Staines Moor

I had been avoiding lone wanderings since I moved into the area. The Coronavirus pandemic, combined with the fact that my office was based near where Sarah Everard had been attacked, had diminished my confidence in exploring alone. But to experience wildlife, one cannot remain indoors, so my journey took me to a suburban park with crisp packets crackling underfoot and Wood Pigeons sauntering suspiciously through uncut winter grass.

I came across a muttering woman in her early seventies, training her Yorkshire terrier and picking up aforementioned crisp packets as I moved closer to the creaking apple tree branches and nettles on the outskirts of the playing field. I struck up a conversation and realised that she was a fellow animal enthusiast. Right on cue, as she was about to tell me about a local birding site, we both paused as we heard an unfamiliar chirping. It had the same four-part rhythm as a Wood Pigeon’s KooKoo, Koo-Koo, but more high-pitched and much faster. I had no idea what it could be. My birding friend gave me a knowing look and directed me towards a thorn-ridden path that I had overlooked until then.

In a clearing that opened up five minutes along the trail, I found an information board notifying me that I was at Staines Moor, a biological site of special scientific interest. The board noted that it was an area that Skylarks were particularly fond of. I wanted my high-pitched singer to be one of these. Wouldn’t that be a thrill on one of my first ventures back into nature?

As I followed the path further, I was confronted with an open plain of land, so expansive in fact that it occurred to me that I had stumbled into the wild. This wasn't Narnia. I could still very clearly hear the nearby Heathrow Airport, but I could also smell the peaty moorland scents and hear layers and layers of birdsong. Flat riverbeds interrupted my ambling, clear and shallow, with peach-pudding-coloured gravel sitting just beneath the water.

As I took a moment to sit on a decaying log, I felt watched. To my delight, I realised that I was sharing the company of a Yellow Wagtail, something I knew only after frantically flipping through my well-loved pocket-sized RSPB bird guide. The Wagtail bobbed its head in confusion at my sudden appearance. With a quick twitch, it went about its business, flying into the distance in dipping and rising sequences.

As a Coot honked at me from its fortress of reeds, I realised that I was also being watched by the river community. Three Little Egrets were standing guard over the riverbanks. Unlike the Wagtail, they remained motionless while passing judgment, but once they had accepted me, they went about their day, stalking the shallows for fish.

My visit to this hidden moorland was short-lived as it began to get dark. I had gained courage on my adventure, but still wasn't comfortable finding my way back to civilisation after sunset. As I slowly made my way back, I was greeted by the soft honks of two sleepy Cygnets. Their parents were downstream, but they were floating lazily along the banks, secure enough to observe my presence with half-open, half-alert eyes.

In the mottled dusk, I returned to civilisation via dark paths with bushes that I kept my eye on, dark corners that fuelled my paranoia, and night creatures that were as suspicious of me as I was of them. My sense of unease had returned, and it stayed until I arrived in the human world. Another open space, in a different type of wilderness.