I WITNESSED a thrilling spectacle recently. There is so much in the way of elaborate, sophisticated entertainment these days that we all become a little blasé.

Technically accomplished and visually astonishing firework displays are enjoyed at many celebrations. IMAX and 3D cinemas offer amazing sensations.

But this spectacle surpassed all of these man-made excitements.

We had gone up to Bodmin Moor at sunset to watch starlings come in to roost. I have seen such rituals on television and read about this aspect of bird behaviour, but never before had I been present at such an event. Our knowledgeable twitcher friend, Paul, was with us and was bombarded with questions.

We walked along a track into the woods, where the epicentre of the roosting is situated this year. A strong stench filled the air. Starling droppings were in evidence all over the trees and surrounding land in the area.

Not quite sure of what would happen, or how, or when, the first hint of the commencement of the ritual came audibly, as a roar like rushing water swept over our heads. Clouds and crowds of birds swooped in, over and around the trees, sweeping and curving in graceful, ever-changing shapes.

Our jaws dropped whichever way we looked. A dark mass of starlings accelerated overhead, then veered around, lower, behind trees. Another group looped the loop, and passed very close to the ground. Groups divided within groups; thousands descended into trees and clustered densely on the branches. Settled now, for the night? No, off they went again, performing extravagantly for our delight, rising high into the orange-tinted sky, massing to form an enormous starling tsunami, coming crashing towards us.

The numbers were staggering, although we were told that they are relatively low this year.

The shapes fashioned by these colonies of birds in flight are incredible and give rise to the inevitable question of how they communicate when airborne.

Being in the middle of the roosting area, the overwhelming impression is of the sheer noise that envelops this place. The best comparison is with water. It sounds rather like a dam burst, with spontaneous high force waterfalls thrown in from random directions.

This powerful effect, which comes from the movement of many thousands of feathered bodies moving in unison, is supplemented by the vocal sounds made by the birds.

Another lasting impression, in addition to the wonderful shapes made by the starlings in flight, is the rapidly changing light and shade, as mass swoops cast dark shadows over the observer. Phenomenal.

As dusk fell, the birds settled into the trees. We walked towards the last flourish of a vermillion sunset as darkness fell.

In our own gardens this harsh winter we have been fortunate enough to glimpse some rarely seen bird species.

During the snowy period, many in town reported seeing redwings. These small, distinctive members of the thrush family mainly stay in open country, but weather conditions forced them to seek more easily obtainable food.

I have heard of sightings of marsh tits in gardens and one of my neighbours has watched a pair of black caps. The long-tailed tit, the only bird of this family to flock, has been seen in large numbers in Lostwithiel gardens.

Other favourites include nuthatches, wrens, robins, dunnocks, various finches and blue, great and coal tits.

Rarely spotted in these parts is the little siskin, which looks similar to a greenfinch, but I have had a couple pointed out to me.

These migrant birds will only be spotted in winter, but it is worth looking out for them.

It is easy to see how ornithology can become a passion.

A real bonus for local twitchers is the river Fowey flowing through town. River birdlife will come under my spotlight very soon.