A winter dike walk: geese, low light and an empty coast

Sunday 19 January, first light on the seawall

Minus one at the bus stop, a thin easterly, frost on the landward slope and none on the seaward side. I walked out for the low sun rather than for anything specific, and the marsh in January is entirely brown and grey until the light arrives, at which point the dead aster stems turn copper and the creeks hold a flat white sky. The Waddenzee was steel-coloured and completely still, which happens perhaps four times a winter and never on the days you plan for it.

Geese were the whole morning. Brent geese in loose companies on the outer marsh, feeding on the saltmarsh grass with that constant low muttering, and barnacle geese inland of the dike in the polder fields, packed much tighter and far noisier. Both lift together when something passes over, settle a field away, and resume. I stood for forty minutes doing nothing but watching them move between the two sides of the seawall.

What winter shows that summer hides

Storm tides in December and January leave drift lines along the high marsh: reed stems, wrack, plastic, the occasional plank, all laid down in a neat contour that records exactly how far the water came. Walking that line tells you more about the reach of a winter tide than any table can, and in February the first glasswort seedlings will appear below it. The creeks are at their most legible too, with no vegetation to soften their edges.

Birds are easier as well. Waders that were dispersed across enormous flats in summer are concentrated, hen harriers quarter the marsh in that slow tilting flight, and short-eared owls occasionally hunt in daylight along the dike foot. Fewer species than September, but every one of them visible against bare ground. I see more in two winter hours than in a summer afternoon, mostly because there is nowhere for anything to hide.

• Brent geese on the salt marsh, barnacle geese in the polder
• Drift lines marking the reach of the last storm tide
• Hen harrier and, with luck, a daylight short-eared owl
• Creeks fully exposed: the best month for understanding the ground

Dressing to stand still

A dike offers no shelter whatsoever, and the wind that was tolerable while walking becomes the entire experience within four minutes of stopping. I wear more than feels sensible on the train: a windproof outer layer that actually blocks wind rather than merely resisting it, a hat that covers the ears, and gloves thin enough to work a focus wheel with a second warmer pair over them. Cold hands end a bird-watching morning faster than rain.

Hot drink in a flask, more than you think, and something to eat at the turnaround point. The thing I would tell anyone starting: carry a sit mat. Being able to sit on a frozen bank for half an hour is the difference between walking past the geese and watching them, and in January the whole value of the day is in the standing still. The walking is just how you get from one stop to the next.

Getting there and getting back in the dark

The light goes at about half past four in January, and the last bus from the dike is a thing to check before leaving Amsterdam rather than at four fifteen in a field. I plan the day backwards from that bus: train north, bus to the seawall, walk out for two hours, turn, and allow a slow return. Winter mud on the landward slope is slick, and the path that took forty minutes outbound is not necessarily forty minutes back.

A head torch lives in the bag from October to March, along with the dry socks. Phone signal on the outer dike is patchy in places, which matters mostly for looking up the return times you should have written down. None of this is difficult, but the margin for improvisation on a winter coast is thin, and a cold walk back becomes a long one very quickly when it is also an unplanned one.