Dawn of the season at dusk
I have an app on my mobile phone that lets me time travel. It is a chronos-like gadget that delights, if apps can delight, in reminding me that the sands of time run with unseemly haste.
It saves the photographs I have taken. Then, like a conjurer, it digs them out to reveal what I was up to on this day — be it last year, two years ago, three years ago or even over half a decade ago. Images recorded on 1 September are more plentiful than any other day of the year. Endless photos of me covered in mud, my dog covered in mud, my friends covered in mud and, of course, the birds that inhabit the dramatic far-flung wetlands of East Anglia. The opening day of the wildfowling season has become a date of utmost importance, etched
