By Ben Kersley - (son of) ornithologist
If Bearded Tits are your thing, then there are few better places on earth than Lake Tåkern, just off the E4 towards Vättern. Why Tåkern? Not only will you find a propensity of Bill Oddie-esque birdwatchers with notebook, wax jacket and binoculars, but Tåkern is also the best place in Europe to see the small panurus biarmicus of the order Passeriformes of the family paradoxornithidae or to its friends, the Bearded Tit. The abundance of reeds in this expansive nature reserve provide superb cover for the skäggmes as it is known in Swedish; the same reeds make it an elusive little thing and a prize spot for anyone inclined to value spotting little birds the size of a pepperpot.
One who is so inclined is my dad. So down the E4 to Tåkern, my dad (who is beardless) and I (stubble-faced) headed. We agreed we wouldn’t ignore the other birds, such as the Marsh Harrier, the Crane, the Grey Lag Goose or the Penduline Tit; but these would be bonuses to the real prize of the Beard.
To be honest, it turns out the Bearded Tit is a bit of a fraud. Firstly it is not a ‘true tit’ i.e. a member of the passerine family and secondly it’s facial furniture is more of a Freddy Mercury moustache than a ‘true beard’.
Within minutes we had found our first beardie. Unfortunately, this one was a middle-aged German spotter. He and dad quickly locked binoculars and it was a privilege to see two mature male birdwatchers of the class geriatri, order ornithologae, genus enthusiasticus, but of the subspecies Germanicus and Anglicus. They displayed male behaviour that is typified by the common birdwatcher, a frenzied yet time honoured ritual of posturing and verbal exchanges. First there was the comparing of telescope sizes (or scopes as they are known in the vernacular) and bird guides (who could carry the thickest most well-thumbed book). There then followed a series of complex calls designed to catch the other out: “Have you seen the Grey Lags?” “I may have seen a Red-necked Grebe!” “Red-Necked? What about the Rustic Bunting?”
And so it went on… Unfortunately, the only people to impress were me and the German spotter’s wife, who had a pained expression that suggested she only joins him on his trips to keep their marriage intact. The man’s wife turned out to be Swedish – I tried to explain that we were looking for the skäggmus…. She turned red and I realised only hours later that I had said we were looking for bearded vaginas.
Just in time, the two ‘true birdwatchers’, enter the next stage of the ritual, name dropping where they have watched birds… we were taken on a whistle stop trip round the world….. Iceland, Namibia, New Zealand, Patagonia, Madagascar, The Amazon…..
And then my dad uttered the most profound thing I have ever heard in my life:
“Of course”, he said, looking out across the lake for effect, the wind blowing his hair,
“It’s very different in Sweden to the Tropics…..”
Very different!? Very different!? I’d never noticed! It was a windy October day and we were wearing hats and gloves. Nothing had ever seemed more bleedin’ apparent, but they smiled at each other and considered the subtleties of difference between Sweden and the Tropics.
The moment was broken by the sound of beating wings coming from the west behind the reeds and suddenly 10 or 11 cranes flew over our heads. Their long pointed bodies in flight against the orange autumn sky was a priceless view and almost enough to make the day worth it. But we were here for smaller more elusive birds, with better moustaches and so we ventured further into the reeds.
Reading this, you may be close to being converted to the pleasures of bird watching. There may be other, more politically correct readers, who may be wondering how open bird watching is to people with disabilities. There may even be people reading this who are blind. If you ARE blind and Bearded Tits are your thing then look no further! This is Sweden, the inclusive society, where being blind should not preclude you from enjoying bird watching.
I have never seen a bird watching place better equipped for the blind. And I would put money on the fact that there are few blind people who have seen one either. At the foot of the bird tower there are descriptions of all the birds in Braille. There’s a tactile relief profile of each bird so that should the blind birdwatcher get close enough to feel the face of a Marsh Harrier or even a humble Coot they will be able to identify it by feel, much like Al Pacino in ‘Scent Of A Woman’
“There’s the beak…… yes, and feathers…. Definitely a bird… Is it a duck?”
I don’t mean to discourage blind Bearded Tit watching, but the chances of seeing a naturally shy bird that hides in reeds and is only four inches big, is very slim. If you are blind, the chances of seeing the same bird are even slimmer. However, the facilities are fantastic. The many boardwalks lead through the reeds with a rope to guide you: Two knots mean a slope. One knot means a corner coming up. One boardwalk leads to a jetty overlooking the expansive lake. A small plaque in the middle has a caption in Braille. There is no translation to the written word, so it is left to us sighted folk, to ponder upon what is writ therin…… “The view’s fantastic”. “Don’t walk forward any further”….. we can only guess. In a hide, we met a Swedish birdwatcher (unenthusiasticus svedicus). We try a little birdy banter, but the Swede was stoical. He was there for the birds, not to make conversation: He wanted Chiffchaff not chit chat. On the water a flock of birds were dabbling in the water. We tried to identify them. Ducks, yes, but what kind? We pestered the local again and without saying a word he pointed at his book – Gräsanka - Mallards, the most ducky of duck pond ducks. We laughed and tried to include him in our fun. Nothing. Not a word. I was on the verge of getting frustrated with him and then realised that he was either deaf or mute or both. After all, it’s not just the blind who can enjoy bird watching.
As the sun started to set, we trudged back to the first tower, without having heard so much as peep from the Bearded Tit. On the wall was a list of what people had seen that day. Top of the list was written: Skäggmes 100-tal – över tornet – (Bearded Tit – 100s – over the tower). We’d been amongst the reeds on the other side of the lake, supposedly in their favourite habitat. Well, as my dad has so often, and so profoundly said
“That’s the thing about birds: They can fly.”
