I have always mocked curtain twitchers, those who keep such a close eye on their neighbours they make MI5 agents on a stakeout look like amateurs. These past few months, however, I have reached a stage where all that is lacking for me to join the ranks of expert intel gatherers is night vision goggles and a telescope.
The newest residents in our locale began their search for a home sometime after Easter. The flats above us and across the landing changed hands around the same time, bringing with them every tradesperson in East Lothian who owned a drill or hammer. But it was not their activities that needed to be kept under surveillance. The object of my spying was the pair of wood pigeons who kept disappearing into the ivy-clad wall opposite our kitchen window as if looking for a secret doorbell. As they began to make their home, I thought they were far too plump. Surely they’d stick out like a football in a birdbath? But by the time their nest was built, and they were taking it in turns to keep their eggs warm, they were all but invisible beneath the leaves. As the long days waiting for the hatch dragged on, sparrows in the adjoining apartments would hop by regularly, as if to pass the time of day. And a hungry-looking crow would haunt the chimney pots, waiting for a chance to swoop.
The birds’ first brood hatched, and were raised safely, leaving the nest while I was in the office. Life felt duller without them, and doing the washing-up lost some of its allure. And then, at the end of the Edinburgh Festival, the pair returned. The empty nest was spruced up, and the cycle began again: eggs and incubation followed by two wobbly, downy grey heads and gaping beaks. The parents grew thinner by the day, feeding their offspring as if trying to stuff a bottomless Christmas stocking. Meanwhile the chicks puffed up like soufflés, and began to stretch their wings. Shortly after light one morning, I watched as a chick climbed onto a stem of ivy, swayed, and launched itself into the air. It landed on a tree in the garden, and minutes later was on our window ledge, catching its breath. It was followed by a parent, who kept a stern eye on us.
For the past week I’ve watched as the young birds’ bedraggled feathers have grown sleeker. The more russet-breasted of the two watched from a tree as I unloaded the shopping at the weekend, kept company by blue tits, robins, and a restless family of hooded crows. The winter call of the robins and the chittering blue tits made the sound of cars and hedge trimmers fade. One of the unspoken delights of town and city living is how much birdlife is all around, the creatures as happy here as on moorland heath or riverbank. The idea that wildlife prefers the most remote or uninhabited places would seem to be true only for a handful of hunted or solitary species.
And while many of us dream of returning to the country, to escape traffic and crowds and noise, were we to find ourselves a home in the hills, we’d probably go crazy within a month. Could it be that blackbirds and chaffinches feel the same?
One of the most peculiar sights of our urban age is the stampede of twitchers that descends on a dreary town or post code whenever a novelty species is sighted. Apart from these exotic arrivals, however, the birds found in city gardens and suburban hedges tend to be less news worthy, even when they’re completely out of place. When a heron perched on our wall, with one leg tucked out of sight, it was as if a piece of statuary had come to life. We were just as taken aback when a whooper swan was found under the apple tree and only with difficulty created enough of a runway to take off back into the air.
The birds that live in our street are the avian equivalent of vin ordinaire – and all the better for that. Whether it’s the twilight symphony of roosting starlings, or the cawing of gulls at sunrise, they are a constant source of fascination, and company, and a barometer of weather and seasons far more entertaining than Met Office bulletins.
But a few days ago we had an unexpected and rare visitor. A kestrel was spotted on the lawn. Under its talon was one of the newly-flown pigeons, already half eaten. I know a hawk deserves its dinner as much as anyone, but it’s upsetting all the same. Yet one of the consoling pleasures of watching birds is their calendar of return and renewal. In this, they help make sense of the rest of life.
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