A hard frost last night and the reeds along the river path are thick with rime. The rich brown colours of a Wren and a few Reed Buntings stand out against the whiteness. But many birds seem to merge into this pale landscape, and sometimes in the strained light of this midwinter morning a bird’s plumage can look startlingly unfamiliar. Like the spectral grey of a Herring Gull’s back that today appears silver as it flies along the river. So unfamiliar that for an instant it seems as though an ancient sword has erupted from the water, reversing the committal that formed part of a long-forgotten ritual. Walking the path I wonder whether people made such votive offerings to the Arun in the millennia before it was scoured and canalised for navigation and industry. It seems probable, especially at the shallower points where the river could be forded. Crossing the fast-flowing stream would always require caution and respect. A sacrifice wouldn’t go amiss. Or maybe offerings were made at
Writing and birding in the Arun Valley and beyond. Comments to mcdbirder@gmail.com