ADDING GLOSS
To many, the spring dawn chorus is a highlight of nature’s calendar. Dimly lit naked woodlands, beginning to emerge from the icy grip of winter, come alive with the rich treble of birdsong, like vivid color in a field of grey, burnished red and gold paint upon a canvas of white. Following the time-worn order of service, the choir of Blackbirds, thrushes and Robins are the first to pour out their sweet melody well before the sun begins to peep over the horizon. As William Ernest Henley poetically mused “the blackbird plays but a boxwood flute… for his song is all the joy of life”. With large eyes, relative to their body size, this gang of invertebrate hunters forage in the semi-dark taking advantage of the worms and grubs close to the surface in those early hours. The next to strike up song, encouraged by the thrushes to join the orchestra, are traditionally the variety of warblers and Wrens, searching for slightly dozy insects on the wing, slowly awakening from their nocturnal slumber. And yet, it is not the deep burbling tune of the Blackcap or the Willow Warbler’s descending ditty (likened to a leaf falling to the ground) that interrupts my connection to the immediate environment, but the low hoot of a Tawny Owl from a nearby tree. Hearing this, I am reminded of the earliness of the hour. This precious time and the joys that accompany it, before the human world awakes, is an opportunity to sample the soundtrack our ancestors must have grown used to, before the incessant chatter of civilisation began to dominate our ears. Warm rays of sun fall on my face as the soft dawn light starts to spread through the tall Ash and Silver Birch on the opposite bank from where I am sat. I am waiting patiently to hear the druid bird, the Manx, the little king. For those of you unfamiliar with ancient Gaelic and esoteric folk names of animals (I don’t blame you if you are not) and perhaps expecting the little king to be the bird that stirred Keats’ emotions to pen his Ode, I am afraid I must disappoint. For me, it is not the Nightingale that is the true signal of this period of seasonal rejoicing, but the humble and diminutive Wren. Both male and female birds sing a melody of bubbly jumbled notes, rich and fluid, finishing with a flourishing trill. During the breeding months sometimes they will announce their presence up to 12 times a minute. The Chaffinch’s descending song ending with a ‘wheat chew’ is one song we can all learn Starlings, masters of song, take time out for a bath; but one keeps up the vocal performance