Yes, it looks nothing like a Scaly or White’s really, but the young Mistle Thrush was the closest I was going to get today while my mind went awol and back to a humid, frantic, thoroughly splendid afternoon on St Agnes in October ’99.
The youngster fed with its parent through a carpet of daisies and buttercups as I made a site visit away from the dunes just for a change.
Swifts surfed through along the edge of the cool northerly air mass, and at least three Reed Warblers were on territory – they squawk and chunter in just about any suitable reedbed now, but once they were unknown as a breeder on our coastline.
The puling young Stormcock snapped me back to the present and I returned to the office at Ainsdale, where Stonechats have fledged young too, Ruby Tigers were basking on one of our woodpiles in what little warmth they could find, and a Gropper was reeling at one of the usual locations.
Only one or two Common Blues braved the chill.
Tried to make sense of the new lockdown guidelines, but just got confused, although I think I may be able to visit Marshside in a day or two as long as I’m not using public transport, there’s a vowel in the month and I haven’t got a football team with me.
At least I think that’s what it says, last time I saw someone that flummoxed I was having an out of body experience staring down at my teenage self drowning in a Maths “O” level, protractor and logarithmic tables clattering to the overly polished exam room floor.
And that was a long time ago.