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Walking along the North Norfolk ridge the other day and a glance out to sea stopped me in my tracks. There around a mile offshore was something that I haven’t seen for many many years; and I’ve never seen one as good. Snaking its way into the clouds was a water spout. The vortex was whipping up the sea at its base and tearing it into the heavens.
As the column tracked east it got weaker and after 20 minutes or so eventually died.
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The Swifts have all but gone; just a few straddlers. Each day that passes I’m seeing fewer and fewer hirundines. The Swallows are sitting on the wires strung between the fence posts around the cattle enclosure here on the hill. The House Martins are perched in neat rows on the telephone lines and the Sand Martins are fly catching in tumbling groups over the reservoir. All are surely contemplating the journey south ahead of them; feeling the urge to migrate. Soon they will all be gone … until next year.
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Letter From Norfolk 