Early 6am in our kitchen, and with a wave of the ice queen’s wand, she has gifted us this luminous white wintery light.
It’s a misty morning and the birds are up early, heads tilted, beaks open, singing their little hearts out for the approach of spring.
But the man on the radio says that many of our birds are abandoning us – and that the dawn chorus could soon be a series of solos.
It’s too sad of a thought.
We fell in love with the dawn chorus nearly 10 years ago, when we hauled ourselves out of bed at 5am on a Saturday morning and headed over to Belvoir Forest to meet a ranger in a Mountie’s hat who took us along leafy woodland paths.
He knew his bird song and he named each singer.
We learned the great tit’s call of “Teacher, teacher, teacher”, we laughed at the song of the Yellowhammer, “A little bit of bread and no cheese”.
We heard robins chitter – some say they’re fiercely territorial and aggressive – don’t be fooled by their pretty red breasts.
And we heard the beautiful blackbird’s song.
Last summer we went out to the garden and played a recording of the blackbird – and our own blackbird sang back. It was magical.
At the dawn chorus walk, we had bacon sandwiches and tea afterwards and talked about how nature is wonderful and how beautiful are the birds. We promised we’d be back next year, only we weren’t.
But perhaps this May, we shall.
We never saw ourselves as twitchers, but that’s what age does.
I’d have rolled my eyes at twitchers and trainspotters... put them with the electric blanket, bed-at-10pm sharp brigade, the cosy slipper wans.
Now at 6.30pm, you’ll find me curled on the sofa trying to figure out where we might have chocolate hidden.
Funny how misty mornings and small birds sing to your soul.
Later we cycled to the far end of the island where fat seals sunned themselves on the rocks like Romans lounging on their sofas munching grapes
In her later years, my mother fell in love with birds too. She once went on a midnight adventure to ring birds. Ma saw it from the bird’s perspective.
“Imagine sitting on your nest at night – like you sit on your sofa at home – a cuppa tea and a buttered digestive - when a huge hand reaches in and grabs you, fiddles with your leg then plonks you back. The next morning you’d be saying, ‘I had a terrible dream.’”
I have fond memories of a family trip to Rathlin to see the puffins. The bus driver dressed up as a giant puffin.
There were so many puffins flying back and forward to the cliff. I’d only ever seen them on the spine of a book before.
Later we cycled to the far end of the island where fat seals sunned themselves on the rocks like Romans lounging on their sofas munching grapes.
On the walk back, a cow wandered onto the path which, for some reason, alarmed my city husband and son.
“For God’s sake, just say ‘hup hup hup’, it’s a cow,” I said.
Recently, I have heard that cows are not as gentle as they used to be.
Remember that poem:
“The friendly cow all brown and white
I love with all my heart,
She gives me cream with all her might,
To eat with apple tart.”
Well, forget it.
A source close to me says that modern farming methods mean a 21st century cow should be treated with extreme caution from a respectable distance... as in the far end of a long stick.
I think that’s sad.
All this talk of birds and cows is only to say how the sap is rising, as surely as soft misty mornings and light stealing in through the windows at tea time.
Soon we shall be casting our clouts, walking in the park and hearing the blackbird sing beautiful songs to his mate.
