A new day, a new year, and my traditional early start. Contrary to a rather gloomy weather forecast, it dawns clear, bright and cold, so I head down to the coast with a frisson of anticipation for what is to come. On 1 January, every bird, whether common or rare, feels new – almost as if I am born again, appreciating them all for the very first time.
The robin and wren, singing away as if spring has already begun. A score of little egrets, streaming out of their holm oak roost like giant white handkerchiefs. Two hundred avocets, feeding at low tide, on the far side of the River Parrett. And a quintet of jack snipe – tiny, short-billed versions of their commoner relative – rising up from under my feet as I squish across the waterlogged marsh.
Best of all, a young peregrine, which having taken half-hearted aim at a redshank, circles around me in the morning sunshine, before flying away over the river, in search of easier prey.
I end my walk with 55 species – equalling last year’s record. But this is not about numbers, but the way in which the birds I’ve encountered in my corner of Somerset grace me with their sheer life-force on this, the opening day of the year.
