Walking On Water

A depression hit the mid Californian coast a couple of days ago resulting in strong westerly winds and raging seas. The surf pounding the rocks was quite spectacular; the consequent chill not so welcome and not something we expected. Isn't it always warm here? Obviously not. However, as we all know, it is an ill wind indeed that blows no good; as with onshore gales at home, so it is here - there can sometimes be surprises in store. 

Blue skies the following day found us taking a quick peek at Monterey's Old Fisherman's Wharf, the plan to have a brief look around the tat shops and maybe grab a cuppa. Instead our fate led, most agreeably, in another direction when it became clear the calm waters of the inner bay were playing sanctuary to some very unusual and quite beautiful storm driven birds. Aptly named storm petrels, Fork-tailed Storm Petrels to be precise, had been displaced from their usual haunts far out in the Pacific to grace the harbour area and mix it with sea lions, otters, whale watching boats and totally oblivious tourists. A local birder was there and remarked how unusual this sight is 'They should be 30 miles off shore' he said without removing his eye from the viewfinder of his camera. Another chap came along to say 'Wonderful and so rare'. He was a local boat operator and knew his business. That aside I don't think another person from the thousands milling around gave these wonders of nature a second glance. How sad I thought. 

But at least four folk appreciated the sight of such dainty creatures, floating, swooping, bobbing around on a mill pond, multi-hued surface, reflecting and distorting in kaleidoscope fashion the garish colours of the buildings lining the pier. It crossed my mind that these birds had probably never seen a human being before, may never see one again and will never again come as close to land. They will live out their lives dancing on the surface of the sea, walking on water, out of sight of the billions of humans inhabiting the earth. Such tiny waifs, so fragile, yet capable of surviving the worst weather the marine world can throw at them. If that doesn't demand respect I really don't know what does.

The petrels were a privilege, but not the only stray to bedeck the harbour. Numbers of phalaropes were busy picking tiny morsels from the water's surface, Red-necked and Grey. At times the species swam side by side providing a once in a lifetime photo opportunity to capture these northbound waders in their spring finery. About twenty or so birds were spinning around next to where we stood, more than I've seen in a lifetimes birding back in the UK. There must have been scores more dotted over the bay. Breathtaking. 

With both Red-throated and Great Northern Divers, Pigeon Guillemots, Brandt's Cormorants, grebes and gulls as a supporting cast it was quite a spectacle. But the abiding memory will be of those little petrels, tripping across the water, so buoyant they made hardly a ripple.

Having a Whale of a Time

The shrieks and whoops of delight looped around the boat as another hump backed whale breached the deep blue surface of the Pacific, lunge feeding on anchovies, mouth gaping, filling its massive yaw with tens of gallons of water amidst which hundreds of small fish had been trapped. The huge, barnacle encrusted head splashed back into the sea; a signal for whirling spirals of Western Gulls, Common Murres, Sooty Shearwaters and cormorants to home in on the spot in a frenzied swarm to pick off those few fish that had escaped the surge, floating stunned and disoriented; easy pickings for myriad sharp beaks.

A blast of spouting water as the whale exhaled: a wash of rancid, foul smelling air smothering the boat and it was gone, diving once again to herd the anchovies towards the upper layers of the shallow waters of the bay. Sometimes a small group would work together, synchronising their lunges, creating such a spectacle that only a wildest dream could imagine. We were surrounded by feeding monsters and didn't know which way to turn. The birds, thousands of them of many species, screeched and screamed: sea lions, dolphins joined the feast. We simply stood on deck and watched. Blessed that this once in a lifetime spectacle was ours in which to revel; exceptional circumstances had created ideal feeding conditions in shallow water close to shore allowing a few people on a few days to experience something even the skipper of the boat, a hardened, weathered soul, had seldom witnessed. And this excursion may well have been the last to be so favoured since strong winds and a turn in the weather was forecast for later in the day, forcing cancellation of further trips until conditions improved.

For two hours, which seemed as a few minutes, we soaked in the scene. The sounds, the smells, the sights. The salt laden sea breeze blasting the face, the wing tips of shearwaters surfing the tremulous undulating waves, the wailing of gluttonous gulls, the ceaseless flow of life darting all around seeking to make the most of the spoils of the bounteous depths. How more alive do you need to be?

The Never Ending Circle

The little boy was lifted up, firm grip from large hands on his skinny torso, to a bewildering height. Slightly scared but equally excited he was able then to peer over the rim of the carefully woven collection of grasses and small twigs into a smooth cup of the nest. There shining back at him were four orbs of the most brilliant blue he had ever seen. Eggs; radiant and iridescent, the colour pierced his eyes and bore into his nine year old mind.  He wanted to reach out and touch them, to feel these heaven sent jewels that until this moment had never entered his consciousness. But before he could it was over, lowered to the ground and whisked away to trudge in the adult’s footsteps to other parts of the wooded heathland, the details of which never impressed upon his memory and were lost almost as they were formed. The only thing that mattered was those dazzling, sky blue eggs, spotted lightly with deepest black, out of sight and out of reach and all the more tantalising for it. He would dream of those shining pearls, would lust after finding more, would tell his semi-interested parents and friends about them, and they, the eggs, would in turn lay the foundations for the path his life would take. Thirty seconds of boredom-easing activity by a chum’s dad spawning a lifetime of delight, exhilaration, joy and beauty. Sometime in the spring of 1965 and a young boy has had his first encounter with a wonder of the natural world.

The boy/man presses himself against the cool fragrant grass. The slightly damp earth creating a faint aroma of elemental oneness. The meadow grasses tickle his chin and gently slide over his hands as he shields his eyes against the glare of an early May sun; peering into the field to track progress of the bird.  His friend is lying beside him doing the same thing, both teenagers pitting their embryonic naturalist wits against the black and white bird slowly strutting towards the point at which its nest must be concealed. But in their youth they are too eager, making sudden movements before the bird has settled. It is up and away, broad ended wings flapping urgently against the azure blue of spring. It begins to emit a nasal call, a mournful, forlorn, yet compelling sound.  ‘Peewit’, ‘Pie-wipe’, other similar names: none do it justice. The sound this bird makes fills their senses, makes them happy and sad, makes them feel alive, alive because it is aimed at them. They are the predator, not intentionally meaning harm, but nonetheless the focus of the bird’s attention. For minutes there is nothing else, just a mobbing Lapwing sometimes joined by its mate, and two slim, scruffy children of the 70s painstakingly walking a field in a grid pattern to find its nest. And the boy/man does find it, he swivels his head left and right scrutinising every blade of fresh green grass until he sees something glint. Something has caught the sunlight, not dazzling him, but shining matt against the uniform sward. There sitting in a slight depression atop a loose cup of dead grasses is the prize. A Lapwing’s nest complete with a clutch of four olive eggs, liberally spotted with the most intricate and wonderful patterning of browns, golds and black. He is young, not yet in control of his emotions, he can’t keep the exuberant feelings in. He rushes over to the nest, kneels down and thumping the ground with both fists whoops with unbridled joy. No footballer scoring a winning goal can feel such unfettered delight, it bursts from him and nothing, absolutely nothing, up to this point in his life has meant anything. 3^rd May 1970, the day nature transcended from just being there to being woven into the very fabric of his soul.

A little older, but still young, sitting in the dusk of an April day at the water’s edge.  The echoing sounds of twilight spilling across the river; the flapping and quacking of a mallard as it goes about its ablutions, the faint barking of a farmyard dog. Behind him a few people arrive to spend the evening at the pub where he and his friend, the same friend, were now able at last to legally buy a pint of beer – it didn’t taste as good when there was no illicit activity involved: ‘the bitter comes out better on a stolen guitar’ as his pop hero sang. So they sit and watch the sky turn through shades of deep blue, to misty pinks, to deepening grey; watching the transition from what had been a long, tiring day walking the east Norfolk marshes, to black, star filled night. And a Lapwing calls, its evocative cries tumbling across the flatlands to strike an emotional chord. How can he preserve this moment, capture the essence of these few youthful minutes? He determines then to write it down, put into clumsy words how he feels. 20^th April 1975 the day a young man decided to store his emotions as written words.  ‘…in the darkness we could still hear lapwings ‘burbling’. We sat by the river bank until even they stopped and quietly settled for the night’

Much older now, perhaps wiser?  Sitting outside, in contemplative mood, drinking the warming rays of another April morning.  An April of another century.  A chilly blast of seasonal breeze rustles the leaves on the hedge and animates the soft purplish petals of a magnolia. A wren belts out its strident song, a male no doubt building nests around the area and advertising for a mate. Lesser Black-backed Gulls yelp and chuckle their path overhead, a distant Songthrush pipes through the still air. The man grips his mug of tea and lifts its warm fragrance to his mouth. He has been in this house for over 30 years, has seen the plants in the garden grow, flourish and die. Has seen many changes. Yesterday he attended the funeral of a good friend, not the same friend but treasured nonetheless, and this has affected him deeply. The teary irony of being comforted by the dead man’s son, a boy he has known since he was younger even than the wide-eyed child lifted above another man’s head to peer into that jewel filled nest half a century ago, was deeply moving. The world has turned, the generations moved on, the circle of life being drawn. He sighs, takes another sip and determines to enjoy every last minute of his own life, what’s left of it, to the best of his ability. And his love of the natural world will help heal the wounds. 11^th April 2017, the first day of the rest of my life.  

March Highlights

One advantage of working at a nature reserve is that eventually you will see just about everything that turns up. Even, if like me, you only appear for a morning every fortnight you still have a good chance of connecting with the unusual. So it was a few weeks ago at RSPB Strumpshaw Fen when after a number of abortive attempts the long staying Jack Snipe decided it had toyed with me long enough and gave itself up. It wasn't so obliging as to flaunt itself unashamedly; heaven forbid that one of its kind should make things easy. No, this bird still required a bit of work as it hunkered down amidst a raft of cut vegetation, facing away from onlookers so that the lateral striping on its back looked for all the world like the reeds it surrounded itself with. But with a bit of effort the tiny wader could just be made out and formed a talking point for visitors all day, the challenge: spot the Jack Snipe. Once or twice hunger drove this diminutive visitor from Arctic Russia to venture closer in search of sustenance. Then its habit of perpetual bobbing, dark plumage, short bill and distinctive head pattern - no central crown stripe - could be seen to good effect. It helped immensely when a Common Snipe crossed its path to allow direct comparison. The habitual bobbing actually served to locate the bird as it shuffled through the reeds, which struck me as something of a dichotomy. Why have cryptic plumage and secret yourself in reeds only to jump up and down as if sitting on a coiled spring? Might as well wave a flag and tell any passing marsh harrier this is where you were hiding. I resolved to discover why the birds do this. Google drew a blank, reference books came up short. The one time this bouncing seemed to serve a purpose was when the bird sheltered amongst breeze rippled reeds. Then its synchronous movement rendered it all but invisible. On the basis nothing happens in nature by accident, there must be a sound reason for this behaviour, but I can shed no further light........any ideas greatly appreciated.

Spot the Jack Snipe

Easier Now!

Common Snipe for Comparison

Lots of water birds seem to enjoy a bit of rear end wiggling though (who doesn’t?); dippers, sandpipers and one of my favourites, the delightful Grey Wagtail. I've watched a few pairs of these beautiful inhabitants of our sparsely scattered faster moving streams and rivers recently, near water mills dotted along the Bure, Tas and Wensum. One pair were building their nest in mid-March, the lovely weather of the season encouraging early breeding activity. They really are most excellent birds; brightly coloured, vibrant, showy, sassy. What more could you ask for? One excellent spot to observe these smart birds is at the Rising Sun pub at Coltishall. On quiet afternoons, after the lunchtime crowd has dispersed, you can watch them foraging for tidbits under the picnic tables alongside the Jackdaws and Woodpigeons. Later in the year they can be seen feeding fledged young on damselflies and other aquatic dainties, trotting over the sun dappled lily pads to catch these succulent morsels for their chicks. I can think of few better ways to spend an afternoon, bathing in the soporific warmth of the summer sun, sipping a cool glass of something cool and (preferably) alcoholic, watching Grey Wagtails flit along the sparkling river. If Kenneth Grahame had ever wanted to pick a spot for a Wind in the Willows sequel, he could have done far worse than to pen his experiences from an afternoon spent there.

Displaying Buzzards Add Interest

Whilst the aforementioned Strumpshaw Fen is far and away my favorite reserve, second place must go to RSPB Titchwell Marsh which seems to always provide something of great interest. The variety of habitats encountered in such a short walk from the car park to the beach are pretty much unrivalled, probably explaining why so much diverse wildlife can be seen with minimal effort. On a midweek visit early in March an encounter with a hunting Barn Owl raised the pulse. Watching this subtlety patterned vole despatcher slowly glide back and forth low over the meadows close to the footpath was a real privilege. The purple and gold spangling of the bird's upperparts always delights, whilst I always think the innocent expression engenders feelings of empathy: it’s a hard life out there, come on mate catch that vole. After flying up and down for several minutes the bird eventually raised its wings, lowered its talons and dropped to the ground. It had obviously caught something, although it was too distant to see what manner of prey item had been captured. But before the hardworking owl could enjoy its meal, a Kestrel arrived on the scene to steal the spoils. It would appear kleptoparasitism is alive and well in North Norfolk. The miserable owl could only watch, helpless and outmuscled. It took to the air to recommence the hunt.

The encounter with the Barn Owl caused pleasure enough, but for a real close brush with nature all you have to do is pop into the shop, buy a tub of mealworms and stand on any of the paths. Before long a Robin will hop onto a convenient branch from where to launch itself towards the wriggling temptations proffered. Titchwell Robins must be the best fed of their kind in the land, but who amongst us can begrudge such cute birds their snack, especially when they allow intimate study of their immaculate form. Such fragile legs, bold, inquisitive eye, bright orange-red breast and perky gait. Anthropomorphism? Yep, so what?

So, we reach month’s end with another attempt at seeing Dartford Warblers at Dunwich. This time with great success. We saw at least six of these Mediterranean colonisers in the course of a couple of hours and managed to watch one female selecting nesting material from the edge of a path. Another gorgeous bird that I guess is pretty much unknown outside birding circles, yet one that drives conservation efforts at these sites for all to enjoy.

March has been a wonderful month of comparative sunshine and warmth. To see the hedgerows ablaze with the blossom of cherry plum and blackthorn has been a delight. To witness kingfishers courting along pristine, unpolluted waterways has been uplifting. To feel the senses intoxicated with the emergence of so much new life is invigorating. The vibrancy of spring assaults our very being; breathe in long and deep. 

Seed Cracker

Pausing on the path, sluggish as an emergent wasp from its winter dormancy, I took stock of the day so far. Reeling Grasshopper Warbler at Cley, Nightingale serenading us at Salthouse Heath, Woodlark and Golden Pheasant, violently contrasting songsters, at Mayday Farm as part of a grand total of about 40 species, mostly heard in darkness or the dim light before sunrise; some dazzled in the headlights of the car. 5.30am on 17^th May 1991, Lynford Aboretum, time for our annual 24 hours birding marathon and we were doing alright. But I was cold and keen to warm my sluggish body from the numb of pre-dawn chill. Why on earth was I here? Damp feet, freezing hands, no sleep; images of being curled up in a nice warm bed pervaded my dangerously dozing consciousness. Taking a deep breath of fresh May air fragrant with the scent of pine, I once more scanned the ranks of firs, larches and assorted exotic  shrubs and noticed a trio of dumpy looking birds fly into a nearby tree. I raised my binoculars to be greeted by the wonderful sight of three Hawfinches perched brazenly in front of me. As I marvelled at their beautiful colours, a shaft of sunlight broke through the clouds and bathed the birds in early morning gold. My lethargy lifted and fled, chased away by an ecstatic feeling of privilege and joy. My first ever Hawfinches and what a way to see them; an image of short duration but forever etched in my memory, rendering the hitherto discomfort a thing of minuscule consequence.  I glanced around to find my friend and companion of many such similar excursions, but by the time I had attracted his attention the birds had flown, leaving a bare brown branch where seconds before a rainbow had come to rest.

I’ve never forgotten that moment, thinking of it every time I revisit this rather special Breckland site. The magic of the first encounter with these shy and mysterious birds has sadly never been recaptured, but any sighting is still noteworthy and special. A quarter of a century has sped by, seemingly in the blink of an eye, and here I am again accompanied by a quartet of friends watching Hawfinches in spring. Unlike my initial early morning connection, when we were the only people tramping around, or maybe on the planet as it sometimes seems when out so early, these birds have been well observed. Today a small party of birders are scoping them or trying to photograph them with lenses too heavy to carry with dignity or without putting yourself in A&E. I recognise them from numerous casual meetings; Little Bittern at Lakenheath, Penduline Tit at Strumpshaw, wherever a rarity turns up. Pleasantries are exchanged, images on the back of the camera proudly displayed, general information swapped. And there they are; we can see them for ourselves, a total of six gaudily bedecked finches rooting around in the rusty brown leaf litter at the far end of an avenue lined by mature beech. We are able to admire their multi-hued plumage blending surprisingly well into the deep layer of last year’s cast off foliage. They must be looking for beech mast or fallen seed but are very jumpy. A squirrel spooks them and they are off, seeking the safety of the canopy. Another 5 minute wait for them to decide the coast is clear before they return one by one to resume their foraging. On this occasion they don’t venture too close, at this mid-morning hour there are a constant stream of eager birders and dog walkers that make too much noise and movement, but they are close enough. Their massive, strong beaks really are an outsize tool, shining steel grey giving them a stern, snooty countenance but ideal for cracking open tough seeds and cherry pips. At this time of year they can often be found high in the tops of the trees where they will surreptitiously feast on emergent buds. They are easily overlooked which makes this almost guaranteed sighting all the more welcome. It is certainly a tremendous pleasure to see these most prized of our finches, but nothing will ever quite match the sight of my first birds sitting proud, bathed in the glow of a beam of radiant sunlight.

As close as you are likely to get in the UK

You can get a bit closer in Hungary

Bramblings added a splash of colour

And the mating antics of toads was very good to watch

Room for one more on board!

It's All About Timing

It’s been a breezy few days. After the spring like conditions we enjoyed early on, tempting robins to begin building a nest on the ivy covered wall just outside our kitchen, we were brought abruptly down to earth in midweek when winter returned to blow us, together with countless fence panels, briskly towards the weekend.

Wednesday saw me and a fellow nature lover traipsing across the sandy paths of Dunwich Heath hoping to find Dartford warblers to photograph. This area is managed by the National trust and in summer is ablaze with bright purple carpets of heather stretching as far as the eye can see; today the acres of heather were barren and bare, their crown of brown, empty flower spikes rattling in the unrelenting currents of air blasting across the gently undulating landscape of east Suffolk.  Stands of gorse, bedecked with coconut scented blooms, provided small oases of colour, but otherwise all was bleak. The birds were obviously in no mood to cooperate, hunkering down in the low growth where they search diligently for insects and spiders amongst the dense fronds. It is only when one pops up and perches briefly atop a sprig that there is any chance of getting a look at these fragile and vulnerable birds that are really far better suited to a dry, hot, Mediterranean habitat. We did catch sight of one of their number, no more than a small dark projectile, as it whirred away from us to dive into the impenetrable, featureless ranks of thick cover. And that was that. After 90 minutes or so we gave it up as a bad job and headed south to Minsmere, but not before bumping into a holidaying couple from Kent that had watched several Dartford warblers singing brazenly in the sunshine 24 hours previously. ‘You should have been here yesterday’ they said. They were right, we should have.

Once ensconced in the hide at Island Mere we were able to watch a party of eight ducks, the only wildfowl on show, three of which swam quite close. This was fortuitous because the wildfowl in question were goosander, a species seldom encountered around these parts. The breakaway trio was happily feeding in the shallows until I attempted to open one of the hide’s windows to provide a clear view for a photograph. Thirty seconds of cranking a handle accompanied by much creaking and groaning as the window tortuously lifted and the birds were gone, paddling their streamlined shapes off to a quieter area devoid of lumbering humans.  To cap it all, the horizon of dark clouds crept closer and began to deposit shafts of bitter rain.  ‘You should have been here ten minutes ago’ quipped another inhabitant ‘the otters came really close’. He was right, we should have.

When the sky brightened to a lighter shade of dull, we retraced our steps to look for adders that had been seen by some lucky observers earlier that day. It was whilst forlornly looking for these early emergent vipers that things brightened up nature wise, for as we scanned the undergrowth, a pair of Muntjac strolled into view. Now I know these diminutive mammals are not native species, but I’ve rarely been able to have a prolonged look at one. Usually all you see is the white flash of their stumpy tail as they scurry away into cover; these were different happy to forage amongst the leaf litter in a most unconcerned manner. Rather attractive animals in truth with their distinctive dark chevron crowns and large, dark, liquid eyes. The buck sported a short pair of sharply pointed antlers and his elongated canine teeth were visible as he ate. Scent glands under the eyes give the appearance that they are suffering from some eye irritation, but all is normal.  

And then a stealthy movement through a belt of pines caught my eye, a trio of graceful red deer hinds slinked through the trees pausing now and again to look in our direction and take our measure. Surprisingly inconspicuous for such large ruminants these animals tarried for a while before slowly sauntering away becoming lost to view very quickly amongst the mass of twisted and brittle branches. Thinking ourselves fortunate indeed, imagine our surprise when some little time later we came upon another pair of red deer feeding right next to the trail leading around the famous Scrape. This pair had obviously got very used to humans and munched their way through a bramble patch with scant regard for our clicking camera shutters. Five minutes later they turned and strode away, melting into the screen of reeds as if they had never been within our midst. With a broad smile my companion observed 'We arrived at just the right time'. She was right, we had.

As Viewed Through a Car Window

A rare, but gratefully received, day of sunshine and relative mildness tugged me into the bright green expanses of East Norfolk. The break in my lethargy did not extend so far as to actually indulge in exercise - no walking involved today – but instead I thought I would slowly drive along the many narrow lanes spider-webbing the northern slopes of the Yare Valley to see what I could find.

First stop the marshland near Acle where I hoped, vainly as it turned out, to catch sight of a short-eared owl. Whilst no such yellow-eyed, sharp-taloned hunter gave itself up, I was quite impressed with the large numbers of swans bedecking the fields either side of the A47. Most were mute swans feasting on the tops of some root crop, but in the distance I spotted a pair of Bewick’s swans and beyond them it looked like several of the herd had rather straight necks; too far away for any meaningful identification.

Ranks of rooks and jackdaws, splattered like notes on a musical stave, probed the soft earth of a field containing several shaggy horses. Above those of their number intent on ridding the marshland of invertebrates, courting pairs flew. I watched some of these lovers twisting and cavorting in the fresh February air, flinging themselves through the void with abandon. The dancers would career towards one another, banking to avoid a collision at the last possible moment, before plummeting earthwards, regaining full control a few metres above terra firma to land sedately amongst their brethren.  I don’t think I’ve ever consciously watched this behaviour before and admit to being quite taken with their aerobatic prowess. Corvids are a common inhabitant of the Yare Valley with many thousands littering the fields throughout the year. This culminates in the amazing spectacle of huge numbers flocking to roost at Buckenham, where in my youth, I used to like listening to their caws and yelps as they commenced nesting during the lengthening days of March. The memory of idly strolling across the damp marshes in the dusk of a late March day, the sun slowly sinking into a wash of pinks and greys, the distant sounds of the rooks and courting lapwings echoing across the expanse, will always be with me. Perhaps it was some kind of heightened sense associated with youth, but I remember almost being able to taste the changing season. When those kinds of sensations fill your mind and body it leaves a mark; in this case a deep affection for these lowland areas that still evoke feelings of space and the wild.

Near Reedham I simply had to stop the car to gaze at the wonderful sight of hosts of gulls following a plough. Rank upon rank of white and grey birds milling around the slowly moving tractor as so much paper tossed in the breeze. The black-headed and common gulls were joined by more corvids, starlings and woodpigeons seeking to take advantage of juicy morsels exposed by the newly turned earth. A lone Chinese water deer patrolled the edges, presumably looking for succulent roots on which to feed. So much life here.

At Buckenham, wigeon brightened the ditch edges, all pristine, paired up and ready for their flight north. Their breezy whistling always lifts the spirits. Distant flocks of pink-footed and white-fronted geese were spooked by a marsh warden, spiralling around, yelping and braying as they do, until they judged the human far enough away to represent no threat; then returning to earth with large feet and broad tails splayed out to brake the decent.  And watching all of this from its perch in a tree on the edge of a copse was a peregrine: the slate grey hunter that spends the winter culling the abundant wildfowl. This bird sat sedately preening for the duration of my stay, no doubt it had feasted well during the morning and was in no hurry to seek further prey. It wouldn’t have to look far; hundreds of wigeon, teal, shoveler, pipits and peewits went about their business within easy striking distance: no more than a few beats of the peregrine’s powerful wings. 

Welcome signs today that spring, if not exactly sprung, is coiled and ready to pounce. It has been quite difficult getting enthused about local wildlife after the bounty of South America, but with the joyful melody of skylarks greeting the mild afternoon I turned for home, quite content with what a late winter day here in my humble homeland had provided. And all without getting out of the car.

Hickling Harriers

It is cold here. Bitterly cold. A raw easterly wind whipping in from the North Sea a mile or two away; the boundary between the flat lands of eastern Norfolk and the miles of cruel grey water marked by a line of raised dunes seen as a smudge of dull green on the horizon. The scene before us a patchwork of reed bed, course grazing marshes and fen, interspersed with twisted and stunted hawthorn. The closest you can get to a barren wilderness in this part of the world for there are but scant traces of human activity: a forlorn and long abandoned wind pump, its skeletal sail arm pointing defiantly skywards; a single distant house rendered almost invisible by its light coloured walls blending seamlessly into the gathering murk. Nothing else, just the wild open landscape unique to this Broadland haven.  

Us five friends have trudged to this spot, nothing more than a raised bank bordering a drainage dyke, to witness one of nature’s most thrilling and humbling spectacles; the winter roosting of the harriers. We are quite early, 90 minutes before true dusk, but already the leaden, squall-laden skies are casting their shadows over the marshes. Light is poor, visibility far from ideal, but we know the birds will come to seek out this quiet sanctuary to spend another bitterly cold night. And we don’t have long to wait before harriers sail in. First a dark marsh harrier, then a brighter male both gliding on slightly raised wings, buffeted this way and that as they cruise low over the boggy ground. Then delight; a ringtail hen harrier, its bright white rump shining as a beacon through the gloom. A flock of fieldfares appears in a nearby tree and jinking parties of smaller birds, perhaps finches or maybe yellowhammers, are flushed by a buzzard which perches atop a bush before joining another pair of harriers purposely heading towards their roosting zone.

Whilst our attention is focused on the raptors, a pair of common cranes glide over us, dropping down into a hidden pool where they are instantly consumed by the tall ranks of thick reed; lost to sight. These birds are doing well here, naturally arriving as a party of 9 nearly 40 years ago they found the place to their liking and took up residence. Slowly and painfully, with many false starts, the birds began to breed until we now have over 40 gracing the rich and fertile acreage around Hickling and Horsey. In recent years maybe 10 or so pairs attempt to raise young with varying degrees of success, allowing the birds to expand their range into other Broadland reserves and further afield into neighbouring counties. This success story owes all to the sterling efforts of local conservation bodies and landowners. Cranes have recently been artificially reintroduced to Somerset, but it must be remembered that in this remote corner of Norfolk where the harriers circle over the reeds and the bittern still finds refuge, we have had majestic cranes for decades. And they always manage to thrill us.

Things begin to hot up now with more harriers drifting into view, amongst them a simply beautiful, ghostly grey, resplendently perfect, male hen harrier. What truly gorgeous creatures they are, these birds of wild open spaces, moor, heath and marsh. This one drops to the ground seemingly finding his supper, an unlucky pipit perhaps, before he reaches the roosting zone. Through my telescope I can just make out his head tugging at the flesh of the prey he has caught. Such rare birds these and we are privileged to be able to see them in such a setting.

On past visits, on milder, sometimes even bright, winter evenings, the harriers, merlins, barn owls and cranes can put on a wonderful show with massed spiralling as a new bird joins the throng. Merlins arrow into the roost and will happily harass the much bigger harriers, chasing them across the vast open sky in sport. They choose to spend the chill of the night perched atop small hawthorn bushes whereas the larger raptors will roost on the ground or on low branches of dead and broken willows. The owls quarter the fields silent and relentless whilst the sky slower darkens and the stars come out to play. Not today though; the wind chill is numbing our hands, cutting through coats, hats and gloves and making our eyes water. We decide we have seen enough and head back along the narrow, lonely lane to the reserve centre.

Before this place became well known and over visited I used to walk back alone along this lane, bordered by high dark hedges, with all kinds of ghoulish fancies running through my mind. I defy anyone to make this lonely journey and not look over their shoulder every 100 yards, just in case there may be something following; a darker shadow amongst the gathering gloom, an echo of footsteps or an unnatural rustling in the bushes. Hard not to speed up against all reason to reach your car before darkness falls complete. It is the workings of M R James; the fleeting glimpse of something unholy, for nobody knows you are here and your screams will be lost amidst the howl of the wind.

For us five folk though, chatting as a group, we had no such concerns. We instead were lucky enough to see three more cranes, a family party probably, fly towards the broad before we sought welcome refuge ourselves in the warmth of the local pub. Back to civilisation, cosy and comfortable whilst close by there were the harriers roosting in the reeds, steeling themselves silently against the chilling bitterness of a moonless February night.