Tuesday was one of those still days when the wind drops and a lazy mist gradually reveals the dewy morning. while surveying out on the Nene washes I found a disparate collection of migrants caught in the lull. Five wheatears snapped at small flies on the bank while a spotted redshank plucked across the shallow water. A whimbrel preened and then flew tentatively down the wash, and two fieldfare perched atop a bare-limbed ash tree, as if unwilling to accept the new season has started. Closer to home, at the sailing club at Roswell pits, evidence of this new season rattled briefly from another ash tree; a lesser whitethroat greeting the morning with a simple refrain before dashing for cover in hte nearby brambles.
