I’m skulking furtively around a patch of scrub, trying to ignore the thorns scratching my arm. I take another stealthy step, eyes fixed on the base of a bush, camera poised.
There it is again – that slight rustling. A wren hops out into the open and explodes into an astonishing burst of song. Frantically, I point the camera and hold my finger down on the shutter for a few seconds before the tiny bundle of life and energy flies off and plunges into another bush.
My fingers trembling with excitement, I press the playback button to scroll through the images and get an early idea of which one is destined to grace the cover of the RSPB magazine.
There’s just one problem…my perfect photos are actually a series of blurs.
Incredulously, I scroll through again. Not a decent shot among them. So what went wrong? Shutter speed too low? Hands too shaky? Bird just too damn fast? Who knows?
It’s a scenario I’ve played out countless times since I first discovered a passion for wildlife photography. So, in the face of all these setbacks and frustrations, why on earth do I carry on doing it? It’s easier to answer that than it is to work out how I can manage to transform a sure-fire, award-winning photo into a barely recognisable blur.
Let’s start at the beginning, half a century ago in our suburban garden in South Manchester, where as a young kid I first became fascinated by the birds that flocked to feast on feeders stocked with seeds and peanuts. Greenfinches – so much more common in those days – were frequent visitors, along with blue, great, coal and long tailed tits and even the occasional blackcap.
Trips to the Peak District or the Pennines opened up new horizons – lapwings tumbling and screeching over the moors, the cries of curlews blending in with the whistling of the wind. Both of these beautiful and elemental species have suffered truly horrific declines since I used to marvel at them as a child in the 1970s – but that’s a topic I hope to return to in more depth in future.
Let’s get back to photography. I’ve occasionally heard the theory expounded that anyone toting a camera, as opposed to a pair of binoculars or – even better – a telescope, is somehow lower down the birdwatching pecking order.
Just to establish my ornithological credentials, I’ve spent many hours sitting in bird hides goggling at some distant speck, which someone wielding a scope the size of Jodrell Bank assures me is some phenomenally rare wader. And if twitching is your thing, then that’s fine by me. One of the many beauties of being interested in wildlife is that – provided you’re not harming the animals or birds – you can do it in pretty much any way you want. But if you’re lucky enough to have the means to go on an expedition to some far-flung part of the globe, that doesn’t automatically make you a “better” birdwatcher than someone who enjoys looking out of their kitchen window at the starlings and sparrows (two more species that have suffered shocking falls in numbers, by the way).
I know that, since I began my ham-fisted attempts at wildlife photography, my interest in nature has become both deeper and wider. To get decent shots of birds, you need to get close to them. That means studying their habits, finding out where they go, and spending lots of time out in the fresh air waiting for them to show up.
And while you’re loitering around in the forlorn hope that that elusive jay might actually deign to visit the oak tree in search of acorns, it would be rude not to get some shots of that gorgeous speckled wood butterfly sipping blackberry nectar from the bramble bushes below. I’ve discovered the magic of butterflies over the past year or two almost by accident because picking up a camera has encouraged me to spend more time in the countryside and to open my eyes a bit wider. So I’ve now expanded my portfolio to include out-of-focus shots of red admirals, peacocks, commas and small tortoiseshells, not to mention mammals like foxes, deer and rabbits.
“Rabbits?” I hear you snort. “They’re everywhere. In fact they breed like…” Well, you get the idea. And I’d agree that almost all the birds and animals I photograph are fairly common (although not as common as they were a few decades ago, to continue banging on about the alarming decline of many species). It’s also true that many of my pictures have been taken within a five-mile radius of home. That’s partly a result of the huge restrictions that Coronavirus imposed on our freedoms to move around. But is it necessarily a bad thing to focus on the wildlife on your doorstep?
Time for a witness, members of the jury. Call Carl Bovis.
Carl’s my favourite wildlife photographer. If you’re not familiar with his work, check out carlbovis.com or @CarlBovisNature on Twitter.
Most of Carl’s photos are taken in the Somerset Levels countryside around his home. Some are snapped in his garden, often out of a window – or even through the cat flap – when he spots something interesting going on. He rarely uses a tripod or sits in a hide, preferring instead to wander around and shoot hand-held.
Carl seems to embrace the philosophy that there’s no such thing as an ordinary, everyday bird or animal, however common they might be. It really doesn’t matter if they’re house sparrows or even feral pigeons – they’ve all got extraordinary qualities, and if the photographer isn’t capable of conveying those, then that’s his problem.
Foremost among those extraordinary qualities is the enviable ability to fly, and Carl’s in his element when he’s capturing this super-power. A blue tit hurtles towards the lens, wings tucked tightly by its sides as if it’s been shot out of a cannon. Two male chaffinches tangle in mid-air with outstretched wings, like duelling angels. Three teals fly side-by-side in tight formation, as if auditioning for the Red Arrows.
How on earth does he achieve these images? Apart from speculating vaguely about filming in good light and using high shutter speeds to freeze the action, I really haven’t a clue. It’s a mysterious kind of alchemy, a magical coming-together of art and science in which he somehow seems to enlist his subjects as enthusiastic accomplices.
Time to come back down to earth and return to my more prosaic efforts. I must admit photography gives me something of the thrill of the chase. Maybe it’s some primal hunting urge, but there’s a real challenge in pitting your wits against a wary jay or a wily fox and hoping to come away with the trophy of a good photo. The big advantage of “shooting” wildlife in this way, of course, is that you leave it alive to continue to fulfil its role in the natural world, and for yourself and others to enjoy in future.
I’ve found that wandering around the countryside with a camera has brought me closer to nature and made me appreciate it more. I’ve had to look at things more closely, and in a different way – not just the birds or butterflies or animals themselves, but also the world they inhabit and the way they interact with it.
Take the treecreeper, for example. On the face of it, it’s a fairly common, fairly nondescript little brown bird. You might be tempted to tick it off your list and press on in search of something more glamorous. But watch it closely enough to get a decent photo of it, and you’ll see it in a completely different light. It’s one of Nature’s extraordinary climbers, as it edges upside down along a horizontal branch, gripping the bark with its enormous splayed toes, using its long tail for balance.
That feeling of connection with the natural world has done wonders for my mental health during a truly awful time when we’ve all needed some kind of refuge from the horrors of Covid.
And occasionally, just occasionally, the stars align. That infuriatingly furtive wren hops out of the shadows and perkily turns up its tail, while proudly clutching a crane fly in its beak. The magic formula of ISO and f-stop and shutter speed and auto-focus and who knows what else actually does its stuff.
And suddenly it’s all worth it.