Titchwell dozed in the afternoon sun. Ruff wandered along the muddy edges while hundreds of other waders loafed on the islands- oystercatchers spread out near some large gulls, godwits just off a spur switching like weather vanes as the wind began to strengthen. A party of terns settled down, only to be blown up into the air. They whipped across the lagoon then tacked back to the start, grounding alongside the Black-headed Gulls. Three Greenshank called as they sped out onto the freshmarsh, leaving their cousins the Redshanks to sleep in a sizeable gathering on a samphire covered mudbar.
As the evening wore on a Spoonbill flew over, and as I turned to the west, a flock of more than a dozen more lazily circled in the pink sky, disappearing near the glittering creek.
There was no stint. Knot, Dunlin, Golden and grey Plover all vied for my attention, but as the day faded I realised I was not going to get what I'd come for. But that doesn't matter for now.