The sight of six whooper swans high overhead during a walk in Fermanagh’s Necarne estate, accompanied by their ancient call, signalled we are now deep into autumn and close to our ancestors’ celebration marking the end of the harvest season at Samhain, and the start of their winter.
This is the time when, as Meath poet Francis Ledwidge wrote, “leafy winds are blowing cold”, and “Like scattered fire the wild fruit strews/The ground beneath the blowing tree”. Eala ghlórach, Irish for the whooper, ‘the noisy swan’, is arriving with thousands of other geese and waders to winter here along with our resident species.
A few days before this, I spent some hours around Murvagh, close to Laghey in southwest Donegal, its long shallow beach, sand dune system and tidal mudflats, earning its Special Area of Conservation designation. Also nearby is Murvagh forest and trails.
The Irish, ‘Murbhach’ translates as the ‘level land along seacoast’ and well describes its north reaching arm sheltering the islets and mudflats of inner Donegal Bay. It was after finishing a long restorative walk on the beach, I drove along a narrow road and unwittingly came to a small pier and open area of mudflats and sand banks at low tide, an oasis rich in birdlife and much more.
Scanning the area, it soon became clear the nutrient rich sands, muds and shallow pools were a magnet for various wading species such as, redshank, grey heron, the little egret again with its bright yellow feet, and curlew, their bubbling calls carrying far in the clear, still air. In the distance, mallard, teal and other duck species fed, while unexpectedly, I spotted a dozen harbour or common seals, hauled out on a mud bank enjoying the soft autumn sun. Their colours ranged from blonde, grey with dark spots, to black and they lay in different poses, including the almost comical looking curved position where heads and tails are both in the air simultaneously.
Another wader, the bar-tailed godwit also caught my attention. Resembling a smaller version of the curlew these birds have a long neck and legs with grey-brown streaked plumage, but the beak is long, straight and very slightly upturned, allowing it to probe deeply into the mud for aquatic worms and molluscs. In flight the bird reveals a long white rump and finely barred tail, which distinguishes it from the black tailed godwit with its solid black tail.
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The bar tailed, like its relative, winters here, arriving in huge numbers from Scandinavia. Guilbneach stríocearrach, Irish for the bird, translates as sharp beaked (guilbneach) and stripe tailed, while it was also called the ‘godwin’ in Ireland. The origin of its English name is less certain, but it’s thought it may have come from the Old English ‘godwiht’ a combination of ‘good’ and ‘wiht’ meaning ‘living creature’, possibly referring to the bird presenting as a good omen or being good to eat.
In Shore-Birds of Ireland (2009), wildlife writer and film maker Jim Wilson noted that the bird holds the record for the longest non-stop flight. “In 2007 a satellite-tagged bird flew 11,580 kilometres between Alaska and New Zealand in just nine days,” doubling its body mass in preparation for the journey.
I felt privileged to see these special birds which like so many others have travelled from the far north to winter here amidst our coastal communities, often in secluded bays and inlets, like inner Donegal Bay, a haven for birds and other wildlife.
Later that evening, I thought of the seals, by then in the warm embrace of Atlantic waters, filling and replenishing the bay.
