you wanting more, and such was the case here, as the pair all too briefly melted away into the undergrowth.
Nevertheless, I was particularly pleased officially to add this bird to the garden list, as it was the one species that Christina had seen in the garden the week before, but I hadn’t yet managed to catch up with. Knowing that I wouldn’t have been happy until I had seen them for myself, Christina had enjoyed exploiting this fact by winding me up, or in birding parlance ‘gripping me off’. ‘How can you have the audacity to actually call yourself a birder when you haven’t even managed to see as common a bird as a jay in your own back garden?’
In a number of ways, even more pleasing than the brief appearance of the jays were the large numbers of greenfinches which were constantly crowding around the bell feeder in the rowan tree. The greenfinch is a garden bird familiar to even those with little more than a passing interest in our feathered friends, but it is also a species that since 2005 has been so heavily targeted by a parasite-induced disease called trichomonosis that populations are thought to have plummeted by as much as a third in those areas affected by outbreaks. Living in the bird’s upper digestive tract, this dastardly parasite’s action is to slowly block the bird’s throat so it is unable to swallow food, ultimately causing a long, lingering death by starvation. While the parasite can’t survive for long outside the host, it can unfortunately be easily transmitted between birds via saliva, which will always accumulate at communal feeders and drinking areas. This tragically means that the disease cruelly targets those garden owners who ironically care most about their birds by regularly feeding them.
So prevalent has this disease become in the southwest over the last few years that, for me, seeing what was a once abundant bird has now become a notable event. But as I watched the constant flickering of yellow and green around the feeder, I was struck with the thought that maybe our new garden could just conceivably be located in a healthy enclave, meaning we might be spared the ravages of this pernicious disease. I could only hope that this refreshing sighting was one that I would continue to enjoy.
Whilst scanning through the hordes of greenfinch, my gaze latched onto a pair of somewhat more uncommon finches, in the form of a couple of siskin. So excited was I at this find, that my ‘birding Tourette’s’ kicked in once again, causing me to suddenly shout, ‘Siskin!’ involuntarily to nobody in particular, and certainly not to Christina, who was still doing a fine impression of someone keen to spend the whole day in bed. This smaller cousin of the greenfinch has a curious distribution in Britain, with most individuals preferring to breed in Welsh, Scottish and northern English coniferous forests, before electing to spend their winter holidays in the milder climes of southern England. Having never before seen siskin in any Bristol urban garden since moving to the southwest in 1999, this was one of those winter visitors I was secretly hoping would at some point have turned up in our new garden before disappearing back up north for the breeding season.
I hate to be sexist when talking about birds, but I’m afraid that the male siskin is just so much more attractive than his washed-out female counterpart. Adult males will generally undertake a complete moult between July and November, but it takes until early the following spring for the pale feather tips to abrade sufficiently for the gorgeous back cap and bib to be revealed – and boy, this specimen was looking pretty dapper right now!
Of course the cast of garden characters wouldn’t be complete without the presence of a Panto Villain, played so ably as ever by the grey squirrels. Unlike the entire month of February, where they had been given free rein to bully and monopolise the feeding stations whenever they felt hungry, free and easy hand-outs were now proving somewhat more difficult to procure thanks to the addition of my two new feeders. I must also admit to having given myself a childish chuckle of delight on seeing two different squirrels unsuccessfully trying to clamber up the pole on which the caged feeder had been mounted. Like most campaigns it wasn’t going all my own way, as I watched what looked to be a still juvenile squirrel, having squeezed through the anti-squirrel bars covering the ground feeder, busily filling his cheeks with food intended for others. Still, I couldn’t deny that a better balance between the birds and squirrels had now been achieved.
Christina having surfaced, after a quick breakfast on the patio we set about our designated task of finishing the planting up of the herbaceous border in the front garden. Having decided on a floral arrangement that she would be happy with, trowels were wielded as planting began. It being very early in the season, a lot of our recently purchased plants were still pretty small, which meant that they were cheap to buy and easy to plant, so it was hardly arduous work as we happily plonked in twos and threes each of foxgloves, lupins, Jacob’s ladders and penstemons. Having soon exhausted our supply of recent purchases, we then moved on to the more established lavenders, salvias and fuchsias which we had potted up from our old flat and brought with us. Anyone who has ever put in plants knows that it is hardly rocket science, so after a sufficient-sized hole had been dug, it was furnished with a few granules of slow-release plant-food (nick-named ‘Magic Balls’ in our household), before the plant was inverted, pot removed and then placed in its carefully excavated hole. An optional extra of a small amount of mulch was then added to give it a good start.
Not for the first time, while watching Christina plant away I was taken aback by how quickly her green fingers had developed. True, her father and uncle were fine gardeners in their own right, so there must have been a genetic element to the instinctual way she seemed to have with plants. But it was not just how she handled them; she had not only managed to pick up the Latin names of many of the plants in double-quick time, but many of their specific and quirky needs too. I love it when a hidden talent surfaces.
We had decided beforehand that plants for the garden would be chosen with three criteria in mind. Firstly, and most importantly for Christina, they needed to look good; whether through imposing foliage or impressive sprays of flowers was of secondary concern. The second point, and the most important factor for me, was that the plants purchased (wherever possible) should be high nectar and pollen producers, to ensure a bountiful selection of invertebrate pollinators which would in turn attract predators such as spiders, birds and insectivorous mammals. Thirdly, neither of us wanted the effort of having to deal with any delicate, wilting types that were considered high maintenance, so only those plants robust enough to withstand the rough and tumble nature of life in our garden would be represented. As we stood back to see our handiwork, it had to be said that the border currently looked far from the finished article, with the discrete clusters of chlorophyll surrounded by a sea of soil. But before we knew it, the days would soon begin both to lengthen and become warmer, triggering the plants into a sustained period of growth, culminating in a riot of colour as the flowers opened up for passing trade.
Having planned to spend the afternoon shopping for various garden-related paraphernalia, we were just at the point of packing up tools when my eagle-eyed partner noticed a bird whose identity she was unsure of soaring way above the garden, causing me to sprint inside to get my binoculars for a better look. On closer inspection my initial guess was correct, as I was able to confirm that we were watching a male displaying sparrowhawk!
Birds of prey, or raptors, can often be incredibly tough to identify for novice and expert alike, as many look superficially similar and are rarely seen at close quarters. But when a sparrowhawk is clearly seen out in the open, its relatively small size and distinctive ‘flap, flap, sail’ way of flying are usually enough to ensure a confident identification. Having said that, the only time when the sparrowhawk deviates from this more usual way of flying tends to be in early spring when love is in the air. Usually conducted above the nest site, the spring courtship flight sees the male flapping his wings much more slowly than normal, almost as if in an exaggerated fashion, which is then often combined with a narrowing of the tail and a sticking out of the pale undertail-covert feathers. This slow-flapping flight, if the observer is lucky, will then conclude with a breathtaking series of peregrine-esque stoops designed both to demarcate his territory and impress his potential mate.
As we watched what must have been our resident male sparrowhawk go through this skydancing routine, and irrespective of what his prospective mate thought, he certainly impressed us. If the pair did indeed settle down locally, and