gloriously delivered, as I picked up the unmistakable hoot of a male tawny owl calling from somewhere down by the stream. Perhaps the most surprising thing, in retrospect, was that I hadn’t already heard a tawny owl up to that point. After all, I was now living in the country, and the patchwork mosaic of woodland and mature gardens along Strode Brook in many ways represented the ideal habitat for this most adaptable of species. Still, better late than never, I thought, as I dragged my sleep-deprived body and over-sized bags into the house, hoping on just this one occasion that the hooting wouldn’t keep me awake!
Due to another filming commitment later the same day, to track down Cornish grey seals, on waking up my first thought was to maximise any spare time in the garden. I was also delighted to discover that while I had been away the substantial order I had placed from a company specialising in bird food and feeders had arrived and awaited my attention on the patio. To someone who gets the most ridiculous satisfaction from feeding his garden birds, the pile of birding paraphernalia just waiting to be unwrapped and distributed around the garden made me feel like my birthday and Christmas had just been rolled into one!
In addition to sacks full of sunflower hearts, peanuts and bird-table mix, I had also ordered a couple of bird feeders especially designed to thwart even the most determined of squirrels. Design number one incorporated a feeder mounted on a pole, with all six feeding ports cleverly encased in a cylindrical mesh cage. This ring of steel would enable tits and finches to pass through but not squirrels or equally domineering wood pigeons. The second design was a regulation hanging feeder but with a Perspex dome attachment, which when placed like a bell immediately above the feeder would prevent the squirrels clambering onto it from the branch above. The key to the successful implementation of this design is that the feeder must be placed high enough to ensure the squirrels can’t jump up to it from the ground, but also far enough away from any other branches to prevent them leaping across, and crucially underneath the dome, from another vantage point.
Not wanting to deny the buntings, chaffinches or robins the opportunity to join in the food-fest, I had also ordered a ground feeding table, complete with an anti-squirrel guard in the form of a mesh-rectangle which covered the table and was then secured to the lawn via pegs. Having stashed all the food in rodent-proof bins in the garage, I then set about taking down my old feeders and replacing them with my lovely new acquisitions. The bell feeder was hung about 6 feet from one of the lower branches of the remaining rowan tree, whilst the caged feeder with accompanying pole was stuck into the lawn close to our shared fence with Andy and Lorraine, in order to entice the birds away from their feeding table and onto to our feeders. Let the battle for (sunflower) hearts and minds begin!
Taking a tour around to admire what was becoming an utterly irresistible garden, I couldn’t help but notice that the natural flora, particularly around the meadow, was already subtly beginning to change. Despite the still occasional appearance of ground frosts in the morning, things had patently become far too tropical for the snowdrops, which were definitely looking past their best. However, without doubt one of the most exciting aspects of botany is that, for most of the year, as one flower fades another species will often quickly take centre stage by moving into bloom, and in this case that plant was the primrose.
From the Spanish prima rosa, or the ‘first rose of spring’, the primrose’s name can be somewhat misleading, as of course it’s not related to the rose but is a member of the primrose family itself. If I were to choose my top ten favourite British wild flowers, then the primrose would comfortably sail into the top five. It is not just about the flowers, which I have always thought emanate from the leafy basal rosette like a large dollop of clotted cream, but, just like the chaffinch’s song, it represents a gateway to my favourite season of the year: spring. With the species name vulgaris, translated as ‘common’, this plant is paradoxically nowhere near as abundant as it used to be. Overpicking and a loss of suitable habitat are the prime reasons behind this plant’s disappearance from large swathes of our countryside. That would not be the case in this garden, though, as the primroses would be removed over my dead body. They were there for us and the wildlife to enjoy.
Christina joined me for an hour’s work in the garden, before I had to disappear away again in the evening, and we rolled up our sleeves and got stuck into the front garden, as the border in front of the house, having now been weeded, prepared and fertilised, was at last ready to be planted up. We had planned for the border to be filled with a combination of plants from a variety of sources: those which had sneakily been dug up from our previous garden and brought with us, as well as recently purchased perennials and some shrubs from our new garden which could still be saved. Being the artistic type, Christina wanted to trial the potted plants at varying locations around the border, to try and work out what would look best where. ‘Having spent so much time, effort and money on these plants, it would be a shame not to create a lovely mixture of colour, texture and pattern.’ One thing I have learnt over the years with my wonderful girlfriend is not to even attempt to assert my opinion when it comes down to who has the last say on colour or positioning schemes – she just does this kind of thing better. The result of this game of Chinese ‘plant’ chequers meant that, as the light began to fade, the only plants we had managed to put in the ground that afternoon were a couple of large hydrangeas carefully positioned to cover the gas meter, and a climbing honeysuckle that would eventually mask the ugly cables emanating from our newly installed satellite dish.
As we began to pack up, my thoughts had already turned away from arranging flower borders to my paid work and the pre-departure checklist for filming down in Cornwall. BLACKBIRD! I couldn’t believe my ears, for the first blackbird of spring was singing from somewhere down the road. A scan of the most obvious vantage points quickly revealed the silhouette of a male in mid-performance on the TV aerial of Number Six, with a salmon-pink sunset as a backdrop to make the moment even more special.
In a recent poll by the National Trust to find the nation’s favourite songbird, the humble blackbird trounced all the opposition with a whopping 45 per cent of all votes cast. In summary, this is a song that means an awful lot to an awful lot of people. I’ve personally always felt that the song has a beautiful, melancholic sound to it, and if I were to indulge myself further by giving the bird an accent, then it would have to be that lazy but mellow drawl easily encountered in any of the southern states of the USA: ‘Y’all come back now yer hear!’ it seemed to be singing to us!
The impact of this most natural of symphonies on our brains cannot be overestimated. Recent studies have shown that the psychological impact of birdsong can affect anything from our mood to our levels of attention and creativity. I have no idea how researchers are able to calibrate these effects, but as the blackbird belted out its virtuoso performance, while Christina and I listened enraptured with our arms around each other, all I know is that it made us both feel content.
The weekend finally brought a break to my hectic work schedule, meaning it would also free up some time to indulge in my two new favourite activities: watching the wildlife coming and going in our garden, and planting lots of lovely plants. Taking up my preferred perching point by the landing stairs window, and with the two essentials for any early morning birding session – my binoculars and a cup of coffee – I was particularly keen to see how the new feeders were being received. I had barely taken my first sip of coffee before a flash of pink and an even tinier flash of blue betrayed the presence of a pair of jays playing hide and seek through the hazels on the wooded bank.
Historically an arboreal bird most at home in the wooded countryside, the jay is one species which has seemingly developed much more catholic tastes over the last few decades. As a result of extensive planting schemes in many urban and suburban areas, combined with the fact that urban pollution levels are now at their lowest levels since before the Industrial Revolution our towns and cities are now a much more attractive proposition to birds like the jay. In fact, so prevalent have they become in Bristol’s suburbs, for example, that I considered jays to be relatively common visitors to the diminutive urban garden attached to my previous flat. Despite having made the bold decision to come and live alongside us, the jay has still retained that nervous and skittish demeanour and none of the cockiness or swagger of, say, house sparrows or wood pigeons. This introverted nature means that