But is it art? VI

The sunlight was so bright yesterday morning that I had to pull the blind down to be able to work.  But I was unexpectedly distracted and mesmerised by the scene it created - the flying and flitting silhouettes of sparrows (there's a birdfeeder on the other side of the window.)  It's often the simplest things that I find the most charming  - couldn't resist a clumsy attempt to capture their movements in a video.

Art?

A view to a kill

As far as excuses go, I don’t think “The sparrowhawk ate my woodpigeon” is going to wash when I explain why I’m a bit behind on my work – but it’s what held me up yesterday.  I’d come in from my Shedio (shed/studio, out in the garden) to make a cuppa, got sidetracked checking emails, and when I went back to the kitchen to get my tea I witnessed some very gruesome bird-on-bird action through the window.

I’m glad I missed the initial attack - must’ve been pretty harrowing.  The woodpigeon is a big old bird and weighs about half as much again as a female sparrowhawk.  However, with her speed and stealth, the sparrowhawk had ambushed it and was already plucking out its feathers whilst pinning it to the ground, ready to eat.  Sadly, it was probably still alive.

Once the sparrowhawk started tucking in to its prey I realised I too was ambushed in a way –  trapped inside the house because going back to work in the Shedio would mean disturbing her and I didn’t want to.   My reasons being: a) until most of it had been eaten, the woodpigeon would be too big for the sparrowhawk to carry away in her claws to finish elsewhere so its death would’ve been futile and, frankly, what a waste of fresh meat  and, b) I didn’t really want the job of clearing up the crime scene.

So I decided to wait until the sparrowhawk had eaten the whole bloody thing even though it would take hours. 

Anyway, next time I glanced out the window the hawk was on the fence, empty-footed, cleaning her talons before  flying off.  Finally (but too late to get on with any more work, honest)  I could go outside.  It looked like there had been a small explosion in a feather duvet shop but, apart from that,no sign of any other pigeon remains.

When I looked out this morning, though, the sparrowhawk was there again.  And so was what was left of the woodpigeon, having its bones picked clean by the look of it.  I was surprised – seems the hawk must have left it hidden somewhere overnight and returned to retrieve it and finish it off today; I didn’t know they did that.  

The sparrowhawk and I both ate our breakfasts and by the time I’d finished so had she.  So I went outside to survey the scene, and this time I found a foot.  A whole woodpigeon foot, that was all. But be thankful I've spared you a photo.

Now, don’t be too put off, but I have a macabre fascination with this kind of thing and don’t find it gruesome at all.  Maybe because it’s all part of the way nature works.  Perhaps also because I when I was growing up my sister used to keep strange pickled things in her bedroom and I don’t mean onions.  She had a bat, fish eyeballs, a chicken’s foot – all to satisfy her interest in Biology.  Once we were on holiday, driving slowly along a quiet country road in Dorset, when my mum spotted something unusual just up ahead, motionless on the tarmac but looking like a snake.  Indeed, it was a large grass snake.  Dead, but perfectly preserved (no tyre marks).  

It’s only on recapping this story that I realise it may seem bizarre that we stopped , picked it up off the road and drove on with it in the car.  Then my mum and sister spent the next day traipsing round chemist shops in the Lyme Regis area in pursuit of formaldehyde.  And they got some.  So then we kept a  dead grass snake pickled in a jam jar of formaldehyde in the hotel room for the rest of the holiday (before it was given permanent residency on my sister's grim specimen shelf).

But I digress; the disembodied foot is still out there in the garden and I suspect it may have belonged to Limpy, who was a regular woodpigeon visitor, recognisable by (as you probably guessed) a limp.  Just now another woodpigeon has been sitting on the roof for an awfully long time, cooing and calling, probably for its mate, and no-one turned up. 

However, the sparrowhawk has feasted well.  It can’t be an easy life for this magnificent bird of prey, having to catch other birds on the wing – eating little else – this is a committed carnivore.  The female can survive for seven days without food apparently so hopefully a belly full of woodpigeon will keep her hunger at bay for another week.  If not she can always come back for the foot.

RIP Limpy (I think).

To love a dove

Streptopelia decaocto

The collared dove that perches outside the kitchen window waiting for me to feed it every morning has become my latest bird 'friend'.  We've been getting to know each other for a couple of years now and whilst I'm used to the tameness of several blackbirds and robins (and even, briefly, as told here, a bluetit), this is the first time a collared dove has shown such trust.

In Greek mythology, a poorly paid, mistreated servant girl prayed to the gods for help and was transformed by them into a collared dove so that she could fly away and escape her misery.  The dove's mournful-sounding cry,  - heard so often as it takes off and lands - is said to recall her former wretched life.  The bird's species name reflects this too: decaocto, meaning eighteen, supposedly comes from the number of coins the maid received each year for her hard work.
   
In keeping with the myth, they seem such nervous, skittish birds, taking flight at the slightest movement and rarely hanging about near humans, but this one's different.  It knows how to attract my attention and stays around once it has it, often just a few inches away.  Our connection is almost palpable.  It watches me with dark red eyes; I can sense it weighing things up - the way its natural caution is overridden, just enough, by its confidence in getting a prompt handful of food.   It has a mate - they pair for life - but I don't know which one is male and which female.  The mate is more shy, preferring to watch from a safe distance, only coming down to join its partner once I'm far enough away not to pose a threat.  Proof, I believe, that every creature, wild or not, has its own distinct identity; it must be character rather than just instinct alone which dictates some of the decisions it makes.

I even dreamed about my dove the other night!  I found it nestling in the large bin where I keep a sack of sunflower hearts.  I reached down and picked it up, held it in my arms and felt its soft, warm body - it didn't struggle or flap, just stayed snug in my embrace like a kitten.  It was such a vivid dream that the the next morning when it came to me in real life and those dark red eyes met mine, I felt as if we'd shared a secret tryst.

Cuckoo

I've never knowingly seen a cuckoo, have you? I've heard them... mostly in the long hot summers of my childhood... but not recently. It's easy to mistake the repetitive call of a distant collared dove for a cuckoo if you only catch the last two notes - in fact I heard one today - but, whilst our collared doves are happy to stay here however chilly our European winters might be, and coo-coooooo-coo their way through Christmas and New Year, our cuckoos will now be in warmer climes – Africa, usually, perhaps in Angola, or the Congo.

I suppose a more apt-sounding destination would be Cloud Cuckoo Land, which in my head is somewhere between Timbuktu and Shangri La... but which in fact (well, fiction) was a perfect city in the clouds erected in an incredibly short time, the imaginative creation of an ancient Greek playwright called Aristophanes. The name was first used in 414BC in his comedy 'The Birds', which I understand had nothing to do with Alfred Hitchcock...

Cuckooland also sounds like a suitable place for the birds' winter holiday but it turns out it's a cuckoo clock museum in Cheshire. Yes, you did read that right: a cuckoo clock museum.

According to the lyrics of the traditional English folk song The Cuckoo (or Coo Coo), it's a “pretty bird” who “warbles when s/he flies”. Bob Dylan covered the song, as did numerous other artists including Richard Thompson, Donovan and the Everly Brothers. The version I know best is by the Be Good Tanyas.

It's best not to anthropomorphise these birds though because, in human terms, they would seem dysfunctional at best and murderous at worst. The mothers had dumped their eggs in the nests of other smaller species and abdicated from parental duties completely.  The fathers had left the scene long beforehand, and their unknown young, once hatched, had been responsible for the deaths of all the biological offspring of their unwitting new foster parents. But if I can just compare one positive thing to human ability (or lack of), it's their incredible migration. The thought of it boggles my mind, as it does when I consider all creatures who travel vast distances under their own power. I don't know if they warbled, or perhaps even wobbled, when they flew, but once the breeding season was over our cuckoos left their roots for a nine month stay thousands of miles away.  The cuckoo weighs about the same as an i-phone, and its wingspan is similar length to a human adult's arm from shoulder to wrist. It can cover hundreds of miles a day at a speed of 50mph and a cruising height of over a mile, across continents and seas. (Don't even get me started on butterfly migration...)

The cuckoos will hopefully be back here in the Spring and we must all listen out for the first one so that we can immediately write a letter to The Times. The newspaper has been publishing 'first cuckoo of Spring' letters for about a hundred years now, so it's a tradition which really should be maintained. The only thing is to make sure you don't first hear a cuckoo whilst cleaning the loo or having your teeth drilled by a sadistic dentist. If possible, make sure you're somewhere really nice, somewhere you'd like to spend more time, and doing something that makes you happy, because superstition has it that wherever you are and whatever condition you're in when you hear the first cuckoo of Spring is how you'll remain for the next twelve months.

Maybe you'd like to be listening to the Cramps?

Mad bag

Yes, yes, you think I'm talking about myself again. Or the old woman who walks around town in her wellies pushing a pram....

Instead I just wanted to show you my new satchel, which really is a mad bag. Who could resist imagery which combines a pink typewriter with a selection of colourful birds and a couple of nests? On a bag?

I bought it to replace my old one which also had an avian theme.

A woman I'd never met before admired it once. “I love the picture!” she said, on seeing the robin.  “But I don't like what it's made of ,” she then added in a strongly disapproving tone.  Actually, it's not real leather, it's faux leather... but I wasn't about to get into a debate about it with a woman who had clearly overdone the peroxide at one time but not recently enough to disguise her black roots.  Faux blonde?  Ooh, catty!

Faux leather eventually flakes, though; hence the need for a new bag, which is also faux, but very truly mad. As mad as a bag of birds.

Red in tooth and claw

(image from Wikipedia Commons)

For 18 days I've kept my binoculars trained on the spiky firethorn bush at the bottom of the garden. It's grown wild and dense, with straggly top branches stretching upwards, its new leaves a fresh caterpillar green and the few remains of its Autumnal abundance of bright orange berries now withered and dry. In a couple of months where there were berries there will be masses of tiny fragrant white flowers, full of nectar for the moths and bees and hoverflies.

These last 18 days it's been the haven for a female song thrush.  Did you know that an archaic name for the song thrush is 'Throstle' and another one is 'Mavis'?!  From the kitchen window I was thrilled to watch 'Mavis' build her nest there, negotiating her way between the thorny fingers with great beakfuls of dried grass and moss, followed by mud for its lining. I can just about see a small section of it from my vantage point, its tight basket weave distinguishing it from the random criss-cross of surrounding branches. For the last two weeks she's hunkered down there, protecting perhaps four or five bright blue speckled eggs, keeping them warm beneath her soft body. Occasionally I've caught sight of her leaving it briefly to feed, then returning and settling down for another sitting.  It feels like such a privilege that she's chosen this little garden in which to introduce her brood to the world and I've been on tenterhooks waiting for the next, crucial stage.

As with all the creatures with whom we share the garden, I feel a kind of duty of care to this unborn family. I've been worrying mostly about the neighbour's cat who, whilst a bit half-hearted when it comes to hunting, would no doubt find it hard to resist a vulnerable fledgeling as yet unskilled at flying. But the shrubbery is thick and its undergrowth difficult to access; a small, freckled baby bird will be well-camouflaged and hidden from feline predators, so it stands a decent chance.

Song thrush chicks usually hatch after about 12-14 days so their due date has just passed. I've been eagerly looking out for signs of life, so excited at the prospect of witnessing their development, ready to help the parents by providing soft fat and sultanas for them to feed on themselves as they diligently collect small grubs and slugs for their new offpsring.  It will be a busy time and Mavis will need to leave her nest more often.  Any time now...  Any time now.

This morning I was working in the shedio, hunkered down like a bird on the nest myself, when I became vaguely aware of a sound I haven't heard quite as close for a while. A hoarse croaking... a cackle. Lost in my painting I didn't really register for a moment, until it seemed to become particularly urgent and it dawned on me what it was. Of course! It was a magpie. And then my heart sank as I realised. I looked out the window and across to the firethorn, and through the greenery I saw the black and white. Pied wings flapped as the magpie pushed its bulky body through the gaps between the spiky branches and then I knew what it was after, what was worth the effort of squeezing past those thorns, and what was happening.

The magpie flew off but I suspect it wasn't the first time it had visited this morning. On checking through the binoculars several times this afternoon and evening, there's no sign of my song thrush on her nest and no sign of movement within it. I will check again tomorrow but, sadly I think I know what I will see – or perhaps, more to the point, what I won't see.

It's just nature, I know: red in tooth and claw. Presumably the magpie will have eaten well today, or perhaps fed tiny morsels of fresh, tender meat to its own young on a nest in a bush not far away. And Mavis can build another one and before the season is out she may rear several young. Most will not survive their first year, but with luck some will - and maybe next Spring one will find our garden and breed with more success, undisturbed by marauding magpies.   I do hope so.

Summer is coming, summer is coming

I know it, I know it, I know it.

Light again, leaf again, life again, love again,

Yes, my wild little poet.

(From 'The Throstle', Alfred Lord Tennyson)

Robin

A couple of things you should know about me: I fall in love all the time and I like being teased. Right now I'm falling in love and being teased simultaneously by the same character. He seems quite cocky but I like his confidence. I think he's had me in his sights for a while now.  He has this habit of whistling loudly when he sees me and a way of making sure I notice him by crossing my path frequently whenever he can and making eye contact with me briefly but very obviously before disappearing again to watch me from a distance. That's the teasing bit. He's like: “ You can look but you can't touch”. (Well, mate, I'd love to touch you if you'd just let me...)  Sometimes he even sings!

This morning he was particularly obvious, when he flew straight across in front of me, landed on the bird table just a few inches away where I'd been topping up the feeders, and later on he perched on the branch of the buddleia right outside my window and stared in at me through the glass, almost taunting me to react to his pluckiness.

We are only just getting to know each other but we have a connection and I love him already.  I've loved a few of his kind in the past too -  had them eating out of my hand ;-)

Now harmless youngsters, ye are free!

Yet stay awhile and sing to me;

And make these sheltered bounds your home,

Nor towards those dangerous meadows roam.

Your ruddy bosoms pant with fear

But no dark snare awaits you here.

No artful note of tame decoy

Shall lure you from your native joy.

These blossom shrubs are all your own,

And lawns with sweetest berries strewn;

And when bleak winter thins your store,

This friendly hand shall furnish more;

Nor shall my window shutters fold

Against my robins numb with cold.

Thomas, Lord Erskine, 1798

Aye Aye Captain

I don't even give it a second thought these days.  Any time I see a lone magpie, I hold my hand up to my cocked head in salute and say, “Aye Aye Captain!”  I've no idea where or when I first heard this but it seems as natural as saying “bless you” when someone sneezes, just one of those things you do. Maybe it's not so dissimilar in origin either, rooted in ancient custom and linked to superstitious beliefs.  I don't know quite how greeting a black and white bird like a naval officer is supposed to reduce the chances of shit happening, but still I do it and I'm not alone.  Apparently there are many variations of this saying, from that simple salutation to the more long-winded, “Hello Mr Magpie, how are your wife and children?”   A quick survey of friends also threw a “Good day Sergeant” into the mix.

The subject of this, and the magpie rhyme ”one for sorrow, two for joy” etc. came up on Radio 2 Drivetime's 'Homework Sucks!' feature some months back.  I usually catch the end of it every Tuesday evening when I do a short trip in the car and I like the curious snippets of info you can pick up – unfortunately, though, I always seem to remember more about the questions than the answers.  Funny what sticks though - there was one about the weight of a raindrop falling on a small bird, it was something like equivalent to ten tons dropping on a human (I could be making that up) but of course I can't recall exactly nor the real science behind why the bird doesn't get flattened like something out of a Tom and Jerry cartoon.  Must try harder.  However, I did remember some about the magpie thing. An early version of the rhyme was “one for sorrow, two for mirth, three for a death and four for a birth” and it was used as a form of fortune telling, the sighting of however many magpies being thought of as some kind of prediction. Delve a little bit deeper and it's believed that seeing just one magpie is evidence that its mate (they mate for life apparently) may either have died, or 'be up to no good' somewhere else and is therefore symbolic of sorrow or bad luck.  As a way of warding off the misfortune that the lonesome Magpie No-mates could bring on us, the act of greeting him with a respectful salutation became a superstitious tradition.

I don't see many magpies in our garden, but my mother-in-law gets one quite regularly at her bird table. She doesn't bother with all that Aye Aye Captain wife and children twaddle, though; instead she keeps to the rather more prosaic exclamation of “Get off you greedy bugger!” preferring to see the sparrows and bluetits get the scraps. But I don't think the Captain can hear her through the window and presumably thinks the shooing action of her hand is a fanciful salute.

What's in the nest box?

Safe, environmentally friendly and cosy accommodation

with comfortable feather bed, central heating and regular room service.

Quiet location with garden view; babies very welcome.
Available Spring and Summer.

Isn't it beautiful?

Trailer Bride: Hope Is A Thing With Feathers

Cold comforts

It's a bit cold, isn’t it?

Aarghh.  Horrible, horrible cold.  Wind biting through your bones type cold.  Wearing thermal socks in bed type cold (I couldn't cope without them).  I’m so bored of it now.  

The only good thing about it as far as I’m concerned is the profusion of birds it brings into the garden.  For the first time we have a lot of  siskins here.  The huge number of sightings in gardens is a bit of a phenomenon this Winter, apparently.  If you’re a bird-nerd like me you may enjoy this time lapse film of the activity around some feeders (not mine)...  (Although, it has to be said that there isn't much of a plotline!)

                                  

...and some siskins viewed through my shedio window this morning.  Snow too.

Not as many siskins in our garden as in the film, but plenty of bluetits, one of which I’ve been keeping an eye on because he has an unusual deformity which has caused his beak to grow to a freakish length.  It’s about an inch long, maybe more.  (You can see/read more about this condition here.) Cyrano (I had to give him a name, of course) has adapted brilliantly by tilting his head on the side to pick up seed or fat fragments from the ground as he can’t use the feeder, he then takes them to an upright branch which he pins them against with his improbably long bill, meaning he can eat side-on too.  I’m impressed.

At least the birds stay outside, unlike the tiny baby bank vole which I found in the kitchen the other day.  I only knew he was there by a weird chattering, clicking sound – I had no idea what the noise was and followed it quizically like a sniffer dog following a scent, to find a rather exhausted looking ball of fur in a corner.  I don’t know how he got in although we’ve had mice getting trapped in the cavity wall before; we only knew about that when the whiff of roasted rodent wafted in from behind the radiator pipes.    This little vole did look pretty traumatised, probably from climbing over those old mouse remains behind the wall,  the horror of their fates petrified forever like the victims of Pompeii (or so I imagine).  Anyway, he didn’t move much so I was able to pick him up, then popped him under a plant outside and when I checked later he’d gone.   I like to think that Ma vole came and fetched him (aww), giving him a whiskery hug but then squeaking sternly, “I told you NOT to go off on your own!  Where’ve you been?” although I realise it’s possible that he may just have become elevenses for the neighbour’s podgy cat.

                                                              Not the same vole... but cute or what?

Then there are the even smaller intruders.  As I let the washing-up water drain away this morning I noticed something kinda leggy in the bottom of the sink…  you’ve guessed it, yes: a spider.  Well, I’m ok with spiders and this one was particularly clean as well (covered in Fairy Liquid bubbles) so I scooped her up on a piece of kitchen roll and took her outside too.  She looked limp and lifeless, and I didn’t hold out much hope but an hour or so later she started moving again and then crawled softly away (it seems that legs that do dishes can be soft as your face… I bet she smelt all fresh and lemony too).  That made me happy.

I was less happy, however, when I pulled back the duvet last night to get into bed.  (If you're easily  freaked out, you may want to skip this bit...) I like to entwine my legs with another’s as much as you probably do, but two legs will suffice.  Not eight.  He was on the underside of the duvet, if you please, and if a spider could look as if it had just been caught doing something it shouldn’t, then this one did.  I know it’s freezing out there but come on, they’re supposed to be used to this kind of thing – next you know they’ll be moaning about cold feet.  And that’s a lot of thermal bed socks to get.

Starling, I love you

Do you ever watch ‘Countdown’?  Tempting though it might seem for someone who works from home to watch a lot of daytime TV, I rarely even turn the box on before 7.30pm.  However, last week I heard that Chris Packham was on the popular words and numbers game show so, as a long-term fan of his, I thought I’d catch a couple of episodes.

I’m also a fan of Susie Dent.  I decided a while ago that, contrary to her rather demure and bookish exterior, she is a filthy-minded and possibly quite kinky little minx.  (I could be wrong of course, but she does have a penchant for talking about the more scandalous origins of words and with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. )   For this (speculative!!) reason alone I like her enormously. Add to that her obvious thirst for knowledge and enthusiasm for language, along with her gentle modesty, and it makes for a pretty appealing combination as far as I’m concerned.   I am straight, by the way...  but, still.

I digress…. What was really lovely about Chris Packham’s guest spot was that Dictionary Corner focused on words with wildlife connections, in particular birds. Chris Packham, Susie Dent, words AND birds?  What a wonderfully heady mix!  And in the middle of the afternoon too!  The only thing missing was some rock’n’roll… but in a way that was there also, what with Chris’ well-known music credentials and punk past. 

Anyway, I watched a little of Wednesday’s edition and learned something which will stick in my mind, and that was about starlings. 

I know a lot of people aren’t keen on starlings (they always get labelled as ‘greedy’ – which seems a very anthropomorphic judgement of a wild creature’s natural survival instincts) but I have a real fondness for this characterful species.  They’re intelligent and resourceful birds, with perky and feisty personalities (or whatever the equivalent is for birds, I realise that sounds anthropomorphic too), but - and this is something I've known about for a while - their population in the UK has been in shocking decline for the last few decades.  In fact, it's down by 80% since 1979 and they are currently considered to be at serious risk.   Our garden is full of many different breeds of birds at most times of the year but I’ve seen significantly fewer starlings in the last six months than ever before.  Now when I see just two or three come in to feed I really welcome their noisy, skittish presence.

At this time of year, the starling’s plumage is quite different to its sleek, black-with-rainbow-tint feathers of Spring and Summer.  In Winter there is little iridescence: instead the plumage is dark with numerous white speckles.  Hundreds and hundreds of speckles… like millions of stars in a night sky, perhaps…? 

And so, as the lovely Susie Dent explained, one possibility for the origin of the name starling is that it was inspired by this appearance, derived from the Anglo-Saxon word for ‘star’ (‘stœr’ ? – not sure about the spelling!)    I thought this was such a picturesque and rather romantic way to name a bird (and so much more imaginative than ‘blackbird’…), I'll always remember it now. 

I've just looked out of the window to watch a pair of sturnus vulgaris and all I can see is the pure beauty of a starlit sky in their wings. 

Long playing bird

“Well, there’s that Santana album…” I said to Mr SDS this morning, as I pictured the cover to 'Abraxas' in my mind.  We were trying to think of album covers with  birds on them.  No, not that kind of bird.  I know, there are plenty of album covers with those on. And - if you’ve now got the image of the curvaceous naked woman on 'Abraxas' in your head - I’m not talking about, ahem, tits either (but, oh, you knew I had to put a ‘tit’ joke in there somewhere…)   There are plenty of album covers with those on too.  I was thinking of the white dove at her lap, subtley preserving a little of her modesty.

We’ve got this album cover lying around at home; it somehow ended up in our possession without the record itself:-

The artwork is so 1970s.  (Oops, UPDATE: it was released in 1969.)  I like the bold colours and slightly crude drawing style, plus the subject itself, even if it is a rather obviously literal interpretation of the name and could have been a fifth-former’s art class project.  With no vinyl to protect now it has no use - but it could be ornament and may yet end up on the wall, rather than gathering dust, unseen, elsewhere.

Other albums with feathered friends on them?  I'm still racking my birdbrain.

The cat, the rat and the blackbird

Not much snow here really, and certainly not the apocalyptic blizzard that was forecast, so I won't be making any voluptuous snow-women like I did last year (she slowly got droopier and droopier as the temperature picked up until eventually her curvaceous appendages just dropped off...)

But the thing I love about a light sprinkling of the white stuff is looking out in the morning to see who's been around already, leaving delicate little tracks before my clumsy clumpy booted footprints spoil the canvas.  This morning I see evidence of Ratty (he's probably back under the car bonnet now as I type).  The blackbird and a neighbour's cat have left their trails too.  I can't help but get a picture in my mind of all three of them out there at the same time, setting aside their differences for one magical hour and going off together to build some snow-rats, snow-cats and snow-birds.  It's just a shame that they must have melted before I could find them.

H**ny, p**ny ornithologist

Engraving by George Graves, early 1800s

Without wishing to go all Bill Oddie on you, I was really chuffed on Monday morning when I saw a jay in our small garden; it was the first time I’ve witnessed one of these large, beautiful, exotically colourful birds so close.  Its brief but eyecatching appearance here seemed timely as that evening I went to my first meeting at a bird conservation charity. It was just so good to be able to mention the jay’s presence there to a man I’d never met before but whom I knew would understand!  The conversation continued about garden visits from long-tailed tits and goldfinches and our eyes shone as we discussed our feathered friends.  This was not technical, competitive talk about spotting rare raptors or buying binoculars; instead just a keen mutual appreciation of the ordinary, daily company of our garden guests.  (Or, as I see it, it's really their garden and we just borrow it.)  They’re all around - house sparrows, bluetits, blackbirds - and I never tire of seeing them go about their daily business.  Sightings of red kites, buzzards and barn owls might bring special, rare pleasures - like that jay - but they don’t need to be big, bold and bright to make my heart flutter.  Every LBJ (‘little brown job’ in birdy speak) is as welcome a sight as anything more unusual, and I’ve learned so much just from observing them.  So whilst I’m definitely not a ‘twitcher’, I could perhaps consider myself to be an amateur ornithologist.  Although I must admit I can’t hear the word ‘ornithologist’ these days without being reminded of this Not The Nine O’Clock News team’s brilliant Two Ronnies parody...

Who else could have got away with the word 'dildo'

on early '80s prime time BBC TV?

Anyway, the meeting was about how volunteers can  promote the work and research of this organisation and I’ve offered to compose some articles, as a means of combining my enthusiasm for birdlife with a love of creative writing.  Nothing scientific or exclusive, just a way to share a personal passion which might hopefully end up doing some good too.  (And I might even mention tits and nuts.)

I’d better get scribing.

Springwatching: Sweet Thing reprise

This is what I looked out of the window to see (and hear) this morning.  Unfortunately I think this little fellow left the nestbox (as mentioned in yesterday's post) a tad too early, as his siblings are still inside.  I don't hold out too much hope for him but I was able to quietly and gently get close enough for this photo.  It's one of those difficult dilemmas - not wanting to interfere with the natural way of things but finding it hard not to feel slightly responsible for his welfare because I can see him out there looking rather vulnerable (as he can't fly yet).  In this case I think I just have to trust things to fate - at least the parent bluetits are around and I'm doing my very best to keep out the neighbour's cats.  Fingers crossed. 

(...If you like bluetits you might also be interested in this:
http://sundriedsparrows.blogspot.co.uk/2012/01/birds-tale.html)

Springwatching

Image copyright: C / Sun Dried Sparrows

In the early ’70s my parents occasionally went out on a Friday or Saturday night, perhaps to eat cheese fondue with friends.  Mum would dress in a kaftan-style maxi dress and dad would wear a wide and garish purple tie that she’d chosen for him, though I know he wished he could stay at home and fiddle with his radiogram in his socks and sandals instead.  My big sister would go to the local Granada cinema with her boyfriend to try and sneak in to see the latest X-rated film, so there was nobody home to look after me - but there was a women’s teacher training college in town and my parents hired babysitters from there. 

My memories of those babysitters was that they were, unfortunately, mostly rather sour-faced girls who brought their non-communicative boyfriends along and watched TV all night in the hope that I wouldn’t interrupt their covert groping with requests for Ribena or stories or any kind of attention at all, really.  With the exception of one: a warm and smiley young woman who found that we had an area of common interest, then promptly indulged it for the whole evening and inspired me so much I just can’t forget her. 

I think it all started when she found my ‘Ant and Bee’ library books.  The conversation turned to the subject of little creatures, not just ants and bees, but also millipedes, woodlice and moths, etc.  It was nearly time for bed but she helped me into my dressing-gown and black plimsolls and, just before dusk, took me outside and up to the top of the long, high back garden, where the compost pile was.  Gently she poked and sifted through the rotting vegetable peelings and garden cuttings with a stick, whilst I crouched attentively at her side, and uncovered creepy crawlies and slimy things of all descriptions, telling me enthusiastically a little bit about each one.  I was mesmerised.  I had no idea that in this mound of dead things there was so much life.

An interest in wildlife of all shapes and sizes, but especially the miniature and winged versions, has stayed with me since and my chance to indulge it even more now comes at the end of each May with what has become something of a British TV institution, BBC2’s ‘Springwatch’.   I’m no fan of reality TV but this is something quite different – where ‘Four In A Bed’ relates to blackbird eggs in a nest, and ‘Come Dine With Me’ is footage of a mole feasting on worms stored in its underground larder.

Spring is perhaps the best time to observe so much of this other world.  My own environment is teeming with life at the moment – judging by the sounds they’re making the bluetits are about to fledge from the nest box, and I’m starting to feel like an excited mother myself, just waiting.  Yesterday I picked up a cockchafer (yes, really) which had flown into the house by mistake – a large, clumsy-looking flying beetle with feathery antennae that looks like a mint humbug with legs and is only seen at this time of year.  It played dead when I handled it, but soon returned to normality when placed on a hollyhock leaf, where it got itself into gear for take-off by flexing its flight muscles with a loud hum.

To add to the reality outside my window, ‘Springwatch’ offers amazing privileged views of barn owls, dragonflies, osprey, garden birds, snails and many other beasties and their babies with an intimacy we’d never usually witness. To top it all we now have the added value of Chris Packham presenting: somebody I started admiring a few years after my babysitting experience because he was a bit of a punk.  With his spiky peroxide hair and a leather bike jacket he was an appealing and relatable alternative to the more geeky wildlife programme presenters I’d grown up watching until then.  Now he hasn’t even changed all that much – plus he knows how to tap into those of us who share his musical/cultural background as well as love of nature.  This year phrases such as  ‘cygnet committee’ ‘prettiest star’, ‘be my wife’ and ‘starman’ (amongst many others) are being casually dropped into the commentary.  It’s a subtle game he plays with those of us who want to join in, so I’ll be listening out for more Bowie song titles (in previous series it was the Smiths and the Cure) as I learn about pine marten faeces and dormouse whiskers.  It doesn’t get much better.

Big sky country

For all the cracks in the walls and creaky floors I still like where I live.  Dating back 200 years our tiny mid-terrace would have been a Georgian hovel; I’m sure I’ve seen the ghost of Baldrick from 'Blackadder' tending to his turnips more than once – he would have felt at home here in Regency times, when it was no doubt inhabited by a family of fifteen who only bathed on their birthdays.  We’ve got problems with the hot water tank and woodworm, a 1980s bathroom suite and a kitchen which would shame Harold and Albert Steptoe  – I could go on but it’s too depressing – but still I’m comforted by the fact that it’s possible, eventually, hopefully, one day, to change those.  I’m a natural optimist, even if a foolish one.  It’s the bits you can’t change that matter, and if they’re ok then it’s a good thing.

And they are, mostly, ok.  Unfortunately I can’t change how busy the road out the front can be; in spite of being a rural area the route is a well-used one.   The trans-European lorries cause our doors and windows to shake daily, to a degree that I’m sure would show up on the Richter Scale.  It may only be once a year but when the Traction Engine event is on nearby, fancily painted steam engines with metal wheels rattle and clatter on the unforgiving road surface so much I think my teeth might fall out.  They toot their horns with a glee not shared by the crocodile of impatient motorists stuck in first gear behind them, whose cars in turn belch out exhaust fumes like angry, exasperated sighs.

It’s what’s at the back of these old red-roofed houses that makes the difference, though. 

Every day I walk to the end of our small garden and look over the gate.  Beyond is a sizeable meadow, owned by a neighbour who lets wild rabbits and the occasional pheasant enjoy sanctuary there.  Through the gate, the path leads straight to open fields, beyond which are more open fields.  The sound of traffic on the road is lost here to the sound of birdsong.  I can just stand and look and listen for ages and, when I do, all feels well in the world, even when it isn’t.

It’s not always completely peaceful.  Last night a black cat prowled up the path with something rather big in its mouth.  He saw me, dropped it and then I realised it was a dead baby rabbit.  At the same I heard a loud thumping sound and noticed parent rabbit very close by, urgently conveying its concern to the rest of the warren with its agitated foot movements.  Thump.  Thump.  I could sense its distress, and I wonder how many more babies it will lose to a predatory feline this season.

Spot the rabbit...

One year, a tranquil summer evening was disturbed by a helicopter, of all things, coming in to land in the  meadow!  Was some Head of State making a top secret visit to this quiet corner of East Anglia?  No, a neighbour's new squeeze just happened to be a pilot, so he flew in to see her.  I’ll resist making a joke about his chopper…

Other aerial visitors are more welcome: dusk in summer time is full of swallows, swifts and sometimes, if I’m lucky, just before dark, low-flying bats.  They speed through the air just inches above my head it seems, like tiny mice with wings that beat so fast, attracted by the insects getting drunk on heady honeysuckle nectar.  I feel intoxicated myself, just being in their presence. 

I’ve lived in damp, rented flats with no gardens before and I know I’m lucky to have a home in a little pocket of English countryside with all this behind my gate.  There are other places I’m sure I could live too – by the sea, or in Tuscany! – as long as nature is not too far away, it’s all good.

Sex, violence and Easter eggs

Hmm, I wondered if that would get you to look up from your chocolate bunny for a moment…  

It’s just that there are some very saucy things going on here right now and I feel compelled to share them.  For the last few weeks the world outside my window has been full of shagging, shouting and sparring, and it’s all about eggs.  Ah, Spring time.  This is bird life at its most active. 

I love this time of year more than ever for watching and listening to the garden birds.  Throughout the day there is constant singing – blackbirds with their enchanting, melodic ditties, a song-thrush with its strange repertoire of repeated phrases, the little dunnock and its flutey speeded-up trills.  They sound sweet to me but not so sweet to fellow members of their species who are no doubt hearing something along the lines of, “Come and have a go if you think you’re hard enough” and “Are you looking at my bird?” (see what I did there?) as well as the more aggressive, “This is my property now so you can all fuck off…”

If the singing (shouting) doesn’t put off their rivals there is plenty of swaggering to back it up.  Dunnocks make me laugh the most – small, brown, fairly indistinctive and timid-looking the rest of the year, these characters are masters at macho posturing during breeding season.  They puff themselves up and lower their heads in the manner of a muscle-bound hardnut about to headbutt someone.   That’s when they’re not flapping their wings at each other like manic semaphore signallers.  It’s all very showy and is perhaps a way to avoid violent confrontation, whereas blackbirds and robins get more combative and will fight dirty if they need to.  Some conflicts have even been known to be fatal, but I’m glad to say I’ve never witnessed quite that extreme.  The loss of some feathers, pride and the claim on the territory/mate in question is usually where it all ends.

As far as the sex goes it seems that woodpigeons and collared doves are the least inhibited.  They’ll shag just about anywhere.  Usually on our garden fence or on the neighbour’s roof.  I’ll admit, rather blushingly, to being a bit of a voyeur here.  It’s just that they have these fascinating little rituals and my interest in nature is such that I’m not going to get prudish about a bit of exhibitionist pigeon rumpy-pumpy.  They seem to be the only group of birds who indulge in lengthy foreplay; some necking and nuzzling clearly gets them in the mood.  Then she goes all submissive to him and he lets out a cry as he, ahem, ‘triumphs’.  Once the deed is done they stick together too, in a kind of ‘afterglow’ moment I suppose; I half-expect each to pull a cigarette out from under its wing and have a post-coital puff. 

A little further down the line, when all this sexual and violent intensity has calmed down a bit, the results of all the posturing, pugilism and fornication will make their debut into the world.  I can’t wait.  I’ll hear the first high-pitched peeping sounds from the nest box and find fragments of freckled or mottled eggshell by the hedge.  Told you it was all about eggs.

A bird's tale

It was during midwinter a couple of years ago that I had the ‘bizarre bluetit experience’.  If you’re into birds – I don’t mean in a twitching, tracking-down-the-elusive-red-throated-marshmallow-hawk-warbler type of way – but just into enjoying your regular avian visitors, you’ll hopefully understand why it was special.

Anyone who feeds their garden birds will probably know how you can get quite used to having one or two ‘tame’ ones; blackbirds and robins seem to be the most receptive.  It just takes a combination of time, trust-building and food to get the occasional brave feathered character to come to your door or window and wait for edible treats, or even to take them from your hand.  I’ve got to know several blackbirds over the years who develop certain habits that ensure they’ll get some juicy sultanas: one used to jump on the back-door handle and perch there, tapping on the window glass.  I became well-acquainted with a robin who followed me around the garden and became trusting enough to land on my fingers and take a snack from my open palm.  You can almost see them calculating the odds – weighing up hunger versus danger and deciding that some degree of human interaction is a safe enough bet.  They let you get close – but only on their terms.

The weird thing about the bluetit who appeared one winter’s day was that there was no time, no trust-building nor enticement of food involved.  I first spotted this individual from my window and noticed that when other birds flew away this one didn’t.  This often happens when a bird is a bit poorly and its usual defensive reflexes are not kicking in.  So it immediately caught my attention as I watched its behaviour during the day.  Next morning I saw it again and, curious as to what it would do in response, I went outside – the other birds flew off, but bluetit stayed where it was.  I don’t know why I did it, but I’m a bit soppy like this, and I remained still, about eight feet away, and called over to it.  Yes, I know, soppy. I think I probably said “hello sweetie” in the kind of voice you use for cats and babies….  And the bluetit looked up, uttered a little call, then flew in a direct line towards me and landed on my arm. 

I couldn’t believe it.  This tiny bird then hopped along my sleeve and onto my shoulder and sat there right next to my face.  I could actually smell it – a slightly musty aroma – and as I turned my head towards it I could feel the faintest touch of its feathers near my chin.  It seemed to want to snuggle in to me.  I was delighted – but really quite shocked, and absolutely baffled. 

Once I’d got over the surprise (and desperately wishing my husband was around so he could take a photo) I was able to manoevre the bird by letting it perch on my fingers.  It seemed perfectly happy to stay with me but also wanted to climb up my back which was getting a bit awkward.  I took it to a branch and encouraged it to move onto it so I could go back indoors.

For the next few days bluetit and I got to know eachother.  I would notice it in the morning, go outside, attract its attention with a “hello sweetie” and have it fly to me from wherever it was to simply sit on my shoulder, often trying to nestle into my jumper or push up close to my face.  It didn’t even take any food on offer – it was as if it just wanted to be with me. I don’t know why it was so immediately tame and unafraid, but I can only guess that it may have been fostered by someone and had become ‘imprinted’ – when a wild bird or animal thinks of a human as its parent, or own kind.  This means the creature is rarely able to survive in the wild, as it doesn’t relate to the usual behaviour of its own species and is unlikely to know how to search efficiently for food.  Even then, this bird would have hatched in the Spring, so had it been kept in captivity all those months in between and then set free in the winter?  It does seem strange.

Sadly, though, I can only think that must have been the case.  After several days of being totally enraptured by this delicate, almost weightless bird’s trusting, willing and very close company, I was walking back from the village and got caught in the snow.  It came down thick and hard and settled.  I feared for my tiny friend’s ability to protect itself and stay warm and well-fed in the harsh conditions.  I didn’t see it for the rest of that day.  Next morning the snow was even deeper and the heavy white of the sky suggested there was more to come.  Other birds swooped down and fed frantically from the seed-feeder, knowing they were in for a hard, cold spell.  I kept calling for it.  “Hello sweetie..?”   

But  I never saw that little sweetie again.

An avian observation post

I’ve only got two ‘Observer’ guide books but I treasure them.  I can’t fully explain why – maybe it’s the combination of them being pocket-sized (this always makes things which aren’t normally that small seem extra attractive for some reason) and also that they’re old.  They have an appealing vintage look, feel and scruffiness, like the Penguin paperbacks I’ve written about before on here.  So I’m holding on to my collection of two - well, it’s not as if they take up much room. 

‘Observer’ books were discontinued in the eighties, after 100 titles had been published in just over fifty years. There is even an ‘Observer’s Book of Observer’s Books’.    I’m not quite sure how they managed to fill two hundred plus pages on some topics: ‘mosses and liverworts’,  ‘sewing’ or ‘glass’,  for instance, but there are others about which I think the opposite, wondering how they managed to condense vast subjects such as ‘modern art’ and ‘wild flowers’ into relatively small volumes.  Birds and trees are just right for these little guides, though. 

‘The Observer’s Book of Birds’ was actually the very first in the series.  I’ve plenty of books about birds but I still refer to this one from time to time, it’s simple to use and it doesn’t go out of date.  It also has a notably endearing way of describing bird note/calls phonetically; for example, apparently the bearded tit makes the sound: ‘ “Cht, cht” and a twanging “ping” ’ and the tree pipit’s song is described as having ‘…a sweet rallentando at the end: “tweedle, tweedle, sweet, sweet, sweet.” ’ Well, I’ve never seen a tree pipit nor come across the term, ‘rallentando’ before, but I like the sound of them both already. 

I’m somewhat fanatical about birds. It’s just a love thing.  They make my eyes light up and my heart lift.   I’ve tried to analyse many times what exactly it is about birds which makes them special, but I can’t really nail it.  I love the fact that they are the only wild creature we share our lives with so visibly, so obviously, every day.  No matter where you are, whether it’s on a city street or in the middle of a forest, you’re bound to notice a bird at some point.  I love the way they are entirely free-willed but we can still find ways to interact with them – like the blackbird who comes to the back door for sultanas, or the robin who surveys as you do some gardening, almost seeming to urge you to notice him.  You can learn a lot about life just watching and trying to understand birds – recognizing all those behaviour patterns which are not so dissimilar to our own when you consider the basic motivations.  They get on with every aspect of their lives without fuss, clearly aware of us but relatively unperturbed.  The more time you devote to observing ordinary birds going about their business, the more you get out of it, and the more you get out of it the more you will want to share in their lives. 

Even when you can’t see them, you invariably hear them and once you’re tuned in it seems you become more aware of birdsong than any other sound.  Earlier today I could hear the jarring metallic clatter of a pneumatic drill somewhere up the road, but the sweet whistling of a territorial robin drew my attention away.  I think there may even have been a rallentando in his song somewhere.

For some reason my love of birds seems to be directly linked to my inability to represent them well on paper.  You’d think it’d make it easier as I spend so much time watching them, but it’s almost as if that’s all I can do: observe.  Observe and enjoy.  My drawings don’t do them justice; maybe I’m inhibited by the challenge of how to capture their spirit and essence, although occasionally I do I try the odd quick sketch…

 Images copyright C / Sun Dried Sparrows

But I’ll leave the proper pictures to the illustrators of my pocket guide. All I really want to do is see, hear and experience birds for real, and if I’m lucky I may get to hear the ‘ “fullock”…”chirrick” and “quark” ’ of a moorhen or the ‘ “whitz” and an explosive scream or groan’ of the water rail.

A musical tribute - Alan Ross: Blackbird (not the Beatles' song of the same name)

Not sure what species this is, but it isn't in my Observer's Book...

Image copyright C (aged about 8)