The dying of the year

By the time that the calendar creeps towards mid-November, there is a part of me that accepts that the year is on the way out. Even though there are still at least six weeks to go until that becomes a reality, something buried deep within me has always felt that way. From a schoolboy kicking through deep drifts of leaves to an adult scanning the skies for some late migrant thrush action, mid-November says decay, whispers 'end', suggests a last act before it creeps off 'stage right'. As morose and macabre as that sounds, these feelings are not those of death but more like a readying for a coming birth - that of a new year and a not-to-distant spring  - the pagan in me is alive and kicking!

I've spent a lot of time skywatching from Epsom Downs over the past few weeks. And Colley Hill. And Box Hill. Even the back garden has had a look-in (although has not lived up to its previous successes). It has all been a little bit... meh (as the kids say). Apart from a couple of mornings of Woodpigeon moment - 5,410 on November 5th and 10,375 on November 6th - it has been disappointing, with very few thrushes and finches, usually the staple diet of October and early November skywatch mornings. We do have to say something about 'Woodpigeon movement' here: it is highly likely that these birds are not migrants but merely birds moving from overnight roosts to feeding grounds. This is a topic that that get birders having heated discussions as to the true reason for the pigeons being on the move, with camps being set up on the 'migrant' side of the argument against those opposing them on the 'feeding' side. For what it's worth, I'm a 'feeder'. Whatever the true reason for them being up there in the sky, en masse, it is a true spectacle, with some flocks attaining four-figure counts. It says something about the effect that such sights can have that even after 50+ years of birding I will make sure that I am standing on a still dark Epsom Downs, setting up the scope on the tripod, in excited readiness for the pigeon spectacular. It is just a shame that, sometimes, they will decide not to show, even if the weather conditions seem perfect for them to do so.

Yesterday found me in a bemused state of happy melancholia, sitting at the top of a slope looking down upon the western most valleys that scour Headley Heath. The leaves and vegetation were taking their last exhalations, dropping and mulching on top of the wet ground. A stillness wreathed the air, little stirred and a pale sunlight tried its hardest to paint life onto the brown and russet panorama. There were birds - at least eight Hawfinches sat up at the top of a leafless tree close to High Ashurst. A flock of 100 Linnets and 60 Redpolls took turns in flying between the high ground either side of the valley. Chaffinches were a constant above me, just small flocks, up high and giving themselves away with distant calls (as did a couple of Bramblings). It was all so restful. I sat and contemplated. I looked with an unhurried eye. I sank in my seat, felt the leaves around me, smelt the rot - but a fragrant rot - and started to ready myself for the dying of the year.