Thank god (wits) some birds don’t think

EXCUSE MY old Norse but what a bummer of a summer to come home to, after flying all the way from Iceland.

I left the nesting grounds early so as to beat the mob flying home in September, my breeding plumage still in fine colour, my breast red and plump as a September haw. Now it is dull, drenched and bedraggled as I stand shivering on a west Cork slob.

When my mate and I set off for Ireland, our genetic duty done, some youngsters followed, fine young black-tailed godwits, already strong enough for the 900-mile flight. No doubt they assumed we adults knew what we were doing when we flew southeast. Maybe they thought we were taking them on summer holidays, to somewhere they could bask in the sun.