There’s a poem by Seamus Heaney in which he speaks of walking along a Pacific beach and missing some undefinable quality he associates with his native Atlantic. He simply doesn’t feel at home by the Pacific; it appears to him huge, bland, without nuance. When I arrived on my first visit to San Francisco, I was astonished by the size and tameness of the pelicans on the pier at Fisherman’s Wharf. Later, walking along beaches in Oregon, any sense of alienation was compensated by ospreys patrolling the inshore waters, diving and re-emerging with salmon almost as big as themselves in their talons.

Here on the edge of a beautiful valley about 40 miles inland from the Pacific, I have been struck by the richness and strangeness of west-coast North American birds. Birds don’t seem to feature high on most visitors’ lists of attractions in California: wine, food, blondes, films, mountains, all get more attention. But for me it has felt like meeting a company of delightful new friends; hearing new voices, seeing new clothes and colours.