I heard my nightingales at Finginghoe Wick: at least a dozen males singing. They all have their own territory. One song fades as you walk along the paths, surrounded by the thickest undergrowth, and another song rises up to greet you. I didn’t manage to see one, but that doesn’t matter; the song is enough. There were blackcaps singing, and chiffchaffs, and my first cuckoo of the year, though I didn’t see or hear any wheatears or sedge warblers or reed buntings. I wonder if that arctic spell of snowy weather has killed off a lot of the smaller birds. I only saw a couple of swallows all day. This isn’t a typical April.
The reserve is being extended, along the estuary of the River Colne, and I spent a soporific hour, in the heat of the afternoon, in the Kingfisher hide, watching a trio of little grebes chase each other around the saltwater pool, making more noise than you’d expect from such a tiny waterbird. A solitary greenshank was having a protracted siesta, as was I.
Another image of Petworth licensed...
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