Listening

Essex Wildlife Trust Nature Reserve, Fingringhoe Wick, is above all a place to listen. In late spring/summer it is so lush with abundant foliage that most of the birds are more likely to be heard than seen, especially the timid nightingale, who invariably sings from dense cover. Last weekend we set out walking quietly, ears stretched, and one of the first songs we heard was the low, rolling purr of the turtle dove, a sound new to David and I. Try as we might, we couldn’t see them but it was wonderful to hear them each time we passed an area near the badger hide.

The reserve is so rich with birds that at times we could hear chiffchaff, wren, blackbird, song thrush, robins and tits all at once, accompanied but almost incessant cuckoos. But so far the nightingale was eluding us. Hearing one in the distance we sat to have our sandwiches perched awkwardly on a bulbous mound, but it fell quiet. Walking stiffly on we found a bench a stone’s throw away and sat to watch the sunken copse below.

And there it was - distinct, strident, with its successive phrases, sometimes melodious, sometimes insect-like, chirring and pinging, other times with a mechanical tone I can only describe as sci-fi-like – think R2D2. And just when you think it’s reaching a climax, the mood changes abruptly and you hear a phrase of quiet, slow plaintive piping. A note of self-doubt, nostalgia or even apology?

As we carried on round the reserve, 5 or 6 times more we froze, glued to the spot, with the invisible bird only 3 or 4 feet from us. Last time we came here, we were privileged to watch one singing for 10-15 minutes in a gulley below the path, beyond a hedgerow which hid us. Like an oversized robin, similarly coloured but with a longer and more chestnut-coloured tail, a pale breast and large dark eyes. Attractive but unremarkable but for his extraordinary song. And though his name means sing or call at night, he does very much sing during the day as well.

The Nightingale’s Literary Career

Melanie Hodges