In May, as dusk & temperatures fall on nearby sandlings heath, the heather-tussocked landscape becomes an expansive backdrop for the enigmatic calls of the nightjar; our magical, tardy visitor from the hot south. A gentle faced, doe-eyed creature, difficult to spot in its tweedy suit, but if in luck found from the male’s churring call, & clockwork, percussive clicking into the darkening gloom.
After a portly, daytime slumber, this secretive ally presents (just for me) a mystery soundscape echoing across the darkening heathland, then feasts on moths & insects into the falling light.

Where does my ‘fern owl’, my ‘moon-eater’ go by day? The sharp, dawn light now cuts, the ground begins to pulse; bracing itself against the heat. And my elusive, fair weather friend has again deserted me.