When I flick through my older bird books, those well-thumbed guides from the 1980s and 1990s, I’m struck by how they describe the Little Egret. Back then, it was a rarity in Britain, an elegant white heron noted as an occasional summer stray from continental Europe. Mentions are often tinged with surprise: a glimpse of one on the south coast might have made the local birding news.
Now, things have changed. The Little Egret has become a familiar presence along my stretch of the Essex coast. I see them regularly throughout the year; solitary, poised, sometimes in small groups, wading the tidal shallows or flying low with slow, deliberate wingbeats. What was once extraordinary is now everyday.
From rare visitor to a familiar sight. The woodcut I've just finished carving is of a little egret, created as a quiet companion to the curlew I made earlier this year. They feel like a natural pair: both birds of the estuary, both caught in those long, patient moments at the tide’s edge.
The curlew, with its curved bill and hunched stance, has a kind of grounded solemnity. The egret brings something lighter, upright and poised, a flick of brightness among reed and water. I carved it with a light hand, fine lines for the neck and plumes, leaving space for air and stillness.
For this edition, I’ve chosen bistre and teal, deep earth and tidal blue. The bistre holds the bird’s form, while the teal gives a sense of cool depth, like distant water beneath a shifting sky. These colours seem to suit the egret: subtle but vivid, just enough to catch the eye.
Together, the egret and curlew form a quiet pair. One a long-time presence on the marshes; the other, once rare, now returned in growing numbers. Both are birds of the tideline, shaped by the same watery world. These prints speak of place, not dramatic, but attentive. A small tribute to the birds that belong to the shorelines I love, and to the changing estuary light that shapes them.
