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.

Magpie

Strutting about the garden  in the rain with his swaggering gait, a bandit, a reiver, a robber.

Predator, egg thief, hunter of the weak and vulnerable, snapper up of any unconsidered trifle.

A magpie.

Bird of ill omen; bringer of bad luck; portent of doom; one for sorrow.

Yet, beautiful. Not gaudy but stylish. Classic black and white with that brilliant azure wing edging and the long elegant tail glossed with purple and green.

A deadly beauty like an F16 jet fighter or a chased steel rapier, a beauty that kills.

Unafraid, he strolled about the lawn with his cocky, jerky walk and searching eye while the sparrows scolded from the safety of the hawthorn hedge.

Finding nothing of note, he departed.

Jessie Lamont, the poet born in our village, was inspired by the bird.

Magpie

How I love you, magpie,

As you swiftly fly

From yew to willow tree!

On a stormy sea

Grey gulls may enthral,

But you are magical.

Bird, whom none befriends,

Bird, whose light transcends

Dark images of wrong,

To Beauty you belong!

I too, enjoyed my encounter but just to be safe, I tugged my forelock and asked after his family. No point in taking chances!

A Winter's Tale

Stormy sky

The polar vortex stopped spinning or split or slowed down or misbehaved in some way or another and released the “beast from the east” as the press have been calling it.  A freezing northeaster bringing blizzards and snow storms straight from the steppes of Siberia causing chaos and disruption to our shores.   In the garden, the hellebores had progressed from the Christmas rose to its Lenten equivalent and the snowdrops and aconites beneath the hedges were being followed by crocuses, yellow then white and purple, when all were buried under a white blanket drifting in the icy wind.

The community spirit of the village prevailed and the housebound and old got support.  One cheeky character actually stopped to offer me a lift as I made my way back from the local shops.

 “Got to make sure the elderly are okay,” he grinned through the rolled down car window.

Feeding the birds has been even more necessary than usual but the extra effort has had its own rewards.

The sight of four different members of the thrush family in the garden at the same time was a bonus.   Redwing, fieldfare, song thrush and blackbird all feeding on our offerings.

From the top - Fieldfare, Redwing and Song Thrush

 

The blackie, as usual, couldn’t curb his aggressive behaviour but even he settled down to let the rest join in along with the tits, sparrows and robins.

Typically aggressive blackbird

  Imagine flying all the way from Scandinavia to avoid the snow and landing in the worst weather of the winter. I happily raked the snow off the windfall apples still under the trees for them.

The long tailed tits have been back on the peanuts. They don’t seem to bother with the other food and always arrive mob-handed for few minutes of frantic feeding then vanish.  Do they have a round of peanut feeders to visit?

Long-tailed tits, two of the gang

 I even found a tiny goldcrest feeding among some of the aubretia that grows on many of the old walls, presumably searching for hibernating insects. I‘ve never seen one actually in the village before though they are in the surrounding woods.  Is it a good sign that they are coming closer in or is it just the stormy weather?  We shall see.

  Regarding tiny birds, the wrens have been flocking together and roosting in the cracks in the bark of the big gean tree though they don’t come to the feeders. Presumably they, like the goldcrest, find insects among the undergrowth and tree roots.  True troglodytes.

The old rhyme was right.

If Candlemas be clear and bright

Winter will have another bite

 Candlemas on February 2^nd, was indeed a great day and everyone was out walking and remarking how mild the weather had been. Little did we guess what Mother Nature had in store!