The male fusses at the nest, then flies over to the beech tree. He walks along a lower branch, pulling at twigs to break them. The rising sun warms the rosy flush of his legs and the burnt orange of his bill, colours that will fade to greyish‑yellow after the breeding season. As he flaps back and forth with sticks of all sizes, his mate screeches her praise. In between, she fidgets the new material into the nest. The male in the beech tree is causing so much disturbance, I worry for the egg-laden nest above him. Finally that heron stands up, bracing both wings above its back, and then gently prods its bill to turn its clutch.