Bog Myrtle & Peat

Curlews come again in August, and for six heavy nights there were lapwings on the léana. I mark this kind of movement every year, feeling in these cooler mornings a hardening change. Beneath the birds, there’s gossamer in my snares, and flowers like scabious and grass of parnassus shine in the weather-beaten grass. Just as the waders came in the widening year, they come again for its tapering.

A friend of mine sat for three hours in the fields below the house and counted the birds with a telescope. He told me that he saw forty three curlews in that time, with always some coming or going. And with his high magnification, he saw close enough to know that there were only three youngsters in all that number. I don’t know what this means, but I’m inclined to match it with what I know of breeding failure. There aren’t enough curlews born every year, so it’s tempting to say that that’s what he saw. 

But everything is jumbled on this autumn passage and it would be dangerous to use a single afternoon’s observation to declare another failed year. Perhaps these birds attempted to breed in Shetland or Argyll, or maybe they’re too young to have tried. There’s a chance that the chicks went first and all we’re seeing now is the ancient dregs. With all the potential narratives buzzing in my head, it’s likely that I know too much nowadays, and I’ve become too keen to read patterns of good or bad.

It’s ironic that while these birds have been called “familiar” for centuries, we’ve only started to learn about them as they go. Now I realise that I don’t want all this knowledge I’ve gathered about migrations and breeding behaviour. I can’t see any bird without second-guessing some deeper ecological meaning, and I preferred it when the sun shone with equal emphasis upon hawsprays, thistleheads and lichen. This endless state of heightened awareness has become work I’d gladly go without.