Somehow this was something straight out of my childhood, only I was more enthusiastic now: balanced half in and half out of the car, grappling with my boots and getting the laces soggy in the muddy puddles, wishing I'd brought my scarf with me because my neck was already too cold. I suppose the difference was that it was my choice, I knew that I could hop back into the car at any point, and I had a better idea of why I was there.
That was the beginning of my first visit to Fowlmere, the RSPB's reserve between Cambridge and Royston. If I'm honest, we picked the wrong time of year; the reedbeds were silent, when I'm sure that in a couple of months they'll be filled with the sounds of reed, sedge and perhaps grasshopper warblers. The 'recent sightings' list taunted me with a peregrine and two merlins in February (I've still never seen a merlin in the wild) - I was surprised at these, because I didn't think they'd be along for another month. But we fancied a walk, and I wanted to see what it was all about, so it was worth the trip.
Fowlmere has a crystal-clear chalk stream running through it, which was almost the highlight of the day. After a predictably fruitless hour or thereabouts, though, the biggest treat was a willow tit singing its heart out at the top of a spindly tree. I'm normally hopeless at telling the difference between willow and marsh tits, but this one gave a beautiful performance and, by all accounts, the songs are unconfusable. The Bird Guide describes the song as 'a series of pensive, melancholy, Wood Warbler-like notes'. Though I didn't think it at the time, and the species was wrong, the vulnerability of the tiny bird singing loudly on such a grey and cold day has since reminded my of Hardy's The Darkling Thrush:
At once a voice outburst among
The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-hearted evensong
Of joy illimited;
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,
In blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.
So little cause for carollings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew
And I was unaware.
Our willow tit wasn't carolling ecstatically - his was an endlessly repeated, yearning 'tiu' - but there is the same principle of nature's suddenly throwing up a moment of determined self-expression in the midst of a dreary winter's day. In fact, our tit was soon joined by another singing nearby. Read into that what tale of hope (Hope?) you will.
In another update, I've found out where those waxwings were thanks to this site. If only it were up to date on the day in question, I might have known where to go. Perhaps this'll teach me to pay the subscription on Birdguides.
PS the description of the call on the BTO site has thrown me into doubt - perhaps they were marsh tits after all.
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