- Location
- Bury St Edmunds, Suffolk
I think I had to wait until Dec 28th before there was respite enough in the weather to notice the birds had changed their song. For the moment the days start to lengthen they know, and very quickly change their tune. Whatever the winter still has to throw at us and ourabundance of avian friends, a kinder week of weather has suddenly made it apparent that they’ve noticed that the solstice has passed. As well as the predictable flock of spuggies that live in the beams of the livestock buildings, sneaking down to pick over specks of leftover cattle cakeor barley fallen from the straw, scattering again when I walk in, Blackbirds and Robins hop around the place, on the alert for a snack. They also visit the bird feeder Alison has long maintained in the shelter of what we’ll laughingly refer to as the garden. Goldfinches are her most colourful customers, coming in numbers into double figures, ‘Charms’ I believe is the collective noun. Wrens, Treecreepers and Siskins visit. At least 6 different sub species of Tit cling upside down, alongside the ever fussy Nuthatches, which will pull the offered birdfoodout and spread it around until they find the morsel they like. A Woodpecker or two has started to appear. And while we don’t have a cat around the place, another avian visitor we’re expecting will be the inevitable raptor which discovers this winter smorgasbord of tasty little feathery treats. The twittering will suddenly change to the alarm, as the hawk scythes through, and the birdies scatter in front of the jagged flip-flopping strike flight.Then they all mysteriously vanish back into the bushes and thorn trees for the time being. I notice while their morning song starts as soon as there is a chink of light on the Eastern horizon, the birds don’t come to the feeder until the light is very good, suggesting someone must hunt them in twilight conditions.
Elsewhere, in the plantation at the top of the yard, a gaunt old spruce hosts a croaking Raven, who has been talking to me for several weeks. I answer him back some days, and we hold a brief conversation before he flaps away, wings seething through the winter air. And a large flock of mixed corvids watch from somewhere, to see when I’m off feeding a bunch of ewe lambs a bit of hard feed on the other side of the valley. I don’t think they’re getting much of a feed out of the deal, but they turn up within minutes, and hop in amongst the hoggs to glean what they can.
When I’m feeding out bales to the cattle mornings, the wet weather through December has at least suited someone. At 2-3 of the round feeder sites, groups of wild duck have started puddling about the porridge. They used to be very timid, taking flight the moment the tractor came into sight. But now just ignore me and carry on fussing about after whatever it is they find.
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And while I’m enjoying sharing my mornings with the wildlife around me, I notice a fresh crop of calls for nature to be better protected.
Various worthies are claiming that the countryside and its wildlife is steadily being destroyed, and as sure as the days lengthen through spring, they’ll be blaming me. And while I am surely using more of the worlds resources than I would like, and looking at ways to reduce my footprint, when I do venture out from my isolated gale blasted moorland hovel, I’m greeted by yet another housing estate creeping out from the local town, edging closer to its opposite number in the next urban community, slowly closing the gaps, and covering what were for centuries, rolling green fields and hedges.
No-one can satisfactorily explain to me who needs all these wretched cramped jerry built boxes, but occupants seem to appear. They’ll mostly have a car or two, they’ll all want a new TV, and a couple of holidays in the sun. Couriers will be delivering an endless stream of junk to their new shiny doors, in a constant orgy of consumption. It’s all good for ‘growth’ you see, that self-perpetuating goal of society, allowing us to all have more stuff, better job prospects, and a bigger waistline. Presumably the warehouses outlet selling oversize sweatpants, and all the personal trainers and diet gurus are now a significant part of our economy. Each will need a new rabbit hutch to live in, and every third one will generate another ‘service’ job themselves.
I try not to go ‘out’ much….it only raises my blood pressure. But, remember, it’s me that strangling that last bit of nature….wicked old me.
Elsewhere, in the plantation at the top of the yard, a gaunt old spruce hosts a croaking Raven, who has been talking to me for several weeks. I answer him back some days, and we hold a brief conversation before he flaps away, wings seething through the winter air. And a large flock of mixed corvids watch from somewhere, to see when I’m off feeding a bunch of ewe lambs a bit of hard feed on the other side of the valley. I don’t think they’re getting much of a feed out of the deal, but they turn up within minutes, and hop in amongst the hoggs to glean what they can.
When I’m feeding out bales to the cattle mornings, the wet weather through December has at least suited someone. At 2-3 of the round feeder sites, groups of wild duck have started puddling about the porridge. They used to be very timid, taking flight the moment the tractor came into sight. But now just ignore me and carry on fussing about after whatever it is they find.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
And while I’m enjoying sharing my mornings with the wildlife around me, I notice a fresh crop of calls for nature to be better protected.
Various worthies are claiming that the countryside and its wildlife is steadily being destroyed, and as sure as the days lengthen through spring, they’ll be blaming me. And while I am surely using more of the worlds resources than I would like, and looking at ways to reduce my footprint, when I do venture out from my isolated gale blasted moorland hovel, I’m greeted by yet another housing estate creeping out from the local town, edging closer to its opposite number in the next urban community, slowly closing the gaps, and covering what were for centuries, rolling green fields and hedges.
No-one can satisfactorily explain to me who needs all these wretched cramped jerry built boxes, but occupants seem to appear. They’ll mostly have a car or two, they’ll all want a new TV, and a couple of holidays in the sun. Couriers will be delivering an endless stream of junk to their new shiny doors, in a constant orgy of consumption. It’s all good for ‘growth’ you see, that self-perpetuating goal of society, allowing us to all have more stuff, better job prospects, and a bigger waistline. Presumably the warehouses outlet selling oversize sweatpants, and all the personal trainers and diet gurus are now a significant part of our economy. Each will need a new rabbit hutch to live in, and every third one will generate another ‘service’ job themselves.
I try not to go ‘out’ much….it only raises my blood pressure. But, remember, it’s me that strangling that last bit of nature….wicked old me.
