It’s ages since I’ve seen little terns and I miss their creaking
cries so I head for Gronant Dunes to see what’s happening.
I’m welcomed by a chorus of skylarks as I pass ponds that
shelter natter jack toads and newts, swallows dart and swoop over rippling
grasses and I feel like Dorothy on the Yellow Brick Road as I follow the
boardwalk towards the sea. Pyramidal
orchids glow either side of the boardwalk like the solar lights along my garden
path and blue-grey sea holly is about to burst open, providing a sweet feast
for red and black burnet moths. Then I
hear the familiar high pitched chatter and I look up to see a little tern
flapping jerkily above me, luminous and glowing in the strong sunshine. I love these little birds, they’re feisty for
their size and with black Zorro masks they seem to slice up the sky. And they need to be feisty, during their
short breeding season, they have to contend with crows, gulls, foxes and high
tides. The warden is out doing nest
counts, he says they’re doing OK but there’s a kestrel around causing problems.
Today the tide is far out and the birds have a long way to
go to find food. I watch one fly back
from the foaming sea with a tiny silver fish in its beak. But distance is no problem for little terns;
they fly 4000 miles from the West Coast of Africa to nest here every year. And
when the newly fledged young are only a few weeks old, they’ll be making the
epic journey back again.
I make an epic journey of my own, all the way down to the
sea to paddle, escorted by little terns creaking and chattering. The sun is
strong but the breeze is cooling and I eventually arrive at the water’s edge. I can’t imagine having to continue all the way
to Africa .
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