I was about seven years old when, in the pages of the European field guide illustrated by the legendary bird artist Roger Tory Peterson, I first came across the Alpine accentor.
Something about this bulky cousin of our familiar dunnock must have clicked, because soon afterwards I was convinced I had seen one in our suburban front garden. Not just unlikely but, as I later discovered, impossible. That’s because, as its name suggests, the Alpine accentor is a rare vagrant to Britain from the mountains of central and southern Europe.
Never mind, I thought, I’m bound to see one somewhere on my travels. But I didn’t. What made things worse was that so many of my friends – and not just birders – have come across these birds, usually at cafes in ski resorts.
Then last month, almost six decades after I marvelled at Peterson’s illustration, I visited a Buddhist monastery in Bhutan, high in the eastern Himalayas. And there they were, a pair of Alpine accentors: large and plump, like dunnocks on steroids. Tame as sparrows, they hopped around right in front of me, showing off their handsome grey, black and chestnut plumage.
I had come to Bhutan to see some of the world’s most striking and beautiful birds, such as the satyr tragopan we encountered a few minutes later. Yet finally catching up with a species I had been searching for since my childhood was, for me, the highlight of the trip.
Funny old thing, birding.
