Down in the bay they waited for the tide. Nat watched them, and he watched the seabirds too. Flocks of starlings, rustling like silk, flew to fresh pasture, driven by the same necessity of movement, and the smaller birds, the finches and the larks, scattered from tree to hedge as if compelled. Restlessness drove them to the skies again.īlack and white, jackdaw and gull, mingled in strange partnership, seeking some sort of liberation, never satisfied, never still. Great flocks of them came to the peninsula, restless, uneasy, spending themselves in motion now wheeling, circling in the sky, now settling to feed on the rich new-turned soil, but even when they fed it was as though they did so without hunger, without desire. In autumn those that had not migrated overseas but remained to pass the winter were caught up in the same driving urge, but because migration was denied them followed a pattern of their own.

In spring the birds flew inland, purposeful, intent they knew where they were bound, the rhythm and ritual of their life brooked no delay. Autumn was best for this, better than spring. Then, at midday, he would pause and eat the pasty that his wife had baked for him, and sitting on the cliff's edge would watch the birds. It pleased him when he was given a bank to build up, or a gate to mend at the far end of the peninsula, where the sea surrounded the farmland on either side. He worked three days a week, and they gave him the lighter jobs: hedging, thatching, repairs to the farm buildings.Īlthough he was married, with children, his was a solitary disposition he liked best to work alone. Nat Hocken, because of a wartime disability, had a pension and did not work full-time at the farm. The earth was rich where the plow had turned it.

The leaves had lingered on the trees, golden red, and the hedgerows were still green. Until then the autumn had been mellow, soft. On December the third the wind changed overnight and it was winter.

The birds daphne du maurier