I’m Graham, and I volunteer at the Waddesdon Aviary — which, strictly speaking, is licensed as a zoo and collaborates with other zoos from all over Europe and as far as San Diego. The operation has two distinct parts. There’s the on-show area with ten aviary units set around the Grotto fountain, and there’s the off-show setup down at Miss Alice’s. The off-show side is all timber buildings and is where the conservation graft happens: breeding, hospital and quarantine space, and exchanges with other zoos.
Most of what I do is look after buildings rather than birds — but the buildings look after the birds. My job is to keep them safe from whatever the outside world throws at them. In a semi-wild setting, timber rots, rodents test the boundaries, mesh gets challenged, and gaps appear where they shouldn’t. A lot of my time is spent cutting out the bad wood, fabricating replacements, defeating anything trying to get in at ground level, and making sure every joint and panel still does its job. I also tend the Grotto fountain — clearing, cleaning, recovering the coins our generous guests “donate,” and removing the gravel their enthusiastic children “contribute.”
I don’t only volunteer here. My first taste of volunteering was in 2018 at Lindengate, a mental-health charity near Wendover with a six-acre therapeutic garden. What really kicked me into gear, though, was being made redundant at the end of 2019 — expected, even welcome after 25 years, but it left a gap I had to fill. Time on my hands is not my friend. I’ve known Waddesdon for years as a National Trust member, so applying here was obvious. I started in 2020 — with the caveat that the first months were disrupted by Covid closures.
What keeps me coming back is simple: problem-solving with my hands and seeing a fix through. You open up a base rail and find more rot than you hoped; you figure out how to rebuild it so the structure above stays sound and the birds remain secure. You make something work with the materials you’ve actually got, because we reuse what we can and there isn’t always the perfect piece to hand. You close up at the end of the day knowing the birds are safe inside, the “undesirables” are out, and the place will hold through the night. There’s pride in that.
When I first arrived I was mostly helping with husbandry: preparing food, taking it round the aviaries, cleaning water dishes. Early on I said I was keen on timber work, and Gemma Cotton — who interviewed me back then — let me have a go. Since then, as people have seen what I’m useful at, I’ve been given more of that kind of work. That matters to me. After 40-plus years in industry I’ve had great managers and terrible ones; the good ones notice what you’re good at and make space for it. Here there’s also real flexibility. Because I’m often doing repairs both on-show and off-show, it works best if I’m in when the grounds are closed to visitors — Mondays and Tuesdays, unless it’s a bank holiday — so the illusion isn’t spoiled by a bloke with tools in the background. If I need to switch days or nip off for a medical appointment, it’s accommodated without fuss. Ian and Gavin are generous with their thanks, and that goes a long way.
The community piece is real. I’ve got strong day-to-day connections with the aviary staff and volunteers, a number of the garden team, and the volunteer office — Megan and Janneke know me well. I volunteer almost full-time across a few places now, and my networks have started to overlap: people I know at Waddesdon turn up in other organisations too. That spills into my personal life in a good way. It means if someone asks me about volunteering, or about job-hunting, I can at least signpost them to the right people.
As for memorable moments — for me they’re often the quiet ones: finishing a tricky repair neatly, handing back a secure aviary, and seeing that internal “customer” is genuinely happy. Then the next job comes along and you start again.
The challenges are constant but straightforward: you reveal one patch of rot and find three more; you need to rebuild the base of a unit while the structure above remains intact; you have to make the enclosure safe before nightfall because leaving any aperture unsecured simply isn’t an option. Sometimes that means a temporary board-up while you fabricate a better solution; sometimes it’s a day of scavenging the stores to make a piece you don’t have. Nesting birds add constraints — there are areas you can’t work in for a time, and power tools are out because noise will spook a sitter off the nest. Beyond the ten aviaries by the Grotto — near the elephants and the old Rose Garden — there are the interconnected sheds at Miss Alice’s where a lot of the off-show work happens. Each space has its own quirks.
And then there’s the wildlife. Robins are fearless and territorial; if one slips through an ajar door into an aviary with a barbet, one of them is likely to end up dead. Robins will recognise you, dart right up, and investigate anything that looks like it might hold food. Magpies are curious too, but in a different way. Part of my job is making sure inquisitive locals can’t get in, however audacious they are.
Every so often I’m reminded how remarkable the birds here are in their own right. There’s a male that will take food, circle it, throw up that great fan tail, and dance it over to the female as an offering. Watching that courtship in full flow never gets old.
If you asked me why I do this, I’d say it’s a blend of purpose, craft, and community. I get to solve practical problems that matter, I know exactly who benefits, and I’m part of a team that notices and appreciates the work. That’s enough to bring me back, week after week.
