YOU ARE STANDING AT the edge of a vast river estuary. To your right you can see the small seaside village of Findhom; to your left you can make out the distant mountains of the Highlands. Directly behind you is a wooden birdwatching pavilion slowly falling into disrepair.It’s a cold winter morning and a low mist is hovering over the surrounding saltmarsh. The mournful cries of curlews and oystercatchers stand out from the incessant murmur of thousands of pinkfooted geese further out, which appear as a mass of swirling grey. Having spent the night roosting on the mudflats, the birds are taking a while to warm up. Their calls are at first muted and staccato, with the occasional louder “wink’ echoing through the melee. As the sun climbs higher, the light creeps across the nearby airfield and gradually the hubbub crescendos into a flurry of feathers and noisy calls.
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