The glorious springtime weather was too good to waste, so Jen and I headed up to the Moor to find out what was going on.
Grouse groused from the heather. A couple of curlew burbled in the fields below. Lapwings wooted along the skyline. A lone skylark sang for all he was worth from some invisible height.
Then we noticed a less familiar noise: a flat, wheezy piping call. Then came another in response, and another. Dozens of wheezy calls from all sides. I recognised them at once: if it sounds as if your own nostril is whistling when you know damn well it isn’t, look for golden plover! By the sound of it we were surrounded, but I couldn’t spot a single bird. And then I thought to look up…
About a hundred golden plover were wheeling in V-formation high above us. They split and re-convened, dropping lower then climbing again. They turned this way and that, heading off into the distance, then returning to delight us with a low fly-by. As they banked in the sunlight, their pale undersides flashed in near unison like sequins on a disco-dress. The air was filled with their gentle calls, which I presume they use to keep in formation. It was a mesmerising experience.
I’d seen small flocks of golden plover above the Moor before, but nowhere near this number. I hope this might be taken as a good sign, but, more likely, we just happened to be in the right place at the right time.
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