It’s raining as I set off on my walk. Not really wet, just a gentle drizzle. And it’s warmer than I expected, about 8 degrees Centigrade, so I revise my layers, ditching a warm layer for a waterproof one.
It feels as if we are at an intersection between winter and spring today. I have passed drifts of snowdrops and there are lime green tufts of leaves emerging from hedges that otherwise still look bare and gnarly. The vicious blackthorns have also joined in, with frivolous white blossom that looks like foam from an over-zealous wash.
Almost immediately, I can hear a Song Thrush, scat-singing at the top of his voice, each phrase repeated. “I’m here; I’m here. Yes, here; Yes, here. Silly Billy; Silly Billy. Over here; Over here.” He’s bold and brash, his voice cutting through the damp air. The fact that he’s singing means that he is looking for a female with whom to set up a territory and start the exhausting process of bringing a new generation into the world.
Another thrush flies over, part of a small flock, with a fingernails-on-blackboard squeal. A twist as it corners shows me a flash of almost-white. Having come in their millions to plunder the hedgerows and fields, Redwings are a reminder that winter is still not quite over.
I’m brought back to winter too by the whistles and chatter of smart little Teal and Wigeons, with their wax crayon head stripes. All are working through the soft mud to find food. Like the Redwings, they are nearly ready to go, to follow their senses and their inbuilt sat-navs to distant breeding grounds emerging from frozen snowscapes.
The birds that will stay here are busy too, capitalising on their head-start to find mates and nesting sites. A pair of Blue Tits flashes past above a hedgerow, twisting and pirouetting around one another like blue and yellow butterflies. And in a dark pool I hear the grumbling croak of two frogs mirroring the rattle of woodpeckers above.
Mudwriter 