Winter tones

Spanish Sparrows (Martin Kelsey)

Colours this back-end of winter are broad-brush. This is a legacy of a long drought with frosty mornings which have stifled the arrival of the early narcissus or sand-crocuses. Only in the last week have the Atlantic-grey clouds rolled in, soaking the ground. I can sense that colour is just around the corner, poised in greeting. But in the meantime though, I can step back and absorb colour as a wash, a fusion of hues.  I stop and take in the soft, gentle beige of the dry long straps of Typha leaves, each one curiously buckled at a similar point on its length, so that their tapering tips sweep downward. Perched on these folds are Spanish Sparrows. Others are lined-up on the rod-like stems that once bore the "bulrush" spike. Most are females, sitting hunched against a fierce wind which forces many to close their eyes. Their feathers are puffed, exaggerating their thickset demeanour. Their plumage matches that of their perches, an unexceptional beige, stroked on the flanks by whispers of grey and on their mantles with dark-centred, pale edged flanges.

The males strike a different pose.  They seem edgy and alert, sleeker and vigilant. Their plumage shows the miracle of wear and tear. They had moulted after breeding last year and every new body or contour feather had a fringe of soft, gossamer-like trim. Thus, at the start of autumn, they carried a dowdy look, hoary and unremarkable, unshaven. Subjected to winter elements and brushing against rough stalks as they plunged to feed in the stubble fields, each feather was coarsely abraded. Cinderella-like, the sparrows had undergone a transformation and they stood today proud. Emerging now, as these feathers wear, is a brashness of spring, the uniform of competitive struggle. Under the layers, slowly revealed, is a deep chocolate hood, a neat black eye-line and bib, set against a shock of white on the cheeks and above the eye. The abrasion still has a few more weeks to complete its work, but already I can see the rumours of dark stripes on the underparts which will strengthen and blacken.

Their patience with my presence had also become worn and with a swirl the flock siphons off, twisting in a minature murmuration to adorn another Typha clump further away, beige again on beige.

Nearby is a winter gathering site of Stone Curlew and I go to check the birds there. Partly submerged by swathes of dry grey stems, they stand motionless. They have a forlorn resigned look, inactive, statuesque. A Marsh Harrier wavers over them unannounced and this triggers an instinctive flight-response. A surge of adrenalin sets them on a short run and then they take off, a flock of surprisingly long-winged, long-necked birds, 35 of them in all.  They do not gain much height before sweeping round in a glide and bouncing down to land again, with a few quick steps to slow their momentum. They freeze, the whole group facing the same way, each one a profile, but collectively sending out a sense of determination. Then in a wonderfully choreographed moment, they simultaneously, as one, crouch, to become fixed in a half-standing, half-sitting pose. It was as if they had all been wired together.