The song, emerging from low in the dense vegetation, sounded like a cross between a bush cricket and a sewing machine. Some might find it monotonous, but for me, it was strangely compelling. Now, all we had to do was find the bird itself.
Binoculars were scanned. Telescopes pointed. Cameras powered up. Then, an excited shout: the river warbler was back in view.
My dog-eared book on the status of Britain’s birds, from the early 1970s, includes just one record of river warbler, from Fair Isle in 1961. Since then, fewer than 50 have reached the UK. So, not surprisingly, this bird attracted crowds of twitchers, some of whom had travelled long distances to see it.
Like other members of its family, the river warbler was apparently named by someone desperately searching for wetland-related adjectives: “We’ve already had reed, sedge, marsh, aquatic and paddyfield – what’s left?”
More at home in marshes than rivers, this skulking little bird breeds from eastern Europe to western Asia, and winters in east Africa. This individual, which turned up in early June, had diverted westwards on his return journey north, arriving here on the Somerset Levels.
For the next fortnight, he sang persistently, hoping – though sadly in vain – that a passing female would respond. Then he headed off who knows where, leaving the faint hope that he will return next year, to delight us all once again.
