Birdsong brightens up the coldest of days
NATURE NOTES
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JUST before it snowed again, there was a flurry of activity on the birdfeeders in the last 10 minutes of my annual RSPB Big Garden Birdwatch count, saving me from the national running joke about the regular visitors not showing up.
But of course, birds are not contained by gardens, local walks, their own physicality or our conscious observations.
I head out and am doorstepped immediately with a full chaffinch song – before I’ve even heard so much as a prelude: no, this is a confident declaration from a bold bird. No limbering up, just straight in there like a wild swimmer through freezing water. Can it still be winter?
There are brief notes from the first blackbird of the year, like a sweet aftertaste of honey from the tea I have just finished.
But there is the scent of snow in the air – the sense of a bone-cold ache and sharpness reflected in the mistle thrushes’ song.
Subconsciously or not, the farmer on the other side of the hedge picks up the tune and whistles his way across the farmyard.
My youngest daughter and I go looking for otters at dusk and find none.
She knows better than to be disappointed, and I remind her of the wildlife encounters she has had, that, in her younger years, has forgotten. “Whether you remember or not,” I tell her, “they’re part of who you are.”
But I love the privilege of remembering and recounting for her.
I’m overcome a little then (a frequent occurrence these days) about all the things young people are missing.
The parties, the escapades and shared stories with friends that you repeat then, all your life: a son studying away for a creative industry, utterly stalled.
His planned gigs, festivals and travels cancelled for a second year.
A friend’s baby daughter that has never known playgroup, people without masks or more than five people.
Walking home, there is the glimmer and tenacity of snowdrops to light our way, and the tiniest muntjac fawn.
We slip and slide over the uncertainty of water over ice, ice over water.
My oldest daughter catches up with us as we turn into Home Field.
Her bike went from under her on her way to the stables. We sympathise with her and bend to pick some garden snowdrops for a friend beset by Covid. We come up at the same time, looking towards the house lights, to see the barn owl, like a lightly-toasted slice of bread, frisbee over the snow.
Wild Diary
Look out for different birds on your birdfeeders or out on walks. This is often the ‘hungry gap’ for them and more will appear bolder or turn up in unusual places.