Our co-host has experienced the first stirrings of a desire to become a bird watcher. How did this happen?

He looked out of the window, and saw what he now knows to be pied wagtails. They were flitting around the bins, darting around, wagging their tails, and he thought they were very charming and fascinating and lovely. They were quick, their quickness was mesmeric. He looked them up, found that they were wagtails, and he found this whole experience very satisfying. Now, whenever he has a lazy morning with nothing else on, he’ll go out into the garden with a cup of coffee, and sit there watching (and identifying) the birds.

He’s at the start of a long journey, but is wary about what this says about him. We can reassure him with tales of Victorian excellence, or Jim Corbett or Gerald Durrell, or Stephen Maturin of Master and Commander fame. But still, what’s going on here? There’s certainly no practical application of this (as there may have been a century ago).

There’s an innate satisfaction in being able to classify the world around us (a common British affliction) and to be able to name things. It’s a good excuse to get outside and go on a walk - or even to sit outside in silence without your phone, which is unquestionably healthy but difficult to give yourself permission to do. And, actually, humans are predators and we rarely get the opportunity to exhibit the hunting behaviour that is innate to us all, if suppressed. Bird watching gives us a harmless outlet for our ancient instincts.

But above all, they are hypnotic, entrancing, bewitching. There’s a sense of the magical about birds. They live in a world apart from ours, navigating the world in a different way to us, free in their flight, brightly colourful. It’s no surprise that birds are often used as omens and metaphors in literature - especially metaphors of thought and the mind.