I'm still recovering from a recent night spent under canvas, which was particularly notable for a visit from our local cuckoo.
I'm still recovering from a recent night spent under canvas, which was particularly notable for a visit from our local cuckoo.
We first encountered the cuckoo last year, after waiting patiently for many hours, binoculars trained in the direction of its call. This year it's remained firmly hidden, but it has been rather vocal. I lay in the tent, at somewhere between 5am and 6am. The cat slept, the children slept, but the cuckoo appeared to have just woken up.
It was the first time I had heard a cuckoo so early in the morning. I really wish I'd made a recording of its song. For the first few minutes it didn't give the usual 'cuckoo, cuckoo' call, but rather a 'cuck-eeergh, cuck-eeergh' sound. It sounded as if it was clearing its throat, or perhaps warming its voice up for the day ahead. Or maybe, like me, it was expressing its objection to the large expanses of oilseed rape close by. Who knows?
I was relieved when it eventually reverted to the standard 'cuckoo, cuckoo', and I could drift back to sleep.
