The brochure tells you that the reservoir was built in the 1970s to supply water to the East Midlands and originally named Empingham reservoir. It lies near Oakham in the county of Rutland—the smallest county in England. Rutland Water, as it is known presently, is now Rutland's most popular tourist attraction, the largest man-made lake in Western Europe; an area of 3100 acres offering activities for all ages. That’s the upside.

What actually happened was that the area was purposely flooded. It was an area where there once stood a village with shops, a church and houses, and presumably people who had gardens to putter in, teapots to warm, and who were happy in their homes.

But, back to the birds. Before heading off in search of Osprey Jazz and I stood for a few moments in a blind near the main entrance to the bird sanctuary while Siggy and The Mister debated the merits of the bicycles at the post. Cheered at first by the diminutive finches at the feeders, Jazz and I were distracted by the big brown rat scuttling under the woodpile. This one was a long way from the gritty New York underground variety and probably unaware of how blessed it was.

I noticed, right off the bat, that the use of cell phones was not prohibited. They were employed freely much to my disenchantment, though I did not recall hearing them in use in the blinds, only out in the open. The myriad of ring tones and attendant conversations having to be voiced over the more soothing susurrus of nature made me think about the bird walking tours I have joined in Central Park. I pale in comparison to real bird watchers. Pale in their zeal, in their knowledge, in their equipment. But I do know that a ringing cell phone under a nesting Screech Owl would have been the equivalent of firing an AK-47. New York City bird watchers are a serious bunch. When I am in nature I love listening to bird song. I don’t necessarily have to know the bird’s identity, though I am thrilled when I do. It’s like a foreign language I am happy to listen to, and more melodic when the words are not actually understood.

Jazz got us to the blind where we were most likely going to spot an Osprey. Serious camera equipment protruded from the breasts of bird watchers. The guide installed there was getting radio updates on the Osprey’s whereabouts. They had been nesting here only since 1999. The first Osprey chick to fledge in central England for 150 years was hatched in 2001. It was pointed out to me where the artificial nesting poles stood and I craned for a look at the nest at the top but saw nothing. I concentrated more on the body of water and what lie beneath. It had a rather desolate feel to it, scraggly treetops poking from the surface, like desiccated hands waving for help.

Osprey-deprived, but not for long. We were off to visit friends of Siggy and Jazz who live in a stately renovated farmhouse in nearby Exton.