Confessions of a Teenage Twitcher

(*Edit. This blog was originally called Tales of a Teenage Twitcher)

It's probably not best for me to start only my second post by admitting that I have lied to you.

There I said it.

The title of this blog; "Tales of a Teenage Twitcher", may have sacrificed a grain of truth for alliteration purposes.

The truth is: I'm not a twitcher.

To those who don't understand what a "Twitcher" is, think of it like this. A twitcher is the birdwatching equivalent of a Navy SEAL. A birdwatcher that will go above and beyond their ornithological call of duty, and employ all manner of hardened tactics and experience to obtain their target. These people will travel the length of the country at the drop of a hat to catch a glimpse of the rarest visitors to our shores to tick it off their lists. These are the diehards, the best of the best.  

I am not.

Whilst I must confess to one or two bouts of twitching, these are much milder cases and must conform to my 2 strict rules:

• The bird must be within a close range.
• The bird must be something worth seeing ie. unusual, colourful etc.  

The only two species I have "twitched" are a Great White Egret (which was 10 miles away from my house) and a Velvet Scoter (about 5 miles away). As you can see, we aren't talking the pinnacle of dedication here.
However these encounters have often left me with a "twitch itch", most recently after seeing the Velvet Scoter in December whilst home for Christmas. I suddenly felt the need to get out and look for birds I haven't seen before to tick them off my life list. I had caught the bug. This was it. My inner twitcher was stirring. I was checking local bird sightings websites daily and was going to make full use of the insurance I had taken out on my Mum's car. A few hours getting neck ache staring at a copse of trees in the biting cold looking for a Firecrest put a stop to that particular phase.

My experiences are not even a drop in the ocean when it comes to the real world of twitching. For me to be a real twitcher would be rather impractical. Let me explain.

I don't own a car. The only time I have access car is when I'm at home and being a student means that its economically unfeasible for me to spend money filling up on petrol to chase Red Eyed Vireos round the country. Therefore the only real way for me to become a successful twitcher is by having parents, relatives or close friends that are so inclined themselves so that I can tag along. I have none of the above.

Thinking about it, perhaps if my parents had been keen twitchers I wouldn't be writing this blog and may have no interest in birds at all. Imagine being a child (it shouldn't be too hard, we've all been there) and constantly getting carted around the country only to be shown, with great excitement by your parents, a little brown sparrow-esque bird on a windswept headland that looks no different to the ones you see everyday at home. I think I'd need a psychotherapist at the mere sight of anything with feathers.

In all seriousness I'm happy to look at the birds around me, no matter what they are. I'm just as fascinated watching the behaviour of Jays in Meanwood Park or House Sparrows on the bird feeders as I was seeing that Velvet Scoter or Great White Egret. That's the joy of nature, its about getting what you want out of it and enjoying it any way and every way you wish. 

That's not to say I'll never become a twitcher. I may one day dabble in this darkest of ornithological arts. On some days the idea very much appeals to me, on others it sounds pure ludicrous. Who knows?

So there we have it. My confession. I hope your not too sour about the whole twitching title thing.

Lets be honest “Tales of a Teenage Birdwatcher” just doesn't have the same ring to it.