It’s weather you’d emigrate to avoid. Gloomy and cold – Tupperware sky and drizzle in the air. But tranquil, at least. Small mercies. Walthamstow Wetlands – a 211-hectare nature reserve centred on 10 reservoirs in north-east London. Jewel in the Lee Valley’s crown, and as good a place for waterbirds as any in the capital.
Six tufted ducks drift across – a posse of monochrome floaters on a mission to nowhere. A little grebe – floating powder puff – does its trademark jump-and-dive, surfacing 30 seconds later, 25 yards to the left of where I expected. Extreme peace descends on me. Birdfulness, the best way to be.
Chack! What the … Chack-a-dack! An eruption of sound. Abrupt, violent, startling. Chack-a-dack-adackadockadiggadoggadack!
Despite the volume, it’s a welcome sound. A singing Cetti’s warbler giving forth from deep in the reeds. I scan them, without expectation. Hearing a Cetti’s is commonplace – their far-carrying voice and fondness for shouting see to that – but seeing one is different gravy. Loud and elusive, that’s what the field guides say. If skulking is called for, you can rely on a Cetti’s warbler.
They barely existed in Britain in my childhood, with just a handful of sightings. But since the first breeding record in 1972 they’ve made inroads. Nowadays, if I visit a watery reserve and don’t hear one, I write a strongly worded letter of complaint to the relevant authorities.
The song strikes up again. Strident, insistent, but this time behind me, nowhere near where I’m looking. Crafty devil. It does this. Sing loudly to attract attention, fall silent, move, sing loudly again. The Beau Geste hypothesis – giving the impression that there’s more than one bird, a strategy to deter competitors and confuse hapless birders.
I turn, as stealthily as possible, start the scanning afresh. But stealth, for once, isn’t required. Perhaps it’s curious, perhaps it’s bold, perhaps it just wants a bit of company. Whatever. For a few seconds it forgets its reputation as a skulker. A rustle in the scrub turns into a brown flash turns into a vibrant chestnut bundle, fanned tail quivering with energy. It quickly tires of my company and dashes back under cover, but it stays with me, a sighting to dispel the gloom and imprint on the memory.
• Under the Changing Skies: The Best of the Guardian’s Country Diary, 2018-2024, is available now at guardianbookshop.com
