13.
It is easy to midjudge
numbers where intricate
movement is concerned,
but there could have
been no less, and
probably many more, than
a hundred Martins weaving
a pattern of great beauty
and subtlety, and above
all, unity. It was a
single ever changing
pattern carried on in
complete silence. I tried to capture a single
bird with my binoculars to make identification
certain, but rarely succeeded. Momentarily I
assessed as many Sand as House Martins,
relatively small, in batlike flight, but it
was hard to clinch the issue. There was no
question of writing a note, and I cannot
remember now whether I considered Swifts or
Swallows in the reckoning. It is of no
account. It was one of those occasions when
wonder takes over, and aesthetic enjoyment
overrides scientific accuracy. I felt myself
becoming caught up in it all, visually and
mentally weaving with the birds, yet so
earthbound, so utterly clumsy and rooted.
More than once I felt sufficiently dizzy to
be obliged to lower my glasses and regain
two-legged balance lest I should be enticed
to an undignified belly-flop into the marsh
at my feet. I was no longer detached as an
observer, but involved as a would-be parti-
cipator .
My time was up, but not before a strange
thing happened to underline the theme of
participation. I realised that some of the
birds, as their flight brought them momen-
tarily near me, were approaching closer than
they had at the beginning. A few more