I was leaving it late, I knew it would be close. Even the
most experienced Hilbre veterans can get a “hurry up” from the tide. The final
few steps sloshed me on to my Inspiration Island through about 8 inches of the
briney, a little spike of adrenaline tightened my stomach as I looked back.
Water flowing from my shoes, I watched the last of the rocks between Hilbre and
Middle Eye become engulfed by the flooding tide. Made it. Just.
Shoes and socks set to dry I padded around the island
barefoot, like a castaway, feeling a just little foolish and more than a little
cold about the feet.
{A long, long time ago someone left a very long microphone
boom lying around on a project I was involved with. I offered to keep is safe
for them until they returned to collect it. They never did and it has been
gathering dust in a cupboard ever since. Stumbling across it a few days prior
to the trip to Hilbre I thought about how it could be put to use.}
On the island I screwed my compact camera to the boom and
extended it to its full length. I set the self-timer and held it out in front
of me. A few seconds later I examined the results of my improvised selfie
stick. Underwhelming. I’ve never been a fan of the selfie stick and even the
novelty of a massive one in a cool location wasn’t doing anything to dull my
scepticism. Far more interesting was turning the tables and photographing the
camera itself.
Over the freshly mown paddock hovered a Kestrel. Motionless
in the air, held stationary against the clear blue sky by the cool easterly
breeze. A breeze just strong enough to keep it aloft without need to flap its
wings. It looked like a sticker stuck there by a child in a nature scrapbook
sky. Time frozen.
A small flotilla of Brent Geese swam gently down the Hilbre
Swash, an adult leading the way followed by two juveniles, then another two
adults, a juvenile and so on and so on until I had counted thirty six grown-ups
and eleven youngsters. They paddled along the channel until they met a current coming
in with the tide. It hinders their progress momentarily, stopping them, like
you’ve hit the pause button on a film. Time halted.
Looking at those long distance tundra dwelling migrants and
examining the plumages of adult and juvenile thoughts turned towards the
arctic. The vastness of the tundra, its treeless wonder. Space. Quiet.
I sat on some rocks and looked out to sea.
Coffee from the flask warmed my throat and guts but failed
to spread its heat to my naked toes. A sandwich filled my grumbling belly.
After a while just sitting and staring everything seemed to shudder to a stop.
The sandwich sat like a pebble in my stomach, I was rooted to the spot.
An Oystercatcher flew past; it seemed to do this in slow
motion, like it was flying through syrup.
A Dunlin flew in and alighted daintily on the rocks away to
my left. It looked once in my direction then turned its gaze to the sea and
stood motionless. The wind dropped and the sea went glassy calm. Stillness.
Time frozen.
I stared at that Dunlin for some time.
A movement caught my eye a few dozen metres off to the right.
A Ringed Plover jostled another for prime roosting position. With it on the
ledge were another two plovers and a further five Dunlin. I stared at them for
a while.
Thinking...
…do those birds come here each winter is it their first time
here what do they think of when waiting for the tide to drop the sandstone is a
slightly different colour on this corner of the island the plovers blend right
in is that one crouching down behind a ridge in the rock oh a seal, when it
bobs its head above the surface of the tranquil water does it notice the
ripples radiate away slowly will I ever see a bowhead whale how many dunlin
have stopped on hilbre I mean ever since dunlins became dunlins the sandstone
is in layers how many layers is a layer put down in a year or a longer period
or shorter it must be laid erratically after floods or other events how many generations of ringed
plovers have used hilbre as a stopover where will they go from here where
exactly in western africa six ospreys on a tree in the mangroves of the river
gambia why do the plovers squabble for space when there is so much on the rocks
like people I suppose they like fighting why do they have orange legs and
dunlins have black legs are my socks dry yet dunlins must have been sat on
hilbre when henry VIII was on the throne are any descendants of those dunlin
here on the island today that turnstone still has a little summer plumage I
remember seeing a barwit in near full summer plumage at hoylake last winter the
bumpy road to borselv had breeding barwits and that common crane in the pool by
the road chris said you could see the cranes working on the new stand at
anfield from the lookout my feet are freezing 1250th second at f8 slightly
underexposed nudge ISO 640 maybe yes that’ll do so many miles travelled by
these birds how many individually and collectively all this goes on while
people go about their lives unseen birds traumas and triumphs how many
wingbeats to greenland will I ever see a Bowhead Whale will I ever get to greenland
knot and sanderling on nests a wide angle lens with the tundra as part of the
picture when will the first purple sandpipers arrive on hilbre for the winter
tide definitely dropping wind slightly shifting west so many journeys routes
like spaghetti dropped on a map criss crossing lines obliterating the details
how much does a dunlin weigh ringed plover weigh oycs alarm peregrine hunt no
red waterproof bastard there go the dunlin and ringos no one dunnie has stayed…
The Oystercatchers on Middle Eye were sparked into noisy
flight as a person walked towards their roost, flushing almost everything on both
islands. The tide had dropped enough for people to walk over to Hilbre and I
was no longer alone.
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