100 Not Out

James was on the phone next day: ‘as soon as soon as you can crawl to the recording studio I want you to do some talks to go out on Sandie Goodyear’s Long Good Morning programme. I suppose it’ll have to be birds, you don’t know about anything else'.

That gave me something to think about and, though unable to walk more than a few yards to the loo, at least I could use a keyboard. The air-slot was for seven and a half minutes; that’s just about 1000 words at reading speed. I enjoyed recording those pieces and hearing them at coffee time every Sunday.

Eventually a selection of five of the short talks for each of the four seasons was published as an audiotape, under the title Birds and Words. The only feedback was from my Grandaughter who listened to it in bed because it made her go to sleep!

I cannot remember how many I did, but I seem to remember calling one A Hundred Pipers an’ a’ to celebrate the hundredth in the series. These talks, full of anecdote and legend, referred to literary figures from Pliny and Aristotle to Shakespeare, with quotations from great ornithologists of past and present. ‘Birds and Words was cultural rather than scientific and gave listeners an insight into the lives of some of the birds that can be seen in Highland Perthshire.

Later the words written for those broadcasts (lost, alas, due to a computer accident) were assimilated into a book called Scottish Birds Culture and Tradition and published by Mercat of Edinburgh in 2001.

Brendan made a house call on the patient, diagnosed ennui and prescribed stiff therapy. He ordered a monthly column in Comment and, for good measure, a crossword.

The latter was strong medicine indeed for Brendan secured a case of whisky from Dewars; the compiler and the prize-winning crossworder each had a bottle every month. That helped my back no end. Unfortunately the supply ran out after six puzzles.

The prescription was quite specific: one essay to be taken to the Wordwright Office every month. ‘Okay,’ I said thinking that after two or three pieces the editor would tire of bird fact and fable, ‘at least it will stop me getting so bored.’

The back healed surprisingly quickly and soon there was no longer a need for Brendan’s medicine but somehow writing a short ‘birdie bit’ each month had become a habit. The months changed to years so that the piece you are now reading is the 100th.

The first appeared in the December/January 1997/98 issue [vol. 17 no. 8] and that was just two weeks after my fall. The column has appeared every month since except April 2000 [vol. 24 no.2] when a gremlin stole the copy.

I mentioned to Brendan on the phone that I had once achieved the ton in a medical journal for General Practitioners called Update. The editor marked the occasion by sending me a crate of champagne. There was silence on the line, then a grunt before he asked, ‘would you settle for Irn Bru?’

I have to admit that when Comment time of the month hits the Hull household the atmosphere gets charged. (Gillian, at 98 ‘Short Breaks’, is only just behind me). ‘What on earth can I say this time?’ we ask each other and yet, when we start, we both enjoy the writing.

I am lucky because the field of ornithology is vast and I have so much to learn that each essay means reading a bit or checking my records so I learn as I write. I get a frisson of pleasure when someone I don’t know says ‘So you’re the Birdman!’ or when some hopeful rings me to report a Lammergeir hovering over the distillery. That is all quite fun but it doesn’t happen very often.

Perhaps that is a selfish way to look at one’s writing; the real test is do you enjoy it? But of course we have very little way of knowing. I remember that, when we were little, friends and I would drop a pebble into a well and guess the water-level by seeing how long it was before we heard the splash.

After a hundred pebbles with very small return of splash, one begins to wonder if it’s time to stop.