Birds Of Legend
Cameron McNeish on the many myths about Scotland’s garden birds
AS a particularly cold and depressing winter eases into spring, my jaded spirit has been given hope by the antics of a tiny bird. It’s been a long haul, a lockdown since Boxing Day coinciding with the coldest winter we’ve had for a decade. With the exception of two days of torrential rain here in Badenoch, we had snow and ice on the ground for more than six weeks, turning paths into ice-traps.
With nowhere to go and little to look forward to, we turned our attention to our gardens, aware that the deep-freeze had robbed our local wildlife of much-needed food supplies.
Our little bird table had never been so well stocked and our resident robins, blackbirds, pigeons and strutting rooks had never been so well fed.
Soon they were joined by chaffinches, starlings and a whole entourage from the titmouse family. Even the red squirrels joined in.
I spent hours watching their antics – the territorial robin chasing everyone off, the annoyance of the rooks and pigeons because they couldn’t get to the hanging treats. We even had a blackbird who took to tapping on our kitchen door.
I put up a couple of bird boxes and in no time they
“One tiny blue tit has given me cause for excitement – we may soon” have a nest here
had regular inspections by great tits and blue tits.
One tiny blue tit has given me cause for excitement because she’s visited on a regular basis, popping in and out sometimes with tiny pieces of moss. We may have a nest in there soon.
I’m no expert ornithologist, as Tom Weir certainly was, and I’m no Jim Crumley either, but birds and beasts are part of the rich fabric of the great outdoors and I’ve always delighted in their company.
In watching a squirrel scampering up a tree or the majestic flight of an eagle, we become aware of the simple magic of the moment, and in that wonder we recognise the existence of order, and a distinct pattern behind the behaviour of things. Only a few days ago I sat, amused, below an ancient Caledonian pine from where a red squirrel vigorously scolded me for invading its space.
So often, beauty in nature is a product of function. The colours of our garden birds have evolved in ways that allow them to display their dominance.
Throughout the centuries, the Judeo-christian heritage has even created a folklore around these markings.
One legend claims our little orange breasted robin was once as drab as a city sparrow. It was when the robin tried, in vain, to wrest the crown of thorns from the head of the crucified Christ that his breast became saturated in the blood of Jesus, creating the identifying feature we know and love.
And so the robin was helped by another little bird who tried to pull the nails from Christ’s hands and feet. But all he managed to do was get his mandibles crossed, ending up with a rather deformed looking beak. Today, of course we recognise the crossbill from that feature.
As the oystercatchers returned to this part of Badenoch, I recalled their Celtic name, Gille Bride, the servant of Saint Bride.
Celtic tradition claims the oystercatcher sheltered Jesus with his wings as he was trying to avoid the forces of Satan. For his brave deed the oystercatcher was given protection by Saint Bride, the patron saint of all birds.
According to the poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, when The Bible’s Noah decided the waters of The Flood had begun to subside he sent out a dove to search for land. A kingfisher, who at that time was apparently clad in dull grey feathers, was sent out shortly after the dove, but the kingfisher decided that life on the ark was not to his liking and had little intention of returning.
Unfortunately, the mountainous land he discovered
didn’t look very appealing either. Instead, he flew higher and higher until the sky turned his back blue and the sun burned his breast bright red. He flew so high that he lost the ark and in a wild panic, descended back to the land in search of his home which suddenly didn’t appear so bad after all.
Even today, the kingfisher is said to spend all his time flying up and down rivers in search of his lost home.
The magpie is often associated with evil, depending on the number seen at any one time. It was the Brahan Seer who once claimed, “I saw a magpie, to me then luck did die, I once saw two and they troubled me, Great joy was on me when once I saw three, But four forever let me not see.”
Such tales tend to apportion good and evil depending on the size of the creature. It’s hard to associate evil with a robin, but suggest that you support the re-introduction of larger creatures like the lynx or the wolf, and watch people’s ancient alarm instincts rise to the surface.
It doesn’t matter that such beasts are shy and will avoid human habitation, people still react to those instincts of fear buried deep within their genetic make-up.
A number of years ago I was backpacking in the high country of Yosemite National Park when a large, pale brown to grey canine shape appeared from behind a boulder and calmly gazed at me.
Astonished, I half expected to see someone come round the trail and call it to heel, it looked like a large Alsation. Then a shadow of alarm passed across my mind, but suddenly it turned and loped back into the woods.
The little cloud of fear still hung over me as I passed the rock, as though I half expected the beast to jump out
“A ” large grey-brown canine shape appeared
at me, snarling and salivating. But I knew better, and beyond the rock I glimpsed a long tail float into the bush.
My first inclination was “wolf!” The wolf of legend, the mysterious wolf that had given succour to the Roman empire – but this was coyote country? As far as I was aware wolves hadn’t existed in Yosemite National Park for more than 100 years.
It was a coyote, but that encounter made me realise once again that my own basic anthropocentrism had reared its ugly head in that brief shadow of fear.
I was reacting to ancient alarm instincts, but there were also deeper instincts at work. It was as though some place of mystery had been opened up and I had experienced an affinity with that wild animal. In that moment the coyote’s and my own world were the same.
I found myself looking back at myself through the steady gaze of the coyote’s eyes and in that second I was aware there is no separation between them and us.
It’s very difficult to think of anything good that has come out of this pandemic, but here’s a thought. The relationship between wildlife and the outdoors and our mental health has become clearer. Retuning to nature has been one of the bright spots in a dark time.
Let me finish by quoting the words of nature writer Steven Lovatt, author of Birdsong in a Time of Silence.
“The pandemic had struck the northern hemisphere at just that moment in the natural calendar when birdsong resumes in full force after the quiet and solitary winter.”
“Millions of people were not just hearing but actively listening, perhaps for the first time, to the songs of birds – ancient songs, perhaps unchanged from the stone age...
“Some bird calls seem to have the power to shortcircuit time and take you straight back to childhood...
“In the sombre spring of last year, when the usual noise of people and cars was absent, the song, transmitted from aerials, trellises and lamp-posts, felt loud and life-affirming, compelling in its variety and the emotion it seems to contain.”