As Jen and I took our regular early evening walk around the lanes, I spotted a small bird flitting about the scrub in our farmer friend’s field. Even from 50 metres away, the bird’s untidy, erratic flight screamed whitethroat at me. Turned out I was right.
My first ever Hebden Bridge whitethroat—although not the first time I’ve identified a whitethroat by its ‘jizz’.
“…wonderfully droll, witty and entertaining… At their best Carter’s moorland walks and his meandering intellectual talk are part of a single, deeply coherent enterprise: a restless inquiry into the meaning of place and the nature of self.”
—Mark Cocker, author and naturalist
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