Revisiting The Rookeries of Wick St Lawrence

It has been under a month since I last did a count of the rook activity in the village, March the 14th to be precise, and much has changed. Some winners and oddly a strange loss.

Finally the weather in this part of Somerset has improved. We've had rain, more rain than I'd like to see again during spring. I think this may be the first year I've not experienced one of those dry early March days when there is dust billowing along the lanes, which for me is one of the signs of spring arriving, dry roads and dust on the car.  But we're in April now and after a Biblical deluge on Saturday morning it seems we're set fair for a few dry days. Perfect then for a pre supper amble to catch up on the rooks in the village on a Sunday evening.

A month is a long time in the natural world. On my last visit as I came home from work, it was around 6.30pm, bleak and almost dark. By my next visit last night at roughly the same time of day now the clocks have changed the sun was strong and the landscape was beginning to emerge - which is a good thing given that rooks begin to nest with an eye on their eggs hatching as the trees come into leaf (for a little protection for the young) while the ground is still moist but warming up nicely thus provisioning more invertebrates for the hungry chicks. 

Those chicks stay in the nest for about 30 days. Interestingly at the beginning of their life the male is the only provider of food, the female remains on the nest only getting involved once the chicks are around two weeks of age. It is all a little taxing for the adults as they can exhibit asynchronous hatching, in other words the eggs laid can be delayed somewhat and hatch at different times. This can mean that from the first egg hatching to the final fledging from the nest can take six or seven weeks. Exhausting for the adults who don't themselves feed well at this time and often lose a good percentage of their body condition. That's why this time of the year and into early summer the weather is important. A hot dry spring with baked earth is not good for rooks as the young fledge, or any other ground feeder for that matter. Hopefully then 2023 will be a good year if this cycle of damp wet days continues as the days lengthen. But I digress, the real issue as I walked the lane was to count the nests.

I'd noticed while driving through the village that a number of new nests had appeared since my last visit. The three which were formerly at the pond corner, now numbered six - three in one tree, two in another and a singleton, though I'm not sure that the lone nest on the far left is active.  Possibly a dummy run nest which is common. 

The three nests on the right, and below were very much active which is good to see given the extensive tree work that happened here in January to open up the dew-pond, which is beginning to come to life after the dredging and chopping back. 

Standing guard in the warm sunlight above.

A single new nest has also appeared in trees by the old school building. This line of trees was once the main hub for the rookery in the village, then around ten years ago they stopped coming here. Disturbance probably, there's a resident herring gull pair here now, but for whatever reason they're back this year, or at least one nest is.

However more worrying is that the nests which were occupied in early March at this location above have disappeared. Did they naturally go or, as I hope has not happened, have they been removed? This location was where nests had remained from last season, and I noticed there is a ladder against one of the trees, trees which border a Farmstay touring caravan site which has recently changed hands. I'm going to be generous and say the rooks have literally 'upped sticks' and moved across the road, as there has been a more than doubling of nests here since my last visit.

On that last visit there were twelve nests in a single tree. On this latest visit that tree had nineteen nests. The trees either side of that had five and four nests respectively.  That's twenty eight nests. Which is not unsurprising as when doing a rough bird count on my last visit there were as many non-nesters as nesters based on the birds present and who flew off when I approached. Those non-nesters have presumably then caught up with delayed nesting activity. 

It was while taking these images that a family, with dog in tow, emerged from the caravan touring site and asked what I was doing. Newly arrived here for their Easter holidays they were interested to know I kept an eye on the rooks in the village. As like the rook I'm a resident myself, I forget sometimes I live in a tourist area.

Hard to count all of the nineteen nests in this image so one of a single bird and nest then.

It does make me wonder why this tree below has always been a favourite for the rook. It isn't particularly tall, not in a favourable location (to us humans) being right next to the road and a house, but the rook love it. They nest here every year and roost here in the winter. What that does show however is that an inconspicuous looking tree if  it were to be felled, could have catastrophic effect on this rook population. And that is always a risk of management taking place without local knowledge. This tree is not just a tree, it hosts a community. 

It was all looking promising then, six (or 5) nests by the pond, one nest by the old school, and twenty eight by the village, 35 nests, that is a minimum of seventy rook plus associated non-breeders. However all was not finished yet. Retracing my steps back home after a lovely forty five minutes bobbling about watching the rooks I noticed back at the farm by the River Banwell that there were some more nests. I'd not noticed these on the way out as they were behind me. These nests are around a quarter of a mile from the main site in the village, in trees by the farm buildings.

There is often winter activity here but I can't recall seeing nests, or maybe never noticed them. The question then in my mind is  - are these birds from the same social group as those in the village simply finding more suitable trees to nest in. Or given these nests are somewhat separate are these a social outlier, maybe newly paired birds beginning a new rookery some distance off from the main rookery, albeit of only three nests. I can't get any closer to these nests from the lane but may have a wander over there soon if I'm allowed by Roger the farmer.

So the count - where have I got to on the 2nd of April with the rooks of Wick St Lawrence?

6 x nests by pond (or 5 if one is inactive)

1 x nest by old school

28 x nests in the village itself

3 x nests by the farm a quarter of a mile distant

I make that thirty eight nests in the village, making the population here at least 76 individuals. Which is even higher than I'd got to during my last visit in mid March, then by estimating breeding and non breeding individuals I'd got to around sixty birds.

I'll leave the rooks of Wick St Lawrence alone now for the season, as I'm pretty sure the number of nests won't increase now. That's a good total of nests for the area, as while rook are not in serious threat nationally they are in a slow decline, like much of lowland farmland birdlife is. We need to let nature have a few raggedly and unkept places to live in - and spill a little more grain at harvest - and leave those trees standing. But that is for another day, especially if it stays warm, with a little rain, but mainly sunny in this corner of the West Country.

The Rookeries of St Lawrence

Back at the end of January I wrote of the rook community at Wick St Lawrence, my local area. Back then the rooks were loafing about but aside from a couple of old nests which were being utilised, the bulk of the rookery activity had not begun.  Last evening though, as sunsets are definitely occurring later, I stopped on my way home to check what is going on.

Plus, as I realised later, the blurred images due to the low light bring (in my view) an enhanced atmosphere to the images I took. 

It was close to 6.30pm by the time I'd arrived home after my commute. The light remained but wasn't that great. However it was a preferred time for counting nests and birds as they were coming in to settle for the evening, allowing for a more accurate count of the population.  At this time of the year we are at the cusp of massed winter roosts ending and socially cohesive communal rookeries developing. An interesting book from the 1930s by G. K. Yeates [2] first looked into this in depth, though some of his observations were discussed and revised soon after publication by one J. P. Burkitt in his short article on young rook at a rookery [1]. Yet it was Yeates who mentioned that mid March is a cusp time between winter roosts ending and the rookery roosts forming, which he estimated to be about a week before the first eggs lain. Certainly down here I'd suggest this happens two or 3 weeks earlier - late February?

All the nests are around the boundary of a large grass field. The first image above of three nests was especially welcome as this area had been heavily modified over the winter months. Luckily a couple of standing trees were left and three nests were in use. To my right, the trees by the field edge had six nests, though the exact number is hard to observe in that image. A quick count then, nine nests so far, meaning a minimum of 18 birds, assuming 2 birds to a nest. I didn't count the hangers on, more specifically, non-breeding, young, unpaired singletons or late nesting rook

Turning then to the main rookery area of trees hard by the road entering the village itself, a total of 12 nests were visible in the one tree. Remarkable that only two weeks ago not a single nest was here. Therefore a rough estimate, 24 rooks here plus the 18 from the other trees, 42 birds minimum. However there were a lot more birds loafing about in these trees and in other parts of the village. As I walked closer they fidgeted and squabbled, the noise was quite deafening. Below the trees on the lane was a matrix of sticks dropped, or fallen from the nursery structures above. I tried to count the birds as I walked and, while nearly impossible there were certainly more than 24 in this one spot. 

Then as I walked under the nests the formerly agitated and fidgety birds who'd been watching me approach now arose from the branches en-masse in an almighty crescendo of noise the moment I stopped walking. That is quite usual for corvids, and other wildlife. They observe an approach and as long as there's nothing to worry about they'll hold their station but chatter away. However once movement stops immediately there's an eruption of birds calling loudly, both harsh caws of alarm and communication and the softer whistling contact calls rook make.  Many of the birds wheeled just above the branches and then very soon began to return onto their nests, though a good number left the area completely, floating away like wood smoke in the blustery wind. I quickly withdrew and retraced my steps a little thus allowing the nesting birds to regain their former position as soon as possible.

That lift-off allowed me a rough calculation of individuals in this one assemblage and I would estimate around 40, so heading towards double the nesting pairs of 24. And in doing that rough calculation, shall we say an additional 40% non breeding birds in the community, then adding those here and the others in the trees I'd suggest somewhere over 60 birds in this small rookery encircling this large grass field. Not far away, less than a mile across the fields, is another rookery at Hewish of a similar size. Whether there is cross communication between these two rookeries I don't know but it wouldn't surprise me with these sociable crows.

Walking back to the car I noticed that twenty nine rook (counted from the image) were making use of the power lines crossing the field that the rook nests border. Most of these individuals were those who had flown off from the main rookery area, but not all, and probably these were a mixture of non-breeding individuals and maybe males waiting to return to the rookery. Moments after the image was taken they erupted again en-masse and headed back to their respective sub-groups in the trees, leaving me to take all I'd seen in and assess this wonderful end to the daily commute from work, counting rooks.

References

BURKITT, J. P - British Birds April 1935. Volume 28 Issue 11. NOTES ON THE ROOK:

With special reference to the proportion of young in flocks, and the change over from winter roosts to the rookery.

YEATES, G.K. The Life of the Rook. Philip Allan 1934

Greenfinch Distraction

Sometimes the simplest of distractions bring the most complexity of joy. Not the best photograph I've ever taken but a quick snap (out the office window before it flies off) of a greenfinch on the feeders this morning. The second time I've seen a greenfinch in the garden this week, but the first time in many years.

As with many common birds in my childhood the greenfinch has suffered a dramatic decline in numbers, though unlike some other species where habitat loss or disturbance are at play this mournful songster has been hit by a parasitic disease known as trichomonosis. It's a common disease in other birds but began to be noticed in garden visitors around 2005-2006, with the thought being that increased bird feeding can accelerate the spread picked up from dirty garden feeders. Ironic really that we put food out for the birds, and inadvertently make them ill. 

What's for certain here in this area of Somerset is that I'd not seen a greenfinch around the house for many years, nor chaffinch come to that. Looking through my wildlife diaries, these two species were here regularly until around 2010. After that just the occasional sighting and in the case of the greenfinch that soulful song of theirs on a windless day, and so reminiscent of my childhood, simply disappeared.  Astonishing to comprehend that in my lifetime a species that when I was growing up used to be quite numerous in our Country Durham garden now languishes on a red list due to the severity of declining numbers.

The disease affects many other species; chaffinch as mentioned which has also suffered a 25% decline recently, sparrows, dunnocks and great tits, the latter of which I saw with physical signs of the disease last year. The parasite affects the throat and gullet and can be physically deforming with growths on the feet or beak. Affected birds struggle to eat, becoming emaciated and although not necessarily fatal and birds do recover, many die through poor condition, starvation or increased predation which in itself can spread the disease into birds of prey and then back into the food chain. 

All pretty miserable stuff, but today I managed to get a quick photograph of this greenfinch and it brought back the positives. I'd also noticed a couple of chaffinches in the garden recently, maybe then this disease is either less prevalent in this region, or those birds now returning are carrying a certain level of immunity.  I've still not heard a greenfinch calling, but only last week a 'pink pink' of a chaffinch could be heard. Later it's song drifted across the garden. As a child my parents had a permanent caravan which was surrounded by trees. There chaffinch were very common and that 'pink pink' sound they make when alarmed takes me right back to that time. Happy days with not a care in the world. Todays greenfinch looked in super condition, there's hope then others are lurking in the fields beyond the garden wall to bolster the numbers this spring. Spring is definitely arriving here with this newly constructed carrion crow nest in the back field too.

This carrion crow nest must be a quarter of a mile away from the house, but in the last few weeks I've been watching it being built twig by twig. They nested in the same tree last year with that nest being destroyed in the winter winds. This pair of crows use the fir tree at the bottom of my garden as a lookout post and I watch them fly back and forth to the nest, which I think is now complete. I get better views using my telescope and I've seen the female head poking over the rim in the last few days, though she wasn't there today so not sure if there are eggs in there yet as it is still a little early. I hope then they raise a good brood this year. Last year they raised four, who after fledging would noisily come to a neighbours roof to be fed by both parents. It was highly entertaining to sit and watch these youngsters scrabbling about on the roof, wings flapping as they slid and fell down the tiles before flapping back up to the ridge. Eventually though they got the idea and would sit on the roof ridge waiting for the parent to return which was always heralded by noisy squabbling. At night they roosted in the trees just beyond the house and stayed in the area until late autumn.

Spring is here, birds are returning, nests being built, something to look forward to and a welcome distraction as I gaze out of the office window before getting down to work. What better than a few minutes nature fix before the day begins.

Magpie May

Not the best pictures I've ever taken (quickly taken through the kitchen window while rushing to work, making me late) but this is a great example of why over the last decade or so I've got to admire corvid intelligence so much.

This magpie is in the garden all the time, but recently has begun feeding from the seed feeder. With one leg on the wall, the other pulling the feeder near enough to feed, it happily munches through the seed. Many people would resent a magpie in the garden but I love them, And being an intelligent species I hope that next week I'll be posting images of it actually filling the feeder and doing a bit of housework. 

But look at the colours on that tail too. And the wing coverts. Many corvids with long tail feathers have this colouration in various degrees of intensity. Given this is breeding time the colours are intensified. What is interesting is we don't really see this blue, it is a polychromatic effect caused by light splitting within the feather structure. As individual cells of the feather are formed, they contain keratin which separates out in a number of strings, a bit like oil does on water. As they mature and then die this liquid dissipates and air spaces form in the void. Thus, when white light strikes a blue feather, the keratin pattern that remains causes red and yellow wavelengths to cancel each other out, while the blue wavelengths of light intensify and reflect back to the beholder’s eye. 

Earlier in the month I was staying at my parents house in the North East of England. In their garden is a huge holly tree. Which now that they are not as mobile as they were, sits in a garden that is reverting to wildlife in a magical way. Holly blue butterflies swarm around the tree, coal tits, greenfinch, blue tits, starlings and sparrows make their home in or around the garden. But what caught my eye this time was that a magpie pair have made a nest in the top of the tree. Nothing remarkable in that other than given all corvids are quite wary of man, nesting in a garden is a real treat. I struggled to get images of the birds entering the nest, but these will suffice as a record of nature taking over the homestead. 

The nest is just left of top dead centre in the above image, and here it is on zoom. Those holly leaves will give some protection from carrion crows I'll bet!!

Swifts - well I think that's finally it....

 

Well I think that's definitely it. 2017 will go down in my memory as the summer of swifts. For you see we have had them nesting for the first time in the roof space of our house. On August 11th I heard the last screaming's of three around the house and on August 16th after not seeing a swift for a few days a solitary swift could be observed feeding over the garden amongst the chit chattering house martins. Since then, nothing.

 

For a few years now there have always been swifts around the house in summer. Screaming by but I always thought their nests were elsewhere. In early June however I found myself being attacked from all sides in the garden. So low and fast were these avian bullets travelling that I could easily hear their flup-flup-flup wing beats as they scudded by. Then as if an illusion (or one too many ciders) one flew in only 8 feet above the ground before rising like a jet fighter under the ridge tile and gone, out of sight, silence. 

 

Swifts usually arrive here on May 3rd, this year however it was lunchtime on May 4th. I keep a keen eye and ear open for their return around May Day and so it was that as I looked up from my pasty that anchor shape scudded across the sky. Then to my amazement few minutes later my first scream...from a swift I may add, not me. Unusual as they normally only scream around the nest site but I guess these African travellers were joys joyous on their return to Somerset.

 

Over the intervening four months I've learnt much about swifts (and realised for such a common bird I knew little). They go in for banging, not in some death metal stupor, but aerial stalling, used as anti predation defence. I learnt that kestrels are their main predator in Europe, as they sit and wait for the swifts to arrive at the nest. Clumsy of foot, the swift is at its most vulnerable as it lands before waddling into the hole or cavity where it's most rudimentary nest is housed. I saw no kestrel predation in Somerset, but did witness the resident sparrowhawk repeatedly flying off to the nest with fledgling house martins. But that's for another day, swiftly moving on then...

 

What I witnessed in Somerset was swift routine. Around mid summer I could set my watch to them. Between 6am and 10am they'd leave the roof and circle endlessly around the house, flying not more than half a mile away. My house is close by the neighbours (also with nests I discovered) with a 10 feet gap. I'd stand at the bedroom window before work and watch the swifts fly in like fighter bombers one after another at eye level. Then seemingly about to hit the window they'd sharply veer left and scream through the gap between the houses and away.

 

 

 

 

 

In the evening likewise. During the day the swifts disappeared, presumably to forage over the farmland or head up high into the air for a spot of sleep. Then at 8 pm sharp they'd be back screaming around and around the house in ever decreasing circles. The highest count was 17, so not a huge colony. Around 9pm they'd begin to do their low level practice runs. Over the shrubs of next door, swoop down over our lawn and then swish up onto the gable end of the house. For half an hour I could stand on the lawn and repeatedly have swifts pass just feet above me on these reconnaissance missions. Each time they'd stall in flight as they grabbed onto the wall, only for a second later to drop like a stone, pick up speed and fly back the way they came, this time though only 3 or 4 feet above ground in the opposite direction.

 

It became a magical evening each day to witness this.  But then the finale (and I'd read this happens), two swifts would come in together, just half a body apart. Research estimates they fly together only 0.25 seconds apart. As in the dummy runs before, the leading swift would come into the gable end, stall  (the banging)  and cling to the wall, for then a millisecond later its partner stalled but this time up and into the roof. A few noisy chattering's from the pair before the first bird then dropped off the wall and away. This happened between 9.30pm and 9.35pm for over 2 weeks. Astonishing repetition and presumably why in Europe the kestrel has worked out how to obtain a light supper before bed.

 

Most times when the bird had entered the roof, its mate would fly by one more time screaming (often accompanied by screams form within the roof) before I'd watch it fly off and up into the clouds. As both sexes share the natal duties, I have absolutely no idea which was male, or female.

 

This all went on for around a month until one evening in late July I came home from work and ventured outdoors. What a commotion from roof tile 5 as I'd christened it. Swifts were agitatedly flying back and forth, screaming encouragement and then silence, they'd be back, silence before then more screaming. But then a wing tip appeared from under the tile, then a bit of body, a foot, a wriggle and a squeeze, all the while the adults flying noisily overhead. Before like a stone the bird dropped out of the roof, gathered speed and flew off to be joined by screaming birds. I watched it's progress as it joined three others, the now four swifts flying in very close formation in a direct line. A family group almost touching wing tips as they flew in a tight group, higher and higher out of sight. I'd witnessed a fledge and stood there in the now silent garden, mesmerised. I can't put into words how exciting that was to witness a swift take its first wing beats, on wings that will never stop beating for three years or so. Astonishing.

 

 

While writing this I've been glancing out of the window over the fields (the aesthete in me says it was to gather thoughts by gazing into the distance in a melancholy. The naturalist in me says it was just to try and glimpse a swift one more time in 2017). But no. House martins and swallows a plenty, a noisy carrion crow and the ever present sparrows hoovering up seed like its going out of fashion, but no swifts. There are still reports of the odd swift locally, but in late August they'll be well on their way to Africa. As it should be.

 

Adieu then until next May my lovelies, it's been a blast.

 

....with the last word going to Richard Jefferies, from his book Field and Hedgerow,

 

"Dark specks beneath the white summer clouds, the swifts, the black albatross of our skies, moved on their unwearied wings"

 

Abandon hope all who enter here

Nature can both enrich and destroy.

Today it's capacity for failure has been aptly demonstrated by the abandonment of the blackbird nest I wrote of recently. Two weeks ago I sat in the garden enthralled by to-ing and fro-ing of the female blackbird building a nest in the garden. Two weeks ago the promise of new life into this corner of Somerset was all around us. Today after not seeing any activity in the garden or around the nest by either the male or female blackbird I checked it with my camera on a pole - 5 beautifully marked eggs but no bird. I gently felt the eggs, stone cold and they plus the nest were soaking wet after the frost we had last night. Having not seen the female around the nest for 4 days now, I fear that's that. There will be no new life in this corner of the West Country this year.

In a way I'm not surprised, just saddened. On Tuesday, the last day I saw the female an unknown black cat had come into the garden and was looking up at the nest hidden in a clematis. It then walked along the fence the clematis is attached to and peered in before leaving the garden following my protestations. But I have often seen this and another cat in the garden by the bird feeder. Was she killed by a cat maybe? I can't say the cat had anything to do with the abandonment but the female blackbird was especially tame and would hop around the garden while we worked in it. She'd happily fly into the nest too seemingly unaware we existed. Too trusting possibly?

 

We also have regular visits by magpies and carrion crows, in fact a crow has just arrived on the shed as I write this, all sleek and glossy, a killer king in a black mantle? Maybe but often they would rob the nest of eggs, rather than attack the parents. The eggs are still there, cold as stone, jewels hiding their macabre story of abandonment. We do have a regular sparrowhawk too, but there is no evidence of blackbird remains. Why then the nest was abandoned? I just don't know.

I've long loved nests and eggs. Since a child that joy of discovering a nest and peering carefully inside to see perfectly formed spheres of creation. In many ways finding nests in the winter is just as thrilling. I remember discovering a long tail tit nest in a dense blackthorn hedge in the middle of a snowy walk in December. That beautifully crafted tennis ball dome stood out as a reminder of warmer days which felt a lifetime ago. Gently pushing my finger inside the dome I could feel the soft interior, which possibly housed ten or 12 pompoms of life all squeezed in tightly vying for space as the warm spring sun warmed within.  

Rooks nests out of season fascinate me too, they look so precarious on the outer branches of trees, just a ragtag and bobtail structure of sticks swaying in a winter storm; but no matter the weather they remain relatively undamaged all through the year often to be repaired and used again in the following March. Even in the height of nesting season, winds can whip the trees into a flagellating frenzy but the nests remain; although in severe gales at this time of the year young can be hurled to their death below. The illustration below from The Collins Guide to Nests and Eggs I have mentioned before fascinated me as a child as it simply illustrates the differences. Rooks, social and build on the very edge of the tree, which is of course why the nests are stable as the branches are a vertical foundation structure to the nests. Carrion crows build lower down, singly and usually in the more stable Y or fork of the branch - their nests being more of a platform. And magpies. I love magpie nests one of the few instantly recognisable nests with it's mezzanine floor above the main nest to protect eggs and young.

 

 

The complexity of nest building in the birds world is fascinating, and all from a beak and a bit of avian design flair. Not all birds build nests of course, the cuckoo just pops by like a difficult older sibling while you're out, raids your nest, leaves a present you didn't really want and disappears until next year. The guillemot and many other seabirds just lays an egg on a rock, the egg itself is the wonder, designed to roll around not off the cliff face. But as with the unhelpful term seagulls to describe anything white and flying along the coast, the term nest fails to enthral the casual observer.

 

Rightly nests and eggs are protected by law from destruction, harm or wilful disturbance during the breeding season, I only checked this nest being certain it had been abandoned and after days of discrete distance observation. But later in the year when rebirth has been completed on that country walk, if you find a nest, stop and take a closer look at the miracle of its building, it's form, structure, shape and function is unique. As is every species' nest.

 

All is maybe not lost. As I sat here writing this memorial to avian abandonment a dark shape caught my eye. It is a female blackbird carrying nesting material from the garden and over the wall into a shrubby area next to the lane. In the time it has taken me to write this she's been back and forth half a dozen times. The male blackbird is perched on a shrub beside where this female is flying in and out of. To be honest this female looks darker than the one nesting in the garden who had a distinctive pale ruff across her chest. Is this male blackbird one with female blackbird 2? Only one thing for it, to stop writing this, make myself comfortable and as all naturalists do, sit quietly and observe.

 

Observation is what enriches our understanding of nature, and, maybe there will be new life in this corner of the West Country this year after all.

The beauty of blackbirds

As I write this posting a female blackbird is wearing herself out building a nest in the garden. I've been in Northumberland for a few days for work and pleasure (sat in the garden of our house there watching more greenfinches than I've seen in years - the males almost lime green in their breeding plumage) and have returned to witness the building frenzy of a blackbird in our clematis. Blackbirds are such wonderful birds.

 

On Thursday I stayed in Julie's house in the Northumberland National Park and having a quiet half hour sitting looking at the stunning view of the moorland which is just the other side of the fence, I was joined by a very friendly female blackbird. I had some Aberdeen Angus sandwiches with me so threw her a morsel. That was gratefully accepted as were the other half a dozen beef crumbs. It was fabulous to be accepted by this animal and although we had never met, she accepted my presence and I felt a bond developing. She'd chink chink, I'd throw a bit of beef, she'd land and take it, fly off to the fence, and the whole process began again. To my right a neighbour feeds the birds and there were a couple of dozen sparrows, chaffinches, the aforementioned greenfinches, cola tits, blue and great tits and a pair of courting dunnock who entertained me with their mice like run and hop pairing behaviour. Beyond the field a woodpecker drummed and a raven cronked overhead.  Absolute bliss. A man needs nothing else.

 

Aberdeen Angus morsels loved by this female 

 

 

Our neighbours garden and the feeder with Harbottle Crags beyond.

 

But back to the main story. This inconspicuous piece of foliage hides the beginnings of new life, or will do so soon. On Saturday morning I kept seeing this female blackbird on the lawn but couldn't see where she was going. Armed with a pint mug of tea I watched her. And to my amazement into the clematis she flew, then again two minutes later. I had a quick look from a distance and sure enough a half saucer of dried grasses was beginning to be built. Fantastic. We worked in the garden yesterday and she made no attempt to avoid us, in fact she just ignored our activity often flying over our heads to get to the nest construction site. Once again I'm amazed at how nature is trusting of us humans if we just leave them alone.

 

Having the camera to hand I tried to take some telephoto shots of her activity. They sort of work but it was a dullish day and so getting the ISO levels high enough made it a bit grainy. But a nice sequence of images nonetheless.

 

I like this shot as it was as she was about to leave so just caught her.

 

Watching her antics for an hour is one of the most enjoyable things I have done for a while. On average she came to the nest about every two minutes. Between nest visits, hopping over the garden wall to a bit of unkempt land behind which is full of straw, grasses and twigs. I could almost predict her behaviour.  Out the nest, perch on the wall, a quick cheep then drop down the other-side. Two minutes later she'd land on the wall, beak crammed with nesting material, hop along the wall, drop down onto the grass, then fly up into the nest from there. Often she was only hidden by the clematis for 20 seconds then out she'd fly, onto the wall, and away we'd go again. Occasionally the male appeared, sang a short 'pink pink' refrain and then flew off somewhere. He'll be watching her somewhere out of sight but for the moment keeping out of the hard work.

 

I've left her to it and will keep a close eye on the next phase which will be lining of the nest with mud before the final soft grasses are lain down prior to egg laying.

 

According to my beloved Collin's Guide to Nests and Eggs, after laying, incubation by the hen is 13-14 days and fledging 13-14 days later. So by my calculations if the nest is finished next weekend, we should see fluffy blackbird chicks in the garden by the first week on May... can't wait.