This article first appeared in Birdwatching Magazine in March 2025
© Tenniel, Public domain
I knew it was March because the hares were going mad; haring across the fields. Three chased each other, stopped, thought about it and then chased each other back the other way. It would only stop when one decided not to be chaste any more. Their antics were not as pointless as they seemed.
I know about pointless, I’m a birdwatcher. An acquaintance, unable to get his head around the why of birding, asked if I took photos of the birds I chased. He was a golfer, I asked if he took photos of the golf ball going down a hole… now he understood, …birders are mad.
I went into the bird hide; there is room for a dozen birders or one talking loudly. Luckily it was his day off. I looked over the scrape. It’s called a scrape as the birds are scraped together to make ends meet. The scraping must have been from the bottom of the barrel; it was very quiet. The wind whistled through the viewing slots and a few teal whistled while they worked up an appetite. A lone curlew was poking his nose in where it did concern him. An egret was hunting fish by himself, he had no egrets.
Sparrows scattered when a merlin flew through so low it had to hop up each time it encountered a tall weed. Magic! But that’s what you’d expect from Merlin. I returned to the car to join Hawkeye. She likes company when we are birding, …her own. I told her the birding was very quiet so far, she told me to keep it that way.
It was trying to be Spring, but no one had told the Winter breeze still visiting from Siberia. Spring kept trying, buds threatened to burst, blossom on a cherry was wondering where the bees were. A solitary bee had set his alarm too early and made a bee-line for the blossom.
Some birds had been queuing all night and got early worms. My grannie used to ask me if I had worms when I squirmed on her lap. Anyone would have squirmed if granny had ever brushed their hair, no wonder dad was bald. Dad was a policeman and a fisherman. When on nightshift he’d collect worms from people’s lawns using his torch. He kept the worms in a tin, no one knew as he kept it under his hat. Thrushes resented dad getting to the worms first.
Cows wandered the marshes that were scattered with molehills and cow pats. Occasionally some cow pats walked a short way to tell me they were grey partridge. Knowing spring was around the corner, they cuddled in a lovey-dovey covey.
The larks were larking about up high. I listened intently to their song, it said Summer had started its journey north.
A buzzard circled high above. Rabbits didn’t notice, the buzzard had his eye on them. Rabbits aren’t that bright. You have to be dumb to eat your own droppings. I was thinking about a decent breakfast, so was the buzzard. Some rabbits had bright eyes from watching Watership Down, they scattered to their warren at the shadow of a passing crow. I heard the buzzard sigh sadly on high, he was keen on rabbits. For some reason, I wondered if I would see a white rabbit disappear down a hole, I was birding in wonderland.
Birding is a cheap hobby, but we birders have deep pockets, full of bird seed and snacks. In Spring I keep mine full of rye in case there are a couple of dozen hungry blackbirds about.
