Despite my enthusiasm around the recent fall of snipe, woodcock have remained stubbornly thin on the ground. The November full moon usually brings a torrent of birds to Galloway, but aside from a few outriders (and the birds which breed in the woods behind the house), there was very little to see this year.
An explanation for this strange absence can perhaps be found in the wind maps which I shared last week to explain the dramatic dump of Icelandic snipe on the moss. These winds went on to turn at a ninety degree angle before blowing east across the North Sea. Any migrants in Scandinavia would have been held up by these headwinds, and it is fun to imagine a queue of woodcock building up on the coast of Norway waiting to cross. The wind finally changed two days ago, and we received a mild, sloppy breeze from the Atlantic southwest. This relieved the pressure from Scandinavia, and the migrants came pouring over the sea. Running in the woods this evening, I saw seven woodcock flighting out to feed in the wet fields – nothing like as many as I might see in a peak year, but still a substantial step up from three days ago.
During the early days of the War, my grandfather patrolled the Firth of Forth in a spitfire. His first active engagement was over the docks at Leith, and bullets from his machine gun hammered through the pitifully thin aluminium fuselage of a German Heinkel bomber. When I was told the story as a child, I always pitied those foreign airmen. It seemed perverse that they had come so far across miles of featureless ocean, only to be hammered and killed by fighters when land was finally in sight. We have a newsroom photograph of their aeroplane lying “dead” on the moor near Humbie, a small village near Haddington in East Lothian. There is a swastika on the tail fin.
The story has given me a strange idea of the North Sea and the things which cross it. The East coast is a profoundly bizarre landscape to those of us who were brought up between estuaries and mountains in the west. Lush, arable landscapes run into cold dunes, and the sea laps soupily at your feet. This is no home for me, and Scandinavia feels like a very long way beyond the horizon – you can’t see it, so it might as well be as far away as America. The lands beyond that Sea are occupied magical beasts; Norse gods; even Nazis. The idea that familiar birds routinely cross that vast gulf does little to make the opposite shore feel closer; it simply makes the birds feel more special.
And then there is a counter-perspective. Flying back from Finland at the start of October, we crossed over Norway at 33,000 feet. The landscape looked tiny below us, and I watched it quietly receding into an expanse of open water. Perhaps half an hour passed during which time I could see nothing but water and the occasional oil rig. It was easy to look down on the water and see it as little more than a quick step, particularly when Scotland appeared in the distance and we crossed the coast near Elgin. A woodcock’s migration suddenly seemed like a small affair.
But the birds wait for the right wind for a reason – the crossing is a tall order, and they need all the help they can get. Who knows how many woodcock collapse onto the waves in the darkness, unable to fly another inch; how many birds sink down into the water, leaving their feathers to swirl like autumn leaves along the bottom.