Follow the flight of the blackpoll warbler

Diversity is a mark of richness and environmental health - and birds are its flag-bearers.

Bird variation set both Charles Darwin and Alfred Russel Wallace on the path to discovering natural selection and its role in evolution. Wallace observed it on the Molucca Islands, Darwin on the Galapagos. Diversity is a mark of richness and environmental health and birds are its flag-bearers. Their disappearance, like the collapse of the canary in the mine, is our warning signal.

Yesterday, wondering where blue tits and great tits have gone this summer (am I providing the wrong kind of peanuts?), I found the Shakespearean phrase “nature’s riches” used for a site explaining the rich geological pickings of the Arctic, now being unlocked by global warming. It could equally refer to the tropical forests being destroyed to make monocultures such as palm oil. Maybe only migrating birds know (though it must be a special kind of “knowing”) the true force of the paradox that areas of greatest biodiversity are also areas of greatest conflict – and how fast biodiversity is being lost in our time.

This is true above all between Arctic and tropic. These words first occur in the late 14th century. In Greek, arktikos means “belonging to bears”. Not polar bears: people knew the night sky and the constellation of the Great Bear. Tropic, from the Latin tropicus and the Greek trope, meaning “turn”, refers to the daytime sky where the sun, after reaching its northernmost or southernmost point, stands still (solstitium) and turns back.

If all birds stayed in the tropics, many would die out through competition for food and nesting sites, so species evolved to migrate. As resources regenerate each spring in the north, millions of birds trade tropic for Arctic: less competition for insects, longer daylight hours to find them. When Arctic food dwindles in autumn, they return to the replenished tropics.

These journeys are risky but better than the alternative. Blackpoll warblers winter in Venezuela, then fly north in spring over the Gulf of Mexico up to Alaska, where they build little cup nests in fir trees. They take a different route back: they fly south-east over the Great Lakes and from the New England coast some follow the shoreline down to Florida, some island-hop to South America, but most fly east to pick up winds hurling them over the Caribbean non-stop, day and night, for 88 hours to Venezuela. Four days over the Atlantic in peak hurricane season, facing spiralling winds, clouds, rain. Many crash exhausted in the sea. Yet it’s worth the risk because this route is 1,500 miles shorter and survivors establish a winter feeding territory earlier.

Nature is prodigal, said Darwin. So much waste. “The face of nature may be compared to a yielding surface, with 10,000 sharp wedges packed closely together and driven inwards by incessant blows, sometimes one wedge being struck, and then another with greater force.”

His understanding of the conflict driving nature’s apparent harmony was triggered by reading “An Essay on the Principle of Population” by Robert Malthus. This led him to the concept of natural selection and also to ideas about the evolution of instincts and human psychology.He was young: after South America, his mind was racing. “The principle of population is strife”; “All forms compete against others”; “You can understand the true conditions of life only if you use your imagination to hold on to a sense of the ruthlessness of the natural forces that could waste the bright surface.”

This side of his work inspired Freud’s insight into psychic conflict and the origins of human aggression. “The human mind is shaped by its animal past,” said Darwin. Nature’s ruthlessness is ours, too: our bodies, our psyches.

Unlike a blackpoll warbler, we can’t fly away when resources are gone. In our time, it seems, Arctic and tropic will change their meanings again. But biodiversity may no longer be part of the equation.

Good migrations: macaws fly over a river in Peru. Photograph: Frans Lanting / Gallery Stock

Ruth is a British poet and author with close connections to conservation, wildlife, Greece and music. She has published a novel, eight works of non-fiction and eight poetry collections, most recently The Mara Crossing, which mixes poems and prose to explore migration. She is a Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature and a Council Member for the Zoological Society of London.  See her website for more.

This article first appeared in the 08 July 2013 issue of the New Statesman, The world takes sides

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Why do the words “soup, swoop, loop de loop” come to mind every time I lift a spoon to my lips?

It’s all thanks to Barry and Anita.

A while ago I was lending a friend the keys to our house. We keep spare keys in a ceramic pot I was given years ago by someone who made it while on an art-school pottery course. “That’s er . . . quite challenging,” the friend said of the pot.

“Is it?” I replied. “I’d stopped noticing how ugly it is.”

“Then it’s a grunty,” she said.

“A what?” I asked.

“A grunty. It’s something you have in your house that’s hideous and useless but you’ve stopped noticing it completely, so it’s effectively invisible.”

I was much taken with this idea and realised that as well as “grunties” there are also “gruntyisms”: things you say or do, though the reason why you say or do them has long since been forgotten. For example, every time we drink soup my wife and I say the same thing, uttered in a strange monotone: we say, “Soup, swoop, loop de loop.” How we came to say “soup, swoop, loop de loop” came about like this.

For a married couple, the years between your mid-thirties and your late forties might be seen as the decade of the bad dinner party. You’re no longer looking for a partner, so the hormonal urge to visit crowded bars has receded, but you are still full of energy so you don’t want to stay in at night, either. Instead, you go to dinner parties attended by other couples you don’t necessarily like that much.

One such couple were called Barry and Anita. Every time we ate at their house Barry would make soup, and when serving it he would invariably say, “There we are: soup, swoop, loop de loop.” After the dinner party, as soon as we were in the minicab going home, me and Linda would start drunkenly talking about what an arse Barry was, saying to each other, in a high-pitched, mocking imitation of his voice: “Please do have some more of this delicious soup, swoop, loop de loop.” Then we’d collapse against each other laughing, convincing the Algerian or Bengali taxi driver once again of the impenetrability and corruption of Western society.

Pretty soon whenever we had soup at home, Linda and I would say to each other, “Soup, swoop, loop de loop,” at first still ridiculing Barry, but eventually we forgot why we were saying it and it became part of the private language every couple develop, employed long after we’d gratefully ceased having soupy dinners with Barry and Anita.

In the early Nineties we had an exchange student staying with us for a year, a Maori girl from the Cook Islands in the southern Pacific. When she returned home she took the expression “soup, swoop, loop de loop” with her and spread it among her extended family, until finally the phrase appeared in an anthropological dissertation: “ ‘Soup swoop, loop de loop.’ Shamanistic Incantations in Rarotongan Food Preparation Rituals” – University of Topeka, 2001. 

This article first appeared in the 21 July 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The English Revolt