Watch the Birdie

Today

This summer we spend at least part of every day sitting, rapt, looking for signs of our latest household member. A wren has taken up residence in a wall planter right beside the French doors that lead from the dining room. Earlier we feared that the nest had been abandoned; but no, several times a day one or the other of the wrens will fly off. They have a maximum security route back. First, the safety of the interior of the viburnum, then a cautious flight to the tip of the branch nearest to the wall planter. Sometimes they call to each other, making a noise so loud you wonder how such a tiny pair of lungs could produce it.

If all is clear, the bird then flies onto a candle sconce on the wall. Finally, into the nest via a hole in the side. We haven't seen or heard any fledglings yet. 

Paul has made it clear to Abby that his continued love depends upon her not nabbing one of these wrens; I hope she's been paying attention.

In My Day

It's funny how we apply different values to the creatures with whom we share our lives; insects, except bees, are way at the bottom, birds, particularly pretty ones, are at the top.

When I was a child, our enormous garden was home to myriad birds. Most of them we didn't notice but, every now and then, one would attract our attention. For a number of years, jays would nest in the big sycamore at 4 Beulah. We would hear their raucous call and see the flash of blue and white as it darted about the garden. Blackbirds entertained us with their musical calls; sometimes Daddy swore they were singing a bit of Beethoven or Rimsky-Korsakov.

The garden was home to owls, mostly tawny, I think, and their calls added to the eeriness of night-time.

And, only once, I remember some wrens. This ill-judging pair had built their nest in the low crook of our yew tree, no more than 3 feet from the ground. The nest was highly visible, and as the babies fledged, all my cat Ariadne had to do was reach up and flip them out of the nest. I tried so hard to stop her, but realised that I was doomed to failure.

At least with a nest half-way up a windowless wall, our Somerset wrens have a much better chance of raising their babies.