Lagoon

The sun is somewhat against us this morning; low in the sky, its strengthening rays silhouette many of the birds that are feeding or roosting in this large coastal lagoon. Even so, it is a pleasure to be out and to feel the late summer warmth cut through the thinning mist. Over the next couple of hours the sun will continue on its journey and distant waders and gulls should prove less challenging to identify.

Close in, just a few metres from where we are stood, a small party of dunlin feed in the shallows. In with them are a couple of curlew sandpipers, more elegant and refined than their dumpy counterparts probing the mud. A water rail squeals from the reeds and, not long after, puts in the briefest of appearances. This are one of my favourite birds, full of character and bubbling with personality. A few duck are drifting across the deeper parts of the lagoon, a mix of teal, wigeon and shoveler, while many more doze, heads tucked in, on the small islets that poke above the silken surface.

A change of position and we are better placed to tackle the straggling flock of waders and gulls that extends part way across the lagoon. A dozen avocet are easily spotted, among the large number of godwits – both black-tailed and bar-tailed. While some of the godwits snooze, others stretch and preen. Scattered in with these leggy birds are some smaller waders – mostly knot but with a few ringed plover present. Behind these a run of spotted redshanks is revealed; about time, as we had been hearing their calls for much of the morning. A flock of golden plover arrives, providing a nice comparison with the grey plover – many still in breeding plumage – scattered on one of the quieter parts of the lagoon.

Further away, where the forms of feeding birds are still difficult to resolve in the light, three spoonbills stand in the shallows. These fantastic birds provide a taste of the exotic. Newly established as a breeding species, they are now a common sight here on the north Norfolk coast. It is a wonderful scene and one worthy of such an early start to the day.

The tuneful Snipe

A crisp and bright November morning proved ideal for watching the flocks of duck and waders on the pools at Cley. Shoveler, wigeon and teal were busy bathing, while godwits and redshank probed for food, and gulls loafed about on the exposed mud. Only occasionally was this tranquil scene disturbed by the noisy arrival of another flock of brent geese or by the passing attentions of a hunting marsh harrier. The good light enabled me to spend some time studying one of the less obvious users of the pools, a snipe. These stunning little waders have dark, richly patterned plumage and are most often encountered by chance. Flushed from beneath your feet in some patch of wet meadow, they explode into the air with a hoarse call. A low zig-zag flight takes them away before the bird rises steeply up into the sky. Such brief views do not provide the time to appreciate the stunning plumage, so a bird feeding in the open at Cley is an opportunity to be savoured. It is worth noting that snipe sometimes perch on fence posts during spring and early summer – an even better opportunity to see them.

The most striking feature has to be the snipe’s bill. Long and straight (proportionally, it is the longest bill of any European bird), it is perfectly suited to a life spent probing the wettest margins of pools and the dampest of wet meadows. Here it feeds on earthworms and other soil-dwelling invertebrates. The loss of such habitats, through long-term drainage and changes in habitat management, has caused breeding populations to decline at an alarming rate. Norfolk’s breeding population has certainly declined, by 86% between 1992 and 2000 according to one set of figures, but the winter population is larger, swelled by the arrival of birds from further north and east.

The snipe, like its relative the woodcock, is known for its breeding display. Descending rapidly from a high flight, the bird produces a bizarre sound. Lasting for only a few seconds, the sound is best described as a fluting bleat. The noise itself is made by the air passing over the outer pair of tail feathers, which are held out away from the rest of the tail. The slightly opened wings help direct air over these tail feathers, which then vibrate to produce the sound. At the beginning of the last century there was much debate among British ornithologists as to how this sound was made. However, in 1912, Philip Manson Bahr, lecturing to the British Ornithologists’ Club, inserted two outer tail feathers into a cork, attached to a length of string. By whirling this around his head he was able to recreate the noise and halt the debate.