Long days and rising temperatures have brought a frenetic level of activity to the local wildlife, especially the birds. The blackbird begins its song around 4am, and I have spent plenty of time awake to consider my surroundings.
Close to farmland, and connected by a web of old, diverse hedgerows, the houses and mature gardens along the lane share the ebb and flow of seasonal populations. Small streams and wet ditches, draining the pasture above, add another dimension to these eminently welcoming resources.
Around the bird feeders, clouds of newly fledged blue tits shiver and beg, while the parent birds grow increasingly tattered and unkempt from the pressures of parenthood. Young goldfinches, solitary in contrast to their winter flocks, add striking colour with their immaculate plumage and vie for perches with the torpedo-like nuthatches. Above, beating its regular route across the village, a red kite banks and turns steeply, casting a sharp, vivid shadow across the grass.
Mammals are also well represented, with the usually secretive rural fox becoming more bold. His furtive visits to our garden are, I suspect, more to do with our neighbours’ chickens than anything else. Hedgehogs scrunch their way along the base of the hedge in the twilight, recently being heard performing their alarmingly loud, circling dance of courtship.
Perhaps the most unexpected guest, a diminutive wood mouse, has begun to visit the bird feeders. Scampering up the stem of the holly tree, it perches within the cage of the feeder, next to the sunflower hearts, where it remains determinedly, dark eyes bulging, until it is replete.
Not all such behaviours are quite so welcome. While the adult blackbirds have been introducing their young to the food we happily provide, they’ve also shown them where our redcurrant bushes are located. The fruit cage suffered badly during the gales last winter and, as I have failed to repair the damage, the exposed plants are raided repeatedly as the fruit matures.
Jackdaws, still seeking nest sites with frantic determination, relentlessly post twigs down the chimneys – three sackfuls this year alone – and peck away at the woodwork that guards the gable end. These habits don’t endear them to me.
