Another weekend, another Saturday, another visit to the reservoir at Farmoor. These days the reservoir is very different and much busier as the customary fishermen and birders have been supplemented by couples walking, mothers pushing buggies, joggers and families strolling the perimeter track, while others sit outside the Waterside Cafe with a tea or coffee, everyone seeking solace from the ongoing pandemic and the strange unsettling world it has inflicted upon us.
The increase in humanity's presence on the reservoir is somehow unsettling and disconcerting to those of us used to the usual minimal human activity. Oxford has discovered Farmoor Reservoir and it will never be quite the same again.
I walk to the far end of the causeway. It's a bright sunny day but the northeast wind makes it bitingly cold, stinging my ears. I drop down the reservoir bank, following the hedgeline to a hidden gate that opens onto the Thames Path. A narrow path, sheltered from the wind, the haunt of a few dog walkers and birders, unknown, undiscovered or just ignored by the majority of the promenaders on the reservoir. Each side of the path is flanked by tall hedgerows, left to grow, untouched by flail or chainsaw, a straggling mesh of hawthorn, blackthorn and willow, the tops almost meeting above my head. It is undisturbed at this time of day, so quiet you can hear the wings of the Redwings beating against the twigs as they tug at deep crimson hawthorn berries.
Small dark shapes flit through the intricate lattice of bare twigs and branches, no more than silhouettes against the pale sky beyond. Patience and closer scrutiny reveals them to be mainly Great Tits and Reed Buntings but occasionally comes the pleasing discovery of a wintering Blackcap or hyperactive Goldcrest.
The hedge on one side conceals the path from a tiny reserve comprised of pools, sedge and reed. There is a small gap in the hedge that looks onto one particular reed fringed pool of water, hardly more than a puddle, that lies below some bird feeders. I stop and stand against the hedge, its dark background sufficient to mask my human profile as I look through the gap.
Great and Blue Tits are to'ing and fro'ing at the feeders. A constant high speed procession. To be exposed, away from cover for longer than a fraction is to be vulnerable. Their haste makes them messy, careless eaters, as in the act of seizing a seed they spill even more, before retreating as rapidly as possible into the sanctuary of the dense hedge to consume their prize. The spilled speed falls to the water below, ignored by the birds above and floats on the surface.
I know to be absolutely quiet, making no noise nor movement that will betray me. I am waiting for a particular special resident of the marsh. A Water Rail. This is the prize I seek, an attempt to outwit a bird that displays legendary caution. If I succeed I can look forward to a sensation of intense well being and satisfaction. Such a simple communion with a wild creature can do this.
Shy and timid as a mouse it will only venture out when convinced that it is safe to do so. Normally it is rarely seen in the open. Nine times out of ten it will see and hear you long before you see it, if at all, but here the temptation of fallen seed can briefly lure it into a relatively open situation and be less cautious.
Smaller than a Moorhen but vaguely similar in form, with rich brown, streaked upperparts, slate grey face and underparts, black and white barring on the flanks, a long red bill and ruby eye, they are a smart looking bird. Their life is spent in water and marsh, a hidden existence inhabiting mysterious pools and swampy ground, for the most part concealed below sedge and within reedbeds where they can live unobserved. Their body is adapted to their habitat and is laterally compressed to enable them to slip through the narrowest of passages between the blades of reeds.
Twenty minutes pass, no one comes along the path to disturb the silence and stillness of this winter's day and then a small brown and grey body furtively slips from cover, wading tentatively, belly deep across a few feet of shallow water to pick at the fallen seed.
I hold my breath, anxious not to make any sudden movement or sound that will scare the bird. It stands briefly alert and tense, re-assuring itself that all is well and then relaxes.The critical moment has passed.
Back and fore it describes circles in the still water under the feeders, creating gentle ripples that spread and founder against the surrounding reeds. The embodiment of anxiousness, it constantly flicks its short tail, a comforting movement like we tap a foot to soothe and control minor worries and uncertainty.
Its long bill, dark above and crimson below, delicately picks the discarded seed floating on the water.
For ten minutes it is mine to enjoy and then some concern, of which I am unaware, troubles the rail and prompts it to swim rapidly into the reeds. It is gone and does not return.
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