To catch, as in to capture on film – of course. To put one of these neon blue light-lasers in a cage would be like trying to own the beauty of a butterfly by pinning it to a board.
25 kilometres outside of Rome, by the coastal town of Ostia, lies a small nature reserve. Run by LIPU, the Italian equivalent of the RSPB, it contains a small lagoon and a few trails with three hides for observing the variety of aquatic birds and passeriformes that either nest in or visit the area.
As per usual, it’s a spur of the moment thing and we pick a day right in-between what are generally considered the right seasons to go birding here. The bee-eaters have already left and it’s still too early for the flocks of migrating birds resting on their way to Africa, or for those species that choose to overwinter in this temperate zone. Still, we pack the binoculars and the camera and head along the trail.
We pick the hut nearest the water, creak open the wooden door and enter into the gloom. There are three other figures already inside, lined up along the observation hatch. Their photographic equipment is very impressive and for the first time I understand why Cannon cameras chose the brand name: they are weapons waiting to fire – enormous expanded cylinders poised at the ready. Quietly my husband unpacks our camera. Until now I’d thought we could acquit ourselves quite competitively in the lens department, but his just doesn’t compare, poor guy! We manage to refrain from laughing at the scenario (this is a serious pursuit), and get down to the business of trying to spot some birds.
Immediately there’s a flash of preternatural colour, electric turquoise and vivid orange, and a kingfisher lands on a branch right outside the hide. Shutter sounds fill the hut with whirrs and clicks. The kingfisher pipes his reedy song once, twice and darts away.
‘Did you get it?’ I mouth. He checks the screen and then looks at me guiltily.
‘I hadn’t set it up. The exposure’s all wrong,’ he whispers back.
Indeed, the screen shows mostly black with the hint of a bird-like shape in the centre.
I say nothing.
After that, we try and try but it’s impossible to catch them in the viewfinder, to anticipate their flight patterns or keep up with their speed. I can almost hear the camera’s auto-focus laughing at me for being fool enough to even consider it feasible.
In the end we just take to watching these fantastic creatures through the binoculars. They flash and dash, skimming the water, or diving from branches to grab a silvery fish with needlepoint accuracy, tiny jewelled jet crafts captivating us with their capacity for aerial manoeuvres and precision plunges. We capture their activity only in our mind’s eye. But that’s enough, and as I drift into sleep later that night, they continue to dance into my dreams.