AThe moorland valley was covered in dense fog at dawn. From my garden, I could only see submerged forms of scattered stone buildings, soft silhouettes from trees that sat on the hillsides, and the light disc of the rising Sun like a pill dissolving into the mist. I sat and listened, waiting for the sound that brought me outside.
It came back again, cutting through damp air, two notes repeated in the rhythm of a heartbeat. Cuck-oo. Cuck-oo. Cuck-oo.
It must have arrived in night. It announced its arrival at dawn DartmoorWith such stoutness it almost silenced the chorus from smaller birds. I hoped other early risers in village would listen in as it was too important to ignore.
Its simple, clear song seemed to be able to carry miles. It was a beautiful sign of spring. I loved to imagine it spreading across the country and county. If I could, it would have shaken the nation and urged everyone else to listen. Can you hear the sound?
We are blessed to have cuckoos every single year on this western fringe of Dartmoor. numbers dwindleIt is a relief for everyone when they return. This annual visitor will be less welcome each year. It is especially sad for this eccentric spring celebrity, with its humorous clock connections and run-and-gun attitude. Parenting.
The cuckoo is one of a few bird species that even non-experts recognize by song alone. This is a loss of connection to nature that is slowly being lost.
I got in my car and drove the short distance to reach the moor. I drove the short distance to the moor, closing my windows and listening for its voice in mist. It was difficult to see the gap and it was not worth trying to cross it on foot. It didn’t matter. It is the distinctive sound of a cuckoo that is more important than its sight.
I sat in the layby with the engine turned off, taking in the sounds and then watching the bird move on unseen. Gradually the bird’s call became fainter, a faint pulse in the fog.
