Lapwing, Vanellus vanellus Weird weather. The hottest Easter on record, the coldest May Bank holiday. A chill wind and poor light with skylark singing in display flight. A day in the vicinity of Plover Hill and Pen Y Ghent. In this moorland solitude aerial display is enchanting. A curlew sings and displays above us as we shelter beside a wall overlooking Wind Tunnel Cave where water trickles from beneath limestone at Cosh Head Beck. Perhaps in wild weather the wind sounds through the tunnel.
Our return route skirts Plover Hill and Pen Y Ghent, a lonely road above Pen Y Ghent Beck. Glimpsing lapwing, we stop to watch half a dozen birds displaying. The imperative of the breeding season: claim territory and defend it, win a mate- or two perhaps. Resplendent in spring, lapwing rise with high-pitched calls, tumbling and twisting against the clouds. Silent now, but for the slow beating of rounded wings. A clamorous beating of wings in descent. Lapwing, like a lapping of waves breaking on the shore. Over and over the plover ascends in song, black and white in twisting and tumbling flight, then he stops singing and beats his wings slowly and audibly before he alights in the grass. This rite of spring is new to us so we are attentive each time we hear him beating his wings.
Lap wing, a bird I’ve known from childhood. The name so familiar I had not thought what the lap of lapwing might signify. Lap, a fold of cloth. To lap, like a wave. I remember flocks of lapwing from childhood. No need to seek for them, they were large flocks to be found in wet pastures and on farmland. About ten years ago, in Upper Teesdale, we tiptoed through a marshy pasture taking care not to tread on lapwings' eggs.
Lap wing, a bird I’ve known from childhood. The name so familiar I had not thought what the lap of lapwing might signify. Lap, a fold of cloth. To lap, like a wave. I remember flocks of lapwing from childhood. No need to seek for them, they were large flocks to be found in wet pastures and on farmland. About ten years ago, in Upper Teesdale, we tiptoed through a marshy pasture taking care not to tread on lapwings' eggs.
Our cottage beside the River Ribble lies between a mill race and the river. A tranquil spot to lie listening to the dawn chorus, an ecstasy of song whose dream-like quality becomes diurnal as the day breaks and concludes with the quacking of mallard who guard their ducklings from the heron watching from the river bank.
In our time, in May 2019, there is a report from the Committee on Climate Change. Reports on loss of species, of habitat, of biodiversity. An awareness that makes our time about Plover Hill and Pen Y Ghent all the more special. Listen to lapwing while you may.
Redstart high in the canopy. I tune to the rhythm of his calling. And his display flights, when he appears to quit his bare twig, but returns to it moments later. Now he calls from another high larch and suddenly there's an exquisite song and a flurry of movement in the foliage. He has a mate. I do not see her but sense her presence and their mating from the soft and lyrical moment of song. I love trying to fathom what I witness. Is he aware of the female's presence when he begins to display? Listening to his courtship repertoire, I hear its subtlety.
In our time, in May 2019, there is a report from the Committee on Climate Change. Reports on loss of species, of habitat, of biodiversity. An awareness that makes our time about Plover Hill and Pen Y Ghent all the more special. Listen to lapwing while you may.
Redstart high in the canopy. I tune to the rhythm of his calling. And his display flights, when he appears to quit his bare twig, but returns to it moments later. Now he calls from another high larch and suddenly there's an exquisite song and a flurry of movement in the foliage. He has a mate. I do not see her but sense her presence and their mating from the soft and lyrical moment of song. I love trying to fathom what I witness. Is he aware of the female's presence when he begins to display? Listening to his courtship repertoire, I hear its subtlety.
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