Letting go back in the garden
It’s been a while. I’ve been busy with ink plantations, while the unspoken garden patiently waited for the nights to shorten and the earth to tilt more sunwards. The secretive gardener has been busier than even though, unleashed by seemingly endless dry days. She and I are worried. We have already exhausted our extensive rainwater stocks (two thousand gallons, I’ll have you know) on our thirsty plants, and ponds large and small refuse to hold their levels. We’ve had no ‘useful’ rain since Easter, and there had been a long dry spell prior to that. The drop in the small wildlife pond is purely down to evaporation and transpiration, but as for the larger one, well, we can’t be sure. I think we may have a leak.
There have been the usual joys plus an unexpected delight. More of which later.
The number of hedgehogs we have known has now risen to sixteen in total, with overwintering guests being released where they were found. Two of unknown origin went free in our garden, and they may, or may not, have lingered long. We seem to be still getting at least a pair of nightly visitors on our camera but, as I have previously pointed out, telling one from another is nigh impossible. It’s good to know we’ve got some still around though, whether they be fostered or wholly feral.
The January garden bird count was encouraging. Nineteen species were observed landing in one hour: blue, great, long-tailed and coal tits; blackbird, sparrow, dunnock, magpie, crow, jackdaw, herring gull, black-headed gull, robin, starling, woodpigeon, collared dove, chaffinch, bullfinch and goldfinch. The unspoken garden is in an urban location, but if you have read previous posts in this series, you will know that we encourage much wilderness among the orderly.
The frogs did much more frogging than last year and consequently layered our pond with much more spawn. Could they possibly have known what a benevolent spring lay in store? Swifts were sighted a whole five weeks sooner than last year (6th May as opposed to 10th June). See: Swift exit
The greatest joy though was to find that for the second year running, the unspoken garden’s great tit box was adopted as a nesting site. This is despite it being rather exposed as a consequence of a severe hedge trim last winter
We observed two weeks of intensive feeding, marvelling at the work rate, which rose to a peak of one take-away delivery every minute, when both parents were in action at the start of May. Pure serendipity worked its magic for the secretive gardener at noon on Sunday 4th May when she saw the chicks fledge; six in total.
This much-replicated fledging is surely one of the most mind-blowing of everyday miracles. When our children first walk, they take perhaps three or four unsteady steps. The tiny great tits had spent their entire life crammed into a box with a six-inch square claw print. Their parent birds called from the willow trees twenty yards way. Each chick made a two-foot dash from the box, took a brief glimpse of the universe from the top of the laurel, and then was off, at full speed and with perfect competence towards its parent. It’s not a miracle; it is perfectly natural.
This is a source of deep joy. The majority of my bird boxes have been ignored down the years. This box failed completely at first. It was made initially to fit over the conservatory after we had a new roof line fitted to the house, ending the ninety-year provision of nesting spaces for house sparrows. The box was designed for that species but they chose to snub it. Only after repositioning it much lower, in the laurel hedge was it deemed suitable by the great tits. Last year they fledged while we were on holiday. This year we were here as they left. Bon voyage, you bonny tree-terrorists. Great for you, not so great for invertebrates and baby butterflies.
The previous day I had been fledging some of my own babies in the company of other scribblers and a few small publishers at an event organised by Big Thinking Publishing, in Scorton, a charming village just off the A6 road, roughly mid-way between Preston and Lancaster. Like nesting birds, we forage like mad to nourish our offspring, and here we were trying to tease our thoughts from our perches, onto your limbs, and hopefully into the wonderful wildernesses of your minds.
Some of my chicks are old broilers now, but still provoke an interest. I don’t know how many more broods there will be. This fledging thing can be rather demanding, as our garden visitors will testify.
Click on the pic to learn more about this story inspired by events in the garden
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