A Cuckoo calling in a tree on the slopes of the Blorenge

 

Feeling energised and full of anticipation for the day ahead, after witnessing a glorious sunrise at Pwll Du, I met up with my good friend Paul Joy on the slopes of Blorenge Mountain.

We had barely exchanged greetings when, as if on cue, a Cuckoo flew over our heads and settled in a Hawthorn tree on the steep-sided slope above us. It was one of those moments that stops you in your tracks — a perfect, unscripted start to the day.

Unable to believe our luck, we quickly parked up and trained our cameras on the bird from the roadside. The Cuckoo was calling persistently from its lofty perch, all the while being harried by a determined Meadow Pipit. It was frustratingly distant, just beyond comfortable photographic range — so we agreed to edge a little closer, taking great care not to disturb it.

Easier said than done. Cuckoos are famously sharp-eyed, and any careless movement would have ended the encounter instantly. Fortunately, both Paul and I were dressed in our usual camouflage, and a dry stone wall offered us a degree of cover as we began our cautious approach.

I settled in behind the wall, focusing my long lens on the calling bird some 250 metres upslope. Paul, meanwhile, found his own position and was already attempting to melt into the landscape with admirable determination.

After about ten minutes, during which I was completely absorbed in the scene, I turned to quietly say something to Paul, only to find he had vanished. Either he had become extraordinarily effective at blending into the stonework, or he had moved. I strongly suspected the latter.

For an octogenarian, Paul is remarkably fit, and when motivated — especially by a bird — he can move with surprising speed. Scanning the slope ahead, I eventually spotted him. He had advanced a good hundred metres further uphill and was now attempting to pass himself off as part of a small tree.

Meanwhile, the Cuckoo continued to pour out its evocative call, seemingly oblivious to the slow, deliberate advance of its camouflaged observers.

Not to be outdone, I pressed on as well, opting for a low, commando-style crawl along a sheep track that led me to a large boulder, a position both closer to the bird and well concealed from its line of sight.

The Cuckoo took flight several times under the relentless attention of the Meadow Pipit, but each time it returned to the same favoured perch in the Hawthorn tree,  a habit that worked very much in our favour.

From my position behind the boulder, I remained at a respectful distance, carefully lifting my head just enough to take a series of photographs over the next twenty minutes.

Eventually, the Cuckoo yielded to its persistent tormentor and flew further down the mountainside. As I tracked its movement, I was astonished to see that Paul had somehow navigated the rough terrain and reappeared by the roadside, now perfectly positioned near the bird’s new perch.

Making my way back down the slope, I joined him. He was beaming from ear to ear, pure, unfiltered joy. After a challenging year, it was clear how much this moment meant to him, and I couldn’t have been more pleased to see him so genuinely happy.

Days like this remind you why you get up before dawn, why you carry the weight of lenses and tripods, and why you keep returning to the hills. Sometimes, nature rewards your effort in the most uplifting ways.

Technical Notes

On this occasion, I decided to bring along an old and trusted companion. Dusting off my Nikon D850 and pairing it once again with the Sigma 150–600mm Contemporary lens, I left the lightweight OM-1 kit at home for a change.

There’s no denying the difference in weight — this setup feels like a real lump compared to the OM system, but it carries with it a certain nostalgia. The reassuring, rapid-fire chatter of the shutter, that unmistakable machine-gun rattle, instantly transports you back. Despite the years, the Nikon and Sigma combination remains a formidable pairing, still more than capable of delivering beautifully detailed images.