A whistling on the wind
Long after the snap, crackle and pop of Fireworks Night fizzles out, softer, lilting sounds will dominate the darkness.
Listen carefully in town or deep in the countryside and the whispers of redwing flocks on the move will resonate overhead.
The flight calls of these delicate thrushes have a distinctive hissing and sizzling sound, reminiscent of red hot pokers being plunged into cold water.
Redwing migration is in full flow these early November nights, with countless numbers dominating the nocturnal airspace as they head for winter sanctuary in southern climes.
English novelist John Fowles documented the thrills of witnessing redwing migration decades back with this dispatch from the French city of Poitiers:
“Suddenly, I became aware of countless thin voices, the unmistakable whistle of redwings. Everywhere. In the sky. On the roofs of the houses. A curious cry they have, a very thin, high-pitched glistening whistle; an inbreath… Strange remote beautiful sounds. So absolute, unexpected, and so full of special meaning for me.”
You might wonder how the author would have described the recent mass passage of 480,000 redwings from Scandinavia, piloting over the UK in a 24-hour period bound for Iberia and North Africa.
I was lucky to witness this spectacular from a chalk headland high in the Chiltern Hills, where thousands of redwings skimmed over my head, silvery calls tinkling on the soft breeze.
Occasionally, there were the nasal sneezes of bramblings, another refugee from Scandinavia looking for a winter berth, and a single ring ouzel joined the throng.
Such was the redwings’ purpose, they never alighted to give views of their distinctive plumage, an autumnal blend of foxy browns.
Turn the clock forward a few weeks and fresh waves of nomadic redwings from the heart of Siberia will begin to touch down in Britain. This time to stay and feast on our energy-rich berry bushes.
Redwings sound like red hot pokers being plunged into cold water