An Inspiration of Waders

I have a love/hate relationship with the Fens. On the one hand I have fond memories of spending several holidays on the edge of those flat plains with a good friend in the dim and distant past. We stayed with her grandmother in a small bungalow in a small village where half a mile to the west we could sit and watch scores of house martins at their nests on a bridge spanning the Little Ouse. We could listen to hosts of reed and sedge warblers chunter their rhythmic song from the thick growth of reed lining the channel and were seldom out of earshot of the soporific purring of turtle doves. The sun baked fields of deep, dark peat stretched to the horizon, unbroken by woods or the slightest deviation in altitude. I was 19, it was a long hot summer and all was good with the world. We could then walk a mile eastwards towards the Breck edge and enjoy heath and woodland covering the gently rising land where spotted flycatchers, yellow wagtails and tree sparrow were common fare.

On the other hand, I have memories of bleakness. Decades later. Mile after dreary mile of grey, murky flat regularly assaulted me as my train rattled and toiled endlessly through the featureless gloom en route to some pathetically meaningless meeting that nobody knew much about and cared for even less. And as for that bloody A17......

But of course that’s not really what the Fens should be, not quite what they’re all about. Drainage and subsequent farming has rendered them the godforsaken wilderness we see today. Thankfully there are one or two oasis that show us something of the wetland richness that could once, and maybe in future times will again, be enjoyed. One such is the WWT reserve at Welney, a truly inspiring place if ever there was one. I visited today with a mate of mine, great company, knowledgeable and a wader fanatic. We were approaching the reserve, chatting away about the usual stuff, music, birds, movies, when an explosion of silver and gold from the field to our right accompanied by various exclamations of delight from my chum forced me to bring the car to a halt. We were momentarily mesmerised by the sight of over 1000 golden plover and 100s of lapwing sprinkling the still winter air with their frantic paper chase. They flighted over the car, decorating the brooding clouds with sparkling waves as they twisted and turned to confuse and elude some predator, unseen by us, before gracefully dropping once more to the blackness of peat where their spangled gold was consumed. A rather encouraging start to our day.

Once we’d imbibed a warming cup of coffee from the very comfortable Visitor Centre we spent a couple of hours sitting in the hides watching the antics of a throng of wetland birds roosting, feeding, courting, bathing, preening, jousting and hunting. The small islands of raised ground were covered in ranks of black tailed godwits, now stripped of their summer finery, presumably roosting between the tides. Another wader fest for my Waderquest mate (have a look at their website - it's excellent). A few redshank, dunlin and the odd snipe added variety. Most of these birds were simply loafing around having a nap leaving the energetic wildfowl to provide the entertainment. Mallard were courting, swimming in groups, the drakes head bobbing in an attempt to impress the girls. Skirmishes were frequent, creating a frenzy of churning water as the brightly bedecked fellas tussled for dominance. Pochard, mainly drakes but with the odd duck in tow, were busy diving into the shallows to find some overlooked morsel whilst numbers of their brethren dozed on the grassy bank. Cantankerous little buggers and I couldn’t help grinning as one grabbed hold and vigorously shook the tail feathers of a whooper swan that blocked its path to the snooze zone.

The swans provided grace and serenity, slowly floating around in family groups, occasionally upending to browse the submerged grasses. Another smile as a pair of mute swans reinforced their pair bond by facing one another and slowly, very gently, mirroring each other’s head movements. Aptly their necks formed an almost perfect heart shape whilst they carried out this expression of love. Of course they feel emotion, maybe not as keen as ours, but why else would they be moved to such tenderness if not for the warm feeling it engendered? Quite humbling to witness.

Back at the cafe for lunch just in time to see a pair of short eared owls, disturbed by low flying buzzards, spiral high together before heading south to a less molested roosting spot. The day proved to be somewhat notable for birds of prey for not only did we espy the aforementioned species, but also saw marsh Harrier, kestrels aplenty, a couple of sparrowhawks as well as a fly over goshawk as we skirted Thetford. The marsh harriers we’re trying their luck with the massed waterfowl, stooping low over the shallows in an attempt to surprise some unwary individual, but these birds seem too slow and cumbersome to have much success. Certainly today the ducks and godwits scattered long before any harrier got close enough to strike providing another wader spectacular as tight flocks of birds wheeled over the flood. My mate was in wader heaven, and you know what, I think I was there with him.

Running Up That Hill

Contrary to popular opinion, this Norfolk of ours isn’t flat. Honestly it’s not. Even in the seemingly low lying areas of the eastern floodplains there are high spots. From one such it is possible to enjoy sweeping panoramic views of the Yare valley, encompassing the RSPB reserves at Strumpshaw Fen and Buckenham Marshes. Here you can admire the patchwork landscape of farmland, woodland, grazing marsh and fen sloping away towards the distant river Yare sparkling in the sunshine. On this particular day, and in spite of our hard breathing and racing hearts, the expansive scene before us did not fail to delight and inspire. There are six of us catching our breath on the crest of the valley, our exhalations pluming as they condensed in the crisp morning air. We’ve been running. I should explain.

This world of ours can be stressful. We live in a terribly overcrowded island where peace, quiet and solitude can be hard to find. Modern living detaches us from the outside, separates us from our environment and alienates us from all things wild. We spent so much time slaving over our smart phones, zipping around in our motorised tin cans, working in air conditioned offices and thereafter collapsing to slouch in front of our 4K TVs that we have become disconnected. Does that sound familiar? Well you’ll be pleased to know there is a remedy for this 21st century malaise and it’s just outside your door: Nature.

It is widely considered nowadays that exposure to the natural world; finding space, switching focus, can be immensely beneficial to personal health and wellbeing. To feel the raw wind in your hair, the welcome rays of spring sunshine warming your face or the chilling bite of winter frosts connects you with the environment; the environment  to which we belong and in which we all must dwell. Nature helps you forget the everyday stresses and strains and transports you to another place; a place of charm and wonder. It has the effect of opening your senses and allowing them to be flooded with calming sensation. Recognising this power, the RSPB is championing initiatives in and around its nature reserves to enable people to reconnect: walking, sketching, birdwatching, themed family activities, and....... running. I volunteer at Strumpshaw Fen where I happened upon a poster advertising a program of eight Saturday morning runs aptly entitled Run With Nature. Now I’m no stranger to exercise but have never entertained the discipline of regular structured running, and have certainly never run with other people: if I collapse panting in a disjointed, exhausted heap I only want me there to bear witness. But the idea of getting out and running through such a beautiful, wildlife rich part of my beloved Norfolk greatly appealed. I applied there and then before I could conjure up reasons to pass the opportunity by.

9.00am on a Saturday morning in mid-September saw me and half a dozen other eager folk gathered outside the reserve Reception. No doubt we were all appraising one another, wondering how fit each of our companions were and how our individual frailties would be cruelty exposed. Was I in the midst of seasoned marathon runners, finely honed athletes, sprinters of renown? Would I be left helplessly floundering in their wake? Not a bit of it. It soon became clear that we were all of like mind and ability, we all simply wanted to get out of the house, away from the toils and troubles of everyday life to breath lungful of unpolluted Broadland air and clear our minds. Introductions made, warm up exercises struggled with and we were on our way. For this first session our lovely instructor Anna was gentle with us, a short jog, a bit of walking, more jogging, walk, jog. In this alternating manner we made our way along the quieter paths of the reserve towards Buckenham. It wasn’t really about the exercise for we were surrounded by nature; dragonflies were still on the wing and danced through the air as we disturbed them temporarily from their perches, buzzards mewed overhead, a marsh Harrier glided by whilst the sights, smells and sounds of late summer surrounded us. Before we knew it we were back outside Reception having traversed 5 kilometres. The sense of achievement resonated through the group. Yes we were huffing and puffing a bit, sure we were a bit red in the face, but we felt good.

Each subsequent Saturday morning we were encouraged to take note of the subtle atmospheric shift, take stock of what was new and look for certain indicators of the changing season as we made our way around the footpaths and byways surrounding the reserve. Twice we saw otters cavorting in the Broad, we noticed flocks of newly arrived redwings, often encountered Chinese water deer browsing dyke side vegetation; we began to feel part of the scene. Even splashing through puddles and sidestepping muddy patches connected us with the elements. The temperature dropped, the leaves fell accordingly aided by autumnal winds that whipped scudding clouds across the wide open sky. We didn’t mind, it was all part of the plan. And imperceptibly we began to improve. We dispensed with the walking, we incorporated a few short sprints, we ran non-stop. In short we all pleasantly surprised ourselves with our abilities, made so under the watchful eye of our instructor who gently instilled in us correct posture, optimum technique and made us appreciate what we were doing and why.

We return to that crest of the Yare valley some two months on, taking stock after a long uphill run that everyone completed together without hitch. Together: I think that’s the key. We did this together. We all got along well, swapped a little bit of life history, enjoyed the post run wind down and coffee. We enjoyed it so much we don’t want it to end. And it won’t end because we are going to continue meeting Saturday mornings to undertake park runs or just perhaps have a fun run around Strumpshaw. And isn’t that what this was really all about? Discovering things about yourself and other people through the healing powers of nature? We’ve all enjoyed it so much. The RSPB should be congratulated on putting these initiatives in place, opening up their reserves and allowing people to absorb something of their beauty and bounty. I’m glad I saw that poster and even more pleased I made the effort to haul myself out of bed on a Saturday morning to join the team. If you get an opportunity to participate in something similar I would encourage you to do so. Don’t hesitate. It could change your life.

Viva Grebes

Although the Broad is effectively dead; devoid of any submerged aquatic vegetation, without invertebrates and their attendant fish, untroubled by mass hatching of dragonflies and minus any floating, flowering plants such as lilies, it does have a surprising number of great crested grebes. There is something like a dozen pairs of these streamlined, dagger-billed water birds scattered around the fringes of the clouded waters each setting up territory, there hoping to raise this year’s brood. They feast on the bream, perch and silverfish fry that teem in the shallows, bottom feeders not dependent on clear water for their livelihood. In the early morning of an April day, a scan across the gently rippling water will show a scattering of courting pairs, head shaking, down preening, deep orange frills spread; with head tufts raised, red eyes staring intently at their mate they will perform their graceful mating dance. Invigorating, mesmerising and beautiful.

Anchorage points for their flimsy nests are few and far between so competition is keen for any prime spot, one such area being close to the Visitor Centre thus allowing a chance to observe their behaviour up close. Three pairs are busy sorting out housing rights here, one seems to be quite settled but the other two pairs are playing a game of cat and mouse to determine dominance over a particular patch of partly submerged tree stumps and drooping branches of sinking sallow. One of these pairs did have a nest partly built and tucked away behind the Centre, but this was flooded out shortly after completion; they have set eyes on a more stable nest site. The pair in residence are none too happy with this intrusion. During the course of my shift last week I watched the displaced pair try on numerous occasions to usurp the other. They would wait until the coast was clear and then swim quietly to the favoured nest site, loafing around waiting to see whether they would get away with the trespass. Sometimes they had the place to themselves for a few minutes, but mostly were met with lowered posturing, loud growling and a head on assault. They always escaped by either skittering away ungainly across the water or diving back to a safe distance across, what is to us, an invisible territorial boundary, there to loiter until they judged it safe to try again. 

Whenever the victors saw off their rivals, they would approach one another and with keen grunts of excitement treat us to their fabled display; once rearing out of the water to perform what should be the incredible weed dance, only here there is no weed so a beak full of detritus has to suffice. Wonderful to observe never the less; what better way could nature devise to reinforce the pair bond?

 

These birds will sort themselves out before too long. It seems the dominant pair of this trio may well be the pair that had many misfortunes last year (see 30 Days Wild - Daylight Robbery ). They appear to have learned from their mistakes and are attempting to build their nest in the V of a tree stump, several inches above the normal water level. If they manage this without the ever attendant gulls and predatory otter spoiling the party they have a good chance of a successful hatching. We will see.

There are exciting, ambitious plans for the future of Ranworth Broad. If the plans work, everything I spoke of in my opening paragraph will be reversed to make this a true wildlife haven with a thriving diversity of life. The grebes and all other hard pressed residents, including us interested humans, are in for a treat.

Net Profit

Not so very long ago I listened to the buoyant, uplifting sound of skylarks singing for all their worth above a field of rough grass on the outskirts of Norwich not far from where I live. It lifted my spirits and made me feel happy. The field is no more and the space it occupied covered in concrete and housing a supermarket. The skylarks have gone. Further back in time I used to ramble around an acre or two of rough ground in another part of the city. Here there were birds aplenty, butterflies, small mammals, invertebrates of all kinds taking advantage of the thick tangles of hawthorn and bramble. It’s now a Sainsbury’s supermarket. All the birds, mammals and other wildlife has gone. Between these two sites there still exists a large area of woodland; mixed species of trees, well developed understory, open areas, pools, sunny rides where thousands of species of all kinds of creature and plant thrive. Despite having the designation of a County Wildlife Site it is earmarked for ‘development’ and will soon be bulldozed and covered in concrete, part of which will no doubt be another useless supermarket (haven’t we got enough of the bloody things already?) with its associated exhaust spewing queuing cars. There will be no space for anything wild anymore. Lost forever, and forever is a long, long time.

The need for housing and all the infrastructure people need is a reality. Wherever any of us live was historically once open land. But don’t you think things are ever so slightly out of control? Am I alone in thinking we really have lost the plot and any sense of perspective? Is it really necessary to have an open season on every patch of green space in every village, town and city across our land? Why have we become so disconnected? Does anyone actually care? Well I do and happily it’s been brought home to me recently that an awful lot of other people are beginning to think enough is enough.

Let’s go back to those endearing supermarkets. Bear with me; it’s relevant to our tale. They all extol their virtues as being ethically responsible and environmentally conscious, advertising shamelessly their ‘green’ credentials to entice us to part with our hard earned cash. We all understand it’s nonsense, we play the game because we all need to eat. However, a Tesco store on the outskirts of Norwich overstepped the mark. It decided that wildlife no longer mattered. It determined wildlife got in their way. It judged wildlife to be an inconvenience. It netted an area where swallows nest, citing hygiene as the reason why these small birds were no longer welcome on their premises. The health and safety issue being that the birds had set up home under the eaves of a trolly park and inevitably a few of the trollies received the occasional dollop of poop. And here we enter the minds of 21st century big business in the U.K. Instead of sitting down and thinking of ways in which the birds could be accommodated whilst eliminating the potential for mess (a few pounds, a few screws, placing plywood boards below the nests would do the trick), this worthy corporate giant decided to employ the services of ‘experts’ who considered the best solution would be to jet wash the offending nests off the walls and net the whole area, effectively forcing the birds to seek homes elsewhere. Problem solved....or so they thought. As is generally the case, big business failed to appreciate that ordinary people, caring people like you and I, think differently. We care about the world we live in and see the value of things rather than simple cost. After all how can you measure the value of having beautiful birds, harbingers of our beloved spring, choosing to nest and raise their young on your very doorstep? Birds that have travelled 5,000 miles just to grace you with their very being. Birds that have flown across the entire Sahara, endured near starvation, been on the cusp of dying of thirst, avoided natural predation and the guns of Mediterranean man, endured wind, rain, dust and cold. Birds we all love to see swooping across meadows and twittering on our telegraph wires, weighing about the same as an AA battery. How can we even think they have no value? Well they do have value and the actions of this company incensed so many people that a massive social media campaign has highlighted this abhorrent practice to a worldwide audience. That in itself didn’t seem to have much effect; the threats of a boycott of Tesco stores did the trick. Hit them where it hurts – in the pocket. The store was forced to back down. They have removed the nets ‘temporarily’ whilst a more permanent solution is found. News for you Tesco, I’ve given you a sensible solution - see above. I’ll even pay for the materials if you’re really that hard up thus ensuring those precious trollies of yours remain spotless.

At the NWT Reserve at Ranworth Broad, Swallows are a Major Attraction

Of course a more enlightened company may have thought out of the box and considered that these lovely migrant birds may actually be something they could exploit from a PR perspective, better still could even be a source of revenue. How about putting a web cam up by the nests, beaming the image to screens in their cafe, allowing customers to delight in how green and caring they really are? Those enraptured folk may stay for another cup of coffee, or tell their friends. And here’s a thought, they may even be tempted to buy some bird feed or a nest box making the whole thing pay for itself many times over. Supermarkets are responsible for some outrageous unethical practices: How much useless plastic wrapping? How much unsold food just dumped? How many small local businesses forced to close? How much green land taken up with their stores and car parks? Not an exhaustive list. It’s about time they began to give something back. In this case the real solution was so simple, if only they could have been bothered to care.

Whoop! Whoop!

The Fens: at turn bleak and barren, flat and windswept, open and liberating; perhaps a landscape difficult to love but then it is just a shadow of its former self. Where once was a vast area of wet marsh, reed bed, bog and fen, interspersed with shallow lakes and channels pulsating with life, now is a seemingly featureless expanse of dark peaty soil, farmed and sterile. Surely the drainage of this immense floodplain was the single biggest environmental catastrophe ever to befall these isles of ours? Any thoughts of treating such an ecologically rich area with similar contempt nowadays would court international condemnation and be stopped in its tracks. Hopefully. But it happened and we are left with just a few pockets of traditional Fenland; oases in a sea of ploughed fields that stretch to the horizon and beyond. Just think what it must once have been like; just think what’s been lost.

But things are slowly changing for the better, giving optimism for a brighter future. Little fragments of land are being acquired by people that care and have a vision. That vision is to recreate as much of the old Fenland as possible, stitching it together to once again provide wildlife with a chance to prosper whilst giving people a chance to appreciate what a landscape scale wetland should be. Visiting one such area, the WWT reserve at Welney, over the weekend brought home to me just how important these areas are. The vibrant green recreated meadowlands of Lady Fen that are visible from the Visitor Centre were simply teeming with life. Everywhere you looked there were ducks and geese and waders and crows, flocks of starlings, gulls and marauding raptors. Broad winged lapwings careering about the sky on their courtship dances, freshly moulted brick red godwits feasting before the final leg of their journey north, or maybe thy will stay and breed here, coots chasing one another in territorial spats; things dabbling, diving, quarrelling, courting or feeding. Beyond the sharply delineated reserve boundary: nothing. A few pheasants and rooks and that was your lot. Stark visual proof of how well managed the reserve is, how informed restoration can bring about amazing change and how important it has become now all around is hostile.

The birding experience begins in the car park. I mentioned in a recent post how in such landscapes an isolated line of bushes takes on new meaning, so it is here. The car park hedgerow provides a focal point for many small passerines that relish the cover. Most delightful were the tree sparrows chirping for all their worth and collecting twigs for their nests. Such a rare sight in the wider countryside nowadays so a special bird but one very reluctant to pose for a photograph. House sparrows flaunted themselves shamelessly, tree sparrows kept to deep cover. One popped up for a moment. Click click! Then it was gone.

With menacing clouds of various shades of wet scudding swiftly overhead chased by a relentless sharp nor wester, the various hides formed most welcome shelter. From the comfort of the main observatory thousands of waterfowl could be seen, amongst them a small group of ‘Tundra’ bean geese hunkering down against the wind that howled unabated across the Wash. Further along a drake scaup entertained the few hardy souls that had trudged thither. It came quite close at one point when engaged in a spot of preening, allowing a rare appreciation of its finery. A handsome bird albeit in two-tone, except for the bright golden eye that occasionally shone jewel like when a parting of the clouds allowed bright spring sunshine to flood the scene.

But the star attractions were the whooper swans still present in good numbers grouped together on nearly fields. Seeing them fly in white relief across the deep blue-grey of wide threatening skies, bugling their evocative calls, was a true delight. Later, a convenient pull in allowed quite close observation of these impressive and graceful birds, that is until some local on an off road motor bike decided to race up and down the fields in which they were feeding and resting, sending them skywards towards the sanctuary of the flood. One human, 200 birds displaced. Another reminder of how important unmolested reserves are for our wild creatures. 

Making a Splash

It may only be February, but in the bird world the urge to set up territory and foster a new generation is already strong. Between serving happy customers intent on making the most of another unseasonably mild and sunny day, I spent my shift at RSPB Strumpshaw Fen watching the various water birds on the Broad go about their business of staking a claim to a slice of this wetland oasis.

Grey lag geese were present in good numbers and already paired ready to breed. Most were content to idle about, but some were keen to exert their dominance over any of their kind that ventured too close. The gander would then approach the trespassers with neck stretched out and held low, honking away for all his worth. Both on the water and on the land the threatening performance was enacted mostly without issue, however on a few occasions birds would decide to square up and have a tussle and then the feathers would fly and the water would broil. 

Shoveler too were engaged in a spell of ‘You looking at my bird?’ kind of aggression. Again it was just the drakes that blustered and bluffed their way around the shallows. The females just sat there and watched, talking about nest building and how last year’s ducklings were getting along. They let the men fight it out, shrugged once the skirmish was over and flew off with their mate; victor or otherwise it didn’t seem to matter much. Gadwall joined in the act with drake birds doing their best to give their antagonist a good ducking (sorry). Shelduck do tend to get a touch more feisty with the drakes having a pretty good set too (saw a pair tussling at Tower Hide last week), but all things considered these were relatively tame affairs compared to the real fighting engaged in by the coots.

Yes, the coots were the ones that meant business. Their temperament at this season is akin to an ardent football fan that has just seen his team get a right stuffing ‘Look at me again mate and I’ll have you’ they seem to say. Just outside Reception two pairs of these black balls of fury were periodically disputing the boundary of this year’s breeding zone. A line across the water had been delineated, one that was naturally invisible to me but meant everything to these touchy creatures. Whereas the other water birds would leave the sparring to the men folk, in the world of the coot there is no sexual preferences. Here we have true equality with all partners ready and able to wade in. I watched one bully, possibly male, possibly a member of the fairer (?) sex, take exception to a pair of moorhens and a poor gadwall that in its opinion ventured too close. It would shoot towards this perceived enemy creating an impressive bow wave as it frantically attempted to maim the intruder. Threatened with this undeserved burst of anger, the poor victim would scuttle or fly away in alarm. Being sorted out by one of your own species is one thing, but a coot? Really!

But they reserve their deepest vitriol for members of their own kind. Pairs would face each other beak to beak, wings raised much in the manner of an annoyed swan. They would tentatively prod forward attempting to push the boundary, but such cheek was always met with a determined rebuff. A lot of the time these disputes would end peacefully with one pair turning their puffed up backs to the other pair and swimming back to their side of the broad, but sometimes something happened to cause a fight to break out. Watch out, this could get nasty! With the naked eye all that could really be seen was a violent splashing and flurry of feet and wings. With the aid of a camera with a fast shutter speed the true nature of these bouts can be appreciated. The birds really do get down to some serious rucking, either trying to drown the other or rake him/her with some fearsome claws. And the hen birds get stuck in too, coming to the aid of their partners and whacking the intruder with the avian equivalent of a rolling pin. It makes for dynamic viewing with some of the contortions of the individuals quite startling. Amazingly there seem to be few injuries, even when up to eight birds become involved in a mass brawl. It will all settle down once these initial bouts are over. The birds will build a nest in a territory they consider suitable and large enough to provide for their offspring. But for now in this perhaps false spring, it doesn’t half provide some good entertainment.

Shorties

On this February day we are spoiled by a cloudless sky between dawn and dusk; a sky so pure and blue you feel you can reach out and touch it, running your fingers across its smooth, unbroken vastness; not a puff of condensed vapour to besmirch its clarity. And consequently the sun beat down, warming our heads and our hearts, giving a flirtatious promise of good things ahead. ‘Come play’ she said, ‘Close your eyes and drink in my warmth. Today you must do so, for tomorrow....who knows?’ And as one snapped out of a dream we awaken from winter’s bitter bite, shrug off its numbing grasp, shake ourselves down to realise life is about to burst forth all around. We’ve made it! Stumbled half blind through another fallow season, ready to emerge into one full of joyous energy and rebirth. And today was kind to us. Today made us realise that only by enduring months of cold, wet, dark and grey can we really appreciate warmth, dry, light, and colour. Come with me on a short journey, it won’t take up too much of your time …

Despite the city being graced with crystal clear air, there’s a mist over the marshes; the flatlands of eastern Norfolk that were covered in ancient times by the brooding North Sea. Parts of this area rest below today’s sea level and are ever threatened with flooding from storm surges and spring tides. We’re standing by a gate overlooking a field of rough grass and sedge, a field shrouded in a white veil through which we can dimly make out the ethereal shapes of water deer, dog like in form and very much at home here. Count them - two, four, six, eight - already paired and feasting on the sedges of the damp meadows. Our friend the sun is winning the battle with the curtain of water vapour, burning it off by degrees to reveal more of the panorama. Where a short time ago there was a sheet of haze, there now appears the vague outlines of drainage mills, a clump of stunted trees, lines of fence posts, distant houses, a flint built church and the bare masts of sailing dinghies moored up for the winter. In these lands of sweeping vistas and wide open skies, small inconsequential things take on new meaning. The mills become statuesque; isolated trees and hedges coveted highways, shelter and nest sites; gates and fences assume the role of song post, resting spots, gathering points and lookout. In the still, peaceful air the slightest sound travels a great distance. A barking dog from the village over a mile distant, the faint whistle of a train on tracks laid at least double that distance, and all around the joyous songs of skylarks rising upwards to greet the revealed flawless blue dome of late winter.

9.30am. Why are we standing here you may wonder, why this particular spot?  Rumour has it that this field of rough grasses is a favoured hunting area for short-eared owls: golden plumaged hunters of wide open spaces. They vacate their summer homes of northern moorland to seek sanctuary in this somewhat milder wilderness where they plunder the high density of rodents to sate their appetites. It’s a waiting game, but with luck we may see one. We tarry for an hour, the mist is finally swept away, the temperature rises but still no owl. Two ladies, fellow bird and photography enthusiasts, good company, decide to wander along to the next field to see if they can spot anything. Before long they return to tell us that they have indeed spotted a roosting owl, not 100yards from where we stand. And there it is sitting motionless amidst a clump of sedge grass, cryptic colouration making it all but invisible to the naked eye. With the aid of optics it is possible to see the bird twisting its head this way and that, alert to every sound and movement. After perhaps 30 minutes it shuffles away out of sight, seemingly reluctant to treat us to any form of aerial display. We have to get going, and reluctantly retrace our steps, resolving to return later in the day to see if our luck will change.

3pm: the sun has curved round in its low arc to shine from directly behind us, illuminating the field with a soft golden light. The waiting cast has changed, the ladies from this morning replaced by two chaps that we have seen before but can’t place. We chat, introductions are made and all becomes clear: one is a regular visitor to Strumpshaw and the peregrine watch point; the other a man met just the once over 40 years ago, but somehow the memory stuck. It’s good to share the appreciation of this place with others of like mind. The owls were flying earlier but have now disappeared. No matter, there is always something else to see and admire. A casual scan of the marshes shows a buzzard sitting patiently atop a gatepost, and a short distance away a sparrowhawk doing the same. A marsh Harrier lazily hunts over the reeds and as we track its progress there beneath it is surely something different? Yes, there’s no doubt it’s an owl, a short-earned owl beating its way along the far distant river wall, frustratingly heading away from us and soon lost to view. Nothing for it but to wait patiently and chat about birds and cameras, cameras and birds; tales of successes and laments for the one that got away. Any avian movement attracts attention and another buzzard appears making a direct line to the one idling on the fence. A brief tussle ensues and whilst snapping those antagonists an owl apparently flies into our field and drops down out of sight. Now our waiting has a stronger purpose for we know the birds are near at hand and must surely hunt soon now the light is slowly fading.

The sun wanes, our shadows lengthen. Lines of cormorants snake across the sky, coming from a days fishing in coastal waters and heading for their roost at nearby Ranworth. Hundreds stream overhead, their numbers making dotted letters in the blue. It is getting late and one of our party decides to leave. He retreats ten paces when the owl gets up. Call him back and we watch and snap away at this gorgeous bird as it sweeps to and fro over the meadow before purposefully winging its way out of our sight. A lovely moment, but there was more to come. A second owl flies up from cover and this one spends more time beating a path around the edge of the field, hovering periodically before plunging into the grass after some unseen prey. It doesn’t seem to catch anything and it too eventually retires to seek more profitable hunting grounds. The few minutes of action caught on camera, impressed in the memory, worth every idle second spent scanning the marsh.

It’s now past 4pm and we’re alone. The buzzard flies towards the distant woodland there to roost, trailing a mobbing crow and common gull in its wake. The sun is beginning to set, a slight chill stings the air. And there in the deep honey coloured light the owls return, a pair of them chancing their luck once more with their favoured hunting patch. They don’t come as close as we hope, but the sight of them flying directly towards us with glaring bright yellow eyes will remain etched in our memory. Every detail of their spangled plumage displayed to perfection in the late afternoon light. We watch until it is really too dark to see clearly before making our contented way back to the village with a decided spring in our step. Worth it wouldn’t you say?  

We leave the marshes to the owls and the deer, the hares and the geese. The mist will form overnight to present another eerily veiled dawn, but for now we pause only to admire the sinking red orb reflected in the waters of this magical wetland.