The collective noun for House Martins is 'richness'. We learn from nature, and as the writer of Ecclesiasties says 'There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens'.
Early one September morning I walked up to the high point overlooking Hooken Stack and out on the blue expanse of Lyme Bay. Dew still on the ground, the sun had risen and was already well over Golden Cap, and Portland in the distance clear as a bell.
It was quiet, peaceful, typically Autumn, but having just passed the Lookout I came upon an aerial display, a flock of House Martins in all their 'richness', jerkily soaring and swooping around the cliff edge in their blue-black and white livery. Immediately taken up with this, I watched as the Martins continued their aerobatic masterclass topping up with insects on the wing.
Three bird watchers approached armed with binoculars fresh from spotting peregrines and I remarked on how the Martins were gathering, one replied, 'Yes, they will go when the weather's nice'.
I lingered, captured by this special moment before descending the Undercliff.
The next morning, another beautiful one, I returned to this spot, half expecting to see them again, but they were gone.
I pondered as I looked out across the rippling expanse, fishing boats at hand, container ships on the far horizon, Brittany beyond.
The time had been right, they had gone, the wonder of it, each the weight of a double A battery, headed to their winter home under African skies.
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