A roar of Starlings

On these dark January evenings I can hear them. From a distance they deliver a familiar but not quite identifiable sound. It is a sound that shifts and turns, taking different forms and stirring a multitude of memories: the sound of rain on stony ground or the quiet babbling chatter of a summer brook. As I get nearer to the source, higher pitch notes can be heard and the individual components of this urban soundscape begin to disentangle themselves. Finally, just 30 or so metres away from the dark outlines of three tall conifers, silhouetted against the harsh orange glow of the streetlights, I can make out the sharp chattering notes of individual roosting Starlings.

It is an amazing sound, several thousand conversations taking place at the same time. These are the same birds that a few hours earlier would have been whirling like some giant super-organism, pulsing in waves across the dusk. The birds will settle down and the noise will diminish as night deepens and other components of an urban soundscape come to the fore.

I’m up before dawn, part of my routine, and I can hear the Starlings stirring. It is not the cacophony of dusk and I rather suspect that some of these Starlings are early risers, while others slumber. By the time that I am back from walking the dogs, the Starlings are properly awake and soon they will be away. I look forward to this moment when they launch themselves into the day; an eruption of tiny black forms that lasts for just a few brief seconds. This is not the aerial ballet of dusk; these birds must disperse to feed, replacing overnight losses as quickly as possible.

On some mornings I am in the garden with the chickens when the Starlings depart, providing me with a front row seat in what, to me, is a marvellous spectacle. While the evening performance is an almost purely visual spectacle, this early morning show is predominantly aural. Most of the Starlings emerge together, the blur of wings powering the birds up into the air and away from their overnight roost. It is this that delivers a strong pulse of sound, like the drawn out roar of a wave that claws against the shingle as it is pulled back seawards. The exact shape of the sound is determined by the direction that the birds take as they leave the roost and pass overhead. It is when they pass directly over me that the sound is at its most intense. Such loud and imposing sounds are unusual in the context of other creatures but it is reassuring to hear one, such as this, which drowns out the traffic.

A sculpture of Starlings

Each evening I see them; from a distance they appear as a smudge on the horizon, moving too rapidly and in too many different dimensions to be smoke from one of the chimneys. Passing up through town towards home, I catch sight of them again. This time I am closer and the smudge dissipates to become a multitude of small black shapes, each one a Starling performing its part in this grand aerial ballet. On still evenings, as the sunlight begins to fade, to be replaced by the artificial glow of the streetlights, the Starlings gather in increasing numbers, coming together in tight flocks that wheel about the sky. Waves of brown shadow pulse across the flock as birds turn in harmony, flexing like muscle, each bird acting in unison to some unknown instruction. All the while the flock is increasing in size as small parties of Starlings come together, forming bigger groups that ultimately coalesce into a single fluid entity, numbering four thousand strong.

The presence of the Starlings has not gone unnoticed and the local Sparrowhawk can be seen most evenings, working the flock with characteristic poise. Selecting a suitable victim from the wheeling mass of black bodies will not be easy and more often than not the Sparrowhawk will fail to secure a meal. The performance lasts for an hour or more before, suddenly, as the last of the natural light slips away, the Starlings fall like a shower of arrows launched by a whole host of English bowmen. Such is the speed of their descent into the thick cover provided by a line of conifers that a loud rushing sound can be heard, again suggesting the flight of arrows falling upon ranks of infantry. As the remainder of the flock wheels in ever tightening arcs above the trees so more and more birds slip down into their night time roost.

Later in the evening, as I slip out for a pint of milk, I pass the conifers. There is a soft babble of noise, which reminds me of a concert audience just prior to the lifting of the curtain. The chatter has an edge of excitement to it and, if one were to anthropomorphise, you could just imagine the birds catching up on the day’s gossip before settling down for the night ahead. I wonder for how long this roost will be tolerated. The sheer numbers of birds involved means that the cars parked at this end of the street are splattered with droppings, as must be the garden within which the conifers sit. Other roosts in the town have been lost because of intolerance. Will this one suffer the same fate?

A weighty problem

I treasure the reedbed that nestles into a corner of the nunnery lakes reserve. Home to a wealth of wildlife, I have helped to shape its character by periodically removing the invasive growth of willow scrub that threatens to dry it out and change its character. I have been sensitive to the fluctuations in water level that, over the years, have probably reduced its attractiveness to breeding reed warblers. It is an ecosystem in miniature and I relish the opportunity to envelope myself within it and to peer at the richness of tiny invertebrates that live amongst its stems. I have always felt that it looks at its best in winter, on cold still days of large skies and frosted reed heads. This winter, however, it looks somewhat worse for wear.

Large parts of the reedbed have been flattened, the stems of reeds broken and pushed down into the dark, viscous water. It is as if some giant of the African plains as been through, exorcising imagined demons on the vegetation around it. Has some great drama been played out here – something of Man’s doing? A closer examination provides some useful clues; there have been birds roosting here, their nutrient-rich droppings welded to stalks in such quantities that I cannot guess at the numbers of birds involved. In previous winters I have witnessed the dusk arrival of small numbers (dozens each rather than hundreds) of pied wagtails, reed buntings and starlings, all seeking the protection offered by the reedbed during the long winter nights. I suspect that one of these bird species may be responsible and, able to amuse myself elsewhere on the reserve for the short time that remains before the approaching dusk, I plan to return to discover the culprits.

With the light just beginning to fade, I find myself back near the reedbed. This time I am perched up on an area of breck that provides me with a commanding view across the reeds. Small parties of wagtails and starlings can be seen in the air above the reeds, arriving from all directions and travelling in from feeding opportunities elsewhere. It is the starlings that provide the spectacle, their numbers swelling as the natural light begins to drain from the sky and the glow from the distant town becomes a backdrop. Still the numbers of starlings grow – there are thousands in the air now, wheeling and twisting in unison like some swirl of dark ink in water. Then, at some unseen signal, the first birds drop into the reedbed, followed by the others until the whole flock is swallowed up – it’s great weight subduing the reeds and pushing them down. My mystery is solved.

A late winter spectacle

As I have noted before, the long winter nights can cause problems for small birds and a number of species are known to roost communally to reduce heat loss. Such roosts can provide a spectacle for the winter birdwatcher, as tens, hundreds or even thousands of individuals congregate at favoured sites. Many readers will know of the huge starling roosts that may form at this time of the year but how many are aware of the roosts of pied wagtails or reed buntings that form each night throughout the winter months? Pied wagtails may gather to roost on large buildings, especially on some of the county’s larger supermarkets, and their loud ‘chis-ick’ calls fill the late afternoon air as individuals arrive from scattered feeding sites just before dusk. These congregations provide an ideal opportunity for teams of licensed bird ringers to catch and ring large numbers of birds, helping researchers to understand more about bird movements and survival.


Last Sunday afternoon, I was part of a team catching and ringing pied wagtails and reed buntings at a small roost in southwest Norfolk. The roost was in a reedbed, an ideal place to spend the night perched above open water and safe from predators, and the site has been used over a number of winters, although not always by the same species. A couple of winters ago, there were large numbers of starlings using the site. This winter there are very few starlings but fairly good numbers of wagtails and buntings. We arrived to set up our nets at two-o’clock and, once erected, all we had to do was wait for the arrival of the birds. Periodic checks of the nets during the intervening time revealed a number of wrens, all of which were local birds that had been caught at the site during previous summer sessions. Wrens often move into reedbeds during winter because this is one of the best places to find the invertebrates on which to feed.


As dusk approached, wagtails and buntings began to arrive. Parties of wagtails gathered together and wheeled about the sky calling, a spectacle that lasted for half an hour or so. The numbers of birds increased and then groups of individuals dropped down into the reeds, with some ending up in our nets. Quickly and efficiently our team removed birds from the nets and processed them, noting down details of wing length, weight and age (not an easy thing to discern in a pied wagtail) before letting them go so they could return to the roost. Other members of the team had, by this stage, packed away the nets and we were left listening to the occasional shuffles of birds moving to favoured positions in the reeds.