Raucous raucous? Anser anser came the response. Greylags. Cygnus cygnus, the signal. Whoopers.
Arriving at the loch I am met by half a dozen mini icebergs - those solid triangular white blocks that can only be swans inspecting the waters below; balanced by splayed black webbings.
Taking the wider view I gasp. The loch is busy. Swans dotted everywhere. Mutes and whoopers, family groupings. Youngsters pining for true plumage. Flotillas of geese on the far side.
Mesmerising, in sight and in sound. A family arrives, apologising for a chattering toddler spoiling the peace. It is far from quiet, the littl'un disturbs nothing, her wonder to be encouraged. There is cronking and honking; there are landings and lift-offs. The deep and solitary cronk is the mute, the whoopers more vocal. The geese yammer out the chorus in the background. We have the full symphony.
The sounds of loud flapping and slapping carry over the loch. As one, a group rises, runs across the surface, wings beating, picking up the rhythm. And they rise, gracefully, gliding above the water, gaining height, honking their farewells to the languid beat of wings.
The return is a lesson in calm. Undercarriage deployed, gliding, losing height, setting down. Wings fold as rumps settle. At rest, as one. Barely a ripple.
The skies fill with chattering. High above, the flight leader brings his squadron over, trailing far behind. Line after line, wing to wing. Skeins, and more skeins. On passage. Each calling to their wingmate. Pinkies. anser brachyrhyncus. Hundreds. More hundreds. The air is alive. Grey skies.
A raft of greylags rises from the water; they fly past. Higher pitched, from lower skies. Smaller groups.
There is another gathering, above the loch. Small groups arrive, smaller birds, quieter. They mass, form a throng. And they dance. In front of the hide. Choreographed as one. Murmuration. Starlings. Mesmeration.
The light begins to fade. That gloaming hour. Shifting fades to grey. Dull skies descending. The murmuration takes its leave. To where I know not. We have been blessed; the full repertoire. Swans linger, though in the twilight the orange and the yellow bills meld into one; whoopers and mutes become simply swans; pinkies and greylags, geese.
The camera loses focus, the cataracts lose potency. All becomes grey, and dull. Light takes its leave. The water borrows the hues of the skies; trees on the far banks become silhouettes. And still the skeins pass in waves across the skies above.
The spine tingled again, returning the following day. Dull it had been, and getting wetter as I drove west towards Lossie. A gap appeared in the gloom, clouds receding, sun spreading. And as I arrived lochside and took a seat in the hide, so the waters bathed in sunshine. Calm descended. Fewer swans, but serenity all around.
Drifting in the sunshine, the only soundtrack the rippling of water and the soft paddling of wide webbed feet. Three flights arrive, whoopers whooshing in to splashdown in formation, gliding and settling. Among them were a clutch of youngsters, excited to make it down safely. And so the honking and the cronking, the bugling, begins.
The light slowly fades, heralding the arrival of the starlings. They come in droves, and more droves. Small groups join in; we have a massive murmuration, significantly more than the previous day. And the party begins. They display against the grey.
And as the starlings steal the scene so the swans begin to chatter. High above skeins of geese drift over. To my left a robin chatters, a fragile sound, descant to the wider choir.
The pack gathers and turns, rising, falling, swirling. At times they nudge closer to the hide, close enough to hear the whirring of collective wings thrashing the air. They entertain the three watchers for an hour and more. Slowly we lose the light. The first batch peels from the pack, and collectively dives to the reed beds on the far bank. Ah, so that is where they go. The rest party on, for a while longer. Before joining them in the reeds.
On the water the swans are joined by rafts of greylags, arriving in packs, flying over the hide to circle and make their entrance, all splashing feet and honking. Raucous takes over as the darkness descends. Cacophony, rising on silent air. Swans, and geese on the water; starlings drawing the eye. I suspect the otter may have been out to play, to fish, chuckling away, whilst all eyes and lenses were trained on the skies.
Spynie Loch. In all its glory. Anser anser, and cygnus cygnus. But not forgetting sturnus vulgaris. For their aerobatics stole the show, despite the noise from the orchestra pit. What a huge privilege to be allowed a peek at, and to eavesdrop on, these triple migrations; in the gloaming.
