On my walk along the disused railway, I was stopped by a twitcher. She was in comfortable blues and a khaki pashmina threaded through a plus-sized woggle. In a rich, beautifully modulated voice she said that I'd been probably wondering about the noise out there - meaning the conservation area. 'It's probably a duck, rather than a goose; except that the call is so low and raspy. Can't actually see what it might be. I'm puzzled, frankly.'
I said, 'I'll ask Carol from the shop when I walk back. She always knows.'
The twitcher nodded, clearly accepting one of the wisdoms of Thorpeness.