The morning air is moist and utterly still. Above the flood bank, dappled grey cirrocumulus parts to a clear blue. Birds sound from every side: the cuckoo’s insistent call over a chorus of warblers – the sedge warbler’s machine-gun rattle, the willow warbler’s falling cadence, and, piercing them all, the explosive eruptions of a Cetti’s warbler buried deep in cover.
But it is the turtle dove that I have come to hear: that low, tender purring, almost lost in the greater chorus. When it comes, my heart lifts. I find a lone bird on a telegraph wire, one of its favoured perches. Through the binoculars, I make out a pink-grey breast, a neat black-and-white collar, and rust‑red feathers on the back, each one finely marked with black.
