At last a Cuckoo has arrived in the village. It is the morning of the 27th April, during a fine morning interrupted by early showers, it’s call drifts over the long meadow. The Bure is mirror-like. The Hawthorns are a fresh emergent green, the blackthorns in flower. Oak leaves are emerging and the grass is, at last, showing some good growth. The Cuckoo perches at the top of an a Hawthorn, with wings drooped down and head jutting it projects a call which changes subtly depending upon the distance of the listener. We first hear the whoop-woo from just a quarter of a mile