You have to feel for them, November must just be a rejection pain filled month if you're a
Northern proper Wheatear. You turn up at an appropriate headland expecting to be greeted in a friendly way and instead you get met with disappointment and glances filled with sadness because you're not the delightful deserti or capable of producing the incredulity of isabellina.
They try so hard too, pull themselves up, assuming the position, give it the swagger, but that moment when they know you know, when they see it in your eyes, that rejection must hurt, must cut deep. Perhaps it's no wonder then that in about 150 days when they come back, many of them avoid the same contact, shun the coastal haunts of the migrant hunter and head straight for the upland valleys and lonely rocks.
Wherever you're heading, whether it's the dry montada in Southern Portugal or beyond the deserts of North Africa don't be too sad. It wasn't you it was me, my expectations were too high, I should have been satisfied with you. I promise by the time you come back in March, I'll still be here, waiting to greet you at the same headland. This time there'll be no tears, no disappointment; there'll be nobody more pleased to see you and welcome you back and dance around the rocks with you again.