Liturgy of the familiar
I had the good fortune to have most of a weekend free and to myself. I toyed with the idea of live music, real ale, or a long jaunt south to try for the beautiful Marsh Sandpiper, but exhaustion from work caught up with me. This meant that instead of heavy metal tinnitus and a hangover, or admiring the elegance of a southern wader, 6am on Saturday found me up on the moors, hoping for Cuckoo (but with no real expectation - I almost always hear my first in the first week of May) and Tree Pipit. I found neither, but in the cold of early morning I decided I would check the four compass points of my 10km circle and walk in my own company. I have become, in my middle age, something of a loner. Not that I dislike people, I have written before about friendship framing the experience of birding as a microcosm of life, and the company of others is always a balm that makes Churchill’s black dog walk some distance behind me - but that I find that I like time to reflect on th...