Brexit, I really do wish you hadn’t screwed up my life quite so much.

Anyway. These papers won’t mark themselves. Just thought I’d muse a little on something uplifting before getting back to the grind. BB x