An afternoon at Martin Mere, Lancashire.
Whooper swans, hundreds of them. Freshly arrived from their migration south. Still in their family units. Mum, dad, and their teenagers. They’ve come here from Iceland, to spend their winter vacations.
All that honking. Hundreds of whoopers honking. Families honking to other families. Quite a noise.
The meres of Martin were ram packed with duck, geese, and swan. There seemed to be more feather than water.
After the honking, I wandered along inspecting the many fungi. At one fungus, three individual birders, who happened to be passing, stopped to give their opinions on what species it was. I eventually crept away quietly as their argument heated up…
The last magical moment. I watched two moorhens fighting. The scrap quickly became serious stuff. More vicious by the second. So bad in fact that a coot, much bigger than the moorhens, after watching closely for a wee while put itself between the two and put an end to the fight. AMAZING. A head-shaking, did I really see what I think saw moment.
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