I’ve monitored the autumn forecast. Mushrooms and conkers, good, occasional blackberries; acorns crunching underfoot, moderate; spiders’ webs and cosy jumpers intensifying; severe crumble-making, veering west.
And migrating birds. Storm Amy has passed, and with air pressure rising, there’s the whiff of a seasonal treat: visible migration – “vismig” for short. They travel in their millions – summer visitors outgoing southwards, winter arrivals incoming from the north. Swallows, pipits, thrushes, finches and more. A remarkable population shift to mark changing seasons. Many fly by night, but some are diurnal, and at the right time and place, you might see a slice of this unrivalled phenomenon. Spring has its dawn chorus; vismig is autumn’s gift.
Up early then and off to Hampstead Heath – with its vantage points, as good a place as any in central London. I set my alarm and prepare for a bleary vigil. Thermos, snacks, gloves.
The breeze is light, as prescribed. The heath’s residents are out in force. Long-tailed tits greet me from the fringes of the wood. Carrion crows vie for scraps. A heron does its finest statue impression. I scan the skies, hoping for a steady stream of birds, each sighting a tiny part of a network of movements staggering in its scale and complexity. A million and a half swallows travelling 6,000 miles to Africa, 700,000 redwings coming in from Scandinavia, 200,000 redstarts off to the Sahel region, half a million wigeons arriving from Iceland and beyond, and so many more species besides.
I get … nothing. At one point, six birds – specks, really – fly high off to my right. Meadow pipits? Maybe. And perhaps those were sand martins, the two darting tiddlers giving me the briefest hindview before melting into the air. On this occasion the birds flew elsewhere, elsewhen.
My disappointment is mild. This is the way of things. The birds make the journeys anyway. It’s enough to know they’re happening. The momentary intersection of their lives with mine would be a bonus for me, entirely irrelevant to them. Home, then. As I get off the train, swallows trickle overhead in twos and threes – the very start of a long and dangerous journey.
