They flew out of the darkness, resembling ghostly wraiths high above my head. In that strange half light it was difficult to remain unmoved as seven great white egrets gently drifted away from their night-time roost and headed off to begin the day a new.
It was with a level of madness not seen in me for a while but having woken at just after 4am, with a half- baked notion to go and see the starlings lift off from their night-roost, I tumbled out of bed and made a cup of tea. A drive down the M5 then a pootle across the Somerset Levels and by 05:45 I had arrived at Shapwick NNR, part of the mighty Avalon Marshes complex. My aim, if it could be thought of as an aim, was both to see starlings erupt en-masse from their night roost, and to hear bitterns booming, which they're now doing with daily regularity at dawn.
The creation of this pre-sunrise endeavour actually began the afternoon before. I had a notion to write a blog post based on watching starlings come into roost in the evening, on the final day of Winter, return in the morning and revel in their morning flight on the first day of Spring. That was the plan in my head. In reality it was somewhat different. Although I'd seen thousands of starlings foraging the previous afternoon from the car window, I didn't manage to work out exactly where they roosted. Coupled with a biting wind scudding across the flat landscape of the Somerset Levels I lost the will to hang about at dusk. Standing on the bridge over the picturesquely named South Drain, the lack of starlings overhead did not dampen my spirits. I knew the massed starling flocks had moved from the RSPB's Ham Wall to Shapwick NNR in recent weeks, and knowing Shapwick intimately, I decided to just to turn up in the morning and there they'd be noisily awaiting my arrival. What could possibly go wrong.
Well almost everything!
Starling behave differently in cloudy weather than with clear skies. Today heavy cloud made the hour or so before sunrise very dark. It really was very dark but once my eyes had adjusted there was just about enough light to see without the need for a torch. I began to walk along the track, once the bed for the Somerset and Dorset Joint Railway, and even in the near pitch darkness this arrow-straight track would not be that difficult to follow. I'd brought a hand-held sound recorder with me too, as I hypothesised this would be a recce for the parabolic kit if the bitterns boomed well. They may have been booming, however in the middle distance the chug chug chug chug of diesel pump amply reminded me that the Somerset Levels today is entirely man-made and managed. That said, above the steadily rising amplification of the chug chug chug chug a tawny owl hooted the end of the nightshift on the reserve. It was about 6am now and the merest slit of pre-dawn was visible. And below that a tiny pinprick of light. I'd hoped I'd have the reserve all to myself, but no. As I walked that tiny pin-prick of light grew closer, and bobbled about a bit not unlike a firefly, until in the darkness a lady jogger sped past with a jolly "Morning". I thought I had a slight madness about me coming birdwatching at night, but to go jogging before dawn?
It was only after the lady jogger had passed and my eyes re-adjusted again I saw another light in the distance. It's like Grand Central Station on the reserve, maybe that chug chug chug chug is the ghost of the steam engines which plied peat away from this landscape. I drew closer, this light was a fishermen combination who had with them what can only be described as a sports-stadium grade light dangling between them. Momentarily blinded as we passed, I have no idea how many there were of them but being English I bade them Good Morning. I received one in reply. I had filled in twenty minutes so far and my tally was, diesel water pump, a jogger, some fishermen and a tawny owl at some distance. It was going well then! But at least the light was gathering.
Suddenly I realised I was on my own. The din from the diesel water pump was receding and to my left a song thrush was giving it large somewhere in the woods. The water rail then started, followed by Cetti's warbler. All unseen of course but the reserve was throwing the duvet off the reedbed and waking up. Whistling from wigeon to my right caught my ear, followed closely by an eruption of jackdaw from a reedbed. In the race to take a picture in the half light I forgot to remember how dark it was. My camera did its best with me trying to follow the flock as it flew away, today though was to develop into a series of less than perfect images, which in some way I quite like as they tell of the moment.
Back to the jackdaws. Had they roosted in the reedbed they erupted from, or were they mid-flight and simply flopped down for while? I didn't count them at the time but from the image there are about 100 individuals. Something niggled at me, although it looks lighter in the image below it really was dark and I can't envisage which woodland they'd have come from well before sunrise and why they would then settle in reeds, even temporarily. Most intriguing, had my eyes deceived me? I've not come across jackdaw roosting anywhere other than in trees or woodland before, and a quick look online didn't disprove this fact. But then I question why not. Reedbeds are a potentially safe environment, it is why starling roost here (though a good number get eaten by bittern, foxes and otters during the night). Are jackdaws, a very adaptable crow, adapting too?
Not long after the jackdaws passed by then a gaggle of Canada geese also provided an opportunity for a less-than-perfect image. Still no starlings, but at least three bitterns were booming at some distance, which is an amazing thought for this bird that has come back from the brink. When numbers of bittern were at their lowest ebb, for years I tried and failed to hear a bittern in East Anglia. They became my bogie bird. I even spent an entire holiday in the early 1990's at the Cley Marshes in Norfolk failing to hear a bittern despite the warden telling me they were being heard daily and recommending what time to visit to guarantee (to not hear one). Nowadays on the Somerset Levels it is almost impossible not to hear a bittern in the springtime, a remarkable turnabout of fortunes. But still no starlings.
Watching starling leave the roost site should be easy. They remain where they arrived the evening before and before leaving in the morning the noise becomes astonishing as they fidget and jostle with neighbours awaiting that invisible command to go... which once issued means the entire flock rises as one. That said, this morning despite regular listening at reedbeds I heard absolutely nothing. What was fantastic were the egrets flying from their roost. Both little and great white flew overhead resembling ghostly wraiths inspecting the wetland underworld. Quite unearthly seeing these huge members of the heron family slowly flap and glide above me, their ghostly white plumage under-lit and in contrast with the dark sky. I still get a thrill seeing these egrets, as a boy they were rarer than hens teeth (or starlings).
By now it was heading towards sunrise and I'd been wandering about for over an hour. I'd obviously missed the starlings or they'd gone another way. Maybe then if I headed to Noah's Hide I might see something else and not be too disappointed. A call of nature first, I am of that age. Whilst carrying out my needs I heard a roaring sound behind me, like a wave crashing on a pebbly beach but in a continuous way. I looked up and there they were, thousands upon thousands of starling flying low and fast above the trees under which I stood. Wave after wave passed by making the already grey sky darken considerably. And that noise, it is astonishing. Quickly grabbing my camera I failed to record anything other than a number of abysmal record images. It was par for the course today, I'd come into woodland just as they'd passed overhead, restricting my view entirely. Given the direction they were coming from I must have passed their roost site half an hour earlier, presumably when they were still reasonably quiet, or masked by the chug chug chug chug. But good view or bad, it was all very exciting and I looked at my phone, 06.49hrs. Now I know.
I have to say my images of the passing starlings are worthy of an award. I'm not sure what that award will be but I'll accept the award now and have my speech already prepared. The last of the starling flock passed over about 3 minutes after it began. There were a couple of short breaks but otherwise three minutes of starling flying overhead at speed. Numbers must have been close 100,000 if not more. Remarkable as we're now at the very end of the winter roosting season, which was one of the reasons I found myself here today in an attempt to grab a last look before they disperse to their breeding areas.
My quest was won. I'd heard bitterns, and although I'd not seen them lift out the reeds as one organic flock, I'd seen massed flocks of starlings. I sat in Noah's Hide reflecting on my morning with a cup of flask tea, it then struck me it was only ten past seven. I'd seen so much and experienced so much in only an hour and a half (and before many people were out and about) from arriving in pitch black night-time to now a half light just after daybreak. And it wasn't over yet. As I sat in the hide a great spotted woodpecker was drumming madly close by. Behind me the woodland birds were in audible competition with their wetland cousins. I switched on the recorder and if you wish to hear a 7 minute roughly edited recording, here it is from my SoundCloud site - CLICK HERE
What a wonderful start to spring, bitterns booming, woodpecker drumming, and a cacophony of avian sound surrounding me. I'd finished my flask and thought it's time to head home, but before that a quick look out of the hide close by, the 70 Acre Hide.
Normally there's very little to see from here as it looks out over a vast reedbed. Not today though. I'd just packed my camera away into my rucksack when a bittern flew over the reeds to my left. I had a good view with the binoculars, however as I'd come to expect today, no camera meant no image. It was a spectacular view too for a good 10 seconds or so. Note to self, "leave camera primed just in case".
The walk back to the car was just as eventful. The woodland over the opposite side of the South Drain was alive with birdsong, so much song it was virtually impossible to differentiate each species. On the ground a number of finches were feeding and a jay spent time out in the open flicking through a recently dug area. A large flock of redwing then caught my eye, surely they'll not be here much longer. I heard an unfamiliar call like chattering schoolchildren wearing wooden clogs, one redwing was singing which while not unknown isn't that common in the UK, but then I realised that soundscape of chattering was other redwing. Spring is here, serenaded by a winter thrush, and having been on the go for the best part of three hours, it was only 8.20am.
