It was one of those days which, to quote a favourite dalesman, "looks as if it's bin up all neet".

The moorland mist had such a liquid consitency it was verging on drizzle.

There's a special fascination in standing beside a tract of Pennine moor at this time of year if only for the sounds that reach you through the damp, peat-flavoured air. When an afternoon breeze persuaded the mist to disperse, I drove to a favourite moor, parked the car and in fading light listened to a medley of bird calls.

First there was the honk of a testy crow, one of the pair nesting on a tree that sprouts from the side of a gill. (Another pair, frustrated by the shortage of nesting trees, took to building their nest on a wall-top, the structure being composed of twigs and sheep bones).

The next sound to disturb the air waves was the gutteral voice of a cock grouse in its nesting territory. The bird would have marked out its part of the moor last November and was now ready to defend it and the hen grouse that would soon be covering a clutch of eggs like a feathered tea cosy.

I ventured on to the moor, sploshing through a stretch of typical Pennine mossland that was covered by a blanket of sphagnum moss. Such moss was gathered in the First World War and, when dried, used as sterile dressings for injured troops.

Mossland is an aspect of the Yorkshire moors that is not mentioned in tourist literature. It delights a naturalist. Damp places are vital to bird life. Grouse and moorland waders lead their chicks to the soft-spots because they abound with insect food, putting much of their energy reserves into developing their flight feathers. At the age of from ten to 12 days, a grouse chick might jump into the wind and cover a moderate distance.

As I strode at the edge of a mossy area, a small bird leapt into the air with a harsh cry - something akin to a sneeze - and zig-zagged as it rapidly gained height. I had disturbed a snipe at its feeding ground. The bird uses its long bill to probe soft ground. A sensitive tip registers contact with small, solid items of food. The snipe eats them without actually seeing them.

In March, when our birds have nesting thoughts in mind, Continental snipe that have wintered with us are on their way home. Old-time gamekeepers, who were prepared to go to virtually any lengths to provide good winter sport, obtained blood from abattoirs and spread it across areas of mossland popular with snipe. The blood nourished the worms and created a particularly succulent type that wintering snipe found irresistible.

It was not my last encounter with snipe. The cock bird uses a range of interesting sounds in early spring. There is a "chip-per, chip-per" call which I take to be a form of warning. Much more interesting is the sound which is created as a bird flies high.

The snipe alternates between steep climbs and descents. As it dives, it extends stiff barbs at the outer tail. The air rushing through these barbs created a bleating sound. It is as though a goat had taken to the air, though a sound which is instrumental, not vocal, is called "drumming". The tremulous music fits the bird's wild environment.

Snipe are among the early nesters. The nest is usually in a tussock of grass or clump of rushes. Eggs are laid in mid-April. Snipe chicks, patterned with dark brown and black, are among the most attractive of young waders.

Across the moor, just beyond the gill in which the crows nest, stands a derelict farmstead favoured by the ring ouzel, the "mountain blackbird". Though resembling the familiar blackbird, the ouzel winters in North Africa and returns for the nesting season, nesting above the 1,000ft contour line. The male bird has a prominent white patch of feathers - a crescent, lying on its back - on the chest.

When I ventured into the ruined farmstead last year, I found a pair of kestrels nesting in a hole that went through a bedroom wall, so there was access from outside, and the ring ouzel pair were attending young birds in the kitchen.

The ring ouzel is held to be a shy bird, but I know of a pair that regularly nests in a wall cavity overlooking a busy farmyard. They rear two, sometimes even three broods.

When I walked the Coast to Coast, and stayed overnight at a remote inn on the North York Moors, I looked out of the bedroom window at first light to see a ring ouzel hopping between, and even under, tables in the "beer garden".

Though it was May, there had been a "white-out" the previous evening. For ten minutes, the inn was lost to sight. I was grateful for a wood fire when eventually I staggered into the bar.

On a morning stroll near the inn, I saw more ring ouzels and noticed that a numbing overnight frost had killed off uncountable thousands of bumble bees.

Converted for the new archive on 30 June 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.