YOU ARE STANDING AT the edge of a vast river estuary. To your right you can see the small seaside village of Findhorn; to your left you can make out the distant mountains of the Highlands. Directly behind you is a wooden birdwatching pavilion slowly falling into disrepair.
It’s a cold winter morning and a low mist is hovering over the surrounding saltmarsh. The mournful cries of curlews and oystercatchers stand out from the incessant murmur of thousands of pink-footed geese further out, which appear as a mass of swirling grey. Having spent the night roosting on the mudflats, the birds are taking a while to warm up. Their calls are at first muted and staccato, with the occasional louder ‘wink’ echoing through the melee. As the sun climbs higher, the light creeps across the nearby airfield and gradually the hubbub crescendos into a flurry of feathers and noisy calls.
A ripple moves through the flock, and the birds prepare to move. One or two skeins take to the air and circle once or twice in preparation for their forthcoming flight. When they are sufficiently warmed by the sun, they lift off, line after line, calling to each other as they go, in a breathtaking natural spectacle.
Then, there’s the unmistakeable sound of
