I'd been after that damn thrush for a week. I saw it once skimming low near the canal.

It was a nervous thing with a chest like it had been sprinkled with pepper.

It was nothing flashy, but that glimpse left me wanting more.

I think it was the fact it wasn't meant to be here.

It was definitely off course.

It probably caught the wrong goss somewhere south and ended up where it shouldn't have.

I hadn't seen one in this area before.

Not in all the years I've been coming out here bird watching.

So, I kept coming back.

Every morning I put boots on before the town woke up, shove my scope in my bag, as well as some snacks and a thermos of tea, and followed the

same muddy tracks through the trees. There's a battered old notice board nailed up near

the canal shelter, faded from years of

sun and frost.

I never meant to make a habit of checking it, but lately I couldn't help myself.

It used to be the usual mess of dog walker ads, but now it was littered with missing persons

posters.

I often glanced at it on the way in, but on Monday, I spotted Gareth with his uniform

jacket, half-buttoned up, and radio clipped to his shoulder, leaning over it with a staple gun.

All right, you old sod, Gareth said, glancing sideways without turning fully around.

Morning to you too, I said, grinning.

He snorted.

Back again.

...