A dozen birds potter on the shoreline. Their piercing calls give them away, as a group of five split off and fly over the water towards the carpark and dunes behind the beach. The others stay put. One stands upright, his rusty feet leaving impressions on a carpet of damp seaweed, cushioning the boulder that raises him up above the water. If it wasn’t for the white feathers on his belly reflecting from the sea, it would be difficult to spot his black shape in the shadows of the cliff. The waves lose their force by the time they lap at the base of the rock, but they’re enough to make him teeter backwards when the bubbles come towards him. Their feet can stand the cold water, but it’s winter and it’s chilly, even on the south coast.
More of his companions take to the air, on the same route as the first flock, but he stays behind with one other bird. He peers at her, but she pays no attention, not yet ready to depart. The rocks are sheltered at the end of the beach, where trees lean over to watch them feed from above. The high tide forms a slither of calm, cutting them off from the hubbub of half term children, the sand and the café. The oystercatcher isn’t on holiday, he’s a resident, and humans trampling his lunch spots make it harder to have a good meal. He probes at the ground with his beak, trying several places before he finds what he’s looking for. The cold morning breeze is starting to pick up causing the rockpool to ripple. His feathers react excitedly.
A cue, imperceptible to me, causes him to leave. Perhaps an offensive splash, perhaps fed up of the early chiff-chaff’s chatter, or perhaps he just has somewhere else to be. His friend follows suit, smart black and white wings cutting through the milky sky, orange beaks ‘meeping’ their way over oblivious humans.
