Cantering along the Attenborough Walk, the sky is pristinely blue. The odd cloud that does pass over is not feathery like yesterday’s, but a billowing tower, casting the pastures and reeds into softly dappled sunlight. Today the landscape is filled with the grumbling murmurs of wigeon and teal, leaving a bassy hum resounding in my ears, interrupted occasionally by the abrupt piercing shrieks of greylag geese.
Over the grazing-marsh, a lapwing engages in its maverick song-flight, twisting and contorting like some circus escape artist, but with all the elegance and grace of a ballerina. As it tumbles lower, its body flashes in a kaleidoscope of colour: gaudy purples, glossy greens, gallant blues. On the distant reedbed pools are small clusters of avocets ‒ mere snowy blobs undulating as the heat-haze shivers. This morning, it is not us and them: I am on nature’s level.
A single cog in the gloriously interconnected landscape of Cley and Salthouse Marshes, and very proud to be so.
Cley is Norfolk’s premier birding site, and I don’t apply that title lightly. From the first pinkfeet of dawn to the last singing reed warbler of dusk, on a visit to Cley you are constantly bombarded by wildlife. I could go on to list the hundreds of species that call this reserve home, and the hundreds more that stop over to feed on migration, but I’m not going to. Today I will take you with me on a walk around the reserve, and we can explore the vast variety of habitats here. So pop your walking boots on, put on a sickly green camo jacket and let’s begin…
Scattered among the roosting avocets are a troop of clay-brown and snouty-faced waders. Ruff. There is something comical about their movements, gingerly treading over the open pluff mud as if they might fall through at any moment, as their bodies rock back and forth. By today the Biscoff-coloured juveniles I saw last summer have matured, and now their drab plumage tones blend in perfectly with the saltmarsh sediment. The males, in preparation for the breeding season ahead, have started to adopt flakes of crisp white among the sea of darker feathers: not a proper ‘ruff’ yet, but in a month it will be.
By the time I reach the Iron Road, the soft plinking calls of avocets has reached a crescendo. Every now and again a meadow pipit bursts up from the tussocks to my right, letting out a strained piping wheeze. Skirting the verge of Swan Pool (or as I like to call it, Swan Lake) is a redshank. Far more nimble than the sluggish ruff, it patters gently on a pair of slender amber legs. Soon those legs will be bright crimson. Soon.
As I walk down the track towards the sea, I can already hear the soft clunking and scratching of pebbles scattering, dislodged by other walkers drinking in the views on this pristine morning. I stop for a moment to do the same. I’ve never seen the New Cut from this side before. Since it was built in late 2023, it has already seen a great reception from the local wildlife, and today a great egret fishes here. Partway through its pre-breeding moult, nestled amongst its snowy white head plumes is a lime-green bill, streamlined perfectly to impale its quarry of sticklebacks and sandeels. Its feet, gently tapping the surface to lure in an unsuspecting fish, have worn to an earthy burnt umber.
A wary species, the egret soon erupts from its bankside perch, leaving nothing but spindly, arachnoid footprints in the peat.
The sea is a choppy and wild one today, with the waves’ crests arcing high, and shattering in a foamy white burst when they collide with the glassy sapphire surface. Over on the northern horizon, the silhouettes of skeletal wind turbines shimmer in the heat haze.
Even over the violent, untamed ocean, signs of impending summer are detectable: a great crested grebe whizzes on whirring wings over the surf, flashing bold white wing patches as it flies. Today it truly lives up to its name, its flared cheeks and crown-sides flushed vivid tangerine and eye glowing wine-red. Even further out, under the guise of rising air currents, a blurry gannet skims the horizon line. Through the shaky lenses of
my binoculars and among bouts of rolling waves, all I can make out is a white shape gliding stiffly, with wingtips seemingly dipped in black ink. I talk to people a lot about how ‘listing’ bird species can allow you to become a little detached from the individual, and this is the perfect example. That gannet has flown hundreds of miles, all the way from Bass Rock in Scotland, for the privilege of fishing for sandeels off Cley beach. What a journey that single bird has made. Not every gannet is so tirelessly committed to the role of parenthood that they would fly all that way.
As I step off the unforgiving shingle of Cley Bank and drop back onto the soft clay track down East Bank, signifying the
last stretch of walkway back to the visitor centre, my calves are screaming for respite. Despite this, the long trek feels well worth it. It isn’t every day a lapwing displays for you, you see an egret fishing, or a Scottish gannet makes your acquaintance. It’s been a blessing. My last look at Cley, before the long drive home, sums it all up. An endless wild landscape of reedbeds, pools, grasslands and copses.
It is never just about the one species ‒ it’s about all of it. The value of stepping back and just drinking it all in; it hits you like a freight train in moments like these.
I have never had a visit to Cley that didn’t put a smile on my face. And if you want a little pro tip, I recommend a hearty lunch at the Dun Cow overlooking Salthouse Marshes, or a delicious roast at the George and Dragon ‒ both pretty good ways to finish up.
I hope you enjoyed our little saunter around Cley Marshes. Maybe you’ve been motivated to take a wander there this summer. Maybe you’ll become addicted to it, and scrabble at any chance to go back, like I have. Maybe you’re too busy, and if so, I hope this article managed to whisk you away to somewhere heavenly, for a bit of brief respite from everything. If just one mote of Cley’s vast wealth of wildlife put a smile on your face, then I am proud to have done my job at convincing you to love nature..
