Bird Migration

[This article was inspired by a recent posting to Fretmarks on this subject]
For a number of years, I ran the Ringing Station in Christchurch Harbour under the auspices of CHOG. The harbour is almost enclosed on the seaward side by a promontory called Hengistbury Head, on the lee side of which is the bird sanctuary and a mixed broadleaf woodland. It is an ideal place for migration studies, as are all the promontories jutting into the English Channel where migrants can make landfall in the Spring, or fatten up before migrating south in the Autumn.
I loved it. In the Spring, having sniffed the weather suitable for falls the evening before, I would get down to the Ringing Station before dawn, set the nets - you have to be as cunning as a poacher to know where to set them - and wait to see what had arrived. "Phylloscs" (Willow Warbler and Chiffchaff mostly), "Sylvias" (Garden Warblers, Blackcaps, Whitethroats) and some blue riband species like Redstarts, the males outrageously beautiful in their breeding plumage. And, in the late summer, getting into the reedbeds in early morning for the "Acros" (mainly Reed and Sedge Warblers, but sometimes an Aquatic or two. Joy!); or on suitable evenings to work the roosts - Sand Martins, Swallows, Yellow Wagtails...
It was about migration, but, like Pluvialis of Fretmarks, I had migration in my head and maybe my heart, but not in my bones, Until some years later: early autumn, the north Norfolk Coast, perfect weather for a fall. I was with a good mate, James Cater. We arrived early, in the fog, We walked out to Thornham Point, in the fog. We couldn't see a thing, in the fog. And then, towards eleven o'clock, the fog cleared, quite quickly too, like a curtain being lifted. My hand to God, we had to tread carefully to avoid stepping on the hundreds of Goldcrests that dropped out of the sky and plonked themselves down exhausted on the dunes. All around us, birds of different species were arriving. On every bush, on every fencepost, there were birds: finches, buntings, warblers and the occasional rarity...
It was the sort of moment when your hair on the back of your neck stands on end, and shivers run down your spine. I can't tell it well, but it reminded me - but only later when I relived the moment - of the first time I heard Janos Starker playing the Bach Suites for unaccompanied cello.
These little feathery things, so tiny, so vulnerable, driven by the urge to survive, to move, to get to where the living was better.
Humbling. Magical.