Barred in Norfolk 20th September 2014

The week leading up to Saturday 20th had been dominated by north easterly winds with the consequence that many scarcer migrants had been drifted across the North Sea to make landfall on the east coast of Britain, as well as further inland. We even had two Wryneck's in Oxfordshire! Yellow browed Warblers, Barred Warblers, Red breasted Flycatchers amongst others had arrived in unprecedented numbers and Norfolk was certainly getting its fair share of these.

So it was that on a gloomy Friday I called my good pal Clackers and suggested a sortie to Norfolk on Saturday with a view to seeing the aforementioned species. After re-assuring Keith we would not be making the eight mile yomp out and back to Blakeney Point for the Pallid Harrier, he said he would like to join me, especially, as there was the not inconsiderable incentive of an Olive backed Pipit that had been residing in Wells Woods for the past two days. This was a species both of us had never seen in Britain and this provided a golden opportunity to add a much wanted tick to our British birdlists.

With such a wealth of good birds scattered in various localities along the North Norfolk coast we were in a slight quandary as to what and where to go first. Olive backed Pipit was definitely the priority but we did not want to waste valuable time looking for this elusive bird and maybe run out of time to see the rest so we decided to drive to Wells and if there was no news about the pipit on the pager when we got there, then we would go on to Gramborough Hill near Salthouse where a juvenile Barred Warbler and two Yellow browed Warblers were currently viewable.

The long early hours drive eastwards from a grey and misty Oxfordshire into similar conditions in Norfolk brought us, at around 8.30am, to a relatively empty Wells Woods car park. There was still no news about the pipit and very few birders seemed to be about, just the usual dog walkers and what appeared to be a major charity fun run about to swing into full action.

 'What do you reckon Clackers?'  

'Up to you old boy'.

 'OK. Let's go to Gramborough and get the warblers.'  

We set off for Gramborough Hill, misleadingly named 'hill' as it is no more than the highest point in the dunes by the sea, opposite Salthouse. We drove up the approach road to the car park but at the end were met by a huge wall of shingle. The well known car park had been completely obliterated by the huge storm and tidal surge of last winter that did such damage along the Norfolk coastline. It was gone forever. We parked the car by the road and headed off across the shingle and into the dunes making our way to the nearby Gramborough Hill. It was a relief to leave the car and to realise we were birding at last.

Two Northern Wheatears bounced from fence post to fence post before us and then we came to the large bramble patch at the base of the hill which has hosted so many good birds over the years. I saw my one and only Blyth's Reed Warbler here some years ago. A couple of birders were already there but Keith was pessimistic about the situation as they appeared to not be looking at anything. 

'Anything about lads?'

'Yes, the Barred Warbler has been showing really well just a few minutes ago.' 

We stood and waited expectantly but after fifteen minutes there was not a sign of anything. A Merlin flew over and was gone in a flash of brown barred wings and a scattering of alarmed Meadow Pipits.

Fifty or so metres beyond the brambles is a small clump of stunted trees and bushes that is the only other bit of cover on the so called hill. 

'You hang on here Keith and I will go over there and check that patch out for the Yellow browed Warbler. Let me know if the Barred Warbler shows up.'

'No problem'.  

I wandered over and scanned the bushes and stunted trees and a slight movement betrayed a small warbler. It could have been anything but frustratingly it was gone into the depths of the foliage. Then another larger warbler appeared but it was a female Blackcap and then another one appeared. This is the fascination of looking at this type of cover at this time of year, you just do not know what is in there and what may pop out. I stood for a while longer and then on the edge of the trees a large, greyish non descript warbler hopped out into an Elder and clumsily started plucking at the elderberries. It was the Barred Warbler! 

I called Keith over and we both watched this large, chunky and charismatic warbler flouncing about in the still green elder leaves. Soon it flew back to the  original bramble clump. I wanted some photos so Keith stayed to try and see the Yellow browed Warbler whilst I returned to the bramble clump.

After just a few minutes the Barred Warbler ascended from the brambles and was sitting out in some dead twigs apparently drying out its feathers. 

It then dropped down into the brambles and started munching on the berries. Large and almost featureless apart from some barring on its undertail coverts, it had none of the agility or grace of its smaller cousins and with heavy movements would hang on the bramble stems ponderously balancing, even occasionally overbalancing, whilst snatching at the fruit. To me they almost look like a small shrike but I just love them. Why I cannot tell you. Perhaps its their size- you get a lot of warbler with this species. Perhaps its their appealing nature and slow deliberate, considered movements. Perhaps its their comparative rarity in this country. Who knows? Just enjoy the moment which is what we did. 

Finally it disappeared into the depths of the brambles. Keith returned telling me about the superb views he had of the Yellow browed Warbler. A lady nearby sauntered over. 

'Excuse me. You look like you know what you are doing?' 

'Well some of the time.' 

'Can you tell me was that the Barred Warbler we were looking at?'  

'It was.' I confirmed, and she smiled and said to her husband 'There, I told you so'. 

It's little encounters like this that add to the day.

The fact that Keith was so effusive about the Yellow browed Warbler and all its feathered magnificence was too much for me so I set off to see for myself, telling Keith the Barred Warbler had really been putting on a good show too. I stood for a very long time and saw absolutely nothing not even a Blackcap. The Merlin did another high speed flyover and then headed out over the dunes and the sea. I could see Keith getting up close and personal with the Barred Warbler and a dilemna set in as to whether I should go back and see more of the Barred Warbler or wait it out for the Yellow browed. I stuck it out, moving my position to the top of the dunes so I was now looking down on the tops of the stunted trees and bushes. Keith joined me, now exulting in the great views he had of the Barred Warbler! Ten minutes passed and there, suddenly in the top of one of the trees was the Yellow browed Warbler. A superb little mite, all stripey yellows on green in its fresh plumage. It delicately flitted through the twigs searching each and every one before descending again into the cover of the leaves.

During the wait for the Yellow browed Warbler I had consulted my RBA app. (Rare Bird Alert) on my phone and learned that not only had the Olive backed Pipit been seen in Wells Woods not thirty minutes ago but a Masked Shrike had been discovered at far distant Kilnsea in East Yorkshire. This was a true mega, only the third to be found in Britain. It would though, have to wait until tomorrow for any decision about going but meanwhile, what about the pipit? I informed Keith and we were unanimous in setting off for Wells Woods without further delay.

A quick cup of tea from the little mobile tea van which had now arrived at what remained of the entrance to the non existent car park - one tea and two packs of biscuits was £1.00. What a bargain. Revived, we headed off for Wells, driving along the winding A149 North Norfolk coast road, (was ever an A road more mis-classified?) through now very much gentrified and expensive villages such as Stiffkey and Cley. Every house seems to have had architect designed modifications and the paintwork is always immaculate. It just shouts money, wealth and middle class aspirations.

A very different scenario to our earlier visit now greeted us on our return to the Wells Wood car park. It was now almost full of cars, many more people were up and about and the charity run was in full swing. My pocket was relieved of an eye watering five pounds for four hours parking and then we were set to go and find an area in Wells Woods called The Dell where we hoped to see the Olive backed Pipit. Frankly we were pessimistic about our chances as these blighters are hard to see at the best of times and all the reports of this particular individual had said it was 'elusive'. Nevertheless we were here so were in with a chance but expected a long and anxious wait at the very least. The Dell is quite near to the car park and following the track from the car park for a short way we then enquired of a couple of young birders coming along a track out of the bushes as to where exactly it was and had they seen the pipit. They gave us directions and more excitingly told us they had been watching the pipit a few minutes ago and it was being seen really well. Both of us immediately received the proverbial jolt of adrenalin and headed with renewed vigour into the bushes to our right. We knew we were in the right place when we came across a small group of birders peering down from the top of a silver birch covered bank into a damp gully below.

The pipit was of course nowhere to be seen so we joined the others and looked optimistically down on the leaf mould at the bottom of the small gully. Half an hour passed and nothing was seen or heard apart from Jays flying to and fro above us, transporting acorns to be hidden away for later but then a slight movement came from our left as a birder located the pipit and whispered directions were passed on. A great surge of anxiety as I could not find it at first despite continued directions coming from my left. Then, there it was, walking along like a little mouse, unstreaked brown above, pale and streaked below and incredibly well camouflaged against the brown of the dead leaves. I whispered I too could see it but others around me still could not locate it. It was hopeless. I tried my best to give some guidance but in the end there is only so much you can do relating pointers about tree stumps, bits of grass, tree trunks, fallen branches, you name it, trying to give some sort of directional landmark into what is basically a complete mindtangle of tree trunks, branches, patches of grass and areas of leaf mould. The pipit wandered off into the grass and was gone from sight. 

I turned to Keith who was standing some way from me. A raised eyebrow. A thumbs up from Keith. Brilliant, we had both seen it. The surge of well being, triumph and joy after all the years of waiting was almost overwhelming. The companionship of birding is never felt greater than when sharing such a moment with a friend or friends. I wanted to jump up and shake Keith's hand and shout with the sheer elation that yet another high risk venture had borne fruit but instead I settled into, I confess, smug and silent contemplation, waiting for another view of the pipit. We waited and we waited. Time wore on and then the pipit suddenly re-appeared out of the grass and not where we were anticipating but much closer to us half way up the bank. I got a quick eyeful of its stripey underparts and strongly marked head, all brown and buff with a huge creamy white supercilium before it again was lost to view. Yet another futile attempt ensued to guide others around me to it. The problem being by the time they had located the landmark feature nearest to the pipit it was long gone and the whole process had to be repeated.

Another very long wait ensued and then it re-appeared further down the gully and we had to move our position a few metres to watch it running around in full view for a minute or so before being lost behind some vegetation. We waited for a while but nothing happened, so we left the others and walked off further along the top of the bank and descended to the gully and had one final and really good view of the pipit feeding amongst some fallen branches before it flew away up into the trees and that for us was enough.

We had been watching the pipit for three hours or I should say more accurately we watched the pipit for five minutes spread over three hours. It was now around lunchtime and with neither of us having had any breakfast it was mutually decided to adminster some much required refreshment, which was duly achieved in a little cafe at Burnham Deepdale.

Still elated at our triumph with the Olive backed Pipit our final destination was to be Burnham Overy Staithe where up to four or five Red breasted Flycatchers and another Barred Warbler were currently charming one and all. After a little difficulty finding a place to park the beloved Audi we headed off on the long trek out to the dunes. The weather had been dull and gloomy all day. Grey and with no sign of any sun, it would be depressing if it were not for our birding successes. The  northeasterly wind was now getting stronger as we walked the elevated track past expanses of saltmarsh and mudbanks, looking sullen and bleak below leaden skies.

Coming to the dunes we learned that a clump of stunted trees and brambles in front of us, in the lee of the dunes, was currently home to at least a couple of Red breasted Flycatchers and a Yellow browed Warbler. We regarded the clump of wind blasted trees but as usual we had to wait for any sign of birdlife. Then all of a sudden a small bird whizzed across the foliage and perched very briefly before whizzing off again up and over the vegetation and out of sight. The merest hint of pale buff plumage and a black and white tail was enough to tell us that this had been a Red breasted Flycatcher! We waited on and could hear it often announcing its invisible whereabouts with a ticking alarm call somewhat similar to a Robin but faster and higher pitched. Then with incredible speed it landed in front of us, perching low down in the brambles and haws nervously flicking its wings and tail. 

Hyperactive is the only word that can adequately describe this sprite's behaviour. Utterly charming, delightful in demeanour, it exudes constant energetic restlessness. Never still for more than a few seconds, its black and white tail frequently cocked and with wings held slightly down it looks at you demanding that you accept its cuteness and sheer joi de vivre.  It appeared to have a regular circuit of the clump so we waited and sure enough it returned after a lapse of time but never more than for a couple of minutes before it was off again like some frenzied wood nympth. 

With time, other birds revealed their presence in this clump of  wind stunted trees and bushes; first a brief, very brief view of the Yellow browed Warbler as it disappeared into the thick fastness of the impenetrable clump, a male Blackcap and then a Garden Warbler, spent time feeding on some elderberries. More mundane were a Robin and a Dunnock and most bizarre of all a large brown lump at the top of an Elder turned to reveal it was the back of a Brown Rat. 

A very pleasant hour passed by as we waited for and got occasional views of the restless flycatcher. I chatted quietly to fellow birders in the flycatcher's absence, all of us happy and sociable due to our encounters with the diminutive Red breasted Flycatcher.

Then, as often happens, two couples arrived and although they sported binoculars they were only passingly interested in birds. There is nothing wrong with that but what was annoying was that they seemed intent on having a loud conversation relating what they had done and planned to do with their weekend in Norfolk. It got really tiresome as they insisted carrying on their conversation close to where the flycatcher would regularly come but not if they persisted in their loud conversing. I decided to move off up and around to the side to get away from them and sat down there to regard a small tree on the edge of the clump. Immediately the flycatcher announced its presence, calling its distinctive ticking alarm and hopping around in the branches and occasionally flying out to seize an insect from a dead plant stem. I watched it, coming and going, noting it was distinctly nervous about being right out in the open but appeared to have a couple of favoured branches at the edge of the tree, so I focused my camera on these and managed to get some passable images of it when it briefly paused there. I watched it for at least an hour, for the most part just sat on my own. 

The light of a very inspiring day was now gently fading but still the flycatcher was active, always returning to this, its favoured tree. Irresistible, irrepressible, its energetic movements were a constant delight and nothing was done other than at breakneck speed. I suppose this is an anti predator adaptation as well as feeding strategy to catch fast flying insects but for me it was just entrancing and a real test of my observational skills as I endeavoured to follow its progress through the leaves and twigs. Watching this scrap of feathered vitality it was not hard to believe in fairies and maybe that is where the legend came from.

It was beginning to get cold in the wind and the light was now quickly fading. Keith joined me. He too had been indulging in some close and uplifting encounters with a Red breasted Flycatcher on the other side of the bushes.

'Shall we go?' enquired Keith.

 'There's another Barred Warbler five hundred metres over there. What do you think?' I replied. 

'Not really, we've done very well.'  

'Yes you're right Keith let's leave it. It's been quite a day'. 

'You can say that again.'  

'Cheers me old mate.' 

We headed back to the warmth of the Audi.

Otmoor Cameo 17th September 2014

After two successive days of driving into London on business and enduring traffic hell I was in desperate need of solace so took myself off to the RSPB's Otmoor Reserve to restore body and soul and found myself sat at the first screen for an hour or four of quiet contemplation. The fact it was midweek helped as for the most part I was on my own.

I sat contemplating the swaying and sighing reeds being blown gently by an easterly wind and soon my inner being was returned to normal or whatever passes for normal in my life these days. I had hoped to get some pictures of the Kingfisher which habitually perches on a post conveniently positioned in the water right in front of the screen. Today the Kingfisher seemed to have other ideas and apart from two rapid circuits of the reed fringed bay in front of the screen, decided that the wind ruffled water was not to its liking and departed for some distant reeds overhanging calmer waters. Even here despite two spectacular dives it was unsuccessful and finally departed with shrill whistles for even more distant parts of the reedbed

A juvenile Marsh Harrier flew haltingly over the reeds, stalling and hanging into the wind with flapping brown wings and dangling legs whenever it saw a potential source of food. A phalanx of Jackdaws accompanied it at a discreet distance though obviously aggrieved at its presence. The harrier was unperturbed and carried on low over the reeds, its progress being betrayed by alarmed ducks hurtling up from the reeds and rapidly flying off  like formation fliers.

Time gently passed by and I sat and let the spirit of the moor enter my soul as the early morning mist and grey cloud slowly gave way to sun and warmth. With the warmth came circling Red Kites, a couple of Common Buzzards and best of all a Hobby, swooping and darting after dragonflies. 

Many ducks, mainly Mallard and Teal whiled away the morning in the shelter of the reeds, away from the wind. A drake Shoveler had a wash and brush up out on the water, his harlequin finery disguised now with the varying browns of eclipse plumage. The only real key to the fact he was a male being his bright yellow eyes, although if you looked carefully you could see the underlying patterns of  his male plumage. With a final stretch of his wings he too sought the shelter of the reeds and companionship of the other ducks. 

All the ducks are now in their drab eclipse plumage and careful scrutiny of the assembled ducks identified a couple of Wigeon and also a few Gadwall. A Golden Plover circled the moor, its plaintive call betraying its presence in the sky before it became more and more distant and its cries subsided, lost on the wind. Two Common Snipe rocketed in at breakneck speed and, ever wary, as soon as they landed, ran for invisibility at the base of the reeds whilst a Green Sandpiper pootered about on a distant muddy spit.

I sat with the sun now warm on my back. Life felt good. A Grey Heron with huge bowed wings and dangling long legs landed in the shallow water in front of me with a loud raucous squawk and made its way to the edge of the reeds. Obviously it had come to try its luck with the numerous fish that are here. Its movements were almost imperceptible as it hunted in the water, its long neck extended and projecting its reptilian head and formidable bill out over the water in front of it. Stealthily, it moved one leg in front of the other through the water, causing hardly a ripple but it was out of luck. It waded further out into the water and soon appeared to be swimming in deeper water which was a somewhat incongruous sight. Slowly it made its way to shallower depths and stood for a while having a scratch and quick preen of some irritating feathers. It then gave a brief impression of an excitable exotic dancer with its head plumes fully erected before returning once again to the reeds to recommence its patient fishing.

Slowly, ever so slowly it progressed along by the base of the reeds. It stopped, the extended neck was lowered very slowly as it examined something in the water close to the base of the reeds. Its neck, bill and head slowly recoiled into its body and then with a lightening movement the neck shot out and head and bill stabbed into the water, completely submerged with a considerable splash. In seconds it re-merged with a sizeable fish grasped firmly between its mandibles. The fish was a small Pike and it hung from the heron's bill, gasping for air and tail flapping feebly.

The basilisk yellow eye of the heron was pitiless and it stood as any fisherman would, proudly displaying and admiring its catch for a few moments as if undecided what to do. Then with a sense of evident purpose it waded for the shore and dropped the fish on the earth presumably because it was so large and it would be easier to handle on dry land. The heron regarded the Pike again and with a vicious stab of its bill seized the now moribund fish and manouevering it in its bill swallowed it whole, head first down its capacious maw. It was over in a few seconds.

I followed the unfortunate Pike's progress down the heron's bulging neck and then the dramatic sequence was over. The heron stood for a minute, not without a distinct air of self satisfaction I may say, before marching over to stand amongst the sleeping ducks, there no doubt to reflect on life and digest its fishy meal.

Farmoor reverie at the Ruff end 12th September 2014

For one who professes to an aversion to reservoirs and Oxford's finest in particular I seem to find myself spending more time than is healthy at Farmoor these days. This is solely due to the fact that Farmoor is currently going through a 'purple patch' at the moment for migrating waders, with two Curlew Sandpipers, a Black tailed Godwit, Ringed Plovers, a host of Dunlin and Common Sandpipers and at least one Little Stint providing amazingly close views during the last three or four weeks.

Despite a report of another Little Stint at Farmoor this morning it was nowhere to be found when I ventured up the Causeway in the early afternoon sunshine. What a week of fine weather we have had and it continues until the middle of next week, or so the weather forecast would have us believe. Let's hope it is correct.

This afternoon was one of those languid and balmy late summer or early autumn days when everything has ceased its frenzy of  reproduction and growth and now metaphorically sits back and takes it easy. The ducks and geese laze on the banks, indolent and drowsy. The feral Greylags usually querulous and aggressively cackling can hardly bear to move out of my way as I progress around the tarmac perimeter track and just wander slowly aside from my advance, quietly muttering to themselves in gentle protest.

Today, windless and warm, the reservoir was virtually deserted with just a few distant fishermen dotted on the banks hoping to catch a trout. The only waders on the Causeway were the long staying juvenile Black tailed Godwit still imitating a remorseless sewing machine as it delved with its long bill up and down, up and down in the shallows on its endless quest for sustenance. Further along a distant small blob by the water's edge turned out, as I got closer, to be a juvenile Dunlin. Like all its predecessors here it was confiding to the point of silliness and just watched me quietly as I walked past it not more than a couple of metres distant.

Idly I turned left at the top of the Causeway and headed round the western top of Farmoor Two hoping I might find the Little Stint but it was nowhere to be seen, just Pied Wagtails frantically living up to their name as they cheerily chased insects along the water's edge. Two tiny, brown balls of feathers submerged on my approach leaving a circle of ripples moving outwards on the still water. I waited and soon up they bobbed again. Two Little Grebes still in summer plumage but now come here to spend the autumn and winter. Further along were two more mimicking the original two. Ever wary they swim out and away from the concrete bank and the shallow water they favour, feathers compressed and become slimline, almost reptilian, nervously craning their little necks in anxiety and then, once they feel secure fluff out their feathers and become rounded and familiar again, waiting for me to move on.

I walked on, planning to go down off the reservoir at Lower Whitley Farm and then walk back along the track that passes the two tiny reserves at the back of the reservoir by the Thames : Shrike Meadow and Pinkhill. Before I got too much further however I saw a medium sized brown wader feeding in a plethora of discarded feathers and foam in the corner of the reservoir. 

It was a Ruff or to be precise a Reeve which is the old name for a female Ruff. Smaller than the male, a study in browns of various hues and turtle backed it was feeding avidly amongst the flotsam of feathers and weed. I slid my legs over the wave wall and sat waiting for it to come nearer as it fed along the shoreline. Yet another confiding, trusting wader, it showed no fear of me and maybe I was one of the first humans it had encountered. It would be nice to think so. It carried on feeding and ignoring my close presence then stopped to scan the sky for something it could see but was beyond my capabilities. It stood for a little while neck stretched and head cocked in query then satisfied that it was not in peril, checked I had not moved and settled for a gentle preen. 

All was quiet as the two of us shared this corner of the reservoir for a few moments, me sat on the wall, the Ruff stood on one leg for a spell of feather maintenance before commencing its onward march along the shoreline. I left it then and headed for the steps down to the path by Lower Whitley Farm

A distinctive high pitched note rang out from the many wagtails running along the waterline as I made my way to the steps. I could see many Pied Wagtails but then the source of the call became apparent as a Yellow Wagtail ran from amongst the Pied Wagtails, then another, and then another three and finally there were three more on the grass. No less than a total of eight and keeping very much together as a flock. One bird had obviously just had a bathe and was sodden, feathers stuck to its body, frantically preening at intervals as it ran before me along the shoreline before taking off with its compatriots, all calling mellifluously and flying off to the fields of Lower Whitley Farm. 

This flock and the female Ruff were a nice unexpected encounter and I felt all the better for it.

I headed down the steps and set off along the lower track running by the dense hedgerow below the  bank of the resrvoir. 

Nothing much was to be seen apart from dragonflies in some numbers and the occasional butterfly making the most of this warm weather extension before the turning of the Earth and the change of season ends their brief existence. I walked on. The hedgerows are burgeoning with fruit and berries. The hawthorns this year are festooned and branch bent with blood crimson berries. On some, great whorls of scrambling, dull and dark green-leaved brambles cover them over like shrouds, the ripe blackberries deeply coloured and lustrous shine in the sunlight beckoning me to sample their bounty.

A small brown bird flies from a hawthorn but is gone in an instant over the hedgeline. Curious I walk round to the other side and a female Common Redstart flies along the hedge, brown all over but with a splash orange tail burning in the sun. Unmistakeable. Common seems so inappropriate for such an entrancing bird. I do not see it again as it flies into a coppice and hides in the leafy depths.

I stand quietly, listening to the constant anxious hweet of Chiffchaffs and tick tick ticking of Robins coming from the hedgerows surrounding me and the trees beyond. Such are the sounds of autumn. They seem to be everywhere. A movement in the brambles betrays a male Common Whitethroat feasting on the blackberries, his pink breast dribble stained darker purple with the juice of the berries. Another quietly tack tacks away, deep in cover and remains forever mysterious and invisible. 

Around a green corner, by an alleyway of brittle, leaf rattling reeds and tall nettles, the river runs slow and torpid, opaque and silent, a remorseless liquid giant. 

My reverie is abruptly stifled by flurries of activity in an elder shrub. Three Blackcaps are stripping the berries from the bush, each berry swallowed whole with one rapid gulp down their throat before they tackle the next. Like the whitethroat they are stoking up their energy reserves for the next or maybe initial stage of their migration southwards. They see me and grabbing one last berry, flee.

Shrike Meadow is almost subsumed by the riparian growth of reeds, grasses and other plantlife all but obscuring the scrapes. On about the only exposed piece of mud a Little Egret, dazzling white, preens and enhances its beauty whilst the grating pig squealing calls of two Water Rails emanate from deep in the reeds. A dark slender raptor passes overhead, no bigger than a Kestrel but this is another migrant, a Hobby. It is gone in an instant, lithe and angular, a supreme flier in its element and nemesis for any high flying dragonfly.

I pass through a gate which leads back onto the reservoir and then make a slow walk down the Causeway. The Dunlin is now asleep next to a pile of discarded gull feathers. The Canada Geese still loafing on the shelving concrete slope of the reservoir  have been joined by a very tired feral pigeon. Predominantly white it rests with them, bill snuggled into  pouting snow white breast feathers and sleeps, too tired to care. Incongruously a juvenile Moorhen copies the geese and also rests amongst them with wings resting akimbo on the concrete apron and far from the vegetative cover that is its usual secretive domain. Normally shy and reclusive it too cannot be bothered to respond to its innate fear and just watches me safely past

All is still, all is quiet. Waiting for the change. It will come soon enough but until then we dream on

Supplement

The next day was more blustery due to a strengthening easterly wind and there were now two Ruff together on the reservoir, feeding on the same shoreline. A juvenile male had joined the juvenile female. Markedly larger and with dull yellow legs and feet rather than the female's grey it was also less confiding but seemed to gain a semblance of confidence about my presence due to the female's continuing equanimity.