No man is an island . . . but his garden might be. In May 2020, my garden was the epicentre of the first National Lockdown Garden Birdrace. Its weird to think four summers have passed each with its own character. Re-reading my post race summary I notice as night passed into day we had three male Blackbirds competing for best lead vocals. Their jazz on a warm afternoon is a sound of childhood, with Swifts screaming overhead.
Only four summers have passed. Not a lifetime. Not when my Grandparents were alive. Not way back when. Only four summers. In that time we now have only one Blackbird holding a territory. They raised a chick that fledged last week in a neighbour’s garden. The first time in years a first brood has fledged -thanks to cats and Magpies. Old Joe has passed and as work starts on his house I suspect it maybe the last nest from there. The second nest has just been built in our Holly hedge.
What is it about people? Moving into a new house they rip out a hedge and build a fence. They hard pave and deck the rest of their land. Creating a republic and printing a flag they maximise every cubic metre of ‘their’ space to fill it with air.
Now I am all for ‘air’, it seems to be a good thing, it breaths life into the world. It cant though, breath life into dead things.
There were other birds on my list from the Birdrace day that were special. Osprey -obviously. Coal Tits that went absent without leave but returned the next day. Dunnocks became quite a long standing joke with @Timthefruit; their love triangles and wing flicking was happening in my garden and not his.
That was then. I awoke this morning and realise I am missing their song from my breakfast soundscape. When all else failed somewhere in or around the garden they managed to hatch their eggs, as blue as any summer sky, and young would creep around all summer with their Tinkerbell sounds.
But not it seems this year. My neighbours have stolen my Dunnocks. Or more literally taken the food out of their mouths.