Poland in Spring by Dan Tuson

Graham Brace travelled on our 'Poland in Spring' tour and submitted this entry to our writing competition.

Corncrake by Peter Dunn

Six-thirty in the morning and we were huddled silently on the fringe of Poland’s Biebrza marshes attempting to lure a gullible Corncrake out of the sedge beds before us with a bird call device. Its rasping mechanical call seemed so at odds with the cool misty morning air that had so far been filled with the soft chattering chorus of warblers, fluty Golden Orioles and the electrifying pulse of a Thrush Nightingale. As we patiently waited in the shadow of a gnarled willow, I cast my mind back to my Heathrow-bound tube journey just twenty-four hours earlier when my ears had been filled with the songs, chants and ecstatic post-match banter of a carriage full of Arsenal supporters celebrating an FA cup win. Coming from the sleepy depths of east Kent, it was the first time I had ever experienced a football crowd in full swing and I should have guessed then that ‘audio firsts’ would become a recurring theme for the week ahead. Two very different sounds, yet, in essence, sharing the same message I pondered; territorial statements saying, ‘I’m here, listen to me!’. The football supporters may have had a more colourful way of phrasing it, admittedly, but I was certain that if the scolding, territorial-defending croaks of this particular Corncrake could have been translated into English then the language would have been equally graphic.

In front of us the huge expanses of the Biebrza marshes spilled out towards the horizon; a watery mosaic of reedbeds, marshes, and sodden wetlands laced by thick slicks of willow scrub and alder carr. Behind us the land gently rose to scrubby grasslands and a plateau of thick forests and hay meadows, here and there peeled neatly away by plough and harrow into ribbon strips of rye, potatoes and wheat. The next few days would see us explore this enchanting hinterland of villages and farmsteads where Red-backed Shrikes, Hoopoe and cuckoos would become our familiar companions in the daily spotting tallies and where White Storks presided over our comings and goings from their impossibly balanced nest-topped poles;  twigs piled high with ‘Jenga’-like instability and telegraphing the flatlands like Napoleonic beacons, our wayside storks never failed to induce instant admiration and binocular-reaching attention.

But, for now, our gaze was firmly marsh-bound as all eyes scoured the grass for the elusive Corncrake. Our expert local guide Przemek reliably informed us that the nickname for the bird in Poland is ‘chrusciel’ derived from the Slavic ‘chrust’ meaning ‘to rustle’. It was certainly living up to its name as the 18 pairs of eyes trained on the few square metres of grassland before us were so far failing to pick out anything apart from the half-glimpsed rustle of grass stems that betrayed its presence surely somewhere under our very feet. If ever there was a moment to appreciate the disembodied and mysterious ‘undiscovered song’ of John Clare’s ‘The Landrail’ then this was it.

Suddenly our patience was rewarded as the grasses parted and the slim grey head and the brown- streaked body came into view. Breath held, and frozen to the spot, we watched as our quarry furtively scuttled forward, graced us with its jaw-dropping nimbleness and then quickly retreated back into the thick cover of sedge and reed. The sense of elation was palpable as excited chatter broke out and camera images were replayed. As our thoughts turned to wondering what other ‘firsts’ the day ahead would bring we made our way back to the hotel where a hearty breakfast awaited.

Any fears of ‘beginner’s luck’ were soon dispelled for the coming days brought us dozens of new first encounters as Elk, Beaver, Lesser Spotted Eagles and Cranes adorned our views and Raft Spiders, Large Tortoiseshells and obliging dragonflies played perfect subjects for snapping cameras. And for every new sighting a rich and ever-changing soundtrack of new songs and calls, where whitethroats and warblers etched their scratchy calls into the cobalt skies and snipe drummed in wheeling arcs over the setting sun – in a world of instant digital imagery and visual overload, for me at least the ‘soundscape’ of these enchanting marshes will remain an abiding and cherished memory, indelibly branded in phonic ink, hard-wired and ingrained as fast as any Arsenal supporter’s tattoo, in this, my year of audio firsts.

Read more about our 'Poland in Spring' holiday.