Stalking the birds

As the night shift ends and the bats return home, the birds take over. Dawn sees Richard Collins, an ornithologist with a particular interest in swans and an extraordinary knowledge of birds, setting up his huge bird "mist" nets. He is going to give participants at the ESB Lough Ree Environmental Summer School a practical demonstration of bird ringing. Having arranged his nets at strategic points through the lakeside woodland, he has already bagged a couple of birds who are waiting in cotton bags for a numbered ring to be fitted, which will be followed by weighing and careful release.

By 6 a.m., the birdwatchers have arrived; some of us are white-faced veterans of the previous night's bat vigil. It is quiet; few birds are singing. A variety of ducks are getting ready for the day and appear reconciled to the lack of bread on offer.

Herons, herring gulls and a couple of cormorants are doing their best to distract us. The occupants of the small twitching sacks soon take over. Collins has a dry line in humour that proves an effective soundtrack for what is a serious business. His approach is conversational, informative yet not pedantic.

Bird ringing requires between one and two years' training, during which ringing is only allowed under the supervision of a qualified ringer. The British and Irish ringing scheme is organised by the British Trust for Ornithology (BTO). Bird ringing is an exciting way of examining birds at close quarters, but it serves a scientific function in tracing migration patterns and monitoring bird populations, as well as survival trends. Collins keeps his bird ringing and measuring equipment in a small tool box. Among the various rings is a huge one that looks as if it should belong to a plumber. It is the identification ring used for swans.

Approximately 800,000 birds are ringed throughout Britain and Ireland each year by some 2,000 trained ringers, most of whom are volunteers. The BTO ringing permit is a legal licence. Handling a bird with a view to ringing it is a delicate, skilled operation. Close up the tiny bodies of the incredible flying machines never cease to amaze.

The plumage of most of the adult birds is currently as worn and weary as the birds themselves following the frenzy of the mating season. The dawn chorus is no longer as vigorous as it was at the height of mating in May. Domesticity has taken over. "Birds are exhausted," says Collins with a sympathetic shrug, "they're worn out." Most of them are resting while they regrow flight feathers for their autumn migration. The first bird to emerge from its bag for ringing was unaffected by the demands of nature. It is a baby robin still wearing its juvenile spots and as yet without its distinctive red breast. The self-possessed little character is ringed and flies off.

Robins are nosy birds and their curiosity has caused them to be perceived as suffering from "trap addiction". As Collins points out, "once a robin is ringed, it is liable to be caught again". Next up for ringing is a wren, its short tail cocked. Only the goldcrest, Ireland's smallest bird, is tinier than the wren. Ring on, off it flies probably less thrilled by its experience than the robin was.

We follow Collins over slippery, wet limestone pavements, to investigate his six large mist nets. On the way, a coot tends her nest. We hear the call of a sedge warbler, a bird who sings only to secure a partner. The anxiety note of a robin rings out, past the sneezewort and yellow loosestrife, towards the first net. It is still empty.

Meanwhile, one of a possible trio of herons glides across the sky. It prompts one woman to ask if there are any cranes in Ireland. "Not any more," says Collins. We walk on. Another net is holding a blackcap - a beautiful woodland bird, known as the northern nightingale. It is a male, its cap is black whereas the female's is brown. Into the bag he goes. Another juvenile robin is waiting. The next bird is trickier to identify. It is either a willow warbler or a chiffchaff. As its new flight feathers are not yet grown, the "wing formula" is not clear, so identification is finally determined by the eye stripe - and, yes, it is a willow warbler: the possessor of a lovely, almost plaintive song.

As Collins observes the yellow-greenish willow warbler and the sedge warbler - a graceful small brown bird with creamy underpants - he remarks on their courage. These heroic little migratory birds fly 6,000 miles as far as southern Africa for the winter and return. Waiting calmly for release, they peer back in our faces, their eyes full of intelligence. Science has discovered many things, but as Collins remarks wistfully: "We don't know what goes through a bird's mind."