One early morning in August, under a watery sun and without a breath of wind, I stand on a south Devon cliff top.

About a mile offshore on the otherwise flat calm sea, a patch of surface is ruffled as a shoal of fish manoeuvres below, attracting gulls which fidget above.

I'm suddenly aware of faint mewing calls from high above where a pair of buzzards effortlessly circles with scarcely a wing-beat between them. Occasionally they dive playfully at each other, slowly soaring on the thermals. Up and up they go drifting out to sea becoming mere specks in the heavens before vanishing from view.

Below on the rocky foreshore, handsome black and white oystercatchers with red bills and matching legs probe the pools, voicing their rather melancholy high-pitched piping notes.

Turnstones, having just flown in from their Arctic breeding grounds to spend the winter here, do exactly what their name implies, flicking over pebbles searching for food. Superbly camouflaged, their mottled plumage blends in perfectly with the rocks, so much so that they could even be mistaken for rocks themselves.

Close by my feet a six-spot burnet moth (pictured) has recently emerged from its papery cocoon which resembles an elongated blister attached to a grass stem.

Eight house martins swoop down over the cliff while a rock pipit flies up in the opposite direction to land on the cliff edge. Herring gulls glide by on the gentle updraft their harsh cackling chatter sounding somehow at odds with the tranquillity of the scene.

So much to see and hear as reluctantly I leave the cliff top to head back for breakfast, my appetite sharpened by the bracing sea air.