Oxwich Marsh is still, just a few tips of reeds move in the afternoon
air. Along the boardwalk leading to the hide, a common darter gleans what heat
there is from the wooden structure.
Apart from a clump of red campion hanging on in a hollow, there are just
greens, fading yellows and browns.
A singing wren greets me near the entrance, and an even louder Cetti’s
warbler seems to respond deep inside the reeds. The lake is motionless, only the ripples of water boatmen
skating across the surface disturb the peace. Juvenile and adult little grebes
break the tranquillity, they’re noisy, aggressive little creatures, seemingly
unable to decide who owns what part of the lake. For me, the trilling of little grebes is the signature call
of this wonderful place; it’s always present.
The sun breaks through, casting a golden yellow glow across the marsh
and willows beyond. It lights up
the reed seed-heads, now turning from green to browns and silver. Close up, each one is a marvel, like a
miniature tree and usually containing the odd insect. Small day-flying moths are about, dancing over the tops of
the reeds, and migrant hawker dragonflies dart about, some coupled and
depositing eggs on the surface of the water.
Patience is the key to watching wildlife, so I sit and wait. Ever so slowly ducks begin to emerge
from the reeds. What looks like a
family party of mallards, with males sporting resplendent head-colours, a
single teal and two very smart looking male gadwalls brave the open water. Moorhens appear, and soon outdo the
grebes for fighting spirit - they must be one of the most aggressive of birds.
After the nation’s rivers were cleaned up during that last part of
the 20th century, otters made a great comeback. They’ve even reached this rather
isolated part of the world, and are back on the marsh after decades of
absence. They’re seen from this
hide, mostly in early morning, but I’ve never been lucky. On quiet winter days, they’ve even been
photographed hunting on the seashore in the bay.
The winter tit flock makes its way through the willows as I leave the
hide. Not yet large, it consists
mainly of blue tits, but there are other species there too. Years ago I plotted its route, finding
a definite pattern, and could often predict its whereabouts during the
day. These winter flocks can be
very interesting, and contain many species ranging from tiny goldcrests, to
great-spotted woodpeckers, and can sometimes drag with them the odd
overwintering chiffchaff.
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