The Masked Singer

It's been a tough few weeks for brother and sister bird. Days of snow and freezing temperatures followed by storm after wet and windy storm are not conducive to singing. It's all about staying alive. Birdsong is for balmier times, and those can't come soon enough - for birds or bloggers!

It's the RSPB's Big Garden Birdwatch week-end and I'll be taking part in the annual one-hour survey tomorrow (because I have footballing duties today). My back garden is a bit of a wreck at the moment, awaiting a nature-friendly make-over in the spring, so I'll probably head to the local park to do my spotting and bird census. There, if I'm lucky, I will see some nuthatches.

nuthatch descending

I've not so far seen nuthatches at the bushes or feeders in my back garden (it's always blackbirds, blue tits, great tits, goldfinches, robins, sparrows and starlings). However, they are becoming more common in these northern parts. RSPB figures show that over the last half-century, the UK population of nuthatches has increased steadily from 70,000 pairs to 250,000 pairs, and their territory has expanded by a third from their southern heartland as they have colonised the country up to the Scottish Borders, an indicator perhaps of the impact of climate change.

They are charming little birds with their grey-blue backs and wings, peachy underbellies and black stripe across the eye (hence the title of today's blog.) They are also unique in being able to walk head first down trees. Various birds (treecreepers and woodpeckers for instance) can climb up tree trunks, but only the cleverly adapted nuthatch can do so in both directions, and is often most easily identified from its distinctive downward stance.

Nuthatches inhabit deciduous woodland, parks and large gardens. Their traditional diet is hazel nuts, beech mast, acorns, wild seeds and insects drilled out of tree bark. However, they are being found increasingly in suburban gardens near parks or woodland, attracted by feeders filled with peanuts or sunflower seeds.

During the breeding season from April onwards they make neat nests in holes in trees or walls, lining them with flakes of bark and dried beech or oak leaves. The clutch of anywhere between six and a dozen eggs is incubated by the female for about two weeks and the young are fed by both male and female birds. The baby nuts are ready to fledge after about five weeks.

Nuthatches can often be heard before they are seen, for their singing voice although not mellifluous is quite recognisable, either as a sort of metallic "chwit chwit" usually followed by a shrill "tsit" and a trill, or as a variant a clear, piping "twee" often repeated and followed by the same rapid trill. 

They are not a common sight (unlike the roll-call of birds I listed earlier), but if you do spot one on a walk through the woods, you'll almost certainly see a second, for they usually fly in pairs except when the female is incubating the eggs. They are a joy to behold, truly delightful little creatures.

nuthatch ascending

It was while I was working in Warsaw fifteen years ago that my then wife and I went for a Sunday afternoon visit to Łazienki Park, the city's largest and oldest green space. We'd actually gone to hear a Chopin piano recital in the park's famous orangery, but walking along the path through woodland  to get there I was surprised to see nuthatches everywhere. There were literally dozens of them within half a mile, flitting about or running up and down trees. It was the most amazing sight and the absolute highlight of the day (though the recital was enjoyable and the hot chocolate with whipped cream was excellent). It left me wondering if Chopin, who grew up in Warsaw in the early 19th century, might have taken compositional inspiration from the singing of the city's trilling nuthatches.

In Łazienki Park

Upside down world, her father dying 

and she struggling to cope,
we held hands tightly I suppose

partly for the cold.
I don't recall that we spoke.

Spring and a flurry of snowflakes 
from iron sky with dull milk sun
as we strolled through avenues
of ancient beech and oak 

all bare but not deserted 

for darting round their trunks
a spectacular fluster of nuthatches
clinging, climbing, up, down,
striped like bandits, shaped for torpedoes
and their insistent metallic song

forged defiant on chilly air. 

Kowalik: blacksmith in native tongue,

how apt is that. I'd never seen

so many in one place before.

She scarcely noticed, I thrilled at the sight.

But once inside the Orangery, its circle

of warmth and chairs, with hot chocolate

and Chopin's études spilling

like the striking songs of birds,

she smiled, setting the world aright.

Here's a short clip of nuthatches singing: Nuthatches

Thanks for reading, S ;-)

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Birdsong

Birdsong is a novel by Sebastian Faulks first published by Hutchinson in 1993. It begins in 1910 by introducing Stephen Wraysford. He is a young Englishman on assignment for a textile factory in Amiens, France. He is a lodger in the home of Rene and Isabelle Azier, an unhappily married couple.

The novel then jumps forward to 1916 where Stephen is an infantryman in WW1, based in Flanders. The narrative introduces Stephen’s relationships with his commanding officer, Captain Gray, an engineer Michael Weir, and a tunneller named Jack Firebrace. Faulks goes into the details of these men’s lives to depict the horrors of tunnels, gas and enduring the daily prospect of death. The close bonds that the men form under these extreme conditions are also revealed. Faulks portrays the Battle of the Somme through Stephen’s experience from dawn and its pre-battle anxiety to dusk and the 60,000 British casualties. Stephen, almost defeated by the realities of war, is encouraged to fight for survival by the stoic Captain Gray. Stephen also keeps a coded journal.

Birdsong then follows the story of Elizabeth who finds the diaries in the 1970s and attempts to decode them.

Some books stay with one for years after reading them and the detailed description of the tension in the anticipation of the attacks, the horror of being trapped in tunnels thirty feet underground in no man's land, the life and death in the trenches and the psychological effect of the brutality of war on soldiers certainly did for me. This was particularly the case with the stories of the tunnellers. I couldn’t put this book down.

I would put one proviso in this and that is the first hundred pages based in Amiens. Whenever I have read the book again it is very tempting to skim read this section. And I do. I can see why 1910 France needs to be evoked to set up the horrors that follow. But not a hundred pages.

The novel was a success, with international impact and attention. The hardback print-run, first issued in 1993, sold 14,000 copies. The novel featured in many "Best of the Year lists" in the United Kingdom during 1993. Subsequently, it has become one of the most checked-out works from British libraries.

It is taught at school and university on both English and History syllabuses; it has sold more than two million copies in the United Kingdom and three million worldwide; it has been used at Sandhurst to instruct young officers in the realities of warfare; in polls it is regularly voted one of the nation’s favourite books.

Birdsong was adapted as a radio drama in 1997, and as a stage play in 2010. In 2012 it was adapted as a two-part television drama for the BBC. On 1st July 2020, a virtual production of Birdsong was streamed online to mark the 104th anniversary of the Battle of the Somme. It is told using video technology, live performance, sound design and music, all woven together. The cast performed in full costume, with digitally designed scenes and lighting.

Why the book is called Birdsong can be interpreted in many ways. However, from a personal point of view and I haven’t seen or heard the adaptations, I really don’t believe that the experiences gained while reading the book can be portrayed in any other form than by the written word.

This poem is part of a trilogy and was written for a nurse who went to a war.

Going

And she’s gone.
I can’t tell you where
or when she’ll be back.
But here’s a few clues.
Here’s her ski boots,
there’s her woollen sweater,
here’s the scarf I bought in Prague
and there’s the ballgown
I’ve to take to the cleaners,
precise instructions attached.
Well you don’t need a ballgown
when you’re off to fight in the wars.

Not that she’s fighting.
She’s there for the wounded,
she’ll strip the bloody clothing
from any bloody skin
and stripping an assault rifle
was taught as a precaution.
A precaution against what?
I know against what.
All those jerks finding themselves,
shooting into manhood,
those guys know what they want
and it’s not TLC from a blonde.

I wandered into the kitchen
getting a feel for emptiness,
putting her mug away,
it’s only a few months.
Finding themselves for god’s sake,
and then finding her,
ten quid in a tin hat lottery,
she just won’t get it.
And then I found the envelope,
under the phone,
the last Will and Testament,
left when I left her alone.

First published by Acumen in May 2008

Terry Q.

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Sing Something Simple

I love birdsong. For me it’s one of the most relaxing and evocative sounds, so many memories associated with it. I’m not sure that the screeching of seagulls could be classified as song but nevertheless they are birds and I presume they’re trying to communicate with each other - maybe it’s even tuneful to a seagull - so I’ll give them the benefit of the doubt and include them in this week’s blog.

When we moved to Blackpool in 1976 I vividly remember the first morning in our new house, being woken early by the noise of the birds circling outside. In my half asleep state I wondered why I could hear seagulls screeching, when our flat was in Leeds. It took me a few moments to remember we had actually moved near the sea.

I’ve had a bit of a love hate relationship with these giant birds ever since. I do love to hear them shouting, it reminds me that I’m still in this magical place called the seaside, and I do love to photograph them, particularly in flight. However, they are the boldest, greediest, most opportunist birds I’ve ever known, fighting for discarded chips, animal carcasses and anything that looks vaguely edible. On reflection, if reincarnated as a bird, out of all of them - the dainty little bluetits, the friendly robins and the beautifully tuneful nightingales, I think I’d have to be a seagull. Loud and greedy. So I can’t really criticise them.

seaside starlings waiting to murmurate

My most lasting memory of beautiful birdsong is the day we moved into a new house when I was eleven. We were near a large park, the garden was long, the trees were tall and well established. It was quite a contrast to our previous small square of grass and mud. I walked outside and the first thing that hit me was the sound. It was a chorus of wonderful twittering and tweeting. I remember just standing there, taking it all in. For the next sixty years this was the family home. I left at seventeen to go to art college, but I returned frequently. Sitting on the low wall outside, with a brew and my thoughts, early morning, or at dusk, birdsong was always my accompaniment.

We buried my dad’s ashes in that garden, on his birthday in Spring. We’d debated whether to have some music in the background, but then forgot all about it and traipsed down to his vegetable plot with just the urn and our thoughts. We should have known the birds would be welcoming in the season. It was all the sound we needed.

When my mum, at 92, finally left that London home I felt my heart was going to break. So many memories of happy times. Some time before the move, I wandered out into the garden. I was getting the washing in but I found myself videoing the shrubs and trees, so lovingly tended to over the years. As I began to record, I heard the sweet sound of birdsong (linked here: Birdsong in my Mum's Garden ) and was transported back to that first day so many years before. I stood there whilst I’m sure I felt an arrow pierce my heart.

Sing Something Simple

I was eleven
With a burgeoning interest
In boys and makeup
Pop stars
The Beatles
And not much else
But that first day
In a new garden
Awakened something in me
It was, quite literally,
Music to my ears
I couldn’t tell you
Which birds were in the chorus that day
And which birds sang solo
There was no conductor
To keep it all in tune
No bows to the audience
No furtive glances left or right
That wasn’t necessary
Nature had done her job
I stood and listened
Heart soaring
High as the glorious song
As it rose and fell
And rose again
Pure happiness
A memory planted
And hidden deep within my heart.

Thanks for reading......Jill Reidy

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