We know spring is imminent where I live in the Bannau Brycheiniog not just from the growing warmth of the sun throughout the day, but because of the return of the familiar, high-pitched refrain of “a little bit of bread and no cheese’ whistling around the hills. It is, of course, the call of the Yellowhammer – Melyn yr Eithin in Welsh – and it’s a song to brighten any day.
Last weekend I stood mouth agape on the shore of Llyn Syfaddan gazing in wonder at one of nature’s greatest glories – a vast murmuration of birds. Flying in east to west over the space of an hour tens of thousands of starlings wheeled and reeled towards their winter home, pulsating like a single living organism stretching across an arms-length of sky and then, as one, dived to roost in the reed beds that line Lake Llangorse’s shore. It was simply breathtaking and to paraphrase Robert Smith in ‘A Forest’, which I have heard on repeat this week (thank Radio 6 Music), I want to see them do it again, and again, and again, and again.
Yesterday I saw a Goldcrest, Europe’s smallest bird. There are 600,000 breeding pairs in Britain and they are reasonably commonplace in the coniferous woods which they make home, but it is the first time I have spotted one in the Brecon Beacons. More to the point, they are stunningly attired- “a tiny bird with a big hairdo” according to the Wildlife Trusts – and so make a big impression, first with a flash of green on the wing and then the bright yellow mohican on the head (orange in the male).
Our neighbourhood cuckoo returned on 16 April and has been rewarding us with his song ever since, which reminded me of a blog post Ms Markontour wrote last year about Britain’s naughtiest bird which I never got around to publishing. One of the upsides of lockdown is having time to be in one place and appreciate the changing of the seasons, so it was lovely to read this again today and I hope you enjoy it too.
This afternoon we were captivated by a little Wren, busying itself in the undergrowth of a hedge that lines the bridleway from the Welsh Venison Centre (we prefer to think of it as The Deer Sanctuary) to Tal-y-bryn. We had stopped to listen to a Robin singing his heart out / fiercely claiming his territory, but the noisy harrumphing of the Wren drew our attention away. These tiny birds are barely the size of a child’s hand but make a real racket. Indeed, my twitcher app tells me in a Top Trumps sort of way that “weight for weight the Wren’s song is ten times louder than a crowing cockerel”.
Yesterday markontour and the crew of the Burton Library Astronomical Survey Team (Marine Division) enjoyed the rare pleasure of following two kingfishers in succession, their electric colours lighting up the afternoon as they bobbed and weaved their way along the banks of the Trent and Mersey canal. Earlier my Dad and I had been going through a box of my sixth form poetry essays in a vain attempt to clear space in my parent’s loft (all that got ditched were a few surplus copies of ‘Funding London Underground’ – a campaign publication I had worked on in the late 1990s). Thus inspired, I spent the afternoon, when not at the tiller, trying to find a poem about my favourite bird.
markontour 