The Nod

It was a very grey day again today so I set to this morning and got on with some course work. After a fortifying bowl of homemade, banish the bugs, celeriac and cavolo nero soup, I put my waders on and headed straight onto the marsh. I headed down The Drove and once over Mow Creek I aimed for The Nod. Before long it was getting busy, the single voice of one curlew became a warbling crescendo of many, interspersed by the darting of unidentifiable waders and the constant peeping calls of oyster catchers. As I arrived at Norton creek huge clouds of widgeon took off and swirled above before settling again, satisfied with my profuse apologies for disturbing them. Then there is that moment of anxiety and a prayer to the mud gods as I try to find a place to cross without getting sucked down before being released to the joy of walking the sandy creek at low tide; a place briefly given to us before being reclaimed by the tide once again. As I looked to the horizon the ghost of Overy Windmill was a suggestion in the distance, it was there more by knowing it to be there than by actually being there. The light was starting to fade and I needed to make my way back. Retracing my steps the marsh harrier overhead that had counted me in now counted me out and squadron upon squadron of geese filled the sky heading for their overnight roost.