In Search of the Black Swan

The sun is out, fresh air beckons, what shall we do then? “Let’s go and find that Black Swan you keep talking about Dad” says my daughter, “OK, it’s always there… honest” I say with some hesitation.

With the edible remnants of Christmas past packed in the bag we find ourselves heading for the Stour foreshore, my old birdy stomping ground twixt Stutton and Brantham, just up from Seafield Bay, between the lightning tree and old Stutton Mill to be precise. It was quite a walk but the brisk air gave you a degree of purpose.

Seafield Bay is really beautiful at this time of year, catch it on a bright and breezy day and the sharp reflection of the midwinter sun on the mudflats screws your pupils into the back of your head. Through tightly slitted eyes we squinted at a solitary Barnacle Goose, a whole raft of honking Greylags, a slow motion Heron, a couple of escaping Terns, the Wigeon Christmas shindig, a lost Lapwing, some kind of darting Warbler chap, an invisible Reed Bunting… but no Black Swan.

I do wonder if I dreamt about that Black Swan, a lost figment of my youthful imagination, somewhere in the dark recesses just next to the Giant Tortoise that I rode… I did I tell you, I did. But just like my certain childhood ability to fly, the Black Swan felt so real.

I had walked this stretch of the estuary hundreds of times as a nerdy birdy child, past the church, through the Poplars, over the railway bridge, down to the Black Barn (the capital letters denote its importance), right at the cottage rubble where my Uncle George used to live, along the willow dyke by the vanishing Kingfisher, up and over the river wall all the way to the lightning tree, through the Phil Sector Oystercatcher wall of sound to the final resting point by the Pink Cottage lagoon… home of the ever present Black Swan.

Maybe next time then, I’ll let you know how we get on.

Posted by: Forte