WINTER’S WILDLIFE

The five eggs, snug in a carefully crafted nest of sedge and dried grasses, looked as delectable as anything crafted by a master chocolatier.

Each glossy marvel was a shade of subtle lilac, little larger than a thumb nail, and covered with inky scrawls reminiscent of my spidery, schoolboy writing.

A burning desire to pluck the delicate creations from their warm sanctuary was thwarted by my father whose caution still rings loud many decades later: never steal from the wild.

Dad was not a birdwatcher, but he was well aware of the dangers posed by egg thieves in the late

1960s, when many species were being pushed towards extinction by collectors. He had only taken me for a nature walk to a patch of scrub near our home in a hope of finding the spot where the Great Ouse begins its journey to the Wash.

As we trumped through damp ground scattered with hawthorn, a small, inconspicuous brown bird suddenly appeared and dad quickly located its nest in tussocky grass.

The bird’s mate, an altogether more striking bird with black and white head markings, looked

on sternly as we beat a hasty retreat. Only when we got home were we able to piece together an identification – reed buntings.

I recently passed the spot where we had seen the buntings. Their wild refuge had been freshly bulldozed ready for a swathe of new homes.

Sadly, many of my old birdwatching haunts have vanished to make way for our ever-expanding population. Little wonder 41 per cent of the UK’S plants and animals have declined since the 1970s.

Yet the durability of some species gives hope. A friend recently sent a photograph of a bird that had turned up in his suburban garden. A quick look confirmed it was a male reed bunting. Finding one foraging under a shrub would be an Easter treat.