Roosts

The sun is still above the western horizon as I sit on the edge of the cliffs watching the pre-roost aerobatics of the choughs above Crow Hole. There are ten of them, probably most of the entire Gower population at this time of year, and I feel privileged to be alone in this beautiful spot watching what, in reality, is a rare sight. Like most crows, they mate for life, and even when flocking, I notice they fly in distinct pairs. They land, grabbing a last bite from the rabbit-cropped turf in readiness for the long night in the cave below. Then as one, they rise, twisting and turning flamboyantly down towards the sea. What joy there is in the flight of choughs, and how perfectly suited they are to this windy maritime world.

Shags also gather in late evening before resting for the night on sheltered low ledges next to Bacon Hole to the east. I watch the nightly ritual as they first circle over the sea, before gliding gracefully towards the cliff-face. Most are juveniles, but as the light fades, all become silhouettes against the grey rocks.

To count the cormorant roost before the light fades completely requires a quick sprint westwards; there are lots here tonight, and maybe some shags amongst them too. History demands there’s a name for this ledge, but perhaps this is a secret known only to those lucky individuals living in the few houses on top of the cliffs.

Back at Crow Hole, as the roosting alarm calls of blackbirds breaks the evening silence, the choughs are quiet, and I know they’re ready to disappear for the night. One by one, they drop silently out of sight into the small hole in the roof of the cave; I wonder if they roost together as man and wife.