Sheltered, but not sheltered enough, down in the steep dendritic stream valley, the tall trees did not protect us as the wind became colder and a deeper shade of grey crept up over the wooded crest of The Ridge; complacent from the recent warmth I had worn no gloves.
The park, as I have often claimed, was full of birds, especially dense with Blue & Great Tits. Wrens were everywhere and by no means silent; the shrub layer of bramble, the tangled roots and sandstone overhangs suit them. I recall that I titled a sunnier park post “Surrounded By Wrens”.
The one area that was not busy with little birds was the wildest bit, up under the road viaduct, perhaps because of the way the valley there is nearly throttled by housing either side. Taking advantage of recently installed boardwalks, we reached Little Roar waterfall, the first time I’d been there for many years, but apart from a Goldcrest singing hidden in holly and a Stock Dove throbbing in a tall beech it was surprisingly quiet.
There are a lot of Goldcrests in Alexandra Park – they like the native evergreens and exotic conifers – and they specialise in sticking behind trunks, boughs and needle-bearing branches. 10×42 binoculars are not great for watching them either, since you struggle to focus as they zip hither and thither or whirr like little helicopters down through the ivy macrame. The character-building struggle makes it all the more rewarding, however, when one does Show Well.
On the Swannery there was just one Mute Swan, a bronzy young Cormorant, a bunch of variegated Black-headed & Herring Gulls and 3 gleaming Lesser Black-backs fresh back from their N African hols.
But it’s the Grey Wagtail which for me most characterises the park, whether for its shrill song echoing beneath the graffitied arches of the bridge, the flash of vivid sulphur as one is displaced by a (well-behaved!) dog, or the improbable elegance and brilliance of the female we watched at close range as it wagged its way across a sludgy settling pond, indifferent to the garbage accumulated there.
Every so often a shrill wave of alarm calls swept through the treetops but only once did we catch sight through the twig tracery of not one, not a pair, but three displaying Sparrowhawks wheeling with butterfly wingbeats in the cold wind.
We saw 33 species.