When the high wind drops to a soft breeze, there are few sounds out on the marsh at dusk. The ebb tide of the river moving swiftly out at Westrow Reach is a constant ripple in the background and rigging gently tap-taps against the masts of moored yachts mid-stream. Oystercatchers call plaintive as they pass overhead and in the scrubland the Pipits gently burble away, ducking and diving for grubs.
In the spaces between I move as quietly as possible, trying to find the same delicacy as natures' pitch, to remain undisturbed and never to disturb. That is the greatest pleasure of walking in the wild. The attempt to become one with it, perhaps the first step in beginning to understand it, an emulation of rhythm. And with it come the joys and gifts of patience.
Out where no-one goes, even though there is a footpath, along the overgrown estuary bank, where the great sluice gate with its large metal operating wheel is pitched between rampant gorse and sea defences. Where Magpies roost princely at the head of low trees silhouetted against the fading daylight; where lone Redshank cruise in and dab in the shallows; and where Starlings charge themselves up on telegraph poles ready for their sundown flocking.
But before that, a male Marsh Harrier glides close overhead, his great grey wings and tail exposed toward me. Each time I see one it is as if it suddenly appears out of nowhere or else had been there all the time and I simply had not noticed. That low, V-shaped flight with the wings pulled up to glide before a few beats to maintain altitude, then gliding again head pushed forward and down, scanning the earth. He drops just out of sight, beyond a dense line of gorse into a small, secluded reed bed and there is a rising cacophony of thin calls. Probably the female with a brood. Marsh Harriers rear 3 - 5 young, with eggs laid April to May and hatched over a 30 - 38 day period, so presumably the first born is now being reared over there or soon will be.
Then the male is up again and ranging westward, inland. Behind him the sun makes one last glory of colour across the flat; shards of red and orange range upward like a giant inferno, a cumulus cloud the only endeavour to break the pattern tipped in yellow and blue-black shadow come close to paradise.
As if I wasn't spoilt enough, as I look, the Starlings rise as one and begin their airborne dusk dance. A hundred or more birds become one ethereal body, moving with the ease and grace of water over rock. They twist and turn together, a bulbous cloud of black wings and bodies; at times they appear to wink out of existence as they turn dramatically in unison only to re-appear a split second later, back on this plane. It is never failing in its magic, and the sheer joy and ebullience of it is inevitably tear-jerking. Then, suddenly, they stop and plummet back to roost as if some calculation has ended and they have done what they must.
In the old drainage dykes and pools nearby Mute Swans churn the close muddy bottom with their large webbed feet for cygnets to feed before resting up for the night, protected there on the backs of the females where they sleep; and a lone Grey Heron waits, slow motion steps and craning of the neck, to see beyond the pale surface of water to its prey beneath, statuesque.
Back in town, the Bank Holiday begun, I realise how quiet things had been out there on the marsh, how low-level and gratifying what noise there was had been, for here on the streets sound is an immediate assault - the pubs are filling with the weekenders, the tourists from London have come to briefly re-possess their holiday homes; a disco in a tent, party lights spinning back and forth across the white material, pretty in its own way, is just getting going to Madonna.
Aldeburgh Marshes
Out where no-one goes, even though there is a footpath, along the overgrown estuary bank, where the great sluice gate with its large metal operating wheel is pitched between rampant gorse and sea defences. Where Magpies roost princely at the head of low trees silhouetted against the fading daylight; where lone Redshank cruise in and dab in the shallows; and where Starlings charge themselves up on telegraph poles ready for their sundown flocking.
But before that, a male Marsh Harrier glides close overhead, his great grey wings and tail exposed toward me. Each time I see one it is as if it suddenly appears out of nowhere or else had been there all the time and I simply had not noticed. That low, V-shaped flight with the wings pulled up to glide before a few beats to maintain altitude, then gliding again head pushed forward and down, scanning the earth. He drops just out of sight, beyond a dense line of gorse into a small, secluded reed bed and there is a rising cacophony of thin calls. Probably the female with a brood. Marsh Harriers rear 3 - 5 young, with eggs laid April to May and hatched over a 30 - 38 day period, so presumably the first born is now being reared over there or soon will be.
Then the male is up again and ranging westward, inland. Behind him the sun makes one last glory of colour across the flat; shards of red and orange range upward like a giant inferno, a cumulus cloud the only endeavour to break the pattern tipped in yellow and blue-black shadow come close to paradise.
As if I wasn't spoilt enough, as I look, the Starlings rise as one and begin their airborne dusk dance. A hundred or more birds become one ethereal body, moving with the ease and grace of water over rock. They twist and turn together, a bulbous cloud of black wings and bodies; at times they appear to wink out of existence as they turn dramatically in unison only to re-appear a split second later, back on this plane. It is never failing in its magic, and the sheer joy and ebullience of it is inevitably tear-jerking. Then, suddenly, they stop and plummet back to roost as if some calculation has ended and they have done what they must.
In the old drainage dykes and pools nearby Mute Swans churn the close muddy bottom with their large webbed feet for cygnets to feed before resting up for the night, protected there on the backs of the females where they sleep; and a lone Grey Heron waits, slow motion steps and craning of the neck, to see beyond the pale surface of water to its prey beneath, statuesque.
Back in town, the Bank Holiday begun, I realise how quiet things had been out there on the marsh, how low-level and gratifying what noise there was had been, for here on the streets sound is an immediate assault - the pubs are filling with the weekenders, the tourists from London have come to briefly re-possess their holiday homes; a disco in a tent, party lights spinning back and forth across the white material, pretty in its own way, is just getting going to Madonna.
Aldeburgh Marshes
27/5/06
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