Movement in the row of false acacia along the field margin catches my eye. I've been aware of the drumming for several days, have puzzled at its unfamiliarity – a little too long, something of a dying fall rather than an abrupt ending. Is this the source of it? Even at a hundred yards with the naked eye I can see what it isn't – too dark for a greater spotted woodpecker, though the right size, and no red. A clear white stripe runs the length of its back, wings appear flecked rather than distinctly barred. I'm puzzled, focus my glass.
In the standard field guide only one bird fits – and its description fits exactly. But there's a problem. On the distribution maps for three-toed woodpeckers, the population of this very sedentary species ends perhaps 200 miles to the east. I find myself wishing fellow diarist and naturalist Mark Cocker were here to confirm and advise, for a certain stigma attaches to uncorroborated and anomalous sightings. Instead, my bird having flown – in familiar spread-winged dipping woodpecker-style – I walk over to the acacias. Small patches stripped of bark indicate activity, and a stream of ants up and down the trunk explains attraction.
I'm assailed by insecurity. Perhaps I'm mistaken in what I saw? But the distinguishing features in the good view I had were perfectly clear. I suspect all bird lovers have felt this trepidation at times – some rushing into assertion, others remaining in a state of perplexity, as I am. What was it doing here? I know something of this region – have had other experiences like this: a pine grosbeak two years running on the telephone wire, of which I had the longest, clearest view. About that, too, I feel the need to be reticent – it's a bird of the northern pine forests, not the Pyrenean foothills. Strange pastime, birding! I take stuff to the hamlet's recycling depot. As I arrive, a hoopoe flounces down to the field alongside and, crest outspread, studiously feasts on worms.