written and posted by members of Lancashire Dead Good Poets' Society

Showing posts with label orange. Show all posts
Showing posts with label orange. Show all posts

Friday, 19 December 2025

Robins

The English robin is a bird rather smaller than a sparrow, in build between a thrush and a warbler, uniform brown on the upper parts, with an orange red breast and white abdomen. It is widely distributed through the woodlands of Europe, and in Britain is also a familiar garden bird.

Stephen Moss quoting the great ornithologist, David Lock in his 'The Life of the Robin', 1943.

Isn’t there something heart-warming about our avian friend, who is a feature on our Christmas cards in the last month of our year and in the winter season? This is an image on a card I received from my dear friend, J this year.*


It is archetypal of the rather romantic picture we have of a lone songster in a bleak and hostile environment, its red breast puffed out, perhaps indicating to us hope of the new year and the warmer climate of spring to come.

This blog will give insight into the realities of this beautiful and familiar bird that has found its way into every art form involving the visual, aural and even the kinaesthetic. You will learn how and why it should be associated with the Christmas season and its actual relevance to the Christian religion.

Bird lovers, you will also know what you should leave out for them in a freezing cold winter.

Well, here goes. We will start with robin statistics.
Height: 5.5 inches, 14 cm
Wingspan: 8.4 inches, 21 cm
Weight 18 g approximately
Lifespan: 1-2 years

It has a membership of the largest of all the world bird orders – the Passeriforms. This bracket of bird includes almost half of the world’s species. Four thousand, like the robin are songbirds.

The robin is the only species on its individual genus Erithacus. There are one hundred different robins and some species of birds termed robins are not really robins at all. There will be more on this later.

Their plumage is not always so colourful. Juvenile robins, which are around in the spring seasons, are brown, mottled and often speckled in appearance. Only adults have the familiar orangey-red feathers. Females and males are identical in appearance.

In the UK we think of it as British. In fact, robins inhabit Europe, from Gibraltar to beyond the Arctic Circle, the Middle East, Central Asia and North Africa. Robins in Eastern Europe leave their breeding ground in autumn where they look for warmer climates, including the UK.

The actual nature of this bird suggests Tennyson’s description of nature in his poem In Memoriam, A. H.H. as,

“red in tooth and claw”.

According to Stephen Moss, author of 'The Robin: a Biography', they are vicious and when competing for a mate, duel their rival to death. Their mating season starts in January.

There is one reason this male sings so sweetly. It is to breed, their sole purpose and instinct in life. The song is a call to a mate. They often die shortly after this. They are territorial and defensive of territory they establish, frequenting cities and the countryside, often inhabiting woodland areas.

In March and April their song is continuous, but the aim is to repel other males. Once they have their territory established, they begin nest building, egg laying and finding food for their hungry chicks, particularly vulnerable at this time to jays and magpies, which prey on the chicks. 
In the autumn, the juveniles develop their beautiful bright coat.

Why should these birds be on Christmas cards? Interestingly, they do have a connection with Christianity. Among ancient folklore is a tale about a robin trying to keep the baby Jesus’ fire lit, and doing so, scorching its breast, symbolizing its devotion. Mary then humbly declares that its red breast is to be handed down to its descendants.

There is also a connection to the crucifixion. Another legend concerns a crown of thorns, which a robin plucks from Jesus’ crown when he is on the cross, which leads to its breast being stained with blood.

During the Victorian era the new tradition of sending Christmas cards emerged because of the development in printing, which led to robins being a favourite on cards. Sir Henry Cole sent the first Christmas card in 1843 then the size of a business card used today, because at first, they were expensive to make. By the 1860s, cheaper cards were available.

Postmen were referred to as “robins” because they wore red coats as part of their uniforms. It led to the bird becoming a festive symbol.

By the 1880s, Victorian artists showed the robin delivering Christmas cards to peoples’ houses instead of a postman – and the tradition has stuck. The British love to give feathered and four-legged creatures anthropomorphic qualities. See the image below.


A modern Christmas card in Victorian style, with the robin delivering the Christmas card to a recipient. This looks rather cute, don’t you think? I would like to see the robin at my door! Or on my local post box!

Until the mid-twentieth century, this bird also acquired the nickname Redbreast. The description ‘redbreast’ first appeared in the fifteenth century and was used until the middle of the twentieth century. In 1952, the British Ornithologist’s Union showed the species official name as ‘redbreast’. The Victorians no doubt helped with this by giving the bird human qualities of delivery. It would have seemed natural to give the bird a name Robin redbreast. There is a pleasing alliteration that would have appealed to children of the time.

Moss, in his book points out that the bird’s breast is actually orange, rather than red, and suggests that it was called redbreast because the actual fruit orange only appeared in the Middle Ages. It is referenced in the nursery rhyme,

“Oranges and lemons,
Say the bells of Saint Clements.”

The rhyme heralds the excitement of the bells of an exciting and tasty new fruit to arrive on Britain’s shores at that time. 
The colour orange was first used in 1557, over a hundred years after the word ‘redbreast’ was used to describe the robin. There was no colour called orange in the Middle Ages and it only became an accepted shade one hundred years after the fruit orange was imported into Britain.

The robin has since found its way onto clothing and Christmas decorations, solidifying it as a Christian icon in the UK and elsewhere.

The name, ‘robin’, if not the actual species, proliferated round the world because of sailors and explorers, who, landing in other parts of the world and having no ornithological expertise at all, called all kinds of small colourful birds with red, pink or yellow breasts robins.

The name stuck, however, which is why there are Siberian blue robins, Indonesian cloud-forest robins, Polynesian robins and the American robins, which are not robins at all!

The robin has made its presence in all art forms. Apart from the visual, the paintings, drawings, decorations and embroidery kits, on which it is displayed, the robin has found its place in orchestral, ensemble and popular music and across traditional and pop dance.

French composer Olivier Messiaen, a passionate ornithologist, in addition to being a genius as a musician, loved the robin and his music reflects this, featuring the European robin in his small bird sketches, (Petites Equisses d’Oiseaux. There is a movement titled Le Rouge-Gorge, (The Robin).

His large, orchestral work Des Canyons aux Etoilles has a movement titled Le Cossyphe d’Heuglin, The White-Browed Robin-Chat, (an African Robin).

Here is Matthew Schellhorn live, 29th January 2021 playing Robin, by Messiaen. While this is playing, you will see drawings by talented children and youths of the robin. These illustrations are fitting to be shown while the music is playing of the man who regarded birds as “the greatest musicians upon the planet.” Link: Robin

In popular music, the “American robin” that inspired the Al Jolson hit When the Red, Red, Robin Comes Bob, Bob, Bobbin’ Along, is actually a THRUSH. (Remember our sailors and explorers?) 
According to Moss, it is “lumbering and bulky”, not like our robin at all. Link: Red Red Robin

This thrush is also the bird referred to in the hit Rockin’ Robin, made popular in 1972 by Michael Jackson and the Jackson Five. Remember anyone? Link: Rockin Robin

Here, you see the robin represented kinaesthetically with dance. They have movements called ‘tweets’ with jive steps, bouncy motions and running in circles with high knees to create a bird-like movement.

For robin movements, choreographers create quick, sharp, head movements, (rocking the head and listening for prey), hopping and sudden stops, pausing and perching movements alternated by moments of stillness followed by spurts of energy.

A more traditional robin dance is where the men and women dance in a counterclockwise circle. The movements are inspired by the running and hopping of the robin. Link: Iroquois Robin Dance

In literature, the writer Anthony Trollope, himself a post office employee has characters in his novel 'Framley Parsonage', who refer to the postman by his nickname.

This postman says, “Oh, but it is mortal wet,” as he hands the vicar the post and newspaper.
Jemima the cook responds with the phrase, “Come in, Robin Postman, and warm yourself awhile.”

Other writers who use the robin in their repertoire include Enid Blyton, Shakespeare, Robert Burns, Robert Herrick, Chaucer, Shakespeare and Frances Hodgson Burnett.

The British, ardent bird lovers in general, do have a soft spot for the robin.

In 2015, the robin topped the polls for Britain’s favourite bird, while in 1960 it was crowned Britain’s national bird.

These lines, from 'Robin Redbreast', by W H Davies, (1908) sum up our national affection for it.

Robin on a leafless bough,
Lord in heaven, how he sings!
Now cold winter’s cruel wind
Makes playmates of withered things.

Robins are aware of our feelings and, perhaps unbelievably, there is a relationship between the robin and us. They know we leave out food for them in cold winter months, when the ground becomes too cold and hard for them to find food and makes them vulnerable to starvation and death. Even woodland birds know to visit the British garden.

The custom of the British being generous towards feeding birds began over one thousand, five hundred years ago as did our love for the robin.

There is the story of a youth, (Saint Serf), taming a robin by giving it food but his classmates killed it out of jealousy. Miraculously, his friend Kentigen, (later St Mungo) brought the robin back to life.

Feeding birds declined through the centuries but was revived in the Victorian era when they extended their charity to all God’s creatures, with the exception of workhouse residents.

In 1890-91 the writer W H Hudson noted working men gathering along the side of the River Thames during their lunch break to give scraps of food to starving birds, which led to the custom of regularly feeding our birds in our gardens.

The result is that fourteen million households leave food out for garden birds and there are more than six million breeding pairs of robins in this country owing to our generosity to this breed of bird. This is surely a great achievement.

So when you put out food in bird feeders, remember to include sunflower hearts and corn grains for our robins to keep the population high as these give them energy.

In the next few days, listen out for the sweet song of the robin and Happy Christmas to you all.

Anne G. Dilley

*This image is on a card to raise money for the Leprosy Mission, see THELEPROSYMISSION.COM

Bibliography:

The Robin, a Biography by Stephen Moss

postalmuseum.org/blog/a-history-of-christmas-cards

https://poetrynook.com

https://www.bostonglobe.com

https://www.youtube.com

Tuesday, 29 November 2022

Rocking Chair


Call me a softy if you like, ‘The Woman in Black’ is the scariest film I’ve ever tried to watch. I’ve had a few attempts. One was at the cinema with my daughter. I think she begged me to take her, only to discover how fearful it is.

 “Tell me when it’s gone,” she whispered.

“I can’t, I’m not looking.” I had no idea what ‘it’ was.

There’s a particularly creepy scene concerning a room full of clockwork monkeys playing musical instruments and an empty rocking chair, rocking. Too spooky and reminds me of something chilling my son said when he was little.

I have my grandfather’s rocking chair, I’ve probably mentioned it before because it is special item and means a lot to me. I remember him with fondness, gently rocking as he read the paper or his book, often sharing an orange with me when I was a child. After he died, the chair was untouched in the house he’d shared with my aunt since he was widowed. My sister had children before me and I think our aunt gave her the rocking chair to nurse her first baby. When I bought my house, the chair came to me and for a while, it was the only furniture I had to sit on. It moved with me when I got married and had a special place in the back room. I don’t know if our son, a young child at the time, was teasing when he told me that he’d seen the rocking chair rocking on its own. The thought of it gave me shivers. I felt sure I would be aware if there was anything odd. Over the years, the chair began to look tatty. Covering it with a throw and a cushion wasn’t enough. I had it repaired and recovered, and moved it into my bedroom.

As for ‘The Woman in Black’, I’m told by a friend that the stage play is more scary than the film. I can’t imagine that, but I’ll accept the opinion without the need to see for myself.

Robert Service had the right idea,

When I am old and worse for wear
I want to buy a rocking-chair,
And set it on a porch where shine
The stars of morning-glory vine;
With just beyond, a gleam of grass,
A shady street where people pass;
And some who come with time to spare,
To yarn beside my rocking-chair.
Then I will light my corn-cob pipe
And dose and dream and rarely gripe.
My morning paper on my knee
I won't allow to worry me.
For if I know the latest news
Is bad,-to read it I'll refuse,
Since I have always tried to see
The side of life that clicks with glee.

And looking back with days nigh done,
feel I've had a heap of fun.
Of course I guess that more or less
It's you yourself make happiness
And if your needs are small and few,
Like me you may be happy too:
And end up with a hope, a prayer,
A chuckle in a rocking-chair.

Robert Service

Thanks for reading, Pam x

Tuesday, 7 September 2021

Circus - Excitement and Anticipation


Piccadilly Circus, 1972. My friend and I felt like we had landed somewhere exciting. We were staying a long weekend with my family in Roehampton. Encouraged to go out and have fun, we took a bus then a tube and eventually emerged from the Underground at Piccadilly Circus. It was the hottest day ever and we went straight to Boot’s the Chemist for deodorant which we liberally applied in the nearby public convenience. My orange loon pants with navy blue pleats and a navy tank-top was my favourite and most fashionable outfit at the time. The trousers were made of stretch towelling – beach clothing, really – too heavy for such a hot day, but I loved them so much. (Except one night when I wore them to go ice-skating and they soaked up gallons of surface water, but that’s another story.) My friend was dressed more sensibly in shorts. We shopped on Carnaby Street, watched a busker, looked around Soho, sat on some grass in the shade and eventually made our way back to Piccadilly Circus and the tube station for the first part of our return journey to Roehampton.

It was fun when I was seventeen, but London like any major city is too busy, too fast moving and loud for me so I’m not a regular visitor. Exceptions have been made to go to see The Moody Blues a few times at the Royal Albert Hall or the O2 Arena. Well, of course I’d go then. There was another time when there was no holding back.

The Prince Edward Theatre, 1978. Evita. Tickets like gold dust, but lucky me. There is only one Che for me and that is David Essex. No one else can sing ‘Oh What a Circus!’ with such passion, giving everything to the exceptional lyrics of Tim Rice who perfectly captured the media circus of the time.

I was a child when my family moved to Blackpool. One of the first places I remember being taken to is the Tower Circus. Mid 1960s and animals were still a big part of the show, horses, elephants and am I imagining sea lions in the water finale? I don’t remember if lions featured. My favourites were always the clowns with Charlie Cairoli.

At around the age of seven, I latched on to books by Enid Blyton. I discovered that I could read something other than ‘the green reader’ or whatever my school reading book was. Still in the infants, I’d moved on from Janet and John and found that I didn’t need to read out loud to understand the text. Book after book came my way, Secret Seven, Famous Five, lots of the Mystery series, fairy stories, and somewhere in the middle, before the boarding school tales from Malory Towers or St. Clare’s, I read the circus stories, Mr Galliano’s Circus, Hurrah for the Circus! and Circus Days Again. They began with the arrival of the circus folk parading through the town and setting up camp. Excitement and anticipation grabbed me in the first paragraph and carried me along the chapter as the author introduced characters, illustrating each one with her vibrant description as she did all her books and I loved it. Circus Days Again is the only one of the trilogy in my possession. All of my Enid Blyton’s are treasured.

On that long weekend in London almost fifty years ago, someone joked about Piccadilly Circus and how wise we were to come home before dark. We didn’t know what they meant and we didn’t ask because we were two worldly, clever, independent seventeen year olds.

I found this poem:

Piccadilly Circus At Night – Street Walkers

When into the night the yellow light is roused like dust above the towns,
Or like a mist the moon has kissed from off a pool in the midst of the downs,

Our faces flower for a little hour pale and uncertain along the street,
Daisies that waken all mistaken white-spread in expectancy to meet

The luminous mist which the poor things wist was dawn arriving across the sky,
When dawn is far behind the star the dust-lit town has driven so high.

All the birds are folded in a silent ball of sleep,
All the flowers are faded from the asphalt isle in the sea,
Only we hard-faced creatures go round and round, and keep
The shores of this innermost ocean alive and illusory.

Wanton sparrows that twittered when morning looked in at their eyes
And the Cyprian’s pavement-roses are gone, and now it is we
Flowers of illusion who shine in our gauds, make a Paradise
On the shores of this ceaseless ocean, gay birds of the town-dark sea.

D H Lawrence (1916)

Thanks for reading, Pam x

Sunday, 10 March 2019

All Colours, Especially Purple

15:57:00 Posted by Jill Reidy Red Snapper Photography , , , , , , , , , 4 comments

My View as I Write this Post 


When I volunteered to do some more guest writing for the Dead Good Blog and received the list of topics, the first title that came up was ‘colour.’ I ticked it, confident that I could write about a subject that dominates my world. It was only when Steve responded that I realised it had to be done by the following day - and I had a pretty busy 24 hours ahead of me.  Luckily, my guest spot was quickly moved to Sunday, so here I am, back again.

My love of colour goes back a long way. I don’t know what sparked it, as our house, when I was little, was mainly magnolia with a splash of white, a neutral background to all the colourful goings on, perhaps.  I do remember one episode of redecorating that, with hindsight, was certainly rather odd. With three young children tearing about the house the magnolia in the front room began to get extremely grubby around the light switch and below, where sticky fingers would rest whilst the door was opened.  Dad (or was it mum? I think they were both involved in the end) decided to brush over the marks with some leftover paint, which unfortunately didn’t bear much resemblance to the original colour.  It started with a small area around the light switch.  Whoever was painting stood back and looked at the completed work.  And decided it wasn’t completed after all. It needed to cover the grubby fingerprints below.  Painting was continued, with frequent pauses to survey the handiwork.  After an hour or so it was decided that the job was done.
 
There was a large ovalish area, measuring approximately a metre from top to bottom. It became known as The Egg, and it soon fitted in beautifully with all the other slightly bizarre repairs in the house.  None of us really noticed it after a couple of days, and we were only reminded of it when visitors did a double take and silently mouthed, ‘What - ?’ as they entered the room. 

When Dave and I got our own first house in the 1970s we decided magnolia was the devil, and instantly set about decorating each room in the darkest colours we could find: deep brown, rich red, green, orange and purple. In our defence they were the ‘in’ colours at the time, but I don’t think the in-laws saw it that way.  My mother in law had already practically had a nervous breakdown when I’d requested bright red and royal blue bedding as wedding presents.  She might have been more impressed if she’d known then that we’d still be sleeping in them forty four years later. 

I’d like to say I’ve grown up a bit since then, and now enjoy a restful, magnolia house.  Somehow this hasn’t happened and we’re still wallowing in purple, yellow and bright red rooms.  In fact, when our children were little we always referred to the ‘Red Room’ and the ‘Blue Room,’ not ‘The Lounge,’ and the ‘Dining Room,’ like normal people. My clothes are arranged in the wardrobe in colour order, my shoes go from black to purple to blue to red, and my socks genuinely bring me joy when I open the drawer. Pretty sad when I think about it.

I can’t leave this post without mentioning  the colourful, ever changing palette upon my head - an ongoing experiment with style and colour for the past 53 years.  I was lucky to have a mum who was pretty liberal about these things, well ahead of her time, and didn’t think it odd when I appeared one morning, at the age of thirteen with a full head of grey hair. To be honest it was an experiment that had gone slightly wrong, but, undaunted, off I went to my rather staid Grammar School, only to be singled out in assembly and sent home to ‘sort it out.’ 

By the time I’d had a few more colours (always a reckless experiment) I think the school had given up on me, and apart from the odd, sarcastic comment most of the teachers inwardly sighed and turned a blind eye. Since then I’ve probably sported every colour of the rainbow. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. Like the time I didn’t leave the bleach on long enough and ended up with bright orange hair (well before it was in fashion). I looked like Dick Emery in drag. My daughter (aged seven) sobbed and begged me to wear a hat when I picked her up from school the next day.  If I remember rightly, I found a hairdresser who had the skills to at least dumb down the brightness, although I still wore the hat as requested. 


Purple by Jill Reidy

It was the purple ink 
Siphoned carefully 
Into a new, expensive pen
I watched as it filled
The light cutting through the colour 
Wiped the nib on a rag 
Replaced the casing
Screwed back on the lid 
Felt it heavy in my hand 
It signified something
I wasn’t sure what
The end
Or the Beginning 
Whatever
Purple was the colour
My colour 
From now on


Thanks for reading,   Jill