I have a complex relationship with winter. Those cold, dark afternoons are an anvil weighing on my spirit and bones. But then, there are those dusks that feel like a gift. They compel me from the house and out. Out, into pale skies with streaky peachy hew, or towards those buttery light skies that shine from behind layers of silvery clouds, like the paint behind old wallpaper clumsily stripped. Winter dusk: it is my magic hour.
It is my time to be with the birds. As winter comes, my need for them shifts, becomes deeper. During the summer months, thick foliage and blousy flowers seduce my heart and obscure the birds from my eyes. This is how it is with that woodpecker, who drills away on the trunk of the Robinia outside my flat. I observe him with my ears; but my eyes are distracted by the joyous luminescence of limey leaves he hides behind.
So in winter, amid my seasonal stupor, it is time for me to embrace the freedom of looking. And a mid-afternoon walk to the lake near my house, naked of vegetation and surrounded by skeletons of bare trees, is my winter ritual. This lake is where the birds are, and where the light – reflecting off the water’s surface – lingers longest.
I get pleasure seeing the movement of all of my avian neighbours: the heron that glides low across the water’s equator, its broad wings beating slow and deep; the balletic looping of swans as they swim and drift; that family of moorhens, with their excitable bobbing heads. Webbed feet and wading beaks compel sleepy water into ripples, waves, crests and troughs. It is motion when all else appears still.
Twilight, I have learned, will reveal the most unexpected wonders, layers to my world that are inconspicuous on a blazing day, when the sun bleaches out all nuance. I am ashamed to admit that I once considered the mallard to be an unremarkable bird. But watching some ducks bustle near the water’s edge last week, I noticed something new. I saw a few straggling rays of a weakening sun playing with the water’s surface, and desperate to revel in these moments before dark, I followed the light as it fell across a mallard’s head. It illuminated the dark green feathers as emerald, purple and black. Birders wait for hours for a glimpse of a kingfisher, to be uplifted by a bolt of azure blue across the river. But observing the secret colours of this duck, I felt just as lucky and for way less patience.
One of the hardest aspects of winter for me, is that we are all more solitary. I turn in, friends turn in. Especially post-Christmas, when cash is running low and everyone is attempting to cling to the wagon. The birds, by contrast, are communing. They are together; moving down river in tribes, heading with purpose over fields and rooftops.
That moment of surge is energising. Mud may suck my feet down into the Earth, but the sight of geese rising as one arrests me. Even just a few; I like seeing them move from what looks like a disorganised, honking gaggle on the lake into a graceful line in the sky. Long necks outstretched, wings synchronised, they are somehow agreeing on some destination beyond the gloaming. It is no starling murmuration, but standing there, in my park in the city, I am captivated by this forward motion of a few creatures moving their mere 5kg bodies against the mighty, bitter cold darkness.
Best bird spots by you – West Midlands
Barn owls are nocturnal creatures, but a shortage of food during the cold months means these birds hunt during daylight hours; and dusk can be the best time to see them. They fly for a few miles in search of their prey – mice, birds, fish, and roam the Staffordshire & Worcestershire Canal, near Wilden. You will only spot these silent fliers by looking. Barns owls have heart-shaped, rather than round faces; plumage is orange-black and brown on top, white-brown below. This area is also habitat for lesser spotted woodpecker, reed bunting and skylark.
The rich diversity of birdlife in the area is in full display at the Wilden Marsh & Meadows SSSI, where you can observe myriad bird species among the wetland and woods in the floodplain of the River Stour. Find redshank probing the mud with orange beaks, lesser redpolls dangling from twigs in tiny trees and yellow-green siskin.
Mark Regan, Flickr and Jonathan Woodward