Cormorants, kittiwakes and nearly no wind

4th March 2024

Buckets and windscreens are frozen. Low meadows have light dustings of sparkling frost and ethereal mist wisps. Early this morning feels like a vintage film showing the end of winter.

It is March. The sun has arrived to transform and transpose. Suddenly high and bold, confidently shaking its tail feathers over land and sea. In this eastern part where it rises first and before us, fresh and unclouded (mostly), it is full of adolescent spring.

On the beach, we have two to three degrees. It is possible to feel the warmth of the sun, just, but what makes it bearable is the lack of wind. The flag droops around the flagpole and there is barely breeze enough to make a shivering shrimp out of a damp body .

The sea, although some of the early mist still exists towards the horizon, looks like California in high summer. A glassy, gently rippling pool with the very occasional decorative wave, a shimmering reflection of light all the way to shore.

A cormorant is fishing, and most delightfully, the kittiwakes are back. Returning from the North Atlantic, they come between March and August to nest in tightly-packed family groups around the lowest edge of the old rig; remarkably one of the most significant nesting sites in the East of England.

Kittiwakes are great. Mid-sized flirty little seabirds with white heads, grey bodies and black-dipped tail feathers. They eat only only sand eels and small fish and will fly miles to get them. Mistaking Kittiwakes for the ever-present gulls that bin dive or steal chips on the seafront will hurt their feelings badly.

This morning, the sea water temperature is six point nine degrees. It’s a trompe d’oeil, the sight doesn’t quite reflect reality. Wonderfully beautiful with minimal movement to distract you, it’s easy to overlook the fact that the water is still extremely cold. It grabs your chest. I make a noise to take my mind off it. It’s not comfortable and you don’t want to hang around in it for very long.

Professor Peru and I agree that we must have been in at least fifteen minutes waiting for the others to practice their timed five minutes. We became self-appointed inspectors of the sea floor exit condition — plucky and brave navigating today’s tricky dips without falling over.

Mrs Professor Peru and the Canadian soon follow while Bikini, as always, swims back and forth, wearing out her webbed gloves.

We dress and slope off, reminding ourselves how lucky we are.