The greyheaded flying fox colony in Wingham Brush is enormous: about 200,000 at peak times.
As the sun hits their trees in the morning, the chatter and activity sounds like every bit of a peak time.
I am fascinated by these creatures, watching their deft acrobatics as they stretch a wing or hang by one ‘foot’. Their soft fur looks like golden peach fuzz in the sunshine, and their pointed ‘foxy’ faces dare anyone to call them ugly or scary.
To fit so many into this colony, they are of necessity crowded, but the chatter and movement doesn’t sound irritable; it sounds like morning gossip.
‘So, how did you go last night?’
Where the sun is less strong as yet, they are tightly bundled in their leather cloaks, strung like Christmas baubles.
These two were interacting without fuss, but what was the larger one doing to its smaller mate?