There was the cold brightness of lingering winter that permeated a March sky.
The cerulean expanse held a solitary composition of clouds which looked as though they had been painted by a Kamakura monk. The group sat in meditative stillness above the farmhouse. Neither threatening rain, nor in any hurry to go anywhere. Simply being.
On the other side of the embankment, where the sea had reclaimed channels and pools in the previously drained farmland, stood a Little Egret. Its elegant outline and delicate features further adding to the feeling that I was not at a salt marsh in Lancashire, but somewhere far more exotic. It stalked the creeks with the deep, silent concentration of an exam invigilator. Every now and again it would lift its legs high enough to clear the water and reveal the bright yellow feet which curled, grabbing at nothing, like the machines in the arcades further into town. Pristine white feathers, black bill and black legs. It was a lesson in how to style a monochrome look - but for the feet! I can only think to liken it to wearing novelty socks beneath a Givenchy ballgown. It must have amused Mother Nature no end as she doomed this bird to hide its feet in the cold mud.
My eye was caught by a twitching movement from the fox proof fence. There sat another monochrome beauty, a Pied Wagtail. Another delicate, slender bird whose busy presence is as common in the towns and cities as it is on the salt marsh. Like me, it seemed to be sitting and taking a quiet moment to observe its surroundings before launching from the wire. Despite the lightness of its body it flies in dips and lifts as though struggling to gain altitude. Off it went, across to the meadow full of newly born Spring lambs who had similar issues with being unable to keep their tails still.
Nestled into a low, stony bank that walled a Creek, stood a group of Oystercatchers, motionless. They were all orientated in the same direction like living weather vanes. I love their Welsh name, Pioden y Môr, which translates as Magpies of the sea. Save for the long, orange bill and legs, there is a remarkable similarity.
I am beginning to wonder if someone sent out a dress code for today as I spot a pair of Avocets in the largest of the expanses of open water. I feel suddenly self-conscious in my dark, red jacket and grey trousers, intruding unnecessary colour into this very civilised gathering. Even the Canada Geese have made a bit of an effort.
The anxious, bubbling song of a Skylark suddenly cuts through the salty air. They are always in a hurry to say what they need to say, and with such earnestness. Unlike the Shelducks whose amused beeping is reserved for those moments when they are not racing along, heads down, scurrying and sifting. There were three of them, evenly spaced, all in a row, hardly daring to stop moving for fear of missing out on some tasty morsel. If their call is the Barbara Windsor of the wild fowl, then Mallards have to be the Sid James. Their sudden, unabashed, riotous laughter, so incongruent to their size and prettily painted markings.
But it is the Curlew whose song touches your ears with a dignified melancholy. A voice that is tinged with loss and sadness. I wonder if it has always known its fate? If it has been cursed with the gift of precognition by Asteria? Does it sing to touch our hearts and make a plea for salvation?
As the largest of our wading birds, it is surprisingly hard to spot amongst the more brightly coloured ducks. Its mottled, brown plumage being the perfect camouflage for nesting on the ground amongst the tufts of moorland hills. As children, we are always taught that a bird makes a nest in a tree, or a nest box, or, for sheer novelty value an old welly or a teapot. But we aren't educated about ground nesters. Those who rear their young in a bowl of flat and grass, or a crevice in a rocky scree, or disguised amongst pebbles. We trample everywhere in ignorant bliss, often accompanied by a four legged friend, little idea of the damage we can leave in our wake. No wonder the song of the curlew has been sent to haunt us.
The Ravens cronk sadly at my departure. I am loath to leave the serenity of this place. For all its vastness, it possesses a reduced palette that soothes the brain and soul alike. It is the songs that bring colour and variety into this landscape.
The clouds have not moved. Have they taken up residence on the farm? As I turn my back to them, a sudden breeze whips up. Maybe they feel it is time to go home too.
Words by Sarah Hunter
Photographs: Sketch book © Sarah Hunter March 2024, Curlew © Martin Campbell April 2023