Saturday 30 September 2017

Out of season magic

For days now it’s been sunny and warm just to the north of us, but here on the coast, we’ve been trapped in coastal fog and mist. At last the murk has lost its battle with the sun, and I’m able to sit above Bacon Hole in humid sunshine. Save for a gentle draught up the cliff face, there’s not a breath of wind. The sea is almost flat calm, but even so, there’s a gentle crashing of surf on the rocks below, almost drowning out the song of a robin, and the scalding of wren deep in the gorse.

A distant splash of yellow in an otherwise green carpet of gorse covers the slope on the east side of Hunts Bay, and around my feet late rock roses, devil’s bit scabious, and a few thistles give more colour. A worn out speckled wood butterfly flies by and seems to stumble into the gorses and a few small heaths, and several whites are on the slope below. There are grasshoppers too, lots of them; the long hot summer seems to have suited them, and I haven’t seen so many for years. It’s mid afternoon, mist still hanging above the sea as Oxwich Bay come and goes in the haze. There’s no line between sea and sky, and a fishing boat at times seems suspended above the water in the fog.

At Hunts Bay, I retire to my favourite hidden ledge where Dylan Thomas and Vernon Watkins composed poems. With the tide on the rise I watch a scattering of gulls on the rocks, and a couple of herons searching the myriad of small pools gradually being gradually filled as the sea creeps in. Pwll Du Head is magnificent. Looking like a natural castle fashioned from the limestone, both rugged, yet gentle, it slowly begins to glow in the mellow light.

I watch for an hour, and as usual there’s not a soul about. I have it all to myself, but this is the magic of Gower out of season. Slowly the sun looses once more, and the mist creeps in over the cliff.

Thursday 28 September 2017

White Posts

It’s good to get out on dull, damp days. Even though the temperature is still in the mid-teens, the woods at the back of our cottage feel cold.  I meet nobody on the path down to Caswell Bay, which in mid-week, and with light rain beginning to blow in from the west, is deserted. I head east along the cliff path towards Whiteshell Point. The tide is out, there’s not a soul about, and I look for telltale footprints on the golden sand, and there are none.

The cliffs are fast turning brown, and only clumps of heather and gorse add colour at this time of year. Periodic burning is good for the gorse, and the leggy bushes here could do with another burn. Locals often complain when this happens, but without regular controlled burning, the gorse would take over, and much of the rich wildlife would disappear.

The climb up the now not-so-newly paved path to the Whiteshell Point is steep. I’m passed by a fit, young jogger seemingly not feeling the incline. From the top, I look west across Caswell Bay. Pwll Du Head is hidden in coastal fog, and I can only see a few hundred yards out to see. On clear days, I come here to look for porpoises and seals, but today I can just make out a flock of turnstones on the rocks below. They’re all in winter plumage now, and I wouldn’t have found them without hearing their distinctive staccato, rattling calls.

East towards Mumbles Head, the path is bordered in places by white concrete posts and metal rails, creating a real blight on the otherwise natural landscape; why didn’t they paint them green? Gower after all, was the first Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty to be designated in the UK.


Tuesday 26 September 2017

Goldfinches

Befitting their collective name, goldfinches really are charming, and without the flock at our feeders at the moment the garden would be a pretty quiet place. A few blue tits, and the odd coal tit, pop in from time to time for a sunflower heart, and a robin occasionally makes an appearance. Chaffinches and greenfinches come and go, and if I put out bread, an army of house sparrows immediately invades the garden. There are no dunnocks, the great-spotted woodpeckers have long retreated to their woodland habitat, and I haven’t seen a nuthatch for ages. There is a wren that bobs up and down every so often, but makes no attempt at singing. When I get desperate I can guarantee to make the garden buzz for a little while, by putting out some chicken skin, or scraps of meat. In a matter of seconds magpies, jackdaws, and a flock of black-headed gulls descend, filling the air with birds, but this only lasts for as long as the food, and then there’s silence once again.

The gyrations of the evening gathering of hundreds of rooks and jackdaws over the village are a real spectacle, but it’s the ever-present goldfinches that keep my spirits up. Some are in full body moult at the moment, and look decidedly scruffy, but I’m comforted in the knowledge that they’ll smarten up soon, and stay with us for winter. As the cold weather returns, more finches will arrive in the garden, and when the tit flock eventually returns, I’ll have my daily entertainment back.



Sunday 24 September 2017

Secret World

The days are getting shorter, and there’s a chill in the air at dusk, as I call on my friend at the other end of the village for an evening hunting for bats. Paul goes out regularly with his bat detector throughout spring and summer, and even now, though the nights are getting cooler, there are still lots to be found, and plenty of insects for the bats to eat. Using a bat detector feels like cheating, but without one, they would be impossible to find once the darkness engulfs us. In the dying light we don’t need the clever little hand-held device to pick out the pipistrelles, but as darkness falls, and less are visible, the electronic age comes into its own as the number of bats increase. Noctules, long-eared, lesser and greater horseshoes show up, no doubt fattening up for the long winter hibernation. We find hot spots where dozens feed on invisible moths, then nothing, where all we detect is the distant call of a tawny owl, and a little further on, one peering down at us from the top of lamppost.

Being out in the countryside at night heightens the sense of contact with nature. With vision taken away, sounds and smells are enhanced, and the slightest movement is exciting, even though most of the time I haven’t the faintest idea of what it might be. A vixen calls, sending a shiver down my spine, and the rustling on the woodland floor ahead could be a badger. A late alarm call from a blackbird interrupts the damp silence; I know there must be other birds roosting nearby, but there’s no way of telling where they are. I’m in a secret world, but not party to it.


Saturday 23 September 2017

Changeover

Great conkers hang between the fading leaves of the horse chestnut trees, which means it’s definitely changeover time now. Most of the summer migrants seem to have left, and there are more reports of arrivals than departures. Out and about today, I noted only a couple of chiffchaffs and a wheatear. Migration will continue for a little time yet, and there are still interesting reports of birds on the move, but it’s now more of a steady trickle than a mass exodus. There are always oddities that raise the pulse of the rarity hunters.  My son called late last night excited that a bobolink had turned up not far from here. His dilemma was whether to get up at dawn and try to see it before work, mine was whether to grab a field guide, or relive the last time I saw this unusual looking bird in Maryland a couple of years ago. I chose the memory.

It’s the time when jays begin to arrive from Scandinavia, and a good sign that they’re coming in is when I begin to see odd ones frequently flying across the road. They’ll arrive in numbers soon, and small flocks will then be commonplace. On arrival they gorge on the rich crop of acorns already falling from the now turning oak trees. During the next couple of months these continental jays will hide millions of acorns on woodland floors as a food store for colder times during winter. Jays are an integral part of the survival of our oak woodlands, since many of these buried acorns are not found, and will germinate into young oaks next spring.

Continental blackbirds are also arriving. In some winters they can be very common indeed, joining our home-grown birds competing for berries in parks and gardens. They arrive earlier than other winter thrushes, and are naturally difficult to distinguish from our resident blackbirds. Redwings and fieldfares will be also here soon to mark the beginning of winter proper.

Some common birds are forming into flocks. Meadow pipits, skylarks, chaffinches and especially goldfinches, all seem to be travelling about in larger groups now, and over the last week or so, the goldfinches at our garden feeders have increased to at least 20. The cooler weather is not too far away.


Thursday 21 September 2017

Surviving Winter

I bumped into a small party of tree sparrows in west Gower yesterday, and was reminded that they are pretty scarce in this part of the world. There’s been a lot of discussion as to whether they’ve suffered a real decline overall in recent times, but whatever the truth, lots of effort countrywide is being put into trying to increase their numbers.

Old fields and deserted farm buildings seem to suit them, and groups of local enthusiastic birders have started nest box schemes at such places, some of which have been successful, other not so. Newton Farm is derelict, and a great many boxes have been erected, both on the old buildings, and the surrounding trees, but as yet no clear picture has emerged as to which locations the birds prefer. Numbers may be slowly increasing, but this is possibly as a result of winter grain, which has been put out for them over the last few years. This not only helps the tree sparrows survive the winter, but also other finches such as yellowhammers and reed buntings as well.


Tuesday 19 September 2017

Painted Ladies

Living in a place for a long time can often bring real rewards. I come to the path leading down to western side of Limeslade Bay each autumn to look for painted lady butterflies, knowing that I’ll almost certainly be lucky. On warm, sunny days they’re usually feeding on the flowers growing from the wall, and in early morning, before the heat of the sun wakes them up properly, they’re very tame. The two this morning are perfect, newly emerged and quite beautiful, and they’ll soon be off south on their incredible migration.

I nestle into the rocks behind the storm beach and look out to sea. Gulls silhouetted against the hazy morning light pass to and fro, and a small boat, filled with hopeful fishermen, heads west. It’s high tide, the sand is covered, and the only place accessible for feeding pied wagtails is the wrack of kelp on the pebbly shore. Several dart about in search of flies, but rock pipits, seemingly more suited to the shore, catch more sand hoppers than flies. A white wagtail appears as if from nowhere; we get just a few of these continental migrants in autumn, and I sometimes have difficulty identifying the juveniles. Side by side with pied wagtails like this, they’re easy, and I even get a reasonable photograph when it comes close.

My peace is disturbed by a man and his dog, he doesn’t stay long, but the birds are gone, and I return to the painted ladies to try once more for that elusive perfect photograph.


Sunday 17 September 2017

Autumn Colour

In mid-September there’s still some summer left, and I don’t have to walk far from home to find it. The small copse by the green looks autumnal, but remnants of summer are everywhere. Most flowers are in seed, or have faded away, but there’s still some colour.  In the lush understory, white greater willow herb seeds blow in the breeze, and there are still flowers on some of the taller stems. A few speckled wood butterflies compete for sunny glades, whilst small whites seem to pass by quickly.  Ragwort, with just a few leftover faded blooms, give a touch of yellow, but the vegetation is mostly green now, and slowly turning into shades of golden brown. Thistles, going to seed, attract noisy goldfinches, many in juvenile plumage, and clearly independent of their parents.

Swathes of the dreaded Japanese knotweed sport delicate white flowers. These invasive plants have spread dramatically in the copse over the last few years, and with little will, and few resources available to eradicate them, will probably take over most of the copse in a few years’ time.

A sizable flock of blue and great tits feeds noisily in the canopy of ash trees, and I hear a willow warbler and a nuthatch amongst them. It’s been another good year for ash seeds, which hang heavy on the tips of many branches, but I fear the consequences of ash dieback when, and if, it finally reaches Gower.

The sun has brought out dragonflies. Southern and migrant hawkers patrol the shaded paths, and beautiful crimson-bodied common darters sit motionless on a few stones. I came looking for colours of autumn, but it’s these magnificent creatures that steal the show.


Saturday 16 September 2017

First Gale

High tides and strong winds can change the gentle nature of the Gower coast. Gone is the balmy weather of yesterday as the first gale of the autumn blows in from the west. On days like this, I often come to the cliffs to watch the sea boil, and to feel the full force of the Atlantic.  By Gower standards, today’s blow is not serious, probably force eight, and the rain is not too heavy. There’ll be many more severe gales in the weeks and months to come, when the wind can sometimes gust to over 100mph at Mumbles Head.

A few other like-minded souls sit in cars overlooking Limeslade Bay. Pointing into the gale, we sit mesmerised, watching the force of nature. With visibility just a couple of hundred yards, there’s not much to see, apart from the constant waves rolling in from the west, and crashing onto the rocks below. Gulls appear not to mind the gale, revelling in the wind that whips up the cliff-face from the sea. Black-headed gulls seem to enjoy it most, often flying backwards, whereas herring gulls seek shelter in the bay, huddling together on the rocks.

The gale is forecast to blow itself out by mid-afternoon, when crystal-clear light from the northwest will light up the still-boiling sea. This aftermath is what I really look forward to, and I’ll be back as soon as the first rays of sun appear.



Thursday 14 September 2017

In the 18th Century

I like to come to Penrice Estate every month, it’s the perfect place to watch the countryside change. The ancient parklands have a Gilbert White feel to them, and often bring passages from ‘The Natural History of Selborne’ to mind. It’s the swallows feeding over lake that take me back today. White, and his correspondent Pennant, discussed in their letters whether swallows migrate, or spend winter hibernating at the bottom of ponds. There are just a few birds hunting over the lake this morning, most are already well on their way south, but with a little imagination it’s possible to realise how White might have thought, especially when the birds flying low over the water below vanish into darker corners of the lake-edge.

The 18th century house at Penrice stands out as one of the few buildings of real architectural merit on Gower. In clear northern light it looks magnificent, glowing in warm autumnal sun. In the park, few leaves have started to turn, although horse chestnuts near Kilvrough Manor were showing rustic brown leaves on the drive here. 

In the walled garden, apples hang heavy from bent branches, and pears have done well on the south facing walls. Pumpkins, some larger than footballs, runner beans, cabbages, lettuce, onions and much more are ready to pick, and a few late strawberries are poked at by a lone song thrush. In the lovingly restored lean-to greenhouse, tomatoes smelling like the real thing, and great bunches of grapes are set to harvest. It’s a time of plenty, and as I sit on an old bench outside, I realise I’m in a world that’s changed little in two centuries or more.

Inside the lovingly cared for orangery, I sit on an old wooden bench and I’m in the 18th century once more. Colourful exotic plants, many in pots, cover the floor. Almost ready-to-pick lemons, succulents, ferns and flowers I recognise from Asia, produce a delicate sweet-smelling scent, and save for the buzzing of a couple of bees there’s silence. It’s wonderful.


Tuesday 12 September 2017

South over the Lighthouse

There’s a calm, out of season feel to the seafront at Southend. It’s quiet, with just a few boats bobbing gently at mooring in the choppy green water inshore of the lifeboat station. A handful of early morning locals sip coffee and read newspapers in the sunshine on the deck of the coffee shop by the boat slip. The September light is wonderful as I pause by the famous ‘Big Apple’, closed now for the winter. Swallows head out over the lighthouse bound for the coast of Devon and beyond.

At Bracelet Bay, the car park is more or less empty, allowing gulls to sit on the tarmac undisturbed by cars. Others bathe in the shallow pool left by overnight rain. The newly painted lighthouse looks pristine once more, glistening in the bright, north-westerly light. More swallows arrive from east and west, seemingly sucked towards the islands and lighthouse, before being funnelled out to sea.

Looking west across Limeslade Bay, fast moving clouds paint dark blue patterns on the sparkling sea. I sit on one of the many benches mesmerised by the view. A stonechat appears on the top of a thistle, he’s joined by another and then more. I realise there’s a family party on the slope down towards the sea. More swallows zip overhead east towards the lighthouse, and I wonder if the people taking photographs of the view even notice the birds, or are aware of the miracle of migration taking place just a few feet above their heads.

West along the coastal footpath, the sea changes to a deep shade of blue. I walk for at least ten minutes and meet no one. A great clump of rosebay willow herb sheds seeds, some blowing high up the cliff-face. Gorse and honeysuckle attract honeybees. A distant buddleia bush is alive with white butterflies; this long warm summer has been good for them, and hopefully given them a chance to recover after so many poor seasons. Below in the clear water, a seal pops up from nowhere, we stare at each other for a few moments, and she’s gone. And still more swallows head for the lighthouse. I wonder how many will make it across the Sahara to South Africa.


Sunday 10 September 2017

Camouflaged Darter

I’m drawn back time and time again to three Gower churches, Penrice, Ilston and Cheriton, and my favourite is always the one I’m visiting. They have many things in common, old, sturdy and beautiful, and each has a strong feeling of history, but it’s their atmosphere that really attracts me. They have similar birds too, and there always seems to be a coal tit somewhere in the churchyard.  These lovely little creatures like conifers, but only Ilston has a great yew tree, which some say dates back to the building of the church in the 12th century.

In September, Ilston is quiet. There are no tourists with maps in hand looking for the path down to the sea through the churchyard. Beyond the lower gate, overnight rain has made the track wet, and it will stay this way from now until spring. I’ll need better footwear to walk down the valley over the next months. I retreat to the quiet of a bench with my back to the stream. I’m alone, there’s just the gentle sound of  water behind me, and the distinctive rustle of hardening autumn leaves. Only a robin sings.

With the nights drawing in, and the sun getting lower in the sky, there’s much less warmth in the middle part of the day. The slight breeze is a little chilly, but not too cool to prevent a red admiral butterfly taking to the air. In the sunshine, golden lichen-covered gravestones are warm to the touch. On one, a female common darter sits motionless and beautifully camouflaged against the lichen, she doesn’t move, even when I get very close.

The swallows are gone from the stables across the road, I haven’t seen a migrant all morning, and it will soon be the time of year when we start looking for winter visitors. How quickly the seasons change.



Saturday 9 September 2017

Sea Watching

Living by the sea gives an extra dimension to life, but especially at this time of the year when large numbers of seabirds head south from the Arctic. The best places to see them around here are the western headlands of Pembrokeshire, but even this far away from the main Atlantic flyway, it’s worthwhile getting up early and heading out.

I usually make my way to Port Eynon Point, which protrudes out into the Bristol Channel further than any other on Gower. It’s always a bit of a lottery, and you never know what will turn up. Waiting to hear on the grapevine that birds are on the move is the trick, but I risked an early rise this morning, and headed out ‘cold’. It’s wise to take a telescope, but even with binoculars it can often be good. Nestling in the soft, salty turf above the rocky shore provides the best vantage point, and I’m at once watching Manx shearwaters in groups of 20 or more moving steadily up-channel. Hundreds of gannets dive in the turbulent waters off the Point, and with sandwich terns resting on the rocks below, I’m more than happy to have got out of bed early. It isn’t long before I’m joined by a couple of serious birdwatchers bedecked with all manner of expensive paraphernalia. They soon get to work on the parts of sea beyond my reach, turning up great skuas, a Balearic shearwater, and several storm petrels, the latter far too small for me to see with binoculars. In the two hours I stayed, the tally of Manx shearwaters exceeded 2,000, but with plans to stay the whole day, their final counts would probably end up many times this. The shearwaters return down-channel in the evening, and I wondered if the morning and evening counts would match, or if the birds would return by a different route on the English side of the channel.


Friday 8 September 2017

Old Oaks

We often eat lunch on the bench in front of Penrice church. It’s peaceful, with a view of the sea, and few people pass along the path leading down to Oxwich. After rain, we make our way down the muddy lane to the meadow below, where lines of ancient oaks mark boundaries of long-gone hedgerows. Under the branches of one, churned up muddy ground marks the spot where cattle shelter from the elements. The poorly drained land is only dry in high summer and feels old, as if from another age. After a dry summer, a pond dug by the farmer is gradually filling, and still attracts common darter and southern hawker dragonflies. As the sun comes out, red admirals take to the wing, settling on the small island in the middle of the pond.

Winter is still some way off, and the long dry summer seems an age away now, but water already flows along the footpath through the corner of Abraham’s wood. This walk will become more difficult as the season progresses. Peacock butterflies feed on the few ripe blackberries, and speckled woods rest on ivy in sunny glades. The odd red campion peeps out from the undergrowth, but there is little colour left on the woodland floor.

The sun breaks out again as I climb the stile into the meadow dividing Pittsog’s Wood from Oxwich Marsh, where  again, isolated old oaks define the landscape. A slight breeze sends waves across the top of blond grass, sloping gently down to the marsh. Thistles, some shoulder high and mostly covered in seeds, dot the field are a bonanza for noisy goldfinches, and it’s been a very good year for these lovely little finches, which will gather into large flocks in the coming weeks.

It’s still a good walk to Oxwich village and I think better of it. The return brings swallows moving south, buzzards in the sky, and signs of badgers in the wood that I’d missed on the way down.


Thursday 7 September 2017

Left at the Lookout

Most people who visit Rhosilli and Worm’s Head for a walk, head down from the car park in the village to the coastguard lookout. A few adventurous souls go over to The Worm, but most stay a while, take in the view, and then return, but few seem to realise there are great treasures along the cliffs to the east of the lookout.

It’s flat up here, the footpath is away from the cliff edge, and the walking is easy. The sound of the wind and crashing surf on the rocks below is invigorating, and it feels wild. It’s midweek, only a few walkers venture this way, and I could be at the end of the world. From up, here looking west, the Worm is obstructed, but replaced by an equally beautiful view. Rhosilli Vile slopes gently upwards towards the village, most summer crops have been taken off now, and the fields, showing a mixture of fading greens, look untidy. Much of the wall by the path from the village towards the lookout was restored several years ago and is in fine condition, but here stretches are still in need of repair, somehow adding to the remoteness of this magical place. A narrow gully slopes down to the lower cliff path, providing gorse perches and food for a solitary stonechat, whilst a migrating wheatear prefers the dry stonewall.

At Tears Point, I sit on the top of the cliff and watch the boiling surf below. There are some sheltered places on the south Gower coast where the sea can be more or less calm, but never here. Exposed to the full force of the Atlantic swell, the sound of crashing waves defines this beautiful spot.

To the east I look into Fall Bay with not a soul in sight. Nesting fulmars still patrol Lewis Castle; they’ll have young about to fledge now, but will be gone soon to spend just a few months at sea, before returning in early January. I realise I haven’t met a soul since turning left at the lookout, exactly as I’d hoped.



Tuesday 5 September 2017

The Hard Way

Since my last visit to Blackpill about a month ago, there are certainly more waders at high water, but nowhere near the numbers I would have seen here in the 1990s. The reason may be the increased disturbance from walkers, or the constantly changing shape of the sand-spit over the years, which no longer provides a temporary island refuge before high tide. In any event, apart from the every present flock of oystercatchers, I’m treated with fine views of knot, dunlin, sanderling and ringed plover, all in winter plumage. Spring tides push the birds quickly towards the shore, and timing a visit at high tide is critical so as not to miss the precious few moments when they come close.

A lone jogger, or loose dog, can easily spoil the fun, but I’m lucky, and able to capture those few magic minutes when these wild and jumpy creatures are really close. Without a telescope it’s essential to sit still and allow the dunlins to get as near as possible, and only then is it possible to see if there’s anything out of the ordinary amongst them. I certainly wouldn’t have picked out the little stint today without an intimate view. The smaller size of the stint is the give-away, and closer examination also shows the characteristic V-shaped stripes down its back, and much shorter bill than the bustling dunlins. We get Little Stints every year, but only in ones or twos, and it feels good to have found one without the aid of an expensive telescope. Doing things the hard way is often much more rewarding.


Sunday 3 September 2017

Purple Carpets

The beautiful combination of deep purple heather and brilliant yellow gorse against a pastel blue sky defines Gower’s cliffs during September and October. The autumn flowering of gorse can sometimes be disappointing, but in good years, when both heather and gorse bloom together, a cliff walk can take one’s breath away. 

At this time of year some Gower commons are also at their best, and I need only walk a short distance from our cottage to be confronted with a magnificent display of heather. Clyne Common seldom disappoints, particularly the south side, which in soft evening autumnal light, is simply stunning. Purple carpets stretch as far as the eye can see, mixing with occasional clumps of flowering gorse and fading summer greens, to form a mosaic of exceptional beauty. The well-trodden footpath across the common is mostly dry, reminding me of the wonderful summer weather this year. The sinking sun forces a dark shadow to gradually creep from west to east, partially hiding the few ponies grazing on the near side of the common. Swallows and house martins appear and head for the sunnier side of the common, and jackdaws start to head east towards their roost.

In the hedgerows on the edge of the common, dock seeds are everywhere, giving a distinct end of season look, and oak trees bearing green acorns are beginning to the look autumnal. Wilting stands of great willow herb still have a few flower heads, and fading bindweed supports the odd pure white bloom. Ragwort is far from over, decorating the hedges with flashes of yellow. Most blackberries are red, but the few ripe ones already taste good, promising a good crop this year.


I cross the road and wait for the sun to set behind Cefn Bryn. The evening kestrel fails to appear, as does the sunset I’d hoped for.

Saturday 2 September 2017

Something Missing

The August bank holiday weekend is over, and the schools are back. There’s a feeling of calm as I walk the tide line from the car park along the golden sands on Oxwich beach. There are no children making sand castles, just a few holidaymakers gently making their way towards Nicholaston Pill. The few boats that were moored for the summer are gone, and it’s as though we have Gower to ourselves again.

The new stylish restaurant by the water’s edge, with its distinguished chef, looks like it’s had a good summer. The renovated old coalhouse building is now an addition to the landscape in contrast to the dilapidated eyesore it replaced. Open even during the off-season, it offers quality food in an upmarket environment, and will no doubt be a luncheon refuge for some of the more discerning walkers on the beach today.

The high sand dunes end abruptly as I approach  Nicholaston Pill. Many years ago their existence was threatens by wind erosion, but extensive planting of marram grass saved them. I take a detour along a well-trodden path looking for a late orchid, but find only shrivelled remains. Autumn colours are gaining momentum now, and bracken and blackberry leaves, painted red and gold, cling to the ground, and deep purple dewberries are almost ready to pick.

Intimacy with the places we live in and know, induces an expectation of what to find. I know there’ll be gulls bathing in the stream as it crosses the beach, and would be surprised not to find a small flock of pied wagtails there too, but it’s what’s missing that’s often more intriguing.  There are no sanderlings along the shore yet; a small flock winters here along with a few ringed plovers. They’re a bit late this year, but I know they’ll be here in a few days time.