It seemed such a short time ago that I was
tripping lightly along the boardwalk of the Norfolk Wildlife Trust’s unique
reserve at Ranworth, heart full of the boundless possibilities of a vibrant
spring as I arrived for my first volunteering session of the season. Then the
recently cut reeds were only just beginning to regenerate, poking bright green
shoots through the boggy ground festooned with yellow splashes of marsh
marigold. Fresh buds of willow, sallow and oak were unperceptively but
determinedly unfurling, Chiffchaffs sang in the alders, blackcaps warbled from
hazel scrub whilst the azure sky of an April morn foretold of a likely busy day
ahead.
Scroll forward six months and here I was walking
the same trail, wearing the same boots, with the same shade of clear sky
overhead. The season had been, as ever, entertaining, fulfilling and varied.
Education and enlightenment was dispensed and received, picnics and laughter
experienced and relished. But now things had changed. No birdsong accompanied
my progress; no colourful spikes of marsh flowers punctured the damp ground, no
sense of the impending explosion of growth; of bursting buds, of regeneration.
Instead I walked through dampened, bedraggled ranks of reed; under trees shedding leaves of burnished
gold and red, through a world seemingly resigned to the end; the cessation of
life. At least for this year. But then I caught the rays of the morning sun
shining through reed heads caught dancing in a sudden waft of autumn breeze. The
dapping light temporarily blinded me, yet the waltzing shadows lifted my mood.
There was life here after all. A blue tit wheezed, goldfinches tinkled, gulls drifted
as snowflakes. It was simply a different aspect of the same place; a morphing
from one season to another; cause for celebration not melancholy. I walked on
with a lighter step.
It was a good day, a steady flow of visitors,
lots of children eager to draw the birds they had seen, complete the puzzles,
push buttons and spent granddad’s money. Late holiday makers mixed with regular
visitors; pilgrims from foreign counties rubbing shoulders with locals. As it
should be.
In the late afternoon, as the sun swung in a
descending arc westwards, the reflected light on the broad took on a special
vibrancy. A party of visitors dropped in
from Scandinavia; Norwegian, Danish and an Englishman that had migrated north.
They loved the mood and serenity of this place. We chatted about the birdlife
now gathering in impressive numbers on and around the sparkling water, resting,
washing, preening, squabbling, as birds do. It struck me that we were, in all
probability, looking at foreign immigrants of an avian kind. Little, if
anything, had originated in this beloved Norfolk of mine. I explained that the
wigeon, teal, shoveler, cormorants and gulls we were watching could quite
easily have come from Iceland, Russia, Central Europe or maybe even Norway or
Denmark. Perhaps the gulls these people had seen wheeling around their local
park or marina were now taking advantage of the peace and sanctuary afforded by
a shallow Norfolk waterway. Maybe the ducks they had observed on their
Scandinavian lakes were the very same ones now whistling and piping in front of
us. Who can say? Similarly the impressive cormorant roost, already boosting at
least 1000 birds perching still and sentinel on favoured trees, contained
individuals from France and Holland. A
connection was made. We are not separate from these creatures; we share the
same earth, move through the same space, rely on the same resources.
As we wound down the centre for our last shift
of the year, gulls and yet more cormorants were streaming overhead, sailing
into roost. Yes, the screeching terns and swooping swallows may have gone but
they have been replaced with another shift, one that is equally interesting,
spectacular and vital. The visitor centre may now be closed to the public, but
it is simply dozing. Like the Queen wasps, peacock butterflies and bats
sheltering within, it will reawaken with the first warm days of spring to commence
the cycle of life.
