Easter Sunday: Hot and sunny, skylarks singing, early swallows flitting through the heather valley, buzzards circling, kestrels suspended above forest clearings, peregrines happily on eggs. And the harriers? It was as if they had never been here. No shrieking for food from the female and no sign of Mister.
Easter Monday: Male harrier back on site, skydancing urgently. Speculation mounts. Is our female now incubating a full clutch and the male is trying to woo a second mate?
Just when we needed fine whether to monitor the site closely, thick fog rolls in and doesn’t budge for two days. Visibility is thirty metres, fifty when a gust of wind momentarily clears the air. We sit in the fog and listen. And listen. But don’t hear anything.