Life in the margins where field meets woodland
In the margins between arable land and the forest edge, a hidden world emerges as spring heralds rebirth
IT IS AN hour before sunrise on an April morning, the sky still dim. Trees cast dense shadows across the thick margin of tufted grass that separates an arable field from its woodland border. Suddenly, a blackbird begins to sing. His throaty baritone rings out from the trees, ending with a creaky cheep and a squeaky trill. There is a pause, and he begins again.
In the undergrowth are invisible scufflings: a hedgehog, nosing through leaves, snorts as it searches out a nest to curl up in for the day, following a night-time of gorging on earthworms and leatherjackets. A field vole scurries quickly along a grassy corridor, marking its territory with a squirt of urine. A badger retreats to its sett, pausing, out of sight, to scratch its chin and have a good shake before waddling underground.
Soon, the robin joins the dawn chorus, chirruping out a series of high-pitched verses. The Song thrush brashly bellows out a set of notes, pauses, and then tries a short chattering phrase. Whistles follow squeaks, follow brief fluting tunes; it is never the same twice.
As the sky lightens to a cloudless indigo, the birds become more visible: the blackbird silhouetted on the end of a twig; the robin flitting in the bramble. A wood pigeon’s gravelly coo hoots across the field; the high-pitched rattling call of a wren fires out of the scrub, ending with a ‘pew-pew-pew’.
In the east, the sky over the field is brightening: streaks of pink, yellow, orange and cream course across the horizon. Above it, two bright points gleam momentarily; Jupiter and Saturn have risen, only an hour or so ahead of the sun.
Beneath them, a Roe deer steps delicately along the edge of the woodland, leaning in to nibble young leaves and bramble shoots. It may appear to be wholly occupied by browsing, but its large ears twitch, and it moves with caution, completely attuned to its surroundings. It is a young buck, its short, three-pointed antlers freshly clean of velvet.
As the sun crests the horizon, it illuminates the highest leaves in the canopy and casts long, luminous rays over the oilseed rape. Daisies growing on the edge of the field begin to unpeel their petals, leaning towards the light. Closer to the woodland, in the shade of the trees, they are still folded into tight globes, leaning to the west, where they reached towards the setting sun the previous day. The sweet scent of oilseed pollen drifts on a slow breeze.
Alarm call
Abruptly, the birdsong changes: the blackbird’s melody turns into an alarmed ‘chup-chup’, with a sudden shriek. The deer leaps into the woods, flashing its white rump; rabbits scatter; a grey squirrel on the ground bolts for the nearest tree. In the lower branches, overhanging the scrub, is a magpie.
The magpie perches awkwardly on a slender branch, which bows under its weight, before hopping to another, peering up and down. The blackbird continues its panicked ‘chup’, then shoots bravely across to jab at the corvid, which is easily twice its size. The magpie continues to hop through the branches, the blackbird perching on a twig above before torpedoing itself again at the intruder.
The cacophony becomes louder, with other birds screeching their alarm calls; the female blackbird and a neighbouring male join the shrieking fray.
Then, all three blackbirds mob the magpie, skimming its neck and its head, then veering away from its powerful beak at the last moment.
Taking off from a low branch, the magpie, deterred, glides away down the margin, a blackbird in pursuit still shouting its short, sharp alarm call. Out of territory and out of danger, the blackbird returns and alights on the grass, puffing its chest and cocking its tail. It looks around with a bright, gold-rimmed eye before flying low and wide-winged into the scrub.
Soon, the singing resumes. Great tits, Blue tits and sparrows join the morning orchestra. A greenfinch perches on a high branch and sings out a repeated ‘chirrrrr’. The rabbits
“The insect youth are on the wing, Eager to taste the honied spring”
Thomas Gray, ‘Ode on the Spring’