A flock of over a hundred Golden Plover dropped in through the dissipating mist as I arrived at Welney yesterday morning, nervously quivering as they settled on the muddy pool. they had circled on stiff wings five or six times, gradually getting lower and lower until they were sure it was safe to alight. Once grounded they jostled and shuffled until each bird had found its place, and then, while some watched, others splashed and bustled in the shallow water. All around them loafed the brown forms of wigeon, shoveler and teal; arranged in rows and huddles like so many stones placed by an ancient people to mark the place for a forgotten reason.
