On a grey day this week the wind was whipping in off the sea and over the cliffs. As we waited for the birds to shuffle a little closer across the tilled field my hands began to stiffen. The cold was almost unbearable.
I was occupying my mind with why these Lapland Buntings always prefer such open places when one flew over us and landed in the grass nearby. At last one was reasonably close. It flattened itself, found a hidden haven from the screaming north easterly amid the rough grass and promptly disappeared. It didn’t stay there long before it stood erect, took a look around and then flew back to the fine till of the winter wheat field. It showed better here and soon danced close enough for a few photographs … just!
Letter From Norfolk 
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