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Winter Birding in Norfolk 2025/26 Part 2

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  Winter Birding 2025/26 While this has been a meteorologically miserable winter for the most part, it has, as they say, been good for ducks, or certainly waterbirds in general. Numbers of pink-footed geese have been stable, pushing 50,000 along the North Norfolk coast, with good numbers of tundra bean geese amongst them. Ironically, one of the most impressive spectacles - a field at Wighton chock full of over 30,000 pinks with more arriving overhead and others over the brow of the field - didn't seem to contain one. The bird which excited most discussion was the taiga bean goose at North Point pools, thought to be distinct from its tundra cousins just by a neck – or rather despite its lack of one. In mid-February, a cold snap on the continent, accompanied by some strong easterlies, sent plenty of birds seeking shelter in Norfolk, in a natural complement to the reverse migration of Andrew Mountbatten-Windsor who appeared overnight in Wolferton from Windsor. The weather shifted larg...
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Winter Birding in Norfolk 2025/26 Part 1

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  Winter Birding  2025/26 The most reliable rarity in Norfolk this winter has been the very smart male eastern black redstart which has exchanged the rocky snowline screes of central Asia for the admittedly nippy gardens and rooftops of Sheringham. A jaunty splash of colour on a grey day, it has done nothing for the public perception of birders as groups of hooded enthusiasts have haunted quiet suburban streets through the Christmas period and well into the New Year in search of the wind-tossed vagrant.    It had a very different appeal to the monochrome beauty of the black-winged kite which held court at Hickling Broad after moving across from the Ludham area. I saw the 2023 bird at some distance across the reedbeds from Stubb Mill so it was a delight to watch this individual go through its paces at closer range; making rapid circuits of the reeds, hovering at times, dropping down for prey and then perching haughtily on the tops of the larches, confirming the falcon...
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DAVID BOWIE

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David Bowie   I am not moved Easily to tears, But the loss, The sense of loss, Created and curated, Becomes the Lightning conductor, My eyes filming. Ten years that’s all. Played out On stage but  Disinterred daily. Silver screened. The man who never Fell to earth. But I, I can Remember.   10 th  January 2026 Bowie has always fascinated me, not in some all-pervasive or damascene way - I never met him and I never saw him play live - but as a presence, a significance, over the years which, at its natural end, generated a palpable awareness of loss. On a very basic level, I like his music - well, most of it - and play it a lot, but when you set it in the context of a restless creative intelligence, it is the mass of contradictions, comparisons and co-existences, and dare I say, changes, that set him apart as a man and a figure - embedded, like something glinting in the water - that are transformative. There is so much more with Bowie...
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MIGRATION '25 AT TACUMSHIN, CO.WEXFORD.

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  September   Migration at Tacumshin, Co. Wexford with Oriole Birding Tacumshin is a remarkable place. This unique coastal wetland with its own lexicon - The Forgotten Corner, The Racetrack, The Patches - has a lonely mystique reinforced by an enviable back catalogue of birding greatest hits. It draws birds from across the Atlantic but is also a last stop for those about to jump off the Irish land mass and head south for warmer, and certainly drier, days. Walking out, through welly-sucking reedbed and flooded grasslands, it felt like the Pantanal or the Okavango Delta in European miniature - an adventurous opening to hidden rewards. We were the only people evident in its 1000 acres of lagoon, dune, marsh and reedbed, and roaming this untrammelled wilderness provided a stark contrast with the restricted access to so much UK habitat. Imagine being able to wander freely over Cley or Holkham Marshes with only the noise of sea and birds for company. The first birds we saw were a pa...
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AUTUMN MIGRATIONS '25

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  Autumn Migrations '25 In autumn, many bird species, unable to survive a colder climate, move from their breeding grounds to their winter quarters, sometimes over thousands of miles. Birds often exist in a state of flux; on the wing in a great patterning of weather, pushing and pulling them around the globe. Some, like this weeks-old willow warbler, weigh as little as 9 grammes (about the same as a £1 coin) and leave Norfolk on a journey of over 3000 miles across continents, seas and deserts in order to winter in sub-Saharan Africa before returning to perpetuate the process the following summer. It is an incredible feat. There are those like the swallow, whose comings and goings are culturally embedded, seasonal markers. Their congregation in September, twittering on telephone wires like notes on a musical stave, is a sure sign of  'zugunruhe' or 'migratory restlessness'. It is the same flickering agitation one sees in feeding flocks of knot or golden plover when t...
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MERVEILLE DU JOUR

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  Merveille du Jour The Merveille du Jour was first named in 1762, in 'The Aurelian' by Moses Harris, itself a product of the Aurelian Society of naturalists . The wonder holds fast To the garage wall, A flake of autumn lichen, Each fine fleck of black Etched into the spring green Of daylight stillness. Those Aurelians knew The power of a name, Given to make us see Beauty overlooked.   November 2025.
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LESSONS FOR LIFE

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  LESSONS FOR LIFE This poem is now as old as some of the pupils who will stand in The Garth at Repton School this year for the Act of Remembrance. Watching them every year as some shivered in the cold, held the silence and intoned the words dutifully, it was impossible not to be reminded of earlier generations, their names engraved on the roll of the fallen, listed on house boards or caught forever in ancient photographs, who had filed into the same chapel to hear lists of their departed fellows and forebears read out by the Headmaster every week. Lessons for Life Ranks of pinched white faces Packed around the Garth: Uniforms, creases, crests, Leather stiffly gleaming. Lines of children, really, Graven in the cold; Unmarked but not unmoved, Learning silence,   Waiting patiently for Each note, weighed On the brittle light. The silver bugle cracks, Like biting down on shot, The boy run short of breath. Then the wreathing step And dying words, ...
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