Looking back it was the archetypal Buckenham  December day. Hippo, the Guide and Frank crossed the rail, and headed down toward the banks of  the Yare.

Right from the start they implicitly all understood that  the day would amount to nothing more than a reductive attrition process, by which they would predictably be ground into submission by the elements, and receive nothing in return for their efforts other than the unalloyed joy of turning the heater onto ‘full’ as  they retreated home in the car ...........defeated again.
The process constituted only three (of a possible five or six) parts on this ‘moderate’ of  Buckenham days.
That low winter sun searing blindingly into their eyes.
The bitter heading wind pummelling their bodies,
and of course the inevitable freezing cold.

 If truth be told there didn’t seem to be much about initially, but the dogged sun & streaming eyes didn’t encourage wildlife spotting.

Getting near the scrape over to the right, tripods were extended & scopes set up. There were even worries that the might of the wind would force them over (as happened to Hippo’s insufferably expensive instrument that time on the shingle at Cley, all those years ago). Really there was no point looking through the scopes at all, what with the wind induced vibrations and cold & tear filled eyes. Never the less perseverance prevailed.

 Around the margins of the water hundreds of birds toughed it out against the wind.  No going home for hot mugs of tea & a roaring up of the stove for these poor little creatures. It really was frightening to think of the precarious existence of the wildlife out there in winter on the mud. There was a lesson in their perseverance somewhere, which with luck would never require a complete understanding by our three friends with their snug warm happy  lives and plentiful food.

With a bit of dogged persistence a few species were identified, there was, unusually, a flock of over one hundred Golden Plover standing together across the back of the scrape, and everywhere large number of  Wigeon and Teal as expected. Eighteenth century dandy Lapwings also stood in reasonable numbers, aloof from the crowd and each other. At one point a flock of Greylags honked their way low overhead, precursor to other small groups alighting, but concentration had waned, so with a little respite in the lee of the river bank they ventured further. Nice pair of Stonechats available for inspection in the reed &  close Chettis calls diverted attention from the cold. Once at the mill they stamped around the place where the old hide used to be, sporadically bemoaning it’s loss. Finally trudging down to the gate to set up & scan across towards Hassingham.  The guide eventually pointed out a Marsh Harrier way over the back, but apart from a number of Shellduck and a distant Chinese water deer, nothing else of note was identified & eventually they plodded away. The elements having won the day.

 Even for Hippo & Frank the dinner was large; the Guide more modestly ate half their portion. Warmth and replete with food, an all too familiar comfortable lathery set in and it was long past three when they arrived at Stubb for the ‘the bitter end’.

Again cold but sheltered this time,  in the fading light they mounted the bank & set up.
All records were broken that day as Marsh Harriers came in to roost, with Frank counting fourteen in one scope view, way off to the east. Hippo managed a Ring tail Hen & the day was finally crowned when two flocks of Cranes drifted in & merged in the near darkness to make a flock of twenty eight. Add the other three just landed to the North making a total of thirty one. Thirty four the best Marsh Harrier count.

 Our three companions positively strolled back, happy in the darkness, the full moon rising, and the starts of Auriga, Perseus and Cassiopea twinkling in the turbulent atmosphere above.

See you next time.

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