The relationship between birds and places is complex, and no
more so than where bird calls are concerned.
This morning’s walk along the river path has been unmemorable so far. The wintering birds are mainly gone and most of the migrants have yet to arrive, while the keening wind means those birds that are here have sought cover.
Not only has the walk been unmemorable but unpleasant as well. The sheet of mud masquerading as a path had been improving, but the overnight rain has left it as treacherous and slippery as before.
The dog tugs morosely at a clod of sodden earth, trying to turn it into a rabbit, before giving me a less than friendly look. Home, the look says, and I’m inclined to agree as the wind eases but rain begins to fall in its place.
Then a Common Redshank calls as it takes off and flies down the river, and for an instant I’m transported to the Sungei Buloh Wetland Reserve in Singapore. The mudflats overlooked by the Aerie Tower are swarming with Marsh Sandpipers, Pacific Golden Plovers and other waders, noisiest among them the Redshanks. It’s a momentary image, but not the first time a Redshank’s call has evoked the place.
As I begin walking gingerly back along the path I ask myself why the call conjures up that place of enervating humidity and exuberant growth, rather than somewhere closer to home. It was hardly the first place I saw or heard a Redshank, not by a very long chalk.
Did calling Redshanks remind me of the UK the first time I visited the reserve, the familiar sound accentuated by being in a then-unfamiliar land? It’s possible, though I don’t remember that being the case, or even taking notice of the species beyond recording it in my notebook. The Redshank, after all, is common and widespread, and the subspecies seen in Singapore is not much different in appearance to the ones seen in the UK. There is no likelihood of a split that might yield a new tick.
And there were new species to look for on that first visit to Sungei Buloh, more exotic and appropriate ones than the bird once known as the warden of the marshes. Not many marshes in that swathe of mangroves and mudflats located one degree north of the equator.
So the reason why the Redshank’s call evokes memories of Sungei Buloh remains elusive. But whatever the reason, that call changes the cold mud of the Arun for an instant into a tropical mudflat, as though geological time has reversed.
This morning’s walk along the river path has been unmemorable so far. The wintering birds are mainly gone and most of the migrants have yet to arrive, while the keening wind means those birds that are here have sought cover.
Not only has the walk been unmemorable but unpleasant as well. The sheet of mud masquerading as a path had been improving, but the overnight rain has left it as treacherous and slippery as before.
The dog tugs morosely at a clod of sodden earth, trying to turn it into a rabbit, before giving me a less than friendly look. Home, the look says, and I’m inclined to agree as the wind eases but rain begins to fall in its place.
Then a Common Redshank calls as it takes off and flies down the river, and for an instant I’m transported to the Sungei Buloh Wetland Reserve in Singapore. The mudflats overlooked by the Aerie Tower are swarming with Marsh Sandpipers, Pacific Golden Plovers and other waders, noisiest among them the Redshanks. It’s a momentary image, but not the first time a Redshank’s call has evoked the place.
As I begin walking gingerly back along the path I ask myself why the call conjures up that place of enervating humidity and exuberant growth, rather than somewhere closer to home. It was hardly the first place I saw or heard a Redshank, not by a very long chalk.
Did calling Redshanks remind me of the UK the first time I visited the reserve, the familiar sound accentuated by being in a then-unfamiliar land? It’s possible, though I don’t remember that being the case, or even taking notice of the species beyond recording it in my notebook. The Redshank, after all, is common and widespread, and the subspecies seen in Singapore is not much different in appearance to the ones seen in the UK. There is no likelihood of a split that might yield a new tick.
And there were new species to look for on that first visit to Sungei Buloh, more exotic and appropriate ones than the bird once known as the warden of the marshes. Not many marshes in that swathe of mangroves and mudflats located one degree north of the equator.
So the reason why the Redshank’s call evokes memories of Sungei Buloh remains elusive. But whatever the reason, that call changes the cold mud of the Arun for an instant into a tropical mudflat, as though geological time has reversed.
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