One of the most interesting things about photographs (for me anyway) is what’s happening outside the frame – the bits you don’t see: the idyllic shot of the English countryside that crops out the ice cream van; fashion shoots that, in focusing on the model, leave out the army of assistants and hangers on holding bags of lenses, reflectors, jumpers and coats; the relatives that have fallen out of favour at weddings… Everyone does it when taking pictures, and I’m particularly guilty when it comes to taking photographs of starlings. Whereas I welcome unexpected intrusions in a lot of my other images, indeed the random incongruities are often the things that make the picture, when it comes to starlings I am a complete fascist and just want the shapes the birds make. Even including the pier is a bit annoying, though I’ll admit I’ve got used to it being there and adding a sense of scale.

And today I’m off to the seafront again on another starling hunt, heading towards my favourite viewpoint at the end of Albion Groyne. Of course, it being the weekend, there are a lot more people about, and when I get there I see a couple of guys fishing from ‘my’ spot. There isn’t a lot of room left but I ask them if they mind me squeezing in, and they’re ok about it, so here we are all huddled together in the freezing air; they with all their equipment and I with mine. I’m a bit miffed because the fishing rods are going to make a clear shot difficult, but they were there first, and they’ve come all the way down from London to fish for the day so I can’t even allow myself to feel annoyed, after all, I’m probably just as much in their way.

Inevitably we get talking. Two brothers, originally from Poland, they’ve been working in London for five years. They like fishing. I reciprocate, telling them why I’m there. They seem a bit nonplussed at the idea of me taking pictures of birds, but I get that indulgent look that says ‘you do what you like, it’s not our problem, we’re here to fish’ and they obviously have the touch because the fish are practically jumping out of the water at them. “Tonight we make big barbecue!” I reckon they will too. They must have caught twenty while I was there.

The birds are now gathering in greater numbers and I’m snapping away as if there is no tomorrow, while lines, hooks and bait whine past my head on the outward path, and fish on the return journey. I’m glad they seem to know what they are doing as I want them to catch fish, not me. Actually it’d be great if I get a flying fish in shot too, but sadly that doesn’t happen. I can hear a couple of other conversations going on behind me about the size of the catch, and the occasional thump as another one gets the coup de grace before joining it’s dead brethren in the bag at my feet. And then I can tell they’ve really started to notice the birds because they start asking me about them, and I’m trying to reply while attempting to keep the camera level.

“What these birds?
“Starlings”
“What is this bird? Is little bird? There are so many? English bird?

I tell them a little more, and about them being migratory. I think they like that these starlings are probably from the Baltic coast. Maybe not so far from where their families are.

Eventually the murmuration is over and it’s only then when I turn round that I realise what’s been behind me, out of shot. The whole beach is dotted with people, some with cameras, some with tripods, most just lounging on the beach but all, like me, wrapped up like laundry bags, their faces fixed in similar expressions of delight. It’s been a good show. I’m glad they were there too.