Calendar turn

Today marks the end of meteorological summer, with August handing over the baton to September. Some may claim that we are now entering into proper autumn, although the birder in me still thinks that the early returning non-breeding waders of late May and early June are the first signs of that. However you think (or don't think) of August 31st, to me it has always been one tinged with melancholy, and for not sad reasons, just wistful ones.

In my early birding days, August was always holiday time. No school (or art college) to attend meant that the summer was mine. July would be spent at Beddington SF (with the odd journey further afield) but once August came along my plans would be elevated and what I considered proper field trips organised. 1975 found me on a train to Perthshire for my fist 'foreign' trip (well it felt like one to me!). You can read a bit more about that here. The hot summer of 1976 saw the last two weeks of August spent blissfully in Suffolk. Again, if you wish, you can see more details here. As for 1977, 78 and 79, you would have found me spending the eighth month of the year on the shingle of Dungeness. Very different from Perthshire and Suffolk. I have written up these visits as well, found by going to the top of this page and accessing 'Of My Time' via the 'ND&B Publications' tab. What all of these trips/holidays have in common is that they were undertaken by a young fertile mind that was learning just not about birds, but also life. It also helped that each and every one of these carefree Augusts were full of birds. Birds that are largely missing now.

As August ran itself down there were subtle changes in what we were seeing and feeling. Chiffchaffs started to outnumber Willow Warblers. Blackcaps did the same with Whitethroats. Meadow Pipits took over from Tree Pipits and Yellow Wagtails. The mornings became decidedly chillier. And for me, September meant the spectre of education rearing its ugly head. I didn't want to swap my binoculars for the classroom. So as we turn over the page on the calendar to welcome in the new month, as much as September promises different things, and, it must be said, its own excitement, I will be mourning the loss of August. Its warmth. Its birds. But above all, its memories.

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