Sky Dancing

First of all, many thanks for your good wishes for my hospital procedure. It’s certainly frustrating changing plans from a leisurely journey via Harrogate and tea at Betty’s to a 5.00am dash across the country to Liverpool. My ‘Rapid Covid Test’ turns out to be anything but, involving an isolated wait of six hours before theatre, but all has gone well, and I am assured my precious biopsies have been personally delivered to Liverpool School of Tropical Medicine - so hopefully we’re back on track. Now home after a long journey through rush hour and weekend traffic - clearly huge numbers are heading for a beautiful weekend in North Wales - and a collapse into my bed. 

It’s been a journey which started in perfect full-moonlight, saw a clear sunrise before the mist and fog descended over Cheshire, and a glorious golden sunset over Snowdonia as we headed home. No shortage of beauty to photograph, but clearly little opportunity.  And - full disclosure - rather than another uninspiring hospital shot of hospital interiors, I’m posting one from yesterday. 

There were two things I wanted to see in Yorkshire; ‘boxing’ hares and displaying lapwings. Of the first, we saw no sign, but we did manage to spot - and hear - the lapwings. 

Previously, lapwings have been largely static birds I’ve loved for their wonderful iridescence.  I’ve seen them fly in flocks, but never before seen the acrobatic mating displays seen here. I’m fascinated by their soaring, wheeling, twisting flight high above us, and their strange squeaking ‘peewit’ cry - more reminiscent of a squeaking toy than anything else - emanating from the ground and sky. I’m seriously regretting leaving my 600ml lens in the car as the 200ml - even with extender - really isn’t up to the job, but at least I manage to capture something of this joyous aerial display. 

I love this description taken from a Guardian Country Diary of March 21st 1919: 

‘Ever since the weekend the male peewit has been hurling himself about on his broad wings in his frenzied nuptial dance, displaying his aerial mastership to the lady of his choice. Alike on the wild moorlands where the wreaths of snow are still unmelted and in the lowland fields now green where the autumn-sown wheat is thickly sprouting, the air resounds with his long and beautiful spring call, one of the choicest notes of the season.

Not our most ardent and reckless airman dare venture the “stunts” he accomplishes without hesitation, tumbling, corkscrewing, fairly hurling himself earthward; but he never crashes, never loses control. When the dance is over he drops lightly, literally “light as a bird,” and raising his long crest runs towards his somewhat unresponsive mate. He has done his turn; does she not think him clever?’ 

So my main today - unusually a collage - tries to capture something of that aerial display.