Nightjars and Woodcocks on Beacon Hill.

The one thing I can always guarantee will happen as I drive around country lanes, is that I will soon be lost and ill-tempered.

It happened again to me last night as I was driving to a meet on Beacon Hill, just East of the village of Trellech. A group of us attached to the AONB unit were gathering, so that we could be led around newly-developed heathland in search of those elusive birds of twilight and dawn - Nightjars. I had never before seen one, so got my gear on and polished my binoculars with the eagerness of a boy scout. I just wish I'd taken boy scout orienteering courses. I found Trellech soon enough, noting with a small cry of joy that there will be a beer festival here in the middle of June and promising myself a return visit then. My troubles began once I quickly found myself through Trellech and beyond. It's all very well me hurriedly scribbling 'take a left after Trellech' on a piece of A4 as I dashed out of the house. There were about half a dozen 'take a lefts' and all of them, rather unhelpfully, had no road signs. I must have investigated every one of them, muttering darkly to myself as I careered around hairpin bends and scattered cyclists coming in the opposite direction. I usually found myself in little hamlets with names like 'Cowlick', 'Ostrey' or 'Cotland' - tiny places with dusty paths and stone memorials. There then followed a round of me bleating something like, "Where the Hell am I?" whilst wrenching my car around so that I could tear off in another hapless direction. Once, I reached the village of Catbrook, which I vaguely knew, and realised that I'd come too far. I had to do a 63 point turn in a narrow lane, so that I could go back to Trellech with tears of rage in my eyes.

Time was running out on me when I eventually found the Beacon Hill car park. I did this by following another motorist couple who were driving very slowly, stopping to peer up murky byways with the driver waving a map around in an agitated manner. I guessed, correctly, that they were fellow lost members of the Nightjar Explorers Group and I just tucked myself in behind them and let them eventually lead us to our destination.

After a few minutes there came to be a group of about 15 of us of various ages and medical complaints. Clothing varied, too, ranging from people togged up in enough outdoor gear to tackle Ben Nevis in February, to one guy who had turned up in a sports vest and skimpy shorts. He looked like a jogger who had been hijacked and forced to attend the group. He spent the whole two hours of the walk wearing a permanently bemused expression.

The walk leader and organiser ticked off names on a list and an RSPB guy called Barry also arrived to provide the informative stuff and lead us around the site. This started off more or less straight away, Barry taking us up a wooded slope and onto the heathland. He and Andy (the AONB officer) told us that 40 hectares of Conifer plantation had been cleared about 7 years ago and allowed to go back to its previous heathland state. The plantation (a lot of which still pressed in on all sides of the heathland) had been planted 60-70 years ago when the Government at the time had fed its commercial need for timber and had planted over the natural heathland there. Times change and ecological biodiversity is recognised and (grudgingly, one suspects) minimally encouraged by modern government. Therefore, funding was provided to create and manage 40 hectares of heathland in this area. I asked if this would be expanded in the future as, to me, there still seemed to be an awful lot of brooding and depressive Conifer around us. I hate the stuff. It is mono-cultural, deadens sound and chokes the vitality of our wildlife. My apologies to Pine Martens, Firecrests and the Sasquatch for totally dissing your environment, but still! Anyway, it appears that there is no plan for extra funding to be given to expand the heathland here more's the pity.

In terms of management, three wild ponies have been acquired and secured in the area and they keep all the unwelcome growth at bay so that the heathland is not choked up by trees and can get on with the business of growing Heather, Bilberry, Deer Grass and the like. We could see the ponies as we stood listening to the talk. They had stopped munching vegetation and were peering at us from about 200 metres away, ears pricked forward and mild equine curiosity on their faces. I would guess parties of workers also come in and manage the vegetation, as it seemed an awful lot of work for just three small ponies. Barry actually said that this is a delicate issue. The most invasive threat to this heathland is Birch. Unfortunately, ponies don't really have an appreciative palate for it and would rather munch on other stuff. To make sure that the ponies eat the Birch, they have to keep them hungry and not feed them too much in terms of oats, or whatever. It is a balance between getting them to do the job they are brought in for, but not causing them distress through lack of other food. A close eye is kept on them and, to my untrained eye, they looked in very good health and content in nature. Indeed, as we walked on the three ponies fell in with us with an air of bonhomie. It seemed that curiosity got the better of their natural wariness. These were wild ponies, after all, but you wouldn't have thought it. In no time at all, they were nudging us companionably and allowing themselves to be stroked and patted. They seemed very young and were beatiful creatures - all Walt Disney animation with large, dewey eyes and flowing manes. Eventually, they were scuppered by a cattle grid. This is what obviously keeps them in place, but I'd enjoyed their company and briefly wished for an Orwellian moment (a la 'Animal Farm') where one of them had a flash of brilliance and worked out how to tiptoe over the cattle grid. It would be worth it just to see the look on Andy and Barry's faces.

Barry continued to give us facts about the heathland but suddenly he would stop in mid-sentence, hand held up in mid-air and with his head cocked and a faraway look in his eyes. After a few seconds of frozen attentiveness, he would nod in a satisfied way and announce something like, "Whitethroat- over there in the scrub," and I would realise that he was constantly tuned in to the birdsong about us even as he spoke. It was excellent - like being on an outing with Chris Packham.

As we walked, people got to comparing their binoculars and I squirmed with embarrassment. Everyone seemed to be carrying huge pieces of kit with large, coated lenses. They looked like something our special forces would use in the field whilst tracking Scud missile crews. In comparison, my binoculars looked like I'd pulled them out of a Christmas cracker and I hurriedly hid them in folds of my clothing. When people started admitting, rather bashfully, how much they had actually paid for their gear I nearly staggered backwards into a bank of Heather. I'd have to sell my son on e-Bay to be able to afford a pair like that (while we're on the subject - any takers?).

Suddenly, a shape was spotted flitting over the treeline. Barry told us it was an early Nightjar and there it was - my first one. It flew with wings in a V-shaped way and looked quite bat-like at times in the way it tumbled and tossed in the air, like a paper bag in the wind. Barry identified it as a male because he had seen the flashes of white on the wings. Sure enough, from whence it had disappeared there came an amazing churring noise, which seemed to rise and fall as it whirred on. Almost an electronic sound, this was a male Nightjar telling females that it had a good bit of territory and, at the same time, telling other males to shove off and not trespass. We saw the same male several times over the next ten minutes, although Barry reckons there are two males in the area. It came close to us on one occasion and Barry told us that they are actually quite tame and have regularly circled him and also his dog, as if curious. He has also drawn them in by clapping his hands once or twice. Nightjars clap their wings in flight and react to clapping sounds as if to another male, swooping in to investigate and commit actual bodily harm on its rival.

Another bonus for me was spotting my first Woodcock. It flew over us and Barry pointed it out. I clearly saw it's long bill and it was very wader-like in flight, a bit like an Oystercatcher. It also made the most curious sounds - a couple of grunting croaks and then a little piping cry. It was like a frog with a penny whistle. Barry told us that this is called 'roding' and is a male air display to entice comely females. We walked on and had continued sightings as the sun began to set in earnest. At one point, we all stood in a clearing as we listened in complete silence to the sound of the Nightjar. My companions were silhouetted against a skyline of smouldering orange, rising to a rose-pink and, finally, the inky blue of approaching night. It was a strange moment, seeing their silent shapes against this backdrop and hearing an almost alien whirring coming from the blackness of the woods. Not a word was uttered. It was as if we were awaiting an attack from whatever was chirring at us from the trees.

Suddenly, all activity ceased. The noise stopped, there were no more sigthings. We all began to realise how chilly it had become so began our walk back to the car park in darkness. With  the foresight of your average Bluebottle, I brilliantly hadn't brought a torch with me. I had to tag along behind the group like a lost child until we made it back to our cars.

 Although the sightings and sounds had been brief this evening (maybe 45 minutes) it was still brilliant to see my first Nightjars, with the added bonus of a couple of Woodcocks, too. I wouldn't have recognised them as such had I seen them alone. I might have made an educated guess once the nightjar had started giving voice, but I was still grateful for our guides and thanked them both before tackling the journey home with a resigned sigh. This was because I knew that I couldn't go straight home via Monmouth because of a long dual carriageway going in the wrong direction. I had to dog-leg down to Llandogo and go up through The Wye Valley, hardly a chore as it is a beautiful stretch of road.

An enjoyable evening, then. I'll be back in the area soon, as my next volunteer conservation work is at a place called Cleddon Bog, which is a close neighbour to Beacon Hill.