Woodland walk

Jack-by-the-hedge or Garlic Mustard

The swallows have arrived in the last week or so. Bang on time, a year to the day from their last arrival. One can only marvel at their in-built calendars.  The numbers are down but they have been battling against persistent northerly head-winds so only the strongest will have made it so far. Hopefully, more will catch up later. 

The sun has, at last, started to shine though the temperatures are still low and the solitary bees that usually throng the early blooms on the flowering currant in the hedge are few in number.

 The nest boxes are occupied and the warblers are singing in the woods.

Chiffchaff

 I heard what can only be described as a musical duel between two blackcaps trying to outdo each other.  What to my ears was a bravura performance of trill and counter trill was the black cap equivalent of two guys hurling abuse at one another.

Not to be left in the shade, a wren struck up its disproportionately loud party piece. How such a tiny body can produce such a volume and quantity of song is a mystery.

Further along the path the blackbirds had given up singing and were chattering their alarms call from branch to branch.  The reason became obvious as a dozing tawny owl opened a sleepy eye to see who was disturbing his snooze.

Sleepy Owl

 Stoats were playing scampering around the tree roots and generally the woodland seemed to have come alive with a small dose of sunshine.

Crossing from the woods to an old path through the fields, I came across a thrush's anvil - a stone used by a thrush to break snail shells.  It had been busy judging by the amount of discarded remnants of banded snail shells.

Thrush Anvil

 Back home by the burn with the blackthorn in full bloom and the chiff-chaff in full song. A pleasant stroll.

The promise of sloes for the gin this autumn

Onomatopoeia

On a recent walk through some local woods, I was aware of how all of us including some very experienced bird watchers relied on our ears before our eyes to identify the denizens of the trees.

The distinctive and surprisingly loud, pew pew pew of the nuthatch alerted us all long before it was spotted as did the repetitive tsee tsee tsee of the siskins.

Everyone knows the yellow-hammer's refrain of "a little bit of bread and no chee-eese" and, to my mind, the chaffinch sounds like a fast bowler approaching the crease - a few stuttering notes, then an accelerating run then a flourish of cheewoo on the delivery.

I downloaded an app on my i-pod which allows me to record a song for 30 seconds then have it analysed and identified. It has its limitations; it failed a trial of naming a buzzard from its unmistakable call but is usually pretty accurate.

I've just finished the Diaries of a Dying Man, the last work of the poet William Soutar.  His ankylosing spondylitis eventually made him bedridden for fourteen years from 1930 until his death in 1943.   His contact with the natural world was confined to his garden, mostly viewed through a bay window but his enforced immobility allowed him to become a wonderful recorder of the passing scene.

 He had a great affinity for the blackbird.  He compared it to the thrush whom he saw as a provincial country cousin compared to the masterful creation of the blackbird with its " solitary bright bill against the body's darkness"

...life's joy culminated in a single gesture- the flirt of a tail feather; and the magnanimity of life flowing in the rich simplicity of a song.

 Another entry has a blackbird whistling in the rain " the Caruso of the tribe"

I could have listened to him for hours, the interplay of notes was so varied, defiant, witty, confident, merry, bold - anything but melancholy.

This from a man with a poet's ear for sound in rhythm and rhyme.

He attempted, but admitted it was well nigh impossible, to translate the song into words.

chickee-chickee-chee: ti-ti-ti-titty-titty: chittie-cheea: tweeto-tweet-tweeto: what-ya-doin', what-ya-doin': hullo-hullo-hullo: chejoey-chejoey-what-what-what: gee-up, gee-up, hoo-hoo-hoo: get-away, get-away, get-away: you-would, you-would, you-would, would-you?: hoi-hoi-hoi-- have-a-look-at -me.

The sheer volume and exuberance of the blackbird's song make it difficult for the amateur bird watcher to distinguish the others joining in the chorus though the robin and humble dunnock try their best.  Thankfully, the wonderfully ascending scales of the sky lark only have the wind to outdo. 

The comforting cooing of the wood pigeon; the privilege of hearing the barn owl's screech or the tawny owl's hoot in the stillness of the night; the assurance of summer in the cuckoo's mocking call or the scream of the swifts on warm evenings: sometimes we are scarcely aware of them amongst all the noise we generate.

 We should rejoice in their presence.