Clik here to view.
Having been birding for almost half a century, I have seen most of Europe's breeding species. But one particular bird has always eluded me, despite my best efforts to see it: the little bustard. So when I landed at Béziers airport, in the Languedoc Roussillon region of south-west France, I was looking forward to encountering this beautiful creature for the first time.
My host, fellow-birder Derek Moore, met me at the airport, and we drove around the perimeter fence to the end of the runway. The scenery, a mixture of vineyards and scrubby fields, did not look all that promising, but as we scanned with our binoculars I saw a thick, black-and-white striped object poking up from the vegetation. As I looked, it stared back, before dropping out of sight. My first little bustard – or part of one, at least.
Despite their size – about that of a medium-sized duck, but with longer legs – little bustards can be devilishly hard to see. They spend much of the time hunkered down out of view, so the best way to find one is to listen for its call, a soft, snorting sound. Audible from a great distance, this has given rise to the French nickname for this species: the farting chicken.
As this bird was not being very cooperative, we drove a short distance to another area of open fields. Here, according to Derek, the patchwork of grass and crops was ideal for little bustards. But before we could begin the search, our attention was distracted by a slim, long-tailed bird flying right alongside us.
Superficially like a cross between a falcon and a magpie, it landed to reveal a wispy crest, dark grey upperparts spotted with white, pale underparts, and a creamy-yellow throat.
It was a great spotted cuckoo, the larger cousin of our own species, and even more striking in appearance. Like the common cuckoo this is a brood parasite, laying its eggs in the nests of other birds, in this case the magpie. Great spotted cuckoos are a very rare visitor to Britain, so it was a treat to catch up with this stunning bird at such close range.
But our main quest was to get good views of little bustards. And soon afterwards, we did: first on the ground, uttering that bizarre call, and then in flight. To our delight, several pairs of bustards took to the air, their long necks and white wing-patches reminding me another odd-looking bird, the Egyptian goose.
As we watched, one male began to court his mate, by making a whirring motion with his wings, producing a strange, high-pitched sound. I don't know if she was impressed, but we certainly were.
The little bustards were just one of more than 120 different kinds of bird we came across during a five-day visit to this secret corner of France, including a dozen different raptors, 10 long-legged waterbirds, and more nightingales and cuckoos than I hear in a year at home.
