The Call of the Curlew

The faith of this iconic bird

"There must be some way out of here"
Said the joker to the thief
"There's too much confusion
I can't get no relief
Businessmen, they drink my wine
Plowmen dig my earth
None of them along the line
Know what any of it is worth"

"No reason to get excited"
The thief, he kindly spoke
"There are many here among us
Who feel that life is but a joke
But you and I, we've been through that
And this is not our fate
So let us not talk falsely now
The hour is getting late"

Fifty-six years after Dylan penned “All Along the Watchtower”, its relevance has only deepened. It speaks to the anxieties of its time and ours, reminding us of the precarious balance between despair and hope, chaos and order. As we face the pressing challenges of the 21st century, Dylan’s watchtower beckons us to look inward and outward, to listen to the warnings, and to search for the “way out” — a path not of escape but of transformation.

The watchtower is both a symbol and a challenge. It asks us to see the world as it is, to imagine how it could be, and to act before the hour grows too late. Yet, transformation begins not in grand gestures, but in what lies closest to us — in the small acts of attention that connect us to the world outside our door.

Which brings me to what I’ve been observing along the shore of Harbour View Beach, part of the wider Courtmacsherry estuary, a Special Area of Conservation.

When I moved here in 2015, flocks of curlews—a wading bird known for its haunting, flute-like call—used to land in the lower fields and fill the air with their song. At the time, I thought nothing of it. They were simply part of the natural rhythm of this place, as common as the robin or the crow. Their presence was beautiful and welcome, but I took it for granted.

Now, the curlews are disappearing. Their calls have grown quieter, their numbers thinner. It’s a small change, but one that feels immense when I consider what it represents. The decline of these birds isn’t just a loss for this estuary; it’s a symptom of the larger ecological crises we face.

I’ve come to believe that opening our hearts to the world doesn’t mean taking on the weight of all creation’s suffering. It means allowing ourselves to grieve the loss of what is near to us. If we can shed a tear for one species, we open ourselves to the plight of them all. By feeling the pain of the curlews’ absence, we begin to connect with the broader story of change happening all around us.

Their loss isn’t just an ecological tragedy—it’s a cultural one. The curlew’s call is a sound etched into the Irish countryside, woven into the fabric of our heritage. It’s been immortalized in poems, whispered in stories about omens and spirits, and cherished as part of the melody of our wetlands. But today, this song is fading. Across Ireland, curlew populations have plummeted by 96% since the 1980s, leaving approximately 100 resident breeding pairs. Those breeding pairs and the indigenous all-year-round curlews of Ireland are found further north. The birds I am observing at Harbour View, and I have counted at most 22 on a good day, are migrants from Scotland and England. They come here for the Winter months. Sitting on a wooden bench and looking down on them as they graze the mudflats I close my eyes and wonder will their song become extinct in my lifetime.

Skull of a Curlew

Skull of a curlew full of stars,
my mouth on fire with black, unspeakable bees.
Light on the lime boles, bleached and bare,
my gorge rising, crammed with blackfurred bees.

Clay of the orchard on my cheek,
cheeks puffed like wind on a map’s margin.
Dust in each lungful of cold air,
lips burned on the inside by black bees.

                 I wait for the moon to rise me
                 I pray to the midnight ant
                 I clutch at fistfuls of wet grass
                 I hammer the earth with bare heels.

Skull of a curlew full of stars,
night sky dredged with the eyes of bees.
Black fire around each star,
I swallow fear in mouthfuls of fur and wing.

Skull of a curlew full of stars,
the great hive of heaven heavy around me.
I spit out bees and black anger,
mouth of a curlew, fountain of quiet stars.

'Skull of the Curlew'. Theo Durgan

The curlew’s decline is tied to the fate of Ireland’s wetlands. Once abundant, these vital ecosystems have been systematically drained and degraded, leaving the birds with fewer places to nest and feed. Climate change adds another layer of uncertainty, as rising sea levels threaten coastal habitats, and erratic weather patterns disrupt breeding cycles. The curlew’s struggle is not an isolated tragedy—it’s a reflection of how Ireland’s natural heritage is being reshaped.

Efforts to save the curlew are gaining momentum across Ireland. The Curlew Conservation Programme has united scientists, farmers, and local communities in a shared mission to protect breeding sites and restore degraded habitats. At the same time, initiatives like the rehabilitation of bogs and wetlands offer a glimmer of hope—not just for the curlew, but for the rich biodiversity these landscapes support

The curlew’s disappearance reminds us that our actions have consequences. In saving this one species, we save the ecosystems it represents. We preserve the peatlands that store carbon and regulate our climate, the grasslands that cradle our heritage, and the wetlands that teem with life. The curlew’s call is a warning, but it’s also an invitation—to restore balance and rekindle our connection to the natural world.

As I walk along the shore of Harbour View Beach, I can’t help but think of Dylan’s watchtower—a place of vigilance, where we confront hard truths and choose a path forward. The curlew’s call grows fainter, but it hasn’t disappeared entirely. We still have a chance to act, to restore not just these wading birds, but the wild, resilient spirit of Ireland’s landscapes. And in saving them, perhaps we save something of ourselves.

I found great hope in reading the following article.

https://www.irishtimes.com/environment/2024/11/01/state-to-buy-clawinch-island-on-lough-ree-to-protect-breeding-waterbirds/