One day when when I was fourteen I was walking by the River Arun in Sussex. I stopped at a wooden bridge where a small stream joined the river. A dazzling blue shape, glowing like it was lit from inside, whizzed under the bridge and away upstream. The sheer surprise of it left me dumbstruck. For a moment I could barely breathe or think – then a single word flashed across my mind: “Kingfisher!”

I still feel that sense of surprise, though I’ve seen a lot of kingfishers since. On a hot summer’s day in my thirties I was leaning on the parapet of an old stone bridge in the Northamptonshire town of Oundle. I watched young fish gently swimming near the river’s surface. Then the clear face of the water shattered as a kingfisher shot under the bridge and took a fish right below me. It settled on a branch opposite, holding it in its beak. I thought how bright its orange breast  looked against the blue and tourquoise of its other feathers. Then it was gone.

The only time I didn’t feel astonishment is when I was sitting comfortably on a warm day looking across the river. I stared at the trees on the far bank in an unfocussed way. A kingfisher flashed from left to right across the whole of my gaze. I didn’t jump or startle, just took it in as it happened. That was memorable in itself.

In this diary I’ll gather together images and thoughts about kingfishers from my daily walks along the River Nene between Oundle and Cotterstock. If you know a lot about kingfishers, or have at least seen one, I hope it chimes with your own experiences of this uniquely exciting and colourful bird. If you have never seen one then I hope you enjoy it anyway.  And who knows, by giving hints about how and where to look – and listen – it may just help you experience one for yourself.

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The old year ended with heavy rain and floods, and it’s still not possible to walk to Cotterstock along the river. The town bridge is busy with sightseers looking out across the flooded meadows. People excitedly tell me they’ve spotted a kingfisher along the cut by the bridge – a lovely antidote to lockdown.

You are likely to see a kingfisher from the bridge at any time. But when the main river is in flood they may be attracted to the stiller water in the cut, as it’s less murky, making it easier to spot fish. The exception is when it freezes over. Luckily, it’s not cold enough for that yet.

There’s a favourite perch in a small tree just past the town boathouse. It’s the first place I look when I set out for a walk. There was a kingfisher there today, a female. You can’t tell the difference between the sexes with the naked eye as both are brilliantly coloured. But with binoculars or a zoom lens you can see that the female has pink running along the bottom of her beak. She was very still and stayed there for several minutes while people walked to and fro behind me.

Often when I’m walking by the river my eye is fooled into thinking I’m seeing a kingfisher when it’s actually a blue or red fishing lure or scrap of plastic bag hanging in a tree. The exact opposite happened today. I saw the shiny blue back feathers first out of the corner of my eye and just kept on walking….then it moved!

Kingfishers can also look so impossibly tiny, rounded and colourful that they resemble a child’s fluffy toy. I was watching one near town the other day that was so still that for a moment or two I almost wondered if someone had wired a toy in place as a practical joke!

On a more serious note, today’s spot was a male, so I’ve seen both a male and female on the same stretch near Cotterstock lock in the last few days. That’s exciting.

After I’d posted pictures on Facebook a friend I’ve never met messaged to say he’d like to a kingfisher and where were the best places to look? The easiest thing was to invite him to join me on a walk.  Having said that, I warned that nothing in nature is guaranteed but at least if we saw nothing I could point out the best places to look on a future visit.

Kingfishers usually like to perch on a thin bare branch a few feet above the water where they have a good view of the fish. That will often be a dead branch in spring and summer, but in winter there are many more to choose from. If you haven’t seen a kingfisher actually landing after a flight then the trick is to slowly look along the trees or shrubs at the water’s edge. If you are lucky a tiny patch of shiny blue or the orange breast will jump out at you. You need patience and sharp eyes. Kingfishers also make a little whistling “pip” sound which can alert you if you know it well enough.

We got almost to the side weir without seeing one, but met other people who already had. Just then I heard that dog-whistle call and saw a  profile shoot by low to the water. A swift walk across the weir and there it was, perched against a patch of ivy on the far bank.

After seeing zoomed in images of kingfishers it would be natural to expect to see a largish bird in detail. But they are tiny, no bigger than a robin. The naked eye is only aware of small patches of colour that contrast with the background – the orange breast feathers and the blue of the rest of the bird, which in strong sunlight may be almost tourquoise (if the light is dim the colours may not show up at all). Luckily someone passed him a pair of binoculars while I was concentrating on getting pictures.

It was a wonderful being able to find one for him – a kingfisher shared is doubly enjoyable.

A compilation of video clips made by the river in 2020 with music I wrote specially for it.

A pair of kingfishers came whizzing towards me on the path between Oundle and Cotterstock this morning. One veered past to the left and the other – a female – turned tail at the last minute and flew to a perch about 50 feet away. Just time for one quick photo and she was gone again.

It was great to get a picture in last night’s snow and see two birds together. I remember reading that kingfishers pair up in late autumn and separate to different territories for the winter. Then they reunite in spring. But that’s not what I’ve noticed this winter. Several times I’ve seen them together or heard lots of calls from a single bird which often means that another is close by.

There’s been a bitter east wind  this week. The first part of the river walk is very exposed and chilly – even wearing two woolly hats and multiple scarves didn’t make much difference. One advantage is that the mud froze and made walking easier, and the river level went back to normal very quickly after a long period of flooding. Birds seem to conserve their energy in this weather and there is little song, though I did hear  a very fine early blackbird trilling away at dusk on a TV aerial in New Road.

Wind sounds were impressive though. The first willow past the boathouses always surprises me with the strength and full tone of the sound of wind in its branches. On the far side below Snipe Meadow the skeletal trees creaked and shuddered with each bone-chilling gust. Close to the bank the wavelets lapped against driftwood trapped by overhanging branches.

I watched a swan taking off into an oncoming wind, rising painfully slowly above the reeds before banking away downwind as soon as it could. There were a couple of flocks of lapwings, redwings, fieldfares and the usual groups of pied wagtails. There was a grey wagtail foraging in the frozen weir, disappearing among some large stones where icicles hung from thin branches. Two little egrets flew off lazily as I got near to the lock, and a male mandarin duck took off from the water near Snipe Meadow. Most years there is breeding pair on that stretch, though they were unlucky last year.

After seeing a kingfisher in the same tree for several days in a row there were a couple of days with no sightings. As the water gets less muddy there must be more places to fish, and the stream coming in from Glapthorn is very clear. I sat on a fallen tree trunk yesterday and saw one shoot by downwind and downstream. It happened again today and as it appeared to land a bit further down the bank I walked back to look for it. I had no luck and came back again to just in time to see a bird taking off from the very same tree trunk I’d been sitting on!

The wind has now veered round to the south and much warmer weather is forecast. There should much more birdsong, pairing and early nesting behaviour.

A sight to gladden the heart by Oundle’s north bridge this morning.

I was recording the sounds of birdsong by the river this morning and a woodpecker started tapping out gentle rhythmic patterns from a branch just overhead, like someone knocking a door. This isn’t the full drumming sound – though there was some of that from another woodpecker further off – but the slower, quieter probing they do to find grubs and insects. It’s not normally as tuneful and musical as this and usually sounds much quieter as it’s higher up the tree. There are some mallard duck skirmishes going on too. Put the sound up and have a listen!

A few years ago at around this time I watched two green woodpeckers doing a sort of dance on the riverbank. They flew up into a tree and started to do it again, and I was able to get a short video of them. It’s impossible to tell if they are a mating couple, but I doubt two males could get this close without pecking at each other!

I realised a long time ago that a hole appears around you as you walk in nature – if you stop and sit for twenty minutes and move nothing but your eyes it will fill in again and you’ll see and hear all sorts of things. I’d thought that was because birds and animals were naturally wary of a moving human and only gradually went back to what they were doing before. But I realised today that it’s me who changes too. If I sit still and observe for twenty minutes the breathing slows, the body disappears. Things come and go without undue physical or mental reactions. It’s a form of meditation that opens you out to the world.

There was a misty hush in the meadows near Cotterstock Lock this morning – I loved the gentle sound of the water flowing past this old pollarded willow. (make sure to turn the sound up)

In the woods by the river this morning I thought I could hear a distant stream tinkling. Strange, as there’s no stream on that stretch, and even in the wettest winter they don’t tinkle. Coming closer, it’s a big flock of fieldfares yakking away in the treetops. The resident tits were hopping from branch to branch, a chaffinch puffed out his pink chest, wrens rattled out their expletives and a woodpecker was taking out his fury on the nearest tree trunk. Then the flock took off, a dozen at a time, and gradually things got back to normal.

The light has been difficult for taking photos of distant small birds for a few days now, and although I see a kingfisher almost every day they’ve been whizzing by at high speed rather than perching.

It was a bit brighter this afternoon so I grabbed the camera and headed for the river. Glad I did, because there were a pair of kingfishers on the far bank by the weir. This one, the male, was soon joined by a female and they both set off in close formation along the cut which goes round the back of Cotterstock Lock.

There was lots of calling as they disappeared into the distance. Often there will be a single call every thirty yards or so in flight which stops when they land, so counting calls gives you a rough idea how far they have gone and whether it’s worth setting off in pursuit. In this case it sounded to be a long way so I carried on walking for pleasure rather than pursuit. They unexpectedly passed me again on the way back though – such a joy to see and hear!

Another windy day, and there was a kingfisher perched in a sheltered spot just upstream of the weir. She was right at the edge of a dense mass of ivy which grows over a small tree extending over the water. I watched her for several minutes before she made a short dive into the ivy and stayed hidden. On my way back I heard two kingfishers calling at the same place before they suddenly flew out and disappeared upriver.

It’s possible this will be a nesting site. There is plenty of cover for them, but hardly any bank to dig a nest hole, and I would have thought there was a danger of flooding at any time of year. Mink are known to dig down into nests so it doesn’t seem an ideal spot. The path is close by too, but I watched a nest hole in a river bank at Wolvercote near Oxford as a bird came and went while children and dogs splashed about in the shallows directly beneath.

If there is a nest it won’t be visible, and the only proof will be seeing birds fly into the ivy with fish in their beaks. This stretch is regularly used by parents teaching fledglings to fish but I’ve concluded that the actual nests are elsewhere. It will be interesting to see how things develop over the next couple of months.

I always look for a kingfisher in this small dead tree by the river, so a bright patch of red that shapeshifted into a Greater Spotted Woodpecker was a nice surprise this morning! Really unusual not to be craning my neck when I see one – this was at head height.

Greater Spotted Woodpecker at work by the river between Oundle and Cotterstock this morning. I saw a Red Kite take a fish from the river just after videoing this. I looked it up when I got home because I didn’t quite believe what I was seeing, and they do feed on dead or dying fish. It was certainly a first for me!

Lovely to see a kingfisher this afternoon against the backdrop of Oundle’s beautiful stone bridge. It was perched opposite the town boat club and I was further along the cut towards the river, so the house in the background is right back in King’s Road.

A kingfisher among the twigs and branches this morning. A split second later it took off, circled twice showing the blue of its back then the orange of its belly as it banked, then whizzed of upstream at full speed. It looked like it wouldn’t land again till it got to the bridge a few hundred yards away.

Found a kingfisher’s nest this morning! I’d been looking for places where there is enough bank above the river for a nest hole and spotted one under construction. It was on a bend of the cut which takes waters from the side weirs round the back of Cotterstock Lock. Later, when there are chicks, there will be droppings coming from the hole itself, but for now there are some by a perch on an exposed root just to the right. That was the giveaway. I found a spot about 50 yards away where I can check on its progress – don’t want to disturb the birds by getting too close. I took this short video clip from there and slowed it down to half speed to make it more watchable. The bird comes out of the hole backwards. A completed nest tunnel will have a chamber at the end large enough for the adult birds to turn round on the eggs. Presumably it hasn’t reached that stage yet.

Another windy day, and as I walked to the wooded section I wondered if kingfishers might be sheltering on the far bank. Sure enough, there was one at the very start of the trees, and that was soon joined by the other in the pair. I could just make out their orange fronts in amongst the twigs. They whizzed of upriver and I continued down. I walked close to the nest site but heard and saw nothing.

On my way back I spotted one of the birds on the far bank. It moved up higher into one of the small trees then hid in a thicket. I got the feeling that courtship was still on its mind – fishing didn’t seem to be a priority.

It’s lovely to see the buds and leaves showing more each day. Kingfishers will be much more difficult to spot in a week or two.

A beautiful balletic courtship dance by a pair of swans between Oundle and Cotterstock this morning. I couldn’t resist putting some music with it when I got home, so if you want to hear it don’t forget to put the sound up a little.
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I watched the nest for about 90 minutes yesterday morning. There were four noisy flypasts in that time, two with the briefest of stops on the reeds opposite, but nothing coming in or out of the nesthole. So if there is a sitting bird the shift changeovers are longer than 90 minutes. I wondered if my presence might be affecting things, but it seems logical that there would be territorial flybys without a stop, even if the nest is empty. I last saw a pair on the wooded bank about four days ago, so who knows? Incubation seems to be about 30 days, followed by fledging of 25 so plenty of time to watch and wonder!

Some welcome sounds from Glapthorn Cow Pasture early this morning. No sign of a nightingale yet, though some may have already crossed the Channel and they could arrive here any time in the next week or so (fingers crossed!) The first clip features the lovely freewheeling sound of newly arrived Willow Warblers – a wise old man of the woods once told me that when you heard your first Willow Warbler then you really could say that spring was here. Then there’s a clip of a Song Thrush in full flow. It doesn’t quite have the tonal quality and variety of its cousin the nightingale but this is a lovely strong singer who has found the ideal spot in the tall, thin ash trees to enhance his voice, ably accompanied by Chiffchaff and Wood Pigeons.

I heard a couple of minutes of nightingale song in the forest towards Bulwick at 5.30 this morning, the first male I’ve heard singing this year. To make it even more delightful, there was a cuckoo calling too. It was cold but well worth it!

A kingfisher between Oundle and Cotterstock this morning. They’ve been more difficult to spot this last couple of weeks, partly because the leaves are coming out but also because one half of the pair is likely to be sitting in the nest at any one time. I’ve heard fewer calls and it’s noticeable that there’s less activity near the nest, though when I occasionally go for a closer look it’s clear by the increasing amount of droppings that it’s in use. This bird perched quietly without bothering to fish for a good few minutes, so clearly there aren’t yet any extra mouths to feed!

Most of the spots I’ve had are fleeting, seeing a bird whiz by or disappear into the overhanging branches. I very rarely see them at the cut, though I did one day see a human couple on the far bank doing a perfect mime of “Look, there’s a kingfisher!”, one arm outstretched and pointing.

This is a longer post than most, but it’s about a chance meeting with a bird ringer that had a big effect on me.

I went up at around 11am to see if nightingales were singing during the day in the forest past Boars Hill Farm. There was one singing as I arrived, and while I was standing on the track with my camera a man who looked dressed for the countryside appeared in the distance walking towards me. I’m always a bit nervous of confrontations in that part of the forest, even on a public bridleway – the local shooters are notoriously unwelcoming to walkers. But as he got nearer he appeared friendly and I saw that he had a Rockingham Forest Bird Ringers Group badge on his jumper. Hanging round his neck were four cloth bags, each containing a tiny live bird – you could see their gentle movements through the fabric.

I said “What a lovely sound”, nodding towards the nightingale, which was deep in some scrub. He replied, “You’ll be lucky to get a photo though!” I could only agree – they are always a shy bird and I’ve only got a single good image of one in all the years I’ve been trying. We got talking and walked slowly along the track towards a clearing where a net was hanging between two wooden posts, like a long badminton net reaching to the ground. It was designed to catch birds without harming them, and was placed in that spot specifically to catch a nightingale. A decoy sound was playing on an mp3 player, which I disagree with when photographers stress birds just to get an image. But he was involved in conservation work – definitely on the side of the angels.

It turned out he’s a volunteer working under the guidance of the British Trust for Ornithology, and the idea is to prove that there is a large enough group of nightingales here to persuade the Forestry Commission not to clear the dry undergrowth they need to thrive. I’ve heard four nightingales singing there so far this year – he had heard a couple more. Some years they will get into double figures, which is a lot these days for a bird near the limits of its northern range after flying all the way from Africa.

There is no shortage of nightingales on the continent, but the numbers that make it to this side of the channel are dwindling. The biggest strongholds are Kent and Sussex. Even 20 years ago there were only 4,500 singing males each year in England – there will be a lot less now. The ones singing in this relatively small patch of forest in Northamptonshire represent a significant part of one percent of the national total.

I’m attracted to nightingale song because of my musical interests and a fascination with sounds of all kinds. The birds rarely show themselves, so there is something magical and unworldly about this huge and virtuosic sound coming from deep in a thicket, especially at night when the rest of the world is silent. I’ve recorded the sounds and listened to them over and over, and it’s clear that they never repeat the exact same calls. There’s always an embellishment aimed at impressing a female or outperforming a rival male. Often they will sing against each other, trading phrases and trying to better each other through direct imitation.

So for me the experience of nightingales is mostly to do with the sounds and the emotions they evoke. But as we talked it became clear that this man had caught and ringed many of the birds I had listened to. He had actually handled them, had felt their heartbeats and enjoyed a closeness I would never have dreamt of. He caught the adults at the beginning of the season, and at the end he would try to catch the new juveniles too. He knew that the nightingale I had been listening to earlier had produced at least three young last year because he had personally ringed them all!

To me that was breathtaking, something I would never have imagined. I’d heard that nightingales return to where they were born after flying thousands of miles to Africa and back, but he actually knew that because he had only once caught a bird that had been originally ringed any distance away, and that was no further than Rutland Water. There was a spot just inside the wood at the top of the path from Southwick that always had a singing nightingale every year until a couple of years ago. It turns out he had ringed that bird in 2011 and caught the very same one there every year for seven years!

This was beginning to put a completely different spin on things I had tried to work out for myself. Now I understood that the fact that there was no longer a singing bird at that spot near Southwick, or anywhere else for that matter, might not be because of degraded habitat – it could just be the result of one bird dying naturally of old age. And as that particular bird had always sung right through the night for the whole season (paired up males mostly just sing at dawn and dusk) then maybe it had been unlucky in love and hadn’t left any young to follow in its wingbeats.

While we were talking the artificial decoy song was playing and a real nightingale would occasionally answer with a song or a growl from a thicket close by. The net was set up to catch him if he made a dash across the clearing, but when he finally appeared he flew right round it and disappeared into the bushes on the far side. This had been going on since 6 am – it was now 12.30 and time to call it a day. What a wonderful way to spend time in the woods at the very best time of year!

He had caught other birds earlier on in a net further down the track, including three grasshopper warblers which are also considered to be rare. A couple of times he had even caught kingfishers here in the woods, a long way from a stream of any substance. There were two nightingales singing either side of us now, and a turtle dove calling nearby, one of the rarest summer migrants of all. Plenty to be going on with, but the quest to actually handle a nightingale, to ring it or check the ring it already had, would have to wait for another day.

As I walked the mile or so back to the car, through a remote and slightly eerie landscape that could be straight out of an HE Bates novel, it seemed like the world had shifted slightly on its axis. I’m used to revealing encounters deep in the woods with birds and animals. A meeting with someone who could add so many pieces to the jigsaw of my knowledge and understanding of nightingales was totally unexpected and truly special. Nightingales had been singing during the day as I’d hoped when I went up there – that much I could be sure of. But did the rest of it actually happen? I wouldn’t be surprised to wake up and find I’d dreamt the whole thing…

May Day sunrise in a very still Southwick Wood this morning. Don’t forget to put up the volume to hear the birdsong too….

Delighted to say that the kingfisher chicks appear to have hatched. There was much more activity around the nesthole, and at least one of the parents arrived and flew in with a fish laid longways in its beak with the head showing, which is the way they present food to chicks.

This isn’t a great photo as it was taken from about 70 yards away, but it shows the fish in the beak of a bird that flew into the nest and then out again in a short space of time. It’s been a long wait with not much to see, but if all goes well in a few weeks there should be chicks fledging.

There was a cuckoo in a tree in the meadows this afternoon. It wasn’t calling and I think it was a female – it flew into a thicket and there was a characteristic female bubbling call soon afterwards.

Although I saw a male in the cuckoo tree as early as 14th of April there has been relatively little calling this year. There have been a lot of Reed Warblers chuntering away in the reeds by the cut though, right below where the female was perched. Since they are one of the favourite species chosen by the cuckoo as unwitting surrogate parents I wonder if there’s a warbler couple in the vicinity desperately trying to feed an outsized and alien chick.

While I was standing on the bridge at Cotterstock I noticed a pair of what I took to be swallows flying in and out of a pipe. I managed to get a photo of one in flight but it then became clear it wasn’t a swallow. A swift? House martin? it didn’t resemble any of these and I finally sent the image to a very experienced birder who confirmed it was a sand martin.

I was looking across Cotterstock millpond this morning and saw something white moving in the branches just above the water. I guessed it was the tail feathers of a moorhen, but when I zoomed in it was a fish being shaken about by a kingfisher. The prey was almost as big as the predator, but eventually it was subdued by being bashed repeatedly against the branch the bird was perched on. In the photo you can see the fish scales left on the branch to either side of the kingfisher as it did this. There was no way it could be swallowed whole, or even held in the normal way lengthways in its beak, but the kingfisher managed to set off with it towards the chicks in its nest a few hundred yards away. I thought the usual feeding method was to tip the fish headfirst down the chick’s throat in one, but maybe they are now big enough to hack it to pieces?

Yesterday there was a single flypast at the nest but otherwise nothing. And today even less – the nest appears dead.

After tramping back and forth along the wooded stretch and then up to Cotterstock and back without seeing or hearing anything I finally heard tiny chick like sounds near where the brook comes in from Glapthorn. I hadn’t heard them in the morning, and they had the right sort of silvery tone. They came from higher up in the trees and further back from the bank than I would expect but it gave me hope!

I’m glad I took a sandwich and flask on today’s kingfisher hunt as I was searching for 7 hours in the end – and it was a warm day too! I started by watching the nest for an hour but that was completely quiet. So was the wooded stretch along the river. Then I went to the mill pond at Cotterstock and thanks to the kindness of some residents got a great view from the other side of the mill race and also of the full length of the stream that runs out of the pond and rejoins the river.

No luck there, but it was good to check out parts of the territory I can’t usually access. After four hours without seeing or hearing a thing I was beginning to run out of ideas. It’s probably the longest time I’ve spent by the river without seeing or hearing a kingfisher all year. Maybe they’d moved the chicks further downstream towards Tansor?

Then as I passed the nest on the way back a kingfisher carrying a fish flew high overhead on a great wheeling arc towards the wooded part of the river – good news, as that’s where I’ve have seen fledglings in previous years (and thought I heard chick sounds yesterday) and there is a clear view across the river on that stretch.

I sat in various places on the bank opposite the trees and eventually came back to where the brook from Glapthorn meets the main river. There’s plenty of cover there and it’s isolated from the path. The main river and streams below the weirs are still a little muddy and fast flowing but the brook at that point is very calm.

Eventually a bird flew in noisily from behind and banked into the trees following the line of the brook. It could have been my imagination, but I thought I heard answering calls before it would have reached the other side of the wood.

I went back to Cotterstock and crossed to the other side of the river so I could go into the trees where the kingfisher had flown. Nothing happened while I was there, and it’s unlikely that I would have got a clear view if it had, but it feels like things are getting warmer. It may be that in the coming days the fledglings will move to the ivy covered tree roots at the edge of the river where I’ve seen them before. Hopefully I’ll spot them then. I was footsore when I got home but it had been worth it.

I didn’t see any chicks today but there were adults with fish in their beaks flying into the willows on the near bank by Snipe Meadow. I hurried back to the bridge and went down the opposite side. As a man on a mission it felt strange to be walking past people enjoying the busy tennis courts and rugby pitches. I even had a short conversation with a man digging his allotment.

But when I got back to the river the adults were still delivering fish. It was hard to see anything else though in the shade of the overhanging branches. Still, it meant there had to be chicks there…

It all went quiet about 20 mins later and I walked on through the wood to Cotterstock without seeing or hearing anything else kingfisher-related.

There were a pair of cuckoos chasing each other about and building up to some afternoon delight in the meadows as I came back. The photo is of the male. He looks quite angelic here, but usually they look pretty rascally to me. I wouldn’t want to be any of the reed warblers chuntering away nearby – one of them’s likely to be landed with the outsized fruits of his labours!

There was quite a lot of kingfisher activity along the first section of the river this morning. An adult arrived noisily with a fish a couple of times and two chicks broke cover to fly up and down the river in equally noisy pursuit. I didn’t get the impression that the feeding was straightforward. It seemed like the chicks were having to work to be fed and support was gradually being scaled back. Maybe they were being given flying lessons too.

Then this afternoon at about 4pm the chicks were where I hoped they would be – just upstream of the weir. And I got a photo at last – the white tip to the beak confirms that it’s a chick, apart from its general appearance and behaviour. There was another hidden away under overhanging branches. I’ve only seen and heard two chicks, and that might explain why there haven’t been as many adult flights as I might have expected. Nests can often have up to six eggs.

Hopefully they will both be out on a branch tomorrow. But whatever, I’m thrilled to see them and glad that the parents have been successful.

The two chicks seemed to be completely independent this morning, attempting to fish on their own with no adults present. They were mainly tucked in under some overhanging branches on the far bank and one was well hidden but its blue back was clearly reflected in the water. I set the camera to video in case it decided to dive into the water. It didn’t, but there was another chick there which made an inelegant and unsuccessful splashdown which I was lucky to capture. I slowed it down to see what was going on and liked what it did to the bird soundtrack so kept that in. I’ve repeated the clip a couple of times to give more time to see what’s going on.

I went back at 4pm for an hour or so. An adult kingfisher flew into the same place with a fish and there was a lot of noise as I arrived. Maybe the adults were still helping out a bit from time to time? After that there nothing but the occasional chick call (recognisably kingfisher in tone but shorter and less expressive) and the reflection in the water of a very still bird. I had an intriguing time trying to work out where the bird was from the reflection – an exercise in practical geometry!

I went out at about 9am and unexpectedly spotted the orange breast of a kingfisher chick near the small dead tree just downstream of Snipe Meadow. It was right out in the open for several minutes, occasionally looking down for fish but mostly preening itself. It flew down to a branch just above the water and sat there for a few more minutes. Then a call came from downstream. It cocked its head then flew off in that direction.

I pushed through the nettles and looked over a fallen tree to see the two of them perched a few feet apart. They stayed like that for a few moments and I was lucky to get a photo of them together. Then the other chick flew off downstream and the first stayed looking down for a few more minutes. There were no attempts to fish during all this time, although there were small fish breaking the surface of the water at intervals. It eventually flew off under overhanging branches.

I returned at about 4.30 and there were short tinkling chick sounds in the stretch above the weir where they were two days ago. Some keys jingled in my pocket and reminded me of the sound. The reflection of one bird was in the same place, mostly with its blue back showing but occasionally half turning to show orange and white. The other came out on a branch and flew further downstream almost to the weir. Then the first one came and perched right by it, on another fork of the same branch. There was no sense of competition or animosity at all, even though they were both looking down at the same fish. There were sounds as they moved about but they perched in silence.

They moved two a couple of other branches, each time perching close, and once almost touching. Then one flew off up and one downstream. I followed that one back on my way home, and it found it moving from perch to perch right by Snipe Meadow. It was attempting to fish, though clumsy and unsuccessful. It appeared not to go straight into the water as well as an adult. It was certainly trying though, and diving from different perches, some much higher than an adult would use. I was willing it to catch a fish all the while. It flew into some trees on the near bank as I passed. No sign of an adult all day. The chicks appear to be fending for themselves.

No sight or sound of the chicks today. An adult broke cover on the near side opposite the treatment outlet and flew high into the trees then disappeared. Apart from an adult fly past by the weir later that was all. To hear no calls at all feels strange – I’ve grown used to hearing them. I walked to the nest site but there was nothing there either. If the chicks had been on the wooded stretch it seems likely I would have heard them – I wonder if the presence of an adult where there was none yesterday might suggest that they had been driven off?

I haven’t seen or heard the chicks since leaving them near Snipe Meadow 4 days ago. I hadn’t seen either take a fish by that point and they may not have survived. It’s estimated that less than half of kingfisher chicks live beyond the first week after they leave the nest. That’s the worst case scenario, and it could be that the parents have driven them out of the territory and one or both are fending for themselves. I hate to think that anything has happened to those beautiful young birds after all the work put in by the patents but it’s a possibility. Definitely something to get one thinking about the whole business of mortality!

On a more positive note though, there were calls near the nest again for the first time today. I waited and saw a bird fly into the hole. It didn’t come out again for the next 20 mins so it should be laying or sitting. All being well there will be chicks again by mid/late July.

I’ve always felt that spring starts with the bluebells and ends with the dog roses. Those have begun to appear woven into the trees and shrubs by the bridge. The dawn chorus is quieter, there’s less birdsong through the day. The grass in the meadows has grown long enough to ripple like waves in the wind. The sun is higher, the light less nuanced, and the leaves have thickened and taken on a coarser, darker green hue.

It makes me sad that the youth and vigour of spring  has passed, but the warmer temperatures make outdoor life easier and there’s still plenty of growth in the countryside yet. There was a cuckoo calling by the river from Assiter’s Spinney this morning. As I watched him preening himself a female let out an explosive bubbling trill from across the meadow.

It’s hard to get a clear view of the river now – the kek on the banks is a foot above my head in places and the nettles and thistles are fierce. So when I heard a kingfisher pass I couldn’t immediately see where it was going or if it landed nearby. It came back down the river a few minutes later and veered off over my right shoulder towards the cut. The speed and energy of its flight is always a thrill even if the play of light meant it appeared as a dark silhouette. Like rainbows, their coloured feathers are only at their incandescent best when the sun is coming over the observer’s shoulder.

Speaking of which, I’ve been thinking about what makes kingfishers so attractive to look at. The blue of the wings and back, and the orange of the breast are direct opposites on the colour wheel. That makes them especially pleasing from a human viewpoint – they are colours that would be thought to match in clothing and fashion. There is also a contrast between the dark beak  and the white throat and collar. The shape of a perching kingfisher is pleasing too. If the neck is extended the bird looks tougher and its beak seems far too long for the rest of its body. But when it sits with its neck rested into its shoulders the shape is round and well proportioned.

There’s a good crop of buttercups in the meadows and there seem to be more damselflies than I’ve ever seen. As I’m walking I’m unconsciously scanning for little hints of blue on the far bank that might be a kingfisher. The blue of a demoiselle perched much closer on the near bank has more than once thrown up a false alarm, though a welcome one. I love the blur and fragility of their wings, the moments of repose followed by the jerky flight and the way they dance around each other.

I’m a little concerned that there are so few butterflies. There are a few Meadow Browns and the occasional Peacock or Red Admiral, but surely there should be more of them by now? Skippers too – I haven’t seen a single one. I guess it may have something to do with the cool slow spring, but the grass is growing so rapidly now that the hay may be mown before the butterflies really get going.

Banded Demoiselles are having a wonderful year – I’ve never seen so many. Their irridescent blue reminds me of kingfishers.

Twilight with a nightingale and cuckoo in Southwick Forest a couple of nights ago. Sometimes they finish singing in early June, but this year’s slow spring looks to have extended the season. I’d be happy if they never stop but it’s actually good news as it means the chicks have fledged.

I was visited by a hare and a badger in the time I spent making this recording. The original is 14 minutes long which is a good length when you are trying to capture pristine natural sounds. The difficulty isn’t always with the intrusion of manmade sounds though. It was a warm night and the insects were so loud close to the microphones that it wasn’t till about 9.45 pm that I could get a clear recording of what I actually wanted to hear!

The vegetation by the river gets thicker and taller by the day. If I do manage to see a kingfisher it’s as a glimpse of blue or orange deep among the leaves on the far bank. I watched the nest for a few minutes from 60 or 70 yards upstream and got this photo – what I call a reference image that gives an idea of behaviour but there’s no real chance of detail or beauty at that distance.

Sitting under a tree in the shade seems more in keeping with the weather. Waiting for a bird to fly by as a “kingfisherman”. That paid off this morning as there were two flypasts on the same stretch, both with periodic calls and one in each direction. These seem like long flights to mark territory rather than fishing expeditions. I’ve also been seeing higher flights away from the river in the last few days. Territory didn’t seem like a priority when the eggs had been laid and the chicks hatched and fledged. Maybe the home pair were just too busy, and knew that their neighbours would be too. But it could also be to guard against the intrusion of the new young birds from nests in different territories.

The weather broke and there was torrential rain all day on the 18th. Even I didn’t venture out of doors on that day. The next day was quiet in the meadows. The rain had flattened some of the long grass at the river’s edge so it was easier to see longer stretches of water at a time. Despite that I saw and heard no kingfishers at all.

I watched the nest from a distance this morning for an hour – still nothing. But on the way back there was a lot of very noisy territorial flying and chasing where the stream comes in from the Glapthorn direction. It could be an interloper from a territory up there, maybe a fledgling. Or maybe one or both of the pair’s own chicks is still outstaying its welcome? If that’s true it would be great – they could have moved up the stream to get away from the parents when they disappeared and are now trying to get back to the river to fish.

Whatever, I saw two birds chasing in circles from the river into the trees before dashing off across the meadows. Then another came out of the trees and flew low to the water in the direction of the nest. There was possibly another still calling from further into the trees too. All very exciting!

I went back in the afternoon and there were noisy goings on again in the same place. This time, though, there only appeared to be two birds and it seemed more about courtship than territory. A male perched high in a tree long enough for me to get a photo while the female (presumably) wheeled round the outside of the trees and into the woods. Then there would be a flight towards the nest and lots of calling along the cut.

This was all very confusing. I thought they’d laid and were already sitting. If so, they were both out of the nest for long periods at a time. Maybe they’d laid but something had gone wrong and they were trying again? Or maybe there had been no eggs to start with, though there were definitely birds going into the nest a couple of weeks ago?

Two years ago I saw my first brood of chicks two weeks later than this year, so there is obviously some leeway on dates. It’s going to be difficult to predict this time when the chicks might leave the nest. I had an interesting chat with a wild swimmer who had seen a chick at very close quarters on the cut on 31 May, which was when I saw their reflections hidden under branches on the main river. It was good to find out that they had been in different places. It might be worth getting a canoe to investigate that area at the end of July – it would be very difficult to spot anything from the bank.

I was delighted to see this kingfisher half hidden among the twigs on the far bank this morning, as I’m going away for a week and will miss walking by the river. But I’m even more delighted because the white tip on its beak indicates that it’s one of this year’s chicks. Whether it’s one of the pair I saw fresh from the nest at the end of May (and haven’t seen since) – or an interloper from elsewhere – the important thing is that it’s thriving. That makes me very happy indeed.

Before I saw this chick an adult had seemed to be patrolling with long flights punctuated by calls. The chick itself was silent. I didn’t see them interact but that may have been the source of calling and flying at the brook end of the trees.

The week near St Davids in Pembrokeshire was lovely. Lots of ravens, choughs, stonechats and wrens calling along the clifftops. Different air, different sounds. I sat near the stream by the cathedral for a couple of hours. The water was finding its way beneath dappled green leaves and over pebbles and stones. I saw and heard no kingfishers at all but I’m pretty sure they would thrive in this habitat.

On the way back we stopped by the river Towy at Nantgaredig. The river had a lovely sound to it, tumbling over a rock and gravel bed as it passed under a tall stone bridge which linked the flat bank on the nearside to the escarpment on the far. Occasionally a large, muscular salmon leaped in one of the slower pools. Then that familiar “ping”, not loud but still carrying over the sound of the water, and a kingfisher arrowed through one of the high stone arches and was gone.

I’ve been away just over a week and the vegetation along the river has noticeably changed.  Spring has given way to summer – the leaves are fully out on the trees and nearly all the greens are dark. The buttercups have disappeared into the grasses in the meadows, clover and thistles are showing more, bindweed is starting to appear, and there are the first pink blooms of Himalayan balsam. The reeds in the river have grown so much that the old brown stems from last year are finally invisible. In places they are nearly across the whole width of the cut. Very few butterflies are showing yet, but the food is there for them when they arrive.

I heard the odd kingfisher call but wanted to see if the nest was still being used. That meant wearing waterproof overtrousers and a kagoul because the nettles are now so high and any trace of the paths from before had vanished. As it happened it started to rain as I pushed through the undergrowth so the gear didn’t seem so daft even though it was hot and humid. I stayed for an hour and there was no sight or sound of a kingfisher in all that time.

I was shocked at the condition of the bank. Before I went away I took a photo of the nest hole and vegetation was just beginning to appear at the top of it. But now I couldn’t make out where it was at all. The bank was covered in scrub greenery, but worse, the section where the hole had been was barer than before. It appeared there had been a landslip. The bank had lots of cracks in it before, and I had been concerned that the nest might collapse, but I hadn’t considered that it might happen to the whole section of bank.

The pair had been going in and out of the nest regularly before I went away, but if they were still intent on breeding they would need to have found a nest elsewhere.

There was an absolutely spectacular show of butterflies – mostly meadow browns but also skippers, tortoiseshells and even a marbled white – along the first bit of path starting opposite and downstream of Snipe Meadow this morning. The thistles were covered in them. The butterflies were late starting because of the long cold spring but they appear to have caught up at last.

Also a kingfisher went by with a fish in its beak! It veered off into the woods on the far bank before the first weir. That suggests there may have been a hatching. Could there be a nest along  Glapthorn Brook like there was in July last year?

There’s still no activity at the old nest so this sighting looks promising. Of course, the fish could be part of a courtship ritual but when it’s being held head first in the presentation position there’s always a temptation to think that means there are chicks to be fed.

At the moment looking for kingfishers is a mixture of excitement and frustration. One frustration lies in the lack of chances to take the classic picture we all love of a bird perching prettily on a twig with its head angled towards the water. At this time of year they can sit in among the overhanging willow branches and do their fishing without you even knowing they are there (unless you hear the occasional soft plop of one hitting the water).

If they do break cover, and you see them disappearing among the branches further down, you will invariably walk past without spotting them and then turn round to see them heading back in the opposite direction. A couple in a canadian canoe came by the other day and I asked whether they had seen any kingfishers. They replied that they’d passed one a few hundred yards further back upstream. I walked back to where I guessed that would be. Half an hour later I had seen nothing. The canoe came back upriver. I asked again – they’d just seen one where I’d originally been standing!

The truth is that I’m even more frustrated because I don’t have a clear idea at the moment of what is going on with the kingfisher couple on the mile or so of river that I walk every day. In the first part of the year they were easy to spot: I watched them excavating their nest; I saw them bringing in fish for the chicks; then I managed to find and watch the same chicks before the adults drove them away at the beginning of June so they could start on a second brood. I felt I had my finger on the pulse.

Since then the narrative has been far less clear. They appeared to re-occupy the nest but then abandon it. I witnessed some skirmishes over territory and maybe some courtship. I saw a lot of long flights along the river which seemed much more about guarding territory than catching fish. For all I know something awful may have happened to one or both of the original pair and I’m seeing newcomers.

A young kingfisher arrived one day – maybe one of the original chicks, maybe from elsewhere. There was an increase of territorial calling at around that time, and it may have been driven away. But there has been a bird flying through at times which is completely silent – I suspect that’s how an interloper might behave.

A few days ago I saw a bird fly past with a fish in its mouth. Normally they’d eat it straightaway where they caught it, but this suggests that it was being taken to a nest for feeding chicks. If they had started breeding in June the dates would be consistent with a hatching. It veered off into the trees on the bank opposite. Could there be a nest on the brook that comes in from Glapthorn? I found one there last year and the adults were travelling around 3/4 of a mile back to the river to fish.

So I’ve been staking out the first part of the brook. Kingfishers have flown over heading out towards Glapthorn, and they’ve flown back again towards the river. But I’ve yet to see one carrying a fish. And anyway the flights don’t seem frequent enough to meet the chicks’ needs. Maybe there are enough fish in the shallow water of the brook to mean that they don’t always need to journey right to the main river? Or maybe the chicks are already out of the nest and being served with just the occasional top up meal while they struggle to learn to fish for themselves? It seems unlikely the dates would allow for that just yet, but you never know…

It could also be that the flights to the river are more about guarding territory. I had been hearing kingfisher calls at the far side of Cotterstock mill pond without actually getting any sightings. When I got there yesterday afternoon I went into a paddock next to the pond which the owner kindly suggested I could use to see what was happening on the short stream between pond and main river.

Loud calls started up almost straight away. I find it difficult to describe the sound, but it’s pretty distinctive. The two sounds I most often mistake it for are the opening note of a wren, before it goes into its rattling call, and a dog whistle – distant dog walkers often unknowingly have me looking out for a passing bird! It’s a short call but has very musical timbre – a sort of “tsssingg!”. I’d liken it to a temple bell or finger cymbals, a silvery sound.

It can be a single gentle call as a bird nears a perch, or a more businesslike call repeated every forty yards or so it flies along the river. But in this case the calls were loud and urgent, clearly directed towards other birds. A hint of annoyance, but still a lovely sound. More quick notes with a staccato rhythm, like beautifully modulated sprays of morse code.

The sounds flew in from the main river and for the next 15 minutes there was something like a furious WW2 dogfight, though it may have been only the single bird that was displaying. Long, curling looping flights with diameters of two or three hundred yards. Coming in at treetop height or just below, extending out over the lock, downstream towards Tansor, then back in front of St Nicholas’ Church and over the pond.

I was looking up through trees so was getting a partial view, but even when I went out into the open the flying was so fast and unpredictable that I could never anticipate where the bird would appear next. First it came from this side, then that – sometimes from the front, now from the back. My mind started to add in the jaguar roar of a Spitfire engine. There was that same juxtaposition of power and control mixed with menace, of a drama being played out above the gentle green countryside of an English summer, with cut hay drying in the meadows, blackbirds and butterflies in the hedgerows.

I could never be sure if all the calls were from the one bird, but I think they were. I can imagine any rivals being thoroughly cowed – they will have got the message. The calls finally faded away into the distance and didn’t return. I was actually trembling, exhausted from watching and being part of this spectacle. There wasn’t time to be an observer, just to react and take in what you could in the moment. There was never going to be any chance of a pretty picture, but just being there was very, very exciting….

A friend has been living on a narrow boat on a backwater of the Nene near Friday Bridge for several years. He’d told me that there’s an annual kingfisher nest site right opposite his mooring, so I went to visit him and see for myself. It’s always fascinating to drive across the fens – the big skies, the switchback roads sinking towards dykes on either side, isolated farms dotted like islands in a sea of agriculture. I followed the detailed instructions he’d given me and eventually found the right place.

It was good to see him again and we sat on some decking beside his boat. The river is part of the old course of the Nene and is narrow at that point – maybe 60 or 70 feet. The nest site is around a tree, far too overgrown at this time of year to see much, but it was fascinating to hear some of his stories. People who live in boats can see a lot of kingfishers and watch their behaviour over time. His boat had even been the target of their aggression. When it went away to be repainted he asked that a kingfisher symbol be added to the bow. On its return to its mooring a kingfisher took exception to the portrait and repeatedly and violently attacked it with both beak and feet.

In the mating seasons he would hear banging noises and find birds hovering at the portholes, pecking at their reflections. He had also seen kingfishers hovering, something I’ve seen a few times too. He thought he was seeing a kestrel in the distance but on coming closer realised it was a kingfisher hanging in the air a few yards above the water. Eventually it dived into the water and took a fish then flew off.

Talk shifted from kingfishers to music, the reason we had met in the first place. We played together both inside and outside the boat. It was great to see him again and to see where and how he lived. He seemed very content with the spot.

I went to the meadow near Cotterstock lock a few days ago at around 9.30pm and saw a barn owl flying. It was quartering the field, slowly flying back and forth in a regular pattern. I stood where I was and eventually it came within about 30 feet. No fuss, no sound. And like a kingfisher it appeared lit from the inside.

The following day the hay was cut. I wondered whether the owl would be affected by this, and it seems so. It didn’t show that night or the following. I arrived a bit earlier today and just as the light was fading a female kingfisher landed on a metal post at the jetty below the lock. This was the first perching bird I’ve seen in nearly a month and there was just enough light left to get a photo. I was intrigued as to how it was managing to sit on a hollow post (where are its feet resting?). But more importantly, it was a female and the extent of pink on its lower beak suggests it is an adult but younger than the one I saw near the nest in the earlier part of the year.

The intense calling continues at the end of the wooded section and also near the lock and the millrace towards the pond. It is very noticeable in the evenings. Could there have been a territory grab?

I visited my mum in Bournemouth and stopped on the way down at Wolvercote, a busy place by the River Thames near Oxford where there is a kingfisher nesthole right by the carpark. In past years I’ve watched a kingfisher whizzing in and out right where children and dogs are swimming. At first I thought it wasn’t being used this year then realised I could hear the chicks!!!!!

I’d never dream of getting so close normally but there were literally people launching canoes right beside me. An adult arrived with a fish and was sitting in the trees opposite, waiting for things to calm down before delivering it.

The sound was very quiet but unmistakably coming from inside.

I was standing just upstream from the sideweir, looking and listening for kingfishers, when my photographer friend Neil arrived carrying a Danish pastry! We often meet by the river as he walks there a lot, and he also enjoys shopping for cakes in Oundle. He offered to share it and it seemed rude to refuse. We walked to Cotterstock pond and then on through the village till parting ways at the footpath back down the other side of the river.

I had decided to look again in the wooded section where the Glapthorn brook meets the main river. As soon as I got there I heard kingfisher calls. There were also lots of tiny ringing calls all around which I at first mistook for kingfisher chicks but later realised were being made by tiny wrens. It’s pretty dark and overgrown in there, and the stream is only visible in places, so it was incredibly lucky that a chick was perched on a branch about three feet above the water and right in the open. It was no more than 30 feet away. It was looking around and taking in its surroundings but hadn’t yet equated humans with danger.

I sat very still and watched it for 40 minutes or so, taking photos when I could. It was clearly very young, maybe the first or second day out of the nest. It spent a lot of time preening itself in a methodical way, first the breast then the wings, which it would occasionally ruffle so the individual feathers stood out. Even with the naked eye it looked perfect, but looking through the zoom lens the feathers were breathtakingly beautiful. Bird chicks often take time to develop beautiful, slick plumage but kingfishers come out of the nest in the best of condition. I guess the need to be independently fishing within four days makes it imperative to have faultlessly efficient and waterproof feathers from the off. Given that the chicks have also spent the first few weeks of their lives in an underground tunnel full of ordure and fishbones there may be a fair number of parasites which need removing too.

The chick was looking around constantly but making very few attempts to fish, although it may have caught an insect at one point. It was very interested in sounds, cocking its head at a green woodpecker yaffle, starting at the whirr of a pigeon’s wings and looking straight up towards a songthrush as it began to sing. I got the impression that it was listening first and foremost for the call of an adult carrying a fish. One duly arrived and whizzed past to further upstream. The chick answered the call and took off too. I couldn’t see them from where I was sitting but it came back pretty soon to its original perch. Its beak opened and closed a couple of times and brought up a pellet which splashed into the water below.

A little later another chick arrived with a few calls and perched a few feet away on the same branch. It was noticeably thinner and more delicate. It also seemed more nervous and soon flew off again. The light was failing by now, the early evening of an overcast day. It eventually left, flying towards the river. I could barely believe my luck. The detail in some of the images I took was very special. I may not have found the nest this time but there are at least two chicks in the second brood. Marvellous!

After spending such a long time at close quarters with one chick, then briefly seeing the second, I was hoping for more of the same the next day. But that wasn’t to be. I spent six hours on the river bank and never once got a kingfisher in my camera’s viewfinder. There was plenty of coming and going at the Glapthorn Brook end and lots of calling. Adults flew in carrying fish, sometimes only 10 minutes apart, so both chicks were being fed. At one point the chicks chased each other along the river too, but there was never any chance of a photo. It was fascinating to watch but just too fast to react to.

I walked through Cotterstock and into the wooded part by the brook. It was as if they had watched me, and had moved away deliberately. After trudging through the village again to my original spot it seemed they were back in the woods. Frustrating and tiring, but I knew that soon the adults would be forcing the chicks to perch out in the open to fish for themselves.

I was very tired when I got home, and didn’t sleep very well despite being exhausted. Early next day things started to look up when a chick called then flew out from the willow trees right on the edge of Snipe Meadow. I went to the stretch upstream of the side weir where the first brood of chicks appeared at this stage. One was there as I arrived, perching on the most obvious of the dead trees, right was right out in the open. Occasionally it moved to another perch nearby, and made a few attempts to fish. No adult visited it over the course of about 3 hours, and I didn’t hear or see the other chick. I managed to get a photo of the start of one of its dives into the water and was delighted.  Maybe tomorrow I’d see an adult and chick together?

I saw the same chick by the dead tree again, though it was while before it came out into the open. It made some more sophisticated attempts to fish, but had no success while I was there. There was a white patch low down on its right wing when it was closed. It looked like a feather had been damaged – possibly torn out? – and part of the under feather was showing. This didn’t seem to affect its flight, but I guess small percentages may be telling in the fight for survival. It will be interesting to see if it turns up again with this distinguishing feature though maybe a new feather will grow in its place?

There was no sign of an adult bird. Although this is the time when feeding should have stopped I would have thought the next stage would be behaviour aimed at driving the chick away. I’d be surprised to see much more of it here.

I sat opposite the dead tree for 90 minutes this morning. Nothing. Then a little orange breast appeared among the twigs to the left for just long enough to register then disappeared again. Ten minutes later there was a fly past with calls, low to the water, which looked and sounded territorial. Things are back to normal, which quite honestly is a bit of a relief. I can do other things without thinking I may be missing out.

I wouldn’t have missed the experience of the last days and weeks but it has been exhausting. The look and the sound of the river has changed so much in that time. Birdsong has fallen away, the leaves have darkened and there is now a silver look to their undersides as they blow in the wind. There’s a smell of fermentation in the long grass after rain, and a sense that the evenings are drawing in – it’s time for a bit of rest.

Squeaky sounds have been coming from trees near Snipe Meadow for two or three weeks now. They sound like bird of prey chicks. Yesterday I saw an adult perched on some dead branches a little further back from the river and thought it was a kestrel. Today there was a chick lower down in a willow tree. It was quiet and passive, looking around occasionally but moving very little. I took a photo and sent it to Barney who told me it was a sparrowhawk! I really must improve my knowledge of larger birds…

It shouldn’t really have been a surprise, as there had been a sparrowhawk there having a dispute with a crow several weeks ago. In some ways it’s unwelcome news though. Sparrowhawks are fearsomely effective killers of all types and sizes of birds, and I imagine their nests as being lined with the feathers of kingfisher chicks. But there’s no point in being sentimental about it. Everything is part of the food chain, the natural cycle. Sparrowhawks need to feed their chicks too.

As if to echo my thought a kingfisher flashed past and settles low down in a tree opposite. It’s a mature female, but a young one. Sleek and rounded, not at all like a frazzled parent. It takes a fish with ease then passes on down river.

I’m not complaining, but normally I see my kingfishers while standing for hours among the nettles and thistles on the riverbank towards Cotterstock. I spotted this one while sitting on the decking at the Kingfisher cafe in Barnwell Country Park, coffee in hand. I could get used to this!

I’d heard reports of several kingfisher chicks at Barnwell Country Park and decided to investigate. They emerged at exactly the same time as the Cotterstock ones, so it seemed likely that they chicks had by now been driven away by the parents. But surprisingly there was one still there, fishing from pollarded willows in the middle of the lake. It was moderately successful, maybe getting a fish on every twentieth attempt. It must be exhausting – it certainly felt that watching it.

The books say that chicks are driven off their parents’ territory four days after leaving the nest but it appears not to have happened here. I wonder if there are enough fish to cut the youngsters some slack, or maybe the rules aren’t so rigid with successive broods? It was interesting to meet some fellow kingfisher obsessives in the hide. One lady had been there all morning and had been taking some great photos. She had got several shots of adults and chicks together in the previous week – something I never managed among the leafier and more overgrown conditions on the riverbank. She had also snapped one kingfisher with a frog in its beak and another with a dragonfly!

Next day I met another photographer who travelled from Corby. Since he had retired, following kingfishers was his main interest. He simply filled up memory cards and then went onto the next one. He rated the kingfisher hide at Barnwell as the best in the county. I have to say I agreed with him on the days I was there. The chick was constantly flitting across and fishing – a photographer’s delight, though those action shots of a bird diving in and out of the water never quite lived up to their promise!

As I walked back home the road crossed streams that looked ideal for kingfishers. I could hear loud two-note calling that sounded like territory disputes. I can imagine lots of birds coming and going. But I would be glad to get back to my haunts on the river towards Cotterstock. It was nice to have some company, and there was something wonderful about watching wildlife while sitting in the comfort and anonymity of a hide with the sounds of children playing on a squeaky swing nearby. Refreshment and toilet facilities were near at hand. But somehow it all felt a bit too easy. I guess I just like a bit more peace and quiet and need to feel it’s a bit more of a challenge!

A few days ago I spotted a chick by the river which I thought was a kestrel and it was actually a sparrowhawk. Yesterday I spotted a chick which I assumed to be the sparrowhawk but which turned out to be a cuckoo!

The chick was out on the dead tree near the weir. It’s a popular perch for all sorts of birds. This one had its back to me and had very pronounced feathers. I decided it was a sparrowhawk, mainly because I’d seen one at the nest near Snipe Meadow and couldn’t think what else it could be. It was making a constant but rather pretty “shweeshweeshwee…” which sounded a bit like a very distant and inoffensive car alarm. That seemed odd as it was nothing like the sparrowhawk calls I’d been hearing. A small bird would occasionally perch near it and I also thought it odd that they weren’t afraid. I still thought it was a hawk when I later sent a photo to Barney Dillarstone.

He told me it was a cuckoo chick. That was amazing, because its not often that you get to see one. Now it became obvious why small birds were visiting and perching close by. It was still being looked after by a reed warbler several times smaller than itself. There seemed to be a tension between the cuckoo perching at head height, relatively out in the open, and the parent warbler which would naturally inhabit reed beds and and places low to the water. Adult female cuckoos seem comfortable close to the ground and in reeds or undergrowth – at least that’s where I’ve heard their trilling call. But males spend a lot of time in the topmost branches, the best and highest pulpit for their cuckoo call.

The chick would occasionally flit between different perches. Feeding mostly happened in the reeds or bushes and was lightning quick. You could tell when the adult bird came near as the chick’s call became louder and faster. The warbler, its beak full of insects, would pause close to the giant chick and then lunge in and out of its mouth as if scared it might get swallowed whole. The inside of the chick’s mouth was a startling crimson colour, and as it crouched forward to be fed its thick, dark body and neck resembled a walrus. Quite a contrast to the light colour and nippy movements of its adoptive (and presumably exhausted) parent.

It flew further into the reeds by the weir and I could hear it but no longer see it. I set off back home but got sidetracked by loud kingfisher calls near Snipe Meadow. One flew out of the low willow branches on the near bank and settled a couple of times as I followed it back down river. Again, it perched on the dead tree just long enough for me to catch up and identify it as an adult male before flying off past the weir. Then it became obvious why the calls were so loud, as another kingfisher took off from further down the bank and was pursued. It was a surprise to see two together. The relationship didn’t seem combative. I wonder if it was a pair, possibly starting a third brood of chicks? If so, they won’t emerge from the nest till late September, which seems rather late.

There was neither sight nor sound of the cuckoo chick this morning, but plenty of action from the sparrowhawks in the trees downstream of Snipe meadow. During some sort of standoff with magpies one broke cover to chase them off. I’d have thought magpies would be no threat to an adult sparrowhawk – maybe the chicks are still small? Or maybe the magpies are the ones guarding chicks?

I’m a little confused as to whether the two sparrowhawks I’m seeing are adults or well-developed chicks. It may have been adult calls I was hearing all along, similar to a red kite’s mew but higher and thinner. I got another picture of the female – she has a light marking over her eyes. Unlike most species she is twice the size of the male. I spent a lot of time trying to get a good sighting of the birds. They call quite a lot but seem to perch well within the cover of the trees.

I went back later on the Snipe Meadow side and went under the trees to see if I could find any prey remains. It was exciting going into the jungle there as the Himalayan balsam must be nearly 8 feet tall in places! I couldn’t find anything but it was curiously calming leaning against a tree trunk looking upwards. There was only a brief glimpse now and then of a bird flitting through the foliage. Afterwards I went into the field near the water works. Part way up the slope there is an overall view of the trees which gave a better idea of the sparrow hawks’ behaviour. They seemed to separate occasionally and perch 100 yards apart then come back close together.

At last I’m beginning to see blue and brown argus butterflies along the river bank. Blues are tricky to follow as they flit amongst the greenery. They are tiny and fast, the light blue wings are hard to see and they also change direction unpredictably. It’s a very good test for the eyesight which can leave your eyeballs wobbling in their sockets.

For me the most attractive part of both species is their underwings. It’s hard to imagine that they haven’t been hand painted by a skilled and inspired artist. There are similarities between them, and in the overall layout and size of their wings. I wonder if they are closely related?

We recently purchased an inflatable canoe and decided to take it to Cambridge and float along the Cam. The original idea was to paddle out from the city centre, but as we drove through Grantchester we spotted boats being launched behind the Old Vicarage. We parked near The Orchard and made our way back there on foot. It’s hard to pass Rupert Brook’s statue at the vicarage without looking across at the church to see if the clock still stands at ten to three – the place is full of famous and creative ghosts.

As we headed downstream to Cambridge the gentle splash of paddles gradually replaced the drone of traffic from the M11. I spotted a kingfisher within the first five minutes. The philosopher Wittgenstein used to paddle this tranquil stretch in an attempt to relax his permanently buzzing brain. I hope it worked, because even just reading his work frazzled my brain when I tried to study it.

We stopped for a picnic at Grantchester Meadows. I thought about Syd Barrett, the creative genius behind Pink Floyd, who used to play there as a child. Unfortunately Eleanor then slipped on the muddy bank and took a full tumble into the water. She had no spare clothes – luckily I did. She looked just the part in my shirt and trousers – a blue-stocking in the mould of Virginia Woolf, another well-known user of the river.

We went into town as far as the Backs then paddled back to the Orchard Tea Rooms at Grantchester. This is based round the boathouse where Rupert Brook lodged before moving to the vicarage. In the early 20th century he was the central figure of an intellectual and artistic group which met there, including Woolf, EM Forster, Bertrand Russell and Augustus John, who maintained two sets of wives and children in nearby gypsy caravans. It must have been an extraordinary gathering with a unique atmosphere. Having coffee on an old green deckchair in the original orchard was the perfect way to end our adventure, looking around and enjoying the company of some very interesting and eccentric looking Cambridge characters – mind you, they were probably thinking just the same about us!

I hear kingfishers and sparrowhawks on the riverbank but don’t often get to see them at the moment. So I cycled to Barnwell Country Park for a change. Two chicks were fishing near the hide. They were much more expert than a week ago, catching small fry with almost every dive. It’s a puzzle that two chicks have been allowed to stay on their birth territory, but it may be that the parents have moved elsewhere and left them to it.

It was pleasant sitting in a hide, sharing the company of some knowledgeable people and helping some others to spot their first kingfisher. A pleasant interlude which yielded some great photos, but again I missed the peaceful atmosphere of the riverbank.

After a gap of a few weeks I heard robins singing by the skateboard park last night. They were there again this morning too – at least 4 birds singing before I even got to the river. There were none to be heard out of town along the river though, and only a single thin voice at Cotterstock. Still, it’s good to hear a songbird’s voice again, even if the tone is autumnal. There was the skirling call of a kestrel towards the end of the trees, something like a green woodpecker but with more of a whinny. Away across the river, over the field with the lime avenue, two kestrels were flying at and around each other. It seemed too gentle for a fight, more likely courtship or pair bonding.

I heard kingfisher two note calls but it’s very difficult to get more than a glimpse. They seem to perch among the leaves right at the water’s edge and either make long flights where it’s impossible to see where they landed, or veer off into the woods. The brook seems to be a favourite place for now, though I’ve heard calls at the mill race too.

Easier to see as well as hear, there were grey wagtails at both the lock and the mill race. I watched one catching flies from the decking, then settling on the lily pads, then returning. Beautiful quick movements, so lovely to watch. Eventually it came closer and posed on a stone with some colourful reflections from the mill outhouse behind it in the water.

For the first time in months there was a kingfisher by the bridge this morning. No more than five minutes from home – a good start to the day. It was perched low, shaded by a hawthorn. From a distance I thought it was a robin, but then it took off into the sunshine and left a bright trail of blue against the dark water of the cut.

It was good to see one there again. It means there’s a chance of seeing more speed by in the coming days and weeks, skimming the surface on the light open stretch between the bridge and the wood downstream. Something to look out for against the reflected clouds and the sky.

When I got to the weir a brief flash of blue back feathers disappeared into the trees opposite. It could have been a different bird, or the same. No way of telling. I stood still and looked across at a small dead tree that often serves as a perch. A brown hawker dragonfly flew past my legs and through some burdock heads with a dry crackle of parchment wings. Wood pigeons hooted from the ash trees. A quiet song from a robin. Then a wren. A creaky yaffle from a green woodpecker upstream.

Yesterday at the same spot I felt the sun on my back. It was cooler today, the butterflies yet to show. A light north wind blew a layer of small grey clouds across fixed white clouds with blue sky between. Sometimes the sun escaped through small gaps and sent narrow shafts towards the river. Spotlit beams slowly moved from right to left, briefly picking out the bright greens of spring from the dark late-summer drab of the leaves before moving on. A kingfisher called from the weir downstream, the single ringing “psssttt” of a bird in flight.

Now that the breeding season is over I’m getting less chances to watch kingfishers perch. They seem more nervous and skittish, never settling in the open for long. The surviving chicks have mastered fishing and there must be plenty of fry about. They can hide under overhanging branches for long periods. It’s a case of trying to work out what they’re doing from brief glimpses and calls. Much further up the river near Lower Barnwell lock I’ve heard rapidfire bursts of calls from adult birds flying about in agitation. That could be either territorial disputes or pair bonding (or both!)

Things have been quieter on this stretch, but as I walked downstream there were two-note calls near the end of the woods. A bird flew up from the second weir and around the trees, its red-orange breast and underwings glowing as it banked. I stood and waited. No sounds, no show. I looked across at an ash tree which grows by the mouth of the Glapthorn brook. It’s different from its taller straight backed peers, much shorter, with limbs twisting out across the water, some bare, some leaved. The sun reflected off the river, sending magical ripples of light up and down its lichen branches, endlessly varied by wind and water and an ever-turning world. As I watched a kingfisher flew downriver and perched there, just for a heartbeat or two, then followed the line of the brook through the trees.

It had perched high up, maybe twenty feet above the water, certainly not a place to fish from. More likely it had other things on its mind. Walking back the way I’d come, there was the same blue back disappearing into the willows by the dead tree. I was hoping for a symmetrical walk, with a kingfisher perching as I passed back across the bridge, but when I arrived there the cut was busy with people preparing to take to the water. I got excited by a tiny patch of blue showing in the distance through the leaves of a tree by the boathouse, but as I moved closer it was only the brightly coloured hull of a canoe on the jetty. If it had been described in a catalogue as “kingfisher blue” I certainly wouldn’t have argued with that – it was a perfect match!

I walked from home to Lower Barnwell lock. There were none of the sights and sounds from yesterday so I walked downstream towards Ashton. A few hundred yards beyond the bypass there were kingfisher calls in a willow on the near side. Nothing emerged. Then just past  Ashton lock a bird surprised me by taking  off almost under my feet and wheeled around towards the weir pond.

I didn’t see another bird until the Cotterstock stretch, which seems about right for territory and distribution. Again a bird started up almost from under my feet, this time at the bridge over the second weir. It looked to have been perching on one of the wooden undersupports. I’ve been hearing lots of calls from that direction when standing at the end of Glapthorn brook, so now I know to creep up on the bridge. Looking back along the river from the other side of the weir there appeared to be a few good perches by the ruined jetty.

On through Cotterstock and back to the end of Assiter’s Spinney. I always go in at the first path where I saw the chicks a few weeks back – there are often calls from there. Near was at the spot where the chick had perched I heard calls from nearer the edge of the wood. After a couple of minutes a bird came flashing through along the line of the brook towards the river. I saw a lot of blue backs that day!

After looking to see where it may have been perched I found a guano covered stump that could serve. I also discovered that the section of the brook which sees the most action is only joined to the main brook when it floods. It’s a closed tributary of the river which stays a good depth all year and which fish swim along from the river and back. A good feeding place, which must be why there is such a lot of activity there.

It felt chilly when I set out, and it needed a sweatshirt to feel comfortable. Thirty minutes later the sun arrived and lit up the wooded stretch. I could feel the warmth of it on my back and calves as I stood and waited. As happens a lot lately, a kingfisher flew out from a bush I had been looking at without realising it was there. It flew high into a tree opposite the weir, and I was able to catch up with it and watch for a brief moment.

Further downstream a pair of herons flew across the meadows together and settled high in the ashes where the cormorant tree once stood. They perched with their backs to each other about fifteen yards apart. A narrow boat puttered through with a couple on board. The man had shoulder length grey hair and an Iron Maiden T-shirt. I wonder if he knows that the band’s lead singer attended (and was expelled from) Oundle School just a mile away?

I headed back upstream and was lucky to see a kingfisher perched against lovely backdrop of late-summer flowers and foliage. It was largely facing me until at the last moment it turned to display that gorgeous profile before diving for a fish and disappearing under a willow on the bend.

On a metal post at the jetty by Cotterstock lock this morning. It’s getting to be a regular perch – always worth a look when I’m passing by.

Cormorant drying its wings in the sun near Cotterstock lock this morning.

A lovely little grey wagtail at Cotterstock Mill this morning. Just afterI took this a calling kingfisher whizzed low across the pond behind me, flew up over the bridge parapet in a graceful curve, then dipped down again to follow the line of the mill race away into the distance. It came over my left shoulder, close enough to see the whirr of its wings but not quite hear them.

A kingfisher just below Cotterstock lock this morning. It was on a short stretch I’d always thought had good perches but where I’d never seen one before. There’s been much more activity in the last few days, including some territorial display from another bird high in a tree upstream of here. It’s still hard to spot them in the foliage though – luckily this one turned and I caught the flash of its back feathers. It fished a few times, returning to perches close by, then flew across the river and made a beautiful arc upwards over the high bank and down again to disappear along the mill race.

There was the tiny shape of a stonechat perched high on a hawthorn bush on the far bank this morning. They seem to come back every September before disappearing again.

Further down the trees I heard a “pursplatttt!” and thought: “I know what that is – the sound of a cormorant crapping into the river from a great height.” And there it was, looking relaxed and satisfied, 70 feet up in an ash tree that overhangs the river. It’s the new tree that cormorants took over after their old one sank into the river then snapped off at the roots. Whole branches of leaves are spattered white on the way down, like the leaves by a road where lorries spray mud from an industrial plant. A spot to anticipate and avoid when passing in the canoe.

Further down still there was a raven heading downstream, kronking as it flew. At that distance the sound is coarse and ratchety enough, but when I was last near Crossway Hands farm there was one circling overhead that had a “glunk!” coming from the depths of its gut like someone hitting the side of an oil drum with a stick. Interestingly, cormorant means Sea Raven, the Latin being Corvus Marinus. They’re both big symbols in heraldry too.

I was taken with the ridiculously officious sign next to the path near the mill. Nature can have a way of softening the mean works of man, but it’s an uphill struggle.

I came across this beautiful fungus in the spinney this morning – shaggy scaly cap, apparently. Whatever, it makes a good snapshot of the forest floor at this time of year.

A kingfisher on the jetty below Cotterstock Lock. This is getting to be a regular place to spot one. It had just swallowed a fish whole – diving in, catching, subduing and eating it in just a few heartbeats. All while another bird was calling from about 30 yards away on the mill race. I’m guessing it must be an actual or potential pair. Hard to imagine it would have calmly fished then taken off in the other direction otherwise.

Autumnal kingfisher by Cotterstock Lock this afternoon.

Greater Spotted Woodpecker opposite Snipe Meadow this morning, one of those lucky situations. It stayed more or less still as I slowly advanced. I originally spotted it about 70 yards away and I got to within 40 feet in the end, advancing a few paces then stopping each time.

It could be a youngster, though the last fledging will have been in mid-July. That might explain too why it let me get so close – young birds tend to be more trusting, though they need to grow out of that pretty soon if they’re going to survive.

There was a kingfisher straightaway on the cut this morning. It very quickly flew off towards the main river, then silently took off from the near bank later on downstream and perched briefly on a hawthorn on the far bank. The sun shone directly on it – the reflected colours of its feathers as fresh and bright as I’d ever seen. Further down towards Cotterstock a swan was framed by the hanging leaf curtains of a weeping willow, standing upright with its feet in the mud and preening itself. The sun was catching the ripples on the water and sending them across its breast feathers against the rhythmic movements of its beak.

At the lock there were kingfisher calls, and then one was on the corner of the concrete blocks, exactly the same as a few days ago. It’s a very noisy bird, and that’s even more proof that it’s a different bird from the one at the bridge, which I’ve never heard call at all. In Cotterstock some people were at the roadside, planting bulbs on the verges for next spring. The grey wagtail pair continued their inexhaustible circuit from the bridge parapet, across the pond and then up onto the roof of the mill. One dislodged a piece of moss, which  slipped across the Collyweston slate then tumbled into the water. Then they’re back down to the bridge again.

In the spinney even on a sunny day the canopy still makes it dark. There was the loud alarm chitter of a robin coming from high in the trees and I looked up to  see it. Then I realised that my mind’s eye had been up there so my mind’s ear had been fooled. The robin is just off to my left and only a little above my head height. Further down the path there’s the chill chatter of a magpie then something else black and white – a dead badger. It’s lying among the fallen leaves and undergrowth with its head facing up the slope. I wonder if it’s the same one I saw crash out of the undergrowth a month ago? I didn’t walk through here yesterday but did so the day before. It’s died fairly recently.It’s a sad circumstance in which to do it, but I’m interested to get the closer look which is never possible with a wild animal.

It’s head is facing forward with the chin flat on the forest floor. Its front paws are thrust out forward on either side with the powerful claws slightly open as if clinging to the earth. The back paws are hidden under the body, though a claw is showing part way down its left side. The eyes are almost gone but the snout’s still there. The white stripe down the centre of its head shows up with the white ear tufts either side. Blue and greenbottles, and a single wasp,  are gently moving on its body. There are maggots on its muzzle but they’ve not penetrated the skin yet. But its rear end is melting away in a mass of white maggots. There’s no smell, or at least not enough to make my nose wrinkle, and no buzz of flies. Just a silent, clean and surprisingly orderly looking natural process. A dog comes bounding up, far from its owners, and for an awful moment I think it might interfere with the corpse. But it just has a good look, takes a few sniffs at the head end, then bounds off again. A long way down the path there’s a young mum with a couple of toddlers having a picnic.

Back in the meadows there’s a dead vole on the path. Then I spot a pair of stonechats on the far bank. They cross to my side and perch on fenceposts and on the barbed wire. A pair of meadow pipits arrive too and interact with them in a gentle way.