This article first appeared in the September 2025 Edition of Birdwatching Magazine
I’ve been feeling my age of late. At times, it feels like Groundhog Day, as every 24 hours life seems to reset to the same old same old. Will said it perfectly in the Scottish play… Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day… Maybe the winter blues had not yet dissipated. Aching bones, rubbish weather, lack of motivation combined into a birding despond. I simple could not be arsed, the routine was easier than spontaneity or planned excursions. Staring out of the window was as close as I got to proper birding.
Then a slow miracle happened.
The tree I cannot name, some foreign import no doubt, a flowering cherry, a fig and a couple of elderberry bushes occupy a space the size of a walk-in cupboard. That ‘cupboard’ has three walls of ivy. Cramped cover is provided, as well as a food supply. When the ivy berries have been stripped by everything from Wood Pigeons to over-wintering Blackcaps, we offer a replacement by wedging apples between branches.
This year three grateful Blackcaps indulged, when Blackbirds allowed. The Blackbirds queued up to take turns unless the Ring-necked Parakeets were on station. Six or seven adorned the cherry like leftover Christmas decorations. Already coupled up, an aggressive male kept the others at bay while his lady chomped away… or rather delicately dropped peelings then eating the flesh. A Jay had a bash, but couldn’t find a position that worked for him and, anyway, he much preferred the suet granules. If his large beak had trouble breaching the feeder he, and his rival Magpie, simply went at it like a jackhammer until the feeder dropped and the spoils could be vacuumed up. Sneaky Feral Doves and their graceful collared relatives were happy to scrape the platter clean when the fuss died down.
The seed and suet feeders hang from the sturdier elder branches. The lads (House Sparrows) and bullies (Starlings) attend in waves. Great Tits and Blue Tits flit in between times. The Robin and Dunnocks also wait for spillage. When the Starling frenzy has long abated, the Goldfinches come – occasionally getting so stuffed with sunflower hearts that they nod of on the perches.
But this daily show was not the miracle, that wrested me from the clutches of the saddest season.
As March slowly turned into April, the sun apparently thought it was June and shone its heart out for two weeks. These two weeks, took bare naked trees and shrubs and clothed them in Easter outfits. Each day a little more raiment. Tight buds swelled. Dark twigs mellowed with green hints. Buds burst like hatching birds from shells and tentative leaves peeped at the sun.
In just two weeks skeletons fleshed out so much that you could no longer see the carpals and metacarpals. Leaves twisted and spread until ribs and spine disappeared under a green mantle of flesh.
Prodigal sunshades and parasols, in light green hues, returned to the fold welcomed by avians and humans. The naughtier birds nibbled the almost blossom.
Of course, this is an annual miracle and I’ve had three-quarters of a century to appreciate it; but never really have. Maybe it was being confined to quarters, or maybe it was the phenomenon of two weeks solid sun in early Spring. Somehow, I’d never before watched the miracle unfold in this way. I’ve appreciated the seasons, and loved spring blossom and how the woods and hedges stagger towards summer in fits and starts… the blackthorn bursting from cover first and the oak waiting until last to join the fray. Isn’t nature brilliant!
