Bird's I've loved - Volume 1, 'The Hoopoe'

[Brendan Harding]

I hope this isn't too long-winded, but I still like the story so here it goes...

 

 

 

Birds seem to have a special place in my travels for some reason. Whether it was my first time seeing the fairy-tale shapes of black and white cranes nesting on the chimney stacks of Estonian farmhouses, or the dark circling silhouettes of vultures hanging on the thermals over the jagged mountains of Northern Spain, each one is burned eternally in my memory.

In a village in Hungary (whose name I must heartily thank several bottles of Slivovitz for forgetting), by the shores of Lake Balaton I happened across an ethnological museum. ‘Hooray!’ I said punching the air before paying the meagre entrance fee. An ethnological museum for God’s sake – it never ceases to amaze me the things we will do to pass time on our travels.

Eventually, having wandered for hours through the various scintillating exhibits of farm machinery, livestock husbandry, contraptions for weighing and measuring pumpkins and a plethora of dolls, animals and religious paraphernalia fashioned from corn-husks I found myself alone in a silent walled garden. With closed eyes I sat enjoying the Hungarian tranquillity when a curious sound caught my attention – Poo-Poo-Poo-Poo went the sound – rather like an old gentleman pouring scorn on the tall tales of a friend. I followed the sound deep into the garden. Poo-Poo-Poo-Poo went the sound again. The garden was shady with neat rows of juniper bushes and cherry trees lining its landscaped avenues. Poo-Poo-Poo-Poo, the strange sound continued. I was intrigued. Could it be the sound of a local resident finally driven to distraction by the sight of one corn-husk creation too many?

Poo-Poo-Poo-Poo, I felt sure the sound was getting closer. Then, in the short grass beneath a maple tree I saw him, a Hoopoe. If you think his name is strange in English just try it in Latin – Upupa Epops – sounding more like the noise a doting father makes playing see-saw with his child than the scientific moniker of a rather beautifully elegant bird.

Poo-Poo-Poo-Poo he said looking in my direction. When he saw me he immediately raised his brilliant crest of orange, black and white head feathers. It was the first time I had seen a hoopoe in the flesh (or in the feathers, if you insist). I didn’t know where to look at first; the startling crest; the symmetry of its black and white barred wing-feathers or the pale pinks and oranges of his under-parts. It sounds ridiculous to say this now but to my mind he stood there beneath the spreading tree with all the regality of a king throned beneath an awning of luxurious green velvet. My first Hoopoe.

If only I could get a little closer, I thought, trying to ready my camera as quietly as possible. With a series of audible beeps like those of a drunken robot singing a sea-shanty, my camera sprung to life. Mr Hoopoe heard it too. I raised my camera to capture the moment but even as I pressed the shutter I knew I had missed it. The hoopoe flew through the air in a surprisingly floppy flight for one so pretty; a cross between an overweight butterfly and a plastic bag caught on the wind. And then he was gone.

But I had seen my first Hoopoe and I needed to tell someone.

Not being a speaker of Hungarian, or even an interested student for that matter, I decided to keep it to myself until I found the right opportunity. It wasn’t long until I found a willing and English-speaking ear (shouldn’t that be English-hearing ear?), in a local bar. He wanted to ‘proktix’ his English on me, so I agreed. After several glasses of mind-bending liquor I finally told my story of the beautiful Hoopoe I had seen in the gardens of the Ethnographic museum. His majestic stance, his regal crown of colour, his loping flight and most of all his surreal voice. I vaguely recall standing on a chair, flapping my arms and shouting Poo-Poo-Poo-Poo at the top of my voice.

”Bastard Hoopoe!” my new friend cried. “Bastard, Bastard Hoopoe!” I was beginning to think he believed I had just insulted his mother, sisters and every female relative he’s ever had or ever likely to have.
”Bastard Hoopoe!” he shouted again, I noted where the nearest exit was located and planned my escape route.
”It’s a bird I’m talking about” I said, “just a bird.”
”Bastard Hoopoe!”
I was now sure he was single-minded in his vengeance. And then he spoke again. “They eat the berries from my father’s bushes; cherries, strawberries, blackberries, plums...” I thought about it briefly but decided that now was not the time to point out a plum was not considered a berry where I came from. “I hate them all,” he continued, “they are ugly thieving birds that destroy everything...”

We agreed to disagree, after all what did I know about the problems of Hungarian farm practices? - two hours in a small ethnographic museum pondering the merits of prepared corn-husks over natural corn-husks didn’t really qualify me for such matters. But eventually, as is the wont when evil smelling drinks are consumed from tiny glasses, our conversation turned to more important, more pressing matters; Hungarian goalkeepers, large-breasted women, who would win - Superman versus Batman, the price of beer in seedy Budapest nightclubs and many other such nuggets of intellectual trivia. At something-o-clock we made one final toast, “to Bastard Hoopoes!” we called, swallowed our medicine like men, then parted company forever.

In the morning as I left the little village, my head throbbing like the heartbeat of a ruby-throated hummingbird, the train rumbled slowly past the very spot where I had seen my Hoopoe. I strained from my seat in the vain hope I would catch one more fleeting glimpse of the beautiful little bird. Of course he was nowhere to be seen.

However, from my rolling vantage point I did manage to spot one other interesting thing; a line of sixty-something year old, American tourists chomping at the bit, waiting to gain entrance to the Ethnographic museum. From their eagerness I could only presume they were members of the ‘Squabshask County Corn-Husk Appreciation Society’ (the SCCHAS to the initiated) on their annual outing. I waved weakly to them, and guess what? that’s right - they all waved back. I was glad to be on the move again.

Thank you Mr. Hoopoe.