Welcome the cuckoo’s return
EVERY spring a minor miracle happens in Argyll – as it does elsewhere in the country.
No, not the council filling in potholes or resurfacing narrow, dead-end roads which have become beaten and broken highways, but the arrival, so sure and regular that we scarcely notice it, of thousands of birds, large and small, familiar and unrecognisable, songsters and silent, who find their way to and fro across thousands of miles guided by that mysterious something called instinct.