As summer fades into autumn the harbour begins to feel like a departure lounge. Migration is in full swing, with birds flying in to wait for a window in the weather before they risk crossing the Channel.
Whinchats flit from fencepost to fencepost along the footpath, wheatears perch on the rocks by the sea wall, and blackcaps and common whitethroats skulk in the bramble scrub. Swallows congregate on the wires and house martins skim over the fields hawking for insects, while swifts soar high above them, dark specks against the cumulonimbus clouds.
Just as paparazzi stalk airport terminals in search of a passing VIP, I’m also on the lookout for a star traveller. Ospreys regularly stop off here during their migration, with some individuals hanging around for a week or more. For a bird that subsists on an almost exclusively pescatarian diet, the harbour’s fish-rich waters provide a welcome place to rest and refuel before continuing on the 3,000-mile journey south to the wintering grounds in west Africa.
I notice a large bird soaring and circling above the islands. At first glance I pass off the flash of white breast feathers and arched wings with drooping primary feathers as just another gull, but as it flies closer I see a distinctive dark mask of Zorro-style eye band and chocolate brown upper plumage. Hovering kestrel-like, the osprey’s bright yellow eyes scan beneath the rippling waves. Suddenly it plunge-dives, wings swept back, legs outstretched.
There is a splash as the raptor hits the water, half submerging. For a moment it struggles to break from the surface. With two powerful strokes of its wings it shakes the water from its oily feathers and emerges from an explosion of rainbow droplets, a writhing flounder locked in its talons.
Deftly manipulating its prey to align it head-first to maintain an aerodynamic profile, the osprey flaps across the water with steady wingbeats. Alighting on a channel marker it holds down the slippery flatfish with its Velcro-like foot pads and toes, twisting and tearing off bite-sized strips of pearly white flesh with its hooked black beak.
The Birds of North Wales, this year’s memorial lecture in honour of the late Country Diary writer William Condry (thecondrylecture.co.uk), by Jonathan Elphick, is at Tabernacle/MoMA, Machynlleth, 1 October, 7pm for 7.30; £5 including refreshments (no need to book)
