Marshland

Lapwing overhead

The first thing that struck me today, as I stepped out onto the marsh was the susurration of the reeds, of the slight breeze rousing each winter-brown blade into a collective, soft hiss; a sound heard, not through its loudness, but by the way it fills the spaces among and around any other noises within its vicinity. There are few sounds of nature more calming. Then from sound to sight and it is the ranks of plumed heads that come to the fore, each leaning in unison, themselves stirring gently in the breeze, each one luminous, back-lit by the crisp morning sun.

The marsh is alive with birds, heard and seen. I am scolded, as I pass, by the rasping tones of a water rail, that master-skulker among the stems, so much more often heard than seen. This one was close enough for me to hear the rustle of reeds as it slipped into thicker concealment, but still it eluded my eye. Not long after a Cetti’s warbler splutters into it’s loud, stuttering song. This is another elusive bird that may taunt a hopefully onlooker from deep within the cover. Today though, I am treated to an open view. While the songster sings, another, perhaps a would be mate, perches high up atop a reed, almost like a large wren, with chestnut brown plumage and tail cocked. As soft ‘pinking’ call betrays the presence of another denizen of the reeds that can so often frustrate. There are bearded tit somewhere, clambering among the stems, stripping the feathered heads of their seeds. But once again, today I am lucky, as I later find a pair content to be feeding in the open.

A Bearded Tit (aka Bearded Reedling) feeding on reed seeds.

The birds out on the open water are decidedly easier to see. With the sun at my back the gathered gulls gleam, the greens and. browns and shelduck and shoveler stand out in perfect contrast to the white that separates them; the wheeling lapwing flicker sharply black to white, white to black against the near-cloudless blue. Even the subtleties of the scalloped greys and eye-stripes of a pair of spotted redshank probing avidly in the shallows is pick out with clarity – rare birds in the winter, scarce at the best of times.

It is an almost dreamy scene, of the wonders of wetland wildlife, experienced in bold relief and enjoyed in solitude. And where did I find this? Some lonely corner of the Norfolk Broads? Perhaps some watery expanse in the Cambridgeshire Fens? Neither. Distracted momentarily from the wild riches at hand, the rumble of traffic reminds me where I am. This is the RSPB’s Vange Marsh nature reserve, beside the busy A13 as it passes a sprawling South Essex townscape on its way to London thirty odd miles to the west. Wild places are wonderful wherever we find them.