The Meaning of Geese

I do not know Nick Acheson. I have met him though - in the fashion that many of us 'meet' these days - as a fellow inhabitant of Twitter. My memory tells me it was the spring of 2020, with COVID-19 placing unprecedented constraints upon the freedoms of normal life, when I stumbled across Nick's Twitter feed. A wonderful hotch-potch of cottage-garden flowers, duck-pond trivia and the characterful hybrid offspring of a Pheasant and a something else. It was more than that of course, but whatever, it was heartening, upbeat stuff, and I was hooked.

A few weeks ago, Nick's first book was published. Buying it was a no-brainer...

On the face of it, this book is about geese, about places geese live, and about people who are fascinated, inspired and helplessly smitten by geese. The narrative vehicle is a North Norfolk winter diary kept by the author, detailing his two-wheeled pursuit of wild geese - and some not so wild - through a sometimes punishing season of COVID lockdowns and trialsome weather. However, the book is much, much more than a diary...

I found The Meaning of Geese oddly affecting. Woven through it are threads both joyous and melancholy. It is informative and thought-provoking. And, for what it's worth, Nick Acheson comes across as a thoroughly decent human being.

I enjoyed this book a lot. So much so that, when I had finished reading it, I resolved there and then to send Nick a direct message via Twitter to tell him so. Well, later perhaps. Or tomorrow.

Ah, good intentions...

When it comes to geese, my home for the last 20 years is very different to North Norfolk. In fact I have never lived anywhere that wild geese winter. Sure, there are Brents either side of me - on the Fleet and on the Exe Estuary - but I almost never travel to either. Locally they are passage birds only, a minor seawatching prize. It has been a very long time since I last witnessed a big, shuffling flock of Brents on the North Norfolk coast, or the vast, sky-scribbling movement of Pinkfeet heading out to the Wash on a golden winter's evening. Yet in my head I can easily hear both, and their voices were a constant mental accompaniment as I read The Meaning of Geese.

This morning's early visit to West Bay was thwarted by steady rain, poor visibility and a lack of birds, so I made a start on last night's nocmig recording instead. Whipping through an Audacity file in 30-second bites doesn't take too long as a rule. Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing...er...wait...no, that's not anything either... And so on. Until I got to a point which coincided with 19:15 yesterday evening. A bunch of blurry, low-frequency squiggles in roughly the place where speech registers. Not speech though. I had a listen...

I recognised it instantly. Faint, but I was 99% sure. The throaty burble of a Brent Goose flock. A nocmig first for me, so I checked it out via the WhatsApp group in order to eliminate that 1%. And here they are...

Listening to that distant echo of Cley Marshes brought The Meaning of Geese immediately to mind, and a neglected good intention. Later this morning, over a coffee and shortbread, I composed an overdue message...