Hirethek

Hirethek (adj. Cornish): Homesickness ‘a longing for home’

A giant bear is looking down on me from the sky. I raise my eyes to meet it. Three hunters are on its tail, locked in an ever-lasting game of cat and mouse; a performance to be played out for the rest of time until maybe, one by one, millennia from now, they might finally burn out and disappear from the night.

Standing at the foot of the hill, I point my torch up the slope, the thin shaft of yellow light disappearing into the velvety black just a few feet in front of me. The path to the summit is shrouded in darkness, the ivory glow of the moon that delicately highlights the hilltop is the only natural light I can see. I know this hill intimately. I have sat on its crest to watch the setting sun and observed marbled shadows as clouds drift across its face. I have sheltered beneath its rocky crags and watched as the rain pours down and douses the hillside with a sweet, earthy smell. I’ve felt the wind whisper across the heathland and watched the heather sigh in response. I’ve heard the cuckoos’ call echo from the bottom of the valley and been accosted by bumbling summer chafers as they ascend the hill at sundown, to crash like out-of-control spitfires into gorse bushes.

But never before have I ventured up here in the blackness and for the first time, this place feels unfamiliar. It isn’t a journey I would usually have undertaken, preferring to be here in the daytime or as the sun sets and the sky mellows into twilight. But, due to circumstances outside of my control, this will be one of my final moments on this hill, so I have decided to experience it at its most glorious - in the small hours whilst I wait for dawn.

The hill and surrounding area of West Penwith is famed locally for its night skies, the darkness loved by wildlife and humans alike. A darkness so precious and increasingly rare that it has recently been awarded International Dark Sky status to help protect it. Walking at night taps into a primal part of ourselves. It can leave you feeling small and vulnerable, but also never closer with the countryside, and with your own senses.

The landscape here is ancient, wild and raw; largely untouched undulating hills peppered with the occasional farmhouse. Many of the farms are medieval, with around 40sq miles of prehistoric field systems. A good number are still used for farming today, a tapestry of rich pasture woven together with over 1250 miles of Cornish hedges, traditional earth and stone-built hedges that can support around 600 species of plants. Other farm buildings have fallen into a state of disrepair, now home only to resident barn owls who haunt the heathland in the gloaming. But the unique composition of the area also creates the perfect home for another bird, a migratory species that has been misunderstood and persecuted for years – a bird known to the Cornish as ‘doerohk’.

The August air is still and cool as I begin walking and the footpath, worn down by hundreds of footsteps lain down before mine, is flanked by vegetation. The hill has a definite horizontal split; the lower portion is covered in a thick layer of bracken with bramble plants tucked between the leaves and bind weed tightly wrapped around the fronds. Halfway up the hill the ferns give way to heather and gorse plants that compete on the upper moorland. As I walk, the air is scented with delicate coconut notes as the gorse attempts to beckon nearby insects. Beneath the bracken, adders will be curled under rocks, trying to keep the cold out as they wait for tomorrow’s sunshine to top up their energy stores again. A hawthorn, battered by years of wind, grows at an awkward angle, its gnarled branches like twisted outstretched fingers in the gloom. Soon, as autumn seeps through the valley, its silver boughs will be heavy with rich, red berries, hoping to attract passing blackbirds or incoming fieldfares. I catch the glow of a rabbit’s eyes with my torch before it scarpers into the undergrowth. They are right to hide because foxes will be roaming the moors. Badgers will be snuffling on the hills, tracing paths through the vegetation for dogs to excitedly track tomorrow as their owners wander the hillside. And above me, somewhere over the landscape lurks the ‘doerohk’, a mysterious bird that flies at dawn and dusk, and one I am hoping to catch a glimpse of.

Like much of Cornwall, Penwith’s mining history stretches back as far as the Neolithic Age due to the underground tin, known locally as ‘sten’. In fact, mining was carried out in this area for millennia, peaking in the 19th century when it produced over 16,000 tons of black tin. As well as ancient remains, the area is littered with adits and shafts, some of which are 600ft deep. Whilst these sheer drops have been covered, mineshafts have opened suddenly across Cornwall in recent years, houses and cars disappearing into gaping holes never to be recovered. The whole county is thought to be riddled with these industrial relics. I stop at one of the old mine entrances, a large stone circular construction, and clamber onto a rock to peer over its low wall, shining my torch into the gap. It is closed-up now and nature has taken over; an entanglement of plants reclaiming the stolen space. The construction of these mines must have been hellish; horses and carts dragging tonnes of stone up the hill, wrecking the undergrowth in their path. I wonder if the ‘doerohk’ were around then or if they fled in fear at the industrial activity? I peer the now chaotic ‘hole’ and think of the vast empty blackness that lies beneath; the hot, rocky tunnels that doubled up as graveyards for some of the men who spent hours, days, down in the oppressing and suffocating heat, armed with pickaxes and gunpowder as they burrowed further into the bones of the hill.

Back on the path I am about two-thirds of the way to the summit and the ever-nearing dawn when I hear it somewhere in the distance. The sound makes me stop dead and duck down, stuffing the torch head into the palm of my hand just in case I disturb the sounds’ owner. It is as though a witch hidden in the undergrowth has just cackled out into the night; a low churring which is instantly recognisable. It is a steadily rhythmic sound of two tones which is often described as mechanical, although to me it sounds alien, like a sample from the original War of the Worlds. The constant call is not one usually associated with a bird; it differs from a well-constructed tune or high-pitched tweet. It has the air of an insect, like a cicada, or a pond full of bleating frogs. But this is no amphibian; this is the ‘doerohk’, more commonly known as the nightjar, a bird which takes on a 7000-mile journey to be here every summer.

European nightjars belong to the same family as swallows and martins, although they do not bare a family resemblance. They are strange looking birds, with hauntingly large eyes and huge mouths tipped by tiny beaks. Their mottled feathers are designed to look like moorland flooring as nightjars are ground nesting birds, spending their days not moving to ensure they are camouflaged from predators. Nests are built in gaps between the heather, so I must stick to the paths to ensure I pose no threat - clumsy feet can be destructive. Although the birds could be anywhere out here, and I cannot ascertain from the call how close this individual is. I stay in my position, too cautious to stand and search in case I am seen, I remain deadly still, tuned in only to the sound of the call as it resonates down the hill.

Despite only feeding on insects, the nightjars’ peculiar appearance, spectral call and night-time behaviour left them vilified for years, creatures that were feared rather than enjoyed for their differences. Nightjars spend a lot of time around livestock, plucking the insects that are drawn to such animals from the air. Years ago, a lack of understanding drew random conclusions from observers, suggesting the birds were sucking blood or milk from animals and they would cause disease and death in their wake, a myth that has been around since the Ancient Greeks. This falsehood stuck and even earned the birds their Latin name Caprimulgus; caper meaning ‘goat’ and mulego meaning ‘to milk.’ This isn’t the only strange belief that once surrounded the birds. Nightjars follow similar migration paths to swifts, and it wasn’t so long ago that people believed birds retreated into the English Channel. It was the Ancient Romans and Greeks who originally theorised that birds hibernated underwater or transformed into other species when they would disappear for half the year. In fact, although the theory of migration had been put forward from around 16th century, it wasn’t proven until 1822 when a white stork was shot during flight in Germany. Bizarrely the stork had an African spear through its neck – and had miraculously survived - proving it had flown 2,000 miles and that migration was indeed possible. However, some aspects of migration are still shrouded in mystery. Our knowledge of the migration routes of nightjars has only really developed in the past 20 years due to tracking, revealing that they travel from their wintering sites in grasslands in South Africa to their breeding sites in the conifer forests and heathlands in the UK, just like this one in Cornwall. Their stay here is brief, arriving in May and heading off again by late August. Whilst here, they will court, mate and rear their young, sometimes managing to have multiple broods, before the call of the warmth of Africa becomes too strong and they take wing for around eight weeks before alighting again in the heat of the Sahara.

Hearing its call in the darkness it is easy to understand the fear that surrounded these birds, especially as I can’t see it at all. The males’ call is beautiful but eerie, a rapid succession of trills which can be up to 1900 notes per minute. The sound indicates that the area is a nesting site as this is territorial behaviour. When nesting, they will travel a few kilometres to look for small insects to feed their young. Despite their name, nightjars are akin with the moths they hunt as their lives are fully entwined with moonlight. Their large, dark eyes are key to their stealth night-time hunting in the low light, however even they need a little light in order to see. During brighter nights when the moon is full, they may be out for a whole evening to forage as much as possible, and nights during a new moon they may choose not to waste energy hunting before dawn, waiting to use the suns rising to feed briefly before the day gets too bright. They align their breeding with the lunar cycle, ensuring that the chicks will be at their most demanding when the moon is at its fullest to give them the best chance at success. And when they migrate, nightjars determine their flights and stopovers depending on the moon’s phases to ensure they can feed enough to get them through their strenuous journey. Their whole lives revolve around the availability of light; odd etiquette for a ‘nighttime’ creature. The male’s churring stops suddenly and switches to a low ebbing bleat that sounds as though it is spiralling downwards. When courting, this will be supplemented with a clapping sound, produced by the bird beating its wings above its head, a gesture performed to attract a nearby female. The silence that follows indicates he has taken wing again and could be anywhere on the hill, his noiseless flight preventing him from betraying his location to me. The sudden silence seems to resonate around me as I strain to hear him again. There have been times in recent years when this hill may not have heard the call at all. Nightjars are Amber Listed due to that all-too-common reason of habitat destruction. Areas that were once perfect for many species have become obsolete due to changes in agricultural practices and urbanisation. This hill in particular suffered for a time due to roaming horses and ponies. Delicate clutches of nightjar eggs lain directly on the heathland floor have no protection against heavy feet but an intervention of the landowners and interested parties has led to monthly restrictions on grazing animals, preventing egg trampling. Although they are still at risk of a passing fox who might quite fancy an egg or chick as a delicious meal. With natural spaces declining steadily due to the juggernaut of human activity, the noose around many species’ necks gets increasingly tighter and unique areas such as Penwith need all the protection they can get. The pressure of the bid to become an International Dark Sky Park weighs heavily.

Still crouched in the undergrowth hoping for another encounter of the nightjar I feel my knees cry out in anguish, my muscles, tensed rigidly for fear of disturbing anything, burn with pressure. Despite my bodies protestations I don’t want to move. I don’t want the day to arrive, for my time here to come to an end. I want to stay here, in my sanctuary, sharing the night air with the creatures who also call this space ‘Home’. But the sky is getting increasingly lighter, the inky black slowly diluting as a slither of dark orange that has appeared to the east is beginning to bleed into the night sky. I give in to the morning. I stand, stretch, and begin walking again, steadily higher, finally reaching the top of the rock formation that is the crown of the hill, its glory the 360 degree views. The stars are beginning to soften as the night sky recedes. All around me, other birds are starting to chitter. Wheatears, whitethroats and stonechats serenade me with their morning melodies as they flit amongst the bushes, hunting out their breakfasts. Below me, somewhere across this landscape, the nightjars will be beginning to burrow into the undergrowth to get some well-earned rest, blending into their surroundings as if they were never here at all. And soon enough, they won’t be. They will take flight and start their arduous journey to Africa to enjoy the warmth of the winter.

I consider the journey they will be taking in just a few weeks’ time and I find I have more in common with them than I thought. I had thought myself like an oak tree; laying roots down where my ancestors had before me and setting them deep, anchoring myself to this place I love. I thought I would watch my acorn, my son, grow and flourish here too. But it is not to be. Instead, my family and I will soon take flight and migrate to our own warmer climes, a new country, a new habitat. I wonder if the ‘doerohk’ consider what awaits them at the end of their journey. If they ever wonder how much more their world will have changed when they plan to return. If they would rather not leave, not undertake such a huge, lifechanging voyage and simply stay here, where they are safe. Or if trepidation is an emotion preserved only for me.

As I reach the hill’s peak, I find my favourite flat rock and sit down, watching the twinkling lights of St Ives over my shoulder as I wait for the sun to appear in the east. For many people, that is Cornwall. The sea, the sand, the gulls that swoop from hidden spaces to wrestle pasties and ice creams out of unwitting hands. But up here is my Cornwall. A place that has burrowed its way into my heart and stayed there. A glimpse of the way it once was, a miscellany of tradition, nature and history, the glory of the old ways allowed to remain, unspoilt by modern life. Soon I will be able to see across the heathland in all its summer glory and behind me, out as far as Godrevy Lighthouse and the Atlantic Ocean beyond. My heart aches knowing it will be the last time I will enjoy this view, at least for now. As I wait, my fingers absentmindedly trace the surface of the stone I sit on, caressing the shapes, the depressions, the patches of lichen. On the rocky shores below, limpets will be moving around between rocks in the high tide, but as the waters recede, they will return, as they always do, to their precise favourite spot. Over time this little spot becomes worn, and an indentation of their shape is left behind known as a ‘home scar’. Perhaps this rock beneath me, which I have sat on so many times over the years, bears my ‘home scar’. Maybe it will hold a memory of me until one day, like the nightjars, I will again return home to sit on this hill once more.

As the sun rises, above my head the bear is padding gently across the sky. I lose sight of it as light floods the world around me.