Well, yesterday was the last day of spring, not that you’d know it from the chill and damp days behind us. It’s been less the force that through the green fuse drives the flower, and more the muted chesty cough of a secret TB sufferer.

Thank you climate change, and thank you La Niña. Three decades spent scurrying through cities like a rat in a maze, and the first chance I get of communing with the environment turns out to be too late. What a swindle.

However, just as we are posed to tip over the edge into some kind of summer, at last, at last, a lovely sunny, near-windless day. It’s as if the nature gods apologetically slipped us a ten-cent tip after spilling cold soup all over our pristine season.

But let’s not be bitter, eh? Off to Bicentennial Park it was yesterday afternoon, Archie trotting ahead on his leash acting as if this was the best day ever in his life — which of course, being canine, he does every day. I lugged a smaller and less conspicuous lens, more out of hope than expectation, and knowing that if I didn’t take something in the photo gizmo line, there would inevitably be a spectacular, once-in-a-lifetime photo opportunity which no-one would believe ever happened.

And what do you know? Nature came out to put on a show — it seemed as if all that frustrated spring energy that had been roiling under the surface burst forth, presenting us with a range of sightings, familiar and new. I took close to 1,000 shots, flattened the camera’s battery, and returned with an SG card burning a hole in my pocket.

We started with a fowl I have found pretty elusive in the past — the Rufous Whistler. It’s never easy to get close to these, and they’re often high up in the trees, resulting in photos of their nether regions. This time, they seemed to stick around — and let me tell you their distinctive strident Nny-eeep! call is pretty penetrating close-up. Here’s a female in full cry.

Then, crouching on a little spit of mud under a tree overhanging the creek, I encountered a Wood Duck — common enough, but rather surprising for its penchant for perching in trees. This one’s rather height-challenged stump didn’t begin to challenge its tree-climbing abilities. And it soon hopped off.

Then, just as it seemed to be time to move on, within fifteen seconds we were checked out by no fewer than two juvenile platypuses. (Archie has learnt to sit still and wait patiently while we’re stalking — he is a Good Boy.)

Soon afterwards, heading past a thick brushy slope, I could hear the fizzy chirruping of the common but spritely Superb Fairywren — and was able to watch a feisty female flit from branch to branch in a tree close by.

Then she was joined by her mate in his gorgeous sky- and navy-blue plumage. There followed a touching domestic scene as she preened his finery while he tolerated her attentions with every sign of impatience.

Himself then led me on a bit of a dance as he took off on an aerial survey of his turf, posing regally as he asserted his manhood in the face of my intrusion.

But probably the most interesting encounter happened soon after — and it started in much the same way: first, hearing the rapid twittering of another common-but-elusive tree-dweller, the Yellow-Rumped Thornbill. I could see one of these little fluffballs brightly lit by the low-angle afternoon sunlight, preening itself among the tangled twigs of a large bush.

It seemed a little odd that this usually flighty fowl held its ground as I focused, fired, and inched closer before repeating the process. And then I saw, even closer, the reason for this obduracy: its tiny fledgling was perched, on a closer branch, beak agape, looking a bit hungry.

As this rather vulnerable little juvenile gawped and stared rather gormlessly, it deployed its nictitating membrane — good practice for its future career hopping about among twigs and thorns in search of tiny bugs.

But it wasn’t over yet. Just a few metres away, Archie and I sneaked under a bush and peered out at the tree where the Sacred Kingfishers hang out. And sure enough, within minutes one put in an appearance — not for long, but enough to grab a nicely lit portrait.

Ignoring a brace of common but gorgeously-coloured Crimson Rosellas, we set off for one last traverse of the park — and there in a tree was something we’d never seen before: a Little Corella, regarding us loftily from a high branch, its white pompadour erect like Ken Railings’ in Strictly Ballroom.

Just to round things off, as we were about to leave, another very common but welcome returnee emerged in a nearby shrub — a little Silvereye, unconcernedly pursuing a beetle or bug in the intense golden-hour glow.

And although I failed to capture them, there were also thrushes, grey fantails, magpies and swallows, all galvanised by the sudden warmth, no doubt swooping on bugs and slugs similarly stimulated to be up and about, making hay while the sun shone.

As I’ve mentioned before, the old saying goes that one swallow doesn’t make a spring — but can one perfect afternoon do the job? Well, not really. But given the recent dearth of bright dry days, I think we’ll all take it.