arunwild

The light is fading and the air is heavy with the smell of conifers as I reach the crossroads in the woods. The two-mile trek from the town has been quiet, with few birds seen or heard. But the Rewell rarely reveals many of its secrets. Some birds are still singing but they become fewer by the minute. Now all that is left is a Song Thrush hurling defiance at the night and a Robin ticking subversively in the undergrowth. Then for a second or two there is nothing. Still a few minutes before they start, I think, and am immediately proved wrong as a Nightjar starts churring. 20.54 according to my watch, a lot earlier than I’d expected. But it’s a warm night, moths already active. And the Nightjars are recently arrived, keen to eat and mate. Three minutes later one flies beside the path before landing above it, a dark silhouette perched sphinx-like on a thin branch. This is Caprimulgus europaeus, the goatsucker, though there are no goats here to render sterile. It is also the l

After the gloom of the winter’s wind and rain comes the dolour resulting from good weather. The mud may have gone but the river path to the south of the town is again a slog. The succession of good days and clear nights means migrant waders and passerines are flying through rather than stopping, denying the chance sighting of a chat or sandpiper. And as yet another day passes with nothing new turning up, even the hope of a chance sighting fades. That’s not to say there‘s nothing here. A dozen Reed Warblers sing from the ditches and reed beds, their songs interspersed with those of Sedge Warblers. Four Reed Buntings hold territory, as do a similar number of Cetti’s Warblers. Skylarks sing constantly, hard to count across the wide expanse of fields and water meadows. And there’s usually something different on the walk, this morning five Shelducks flying down river and a single Swift heading in the opposite direction. There’s far from nothing here and some of it is new, just