Wild Hares and Hummingbirds Read Online Free
Author: Stephen Moss
song, from a rival male barely 10 yards away. I have stumbled across the boundary between two territories, where later in the spring these adversaries will – if they survive the winter – fight for the right to breed.
Along the first stretch of the drove, the snow is covered with footprints, and the outlines of horses’ hooves. But after passing through a rusty gate, I find pure, fresh snow, save for the tracks of a pair of roe deer, and the prints of a fox. A disconcerting crunch beneath my feet reminds me that beneath the thick layer of snow there is a much thinner layer of ice, with water beneath. Fortunately, it is firm enough to bear my weight.
The last time I walked along this drove, during the height of summer, I was serenaded by the sound of birdsong, amid fluttering painted lady and small copper butterflies. Now, as I scan the fields on either side, my breath steaming in the icy air, I see nothing – not even the roe deer that passed this way earlier.
A S THE HARDEST winter for thirty years rapidly turns into the worst in my memory, the birds are flocking to the centre of the village; into my garden, and those of my neighbours. Outside our kitchen window there is a scene of almost constant activity; even before the weak winter sun has risen, the birds are gathering, desperate to feed.
Even in this dim half-light they are easy to pick out, especially the blackbird, dark against the white ground, his short legs sinking into the snow. Once the sun is up the whole gang is here: blue tits and great tits gathering on the feeders; song thrushes and dunnocks beneath, picking up the spilt seed; and robins, vainly trying to defend their little patch of snow-covered lawn against their bitter rivals.
The robins look almost indecently fat and healthy, but this is a cruel illusion. The only way these birds will survive is if they can preserve what little warmth they still have in their bodies, so they fluff up their feathers in an attempt to do so. Many are losing the battle, and with each night that passes, a share of the birds that visited us the day before will now be dead.
My youngest son George is fascinated by all this activity, and loves to stand at the kitchen sink to watch. He is getting pretty good at naming the birds; though I am sceptical when he confidently announces the presence of a redwing. But it turns out he is right – this small, dark, northern thrush is indeed here in our garden. And we’re not alone. Reports from all over the country confirm that redwings, along with their larger cousins the fieldfares, are heading into our gardens to search for food.
About a million individuals of each species arrived in the country back in October and November, with a good number reaching this parish. During the autumn and early winter they flock along the hawthorn hedgerows, grabbing as many berries as they can. By January they have usually switched to feeding in muddy fields, where they forage for worms in the loamy soil. But with snow now covering the earth, and most berries having been eaten, they have no choice but to join their more familiar relatives in our gardens.
The huge difference between this and past ‘big freezes’ is that these birds will find plenty of good-quality, high-energy food; provided, of course, by us. Even in the last freeze-up, back in 1979, bird-feeding was not particularly widespread; and in 1963, 1947 and 1940 – the twentieth century’s other long, hard winters – it was in comparison almost non-existent.
Many of the older villagers can still recall the winter of 1947 – the second coldest in living memory. This was before the days of central heating, while post-war rationing meant there was little or no food to spare for the birds. What a contrast with today, when millions of us up and down the country provide not just kitchen scraps but designer foodstuffs for our garden birds. I reflect that we – and the birds – have never had it so good.
B UT I ONLY need to
Along the first stretch of the drove, the snow is covered with footprints, and the outlines of horses’ hooves. But after passing through a rusty gate, I find pure, fresh snow, save for the tracks of a pair of roe deer, and the prints of a fox. A disconcerting crunch beneath my feet reminds me that beneath the thick layer of snow there is a much thinner layer of ice, with water beneath. Fortunately, it is firm enough to bear my weight.
The last time I walked along this drove, during the height of summer, I was serenaded by the sound of birdsong, amid fluttering painted lady and small copper butterflies. Now, as I scan the fields on either side, my breath steaming in the icy air, I see nothing – not even the roe deer that passed this way earlier.
A S THE HARDEST winter for thirty years rapidly turns into the worst in my memory, the birds are flocking to the centre of the village; into my garden, and those of my neighbours. Outside our kitchen window there is a scene of almost constant activity; even before the weak winter sun has risen, the birds are gathering, desperate to feed.
Even in this dim half-light they are easy to pick out, especially the blackbird, dark against the white ground, his short legs sinking into the snow. Once the sun is up the whole gang is here: blue tits and great tits gathering on the feeders; song thrushes and dunnocks beneath, picking up the spilt seed; and robins, vainly trying to defend their little patch of snow-covered lawn against their bitter rivals.
The robins look almost indecently fat and healthy, but this is a cruel illusion. The only way these birds will survive is if they can preserve what little warmth they still have in their bodies, so they fluff up their feathers in an attempt to do so. Many are losing the battle, and with each night that passes, a share of the birds that visited us the day before will now be dead.
My youngest son George is fascinated by all this activity, and loves to stand at the kitchen sink to watch. He is getting pretty good at naming the birds; though I am sceptical when he confidently announces the presence of a redwing. But it turns out he is right – this small, dark, northern thrush is indeed here in our garden. And we’re not alone. Reports from all over the country confirm that redwings, along with their larger cousins the fieldfares, are heading into our gardens to search for food.
About a million individuals of each species arrived in the country back in October and November, with a good number reaching this parish. During the autumn and early winter they flock along the hawthorn hedgerows, grabbing as many berries as they can. By January they have usually switched to feeding in muddy fields, where they forage for worms in the loamy soil. But with snow now covering the earth, and most berries having been eaten, they have no choice but to join their more familiar relatives in our gardens.
The huge difference between this and past ‘big freezes’ is that these birds will find plenty of good-quality, high-energy food; provided, of course, by us. Even in the last freeze-up, back in 1979, bird-feeding was not particularly widespread; and in 1963, 1947 and 1940 – the twentieth century’s other long, hard winters – it was in comparison almost non-existent.
Many of the older villagers can still recall the winter of 1947 – the second coldest in living memory. This was before the days of central heating, while post-war rationing meant there was little or no food to spare for the birds. What a contrast with today, when millions of us up and down the country provide not just kitchen scraps but designer foodstuffs for our garden birds. I reflect that we – and the birds – have never had it so good.
B UT I ONLY need to
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