I woke this morning with the dawn chorus sometime after 4.30am.
I’d slept with the bedroom window wide open in fresh, still air following yesterday’s warmth.
The chorus started with one blackbird, then another, and within a couple of minutes the entire village was alive with birdsong, every tree, hedge, chimney pot and telegraph pole serving as a stage from which to perform.
I was reminded recently of just what a special natural phenomenon this is. A correspondent in Alabama – a writer in her seventies but with the spirit of a teenager – told me that when she lived in England in the early 1980s, she couldn’t get over the sound of dawn chorus outside her window in Uxbridge.
“It’s just sooooooo noisy,” she said, in her southern drawl.
That’s quite something from an American, I thought, because they know a thing or two about noise.
(Don’t worry, Bonnie appreciates British humour… or humor, as she misspells it.)
Lying in bed, listening to the cacophony outside my window, it reminded me of visits to Estonia. Every five years this small Baltic country hosts one of the world’s largest choral events, the Estonian Song Festival. In the grounds of a permanent, purpose-built outdoor arena in Tallinn, which I had the privilege of visiting, 30,000 singers perform to an audience of 80,000.
If you know the music of Arvo Pärt, you might imagine what that could sound like in terms of volume – the choral equivalent of ‘up to 11’.
Back in bed this morning, amid the din outside, I was listening out for a young blackbird. It fledged the nest in our holly tree yesterday and was fluttering around on the ground like a mars bar wrapper in a whirlwind.
When it flung itself onto the road, Tina managed to shepherd it back to safety, although not into our garden but onto next door’s drive. It spent the rest of the afternoon there calling loudly – and somewhat exotically – from under our neighbour’s Mini, while the parents clucked and fussed furiously (mind how you say that). I will check on its fate later this morning.
Yesterday’s warmth meant time in the garden and watching all the birds going about their business, including the most beautiful little wren building a nest above our garage. What a joyous, piercing call it has. Along with the blue tits, sparrows, swallows and starlings, who can mimic everything from telephones to birds of prey (we have one that does red kite calls), it’s a delight to be outside.
However, the song of one bird – the skylark – drew me out of the garden and a walk across the fields yesterday afternoon…
Field Walk
Growing up in Sussex and walking on the South Downs, skylark song was the soundtrack of summer.
So it’s been such a thrill to find that I can hear skylarks from our garden, in the fields around the village.
After digging in the allotment and then pottering around the garden yesterday morning, I took myself off on a walk across the fields to Glaston – ostensibly to listen to skylarks, but perhaps because the Old Pheasant has reopened and I fancied a pint.
Walking alongside a hedge on what I suspect is an ancient track, numerous skylarks flitted from the grass and rocketed upwards, singing their sweet penny whistle tunes. I stopped and looked skywards, admiring the aerial ballet of this little bird.
I wasn’t able to capture any sounds or pictures on my phone, but I did take a short mash-up video of my stumblings, which you can see above – and on Instagram @rutland_country_life. It’s nothing special, but as the clouds rolled in and sun spots slid across fields either side of Morcott Brook and Wing Road, it highlighted the changing landscape in spring and the little pockets of beauty all around.
Kenny Leveret
On the way back from Glaston, where the field descends due to ploughing and the path goes all wiggly, a young hare – a leveret – hopped out of the hedge.
Surprised to see me approaching, it froze. It remained still for 30 seconds or so, eyeing me cautiously.
I love seeing hares in Rutland fields. They’re rare in other parts of the country.
I’m calling this one Kenny and my photo was taken in, eh-hem, ‘the best possible taste’.
Not the Northern Lights
Despite great expectations, the Northern Lights, aurora borealis, didn’t make it as far south as had been hoped on Monday night.
The previous night they had been seen widely and as far south as the Isles of Scilly, according to The Times.
They may well have appeared over Rutland as soon as I went inside, like some sort of French farce, but there was a stunning dark sky to view nonetheless. I went to bed content.
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