Ghosts

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 not as new as I’d like -- a year tick, maybe, or even a new patch tick. We’re a restless breed, birders.

Then again, some of the missing sightings have significance beyond a birder’s dashed expectations. The Nightingale that sang at the start of the path in previous years has not returned. The Redshanks that appeared set to breed are no longer evident, maybe still sitting tight, but maybe gone after another nesting failure. These are real losses, not just a transient bird absent from a day list but a breeding species now existing only in the past records of the place.