Water levels going up

An afternoon peering out of the hides at an increasingly soggy Goldcliff produced hardly anything of note.  The tide came in, produced precisely one summer-plumaged Knot, one Ringed Plover, two Curlew and two Dunlin, and then went out again.  Eight Whimbrel had flown east earlier and a fair few House Martin did their best to entertain, but it was, to all intents and purposes, a total waste of six and a half hours of my life that, unless someone gets off their arse and invents time travel, I shall never get back.

The moistest of Shelducks.