I enjoyed an atmospheric saunter through the Blean last night with walks leader Peter and visitors.
It was dusk as we set off into the forest, a damp, still evening, just the right temperature for a stroll. There was an eary feel about the woods, and tracks of silence, broken only by the squish of our wellies through the puddles were then punctuated by areas where song thrushes, blackbirds and robins were belting out their evensong. Even at a distance you could tell that these birds were sitting high in the vegetation to throw their voices across the canopy, declaring their patch to neighbouring male birds before the sun set. However, from the depths of the trees we could hear the occasional soft phrase of a nightingale, and Pete knew which paths to take to bring us closer.
It was getting very dark by now, and in the clearings, the layers of vegetation created strange silhouettes in shades of black to grey as they diminished into the distance. Above us, the odd croak of woodcock revealed their swift passage through the dank. Eventually, we arrived, in hushed conversation and restrained anticipation of the nightingales; and then they started in earnest. One male began the melodic sing and pause score so characteristic of the species, low down, out of sight, but piercing. This set off a second male, and we realised that the path on which we stood was the boundary between two territories. The birds' song came closer together, their efforts to be better and louder was tangible and then, a third! Three nightingales were now singing around us, running musical fences around their patch and hoping that any female bird, arriving fresh in from Africa, might cosy up to them for the night. By the time this triumverate were in full verse the other bird song had been shamed into silence, and the Blean sat darkly and silently a stage to their performance... it was magical.