The grebe juvenile still relies on its parent for a catch

Behind a barbed wire fence was a bare-sided bathtub of a flooded gravel pit with nothing much on show. A few round-backed coots dozed close to the shore, a smattering of blobs sat farther out on the water. The first few drops in the autumn air hinted at showers on the way – it should have been time to move on. A nagging voice came from somewhere on the lake – a tirade of high piping calls, a begging salvo that belonged to spring or summer. I lifted my binoculars and scrutinised each blob in turn, ticking off mallards, tufted ducks and pochards. I had spotted two great crested grebes ahead, angular birds swimming close together.

Now one grebe was in my sights, still wearing its tangerine frill of breeding plumes. I shifted left and saw that though it was fully grown in shape and size, the second bird was not its mate, but its offspring, the black and white striped livery of its downy youth breaking up with approaching adulthood.

The juvenile opened its beak, lowered its head and neck towards the water and surged towards its parent, cheeping plaintively. The adult dived and the young bird stuck its head under the surface, as if looking for its submerged father or mother. The performance was repeated four times and each time the adult popped back up with an empty beak. The youngster seemed to grow more frantic, exaggerating its begging charges by throwing its head from side to side. When the parent sank for its fifth dive, the juvenile chased after a second adult grebe, which rebuffed it with a throw of its head over its back. Grebe chicks are divided between the parents at just a few weeks old: wheedling had no effect.

The diving parent rose again, this time with a broad fish dangling by its tail. It dropped its catch in the water in front of its offspring and the youngster lunged forward to snatch and gulp it down. The two birds now swam together, parent and child. Winter will surely break this relationship of dependency.