“I feed the pigeons, I sometimes feed the sparrows too
It gives me a sense of enormous well-being
And then I’m happy for the rest of the day, safe in the knowledge there will always be a bit of my heart devoted to it”
Exactly, Damon Albarn, exactly.
Clearly, feeding the birds is an extension of my wish to provide delicious and nourishing food for any visitor we have. I really like feeding the cat too, and she lives here. But the birds are fascinating and weirdly exciting because of their wildness, delicacy and swift movements. (The very opposite of the cat.) When birds pause mid-flutter, alighting for a moment to snatch a beakful, it feels like a rare honour. My favourite moments come when I’m quietly having a cup of tea outdoors and they forget I’m there. They bestow a precious, momentary trust in accepting my hospitality. And even more so when they grace my garden more than once.
We currently have a few honoured guests to the bird feeders, but I have watched them so closely (and they are fairly few – although I have high hopes of more in future) that I recognise them as individuals. There’s a single fat wood pigeon, who tries in vain to access the feeders meant for smaller birds, only to give up and peck up the discards from the floor below. Last week, the pearl grey bird with bobbing beak was almost snatched up from its ground-level foray by next door’s mean tortoiseshell. Luckily, the cat grabbed just a messy mouthful of fine feathers and the pidge has been substantially more cautious since.
And there are smaller birds too, flirting and flitting around the unwieldy pigeon. A pair of chaffinches – a shy, fluttery, flushed-pink male and a bold, hungry, brown female with a perky crest. A family of 3 goldfinches, tiny and pushy and gaudily colourful. They chatter and chitter and chirp to each other in a constant, gossipy 3-way conversation. There’s a happy-looking, fluffy, round great tit which sits on the fence until the goldfinches clear off. And then finally a tiny, scruffy blue tit who might just be my favourite – but don’t tell the others.
I revel in discovering the likes and dislikes of our bird visitors, peering through the bedroom window as they select sunflower hearts and bits of leftover seedy toast while I dress and brush my teeth. I read contentedly about their habits and habitats, listen to recordings of their songs, accumulate data, hoarding it like a dragon and joyfully imparting little nuggets to anyone who will listen.
I’m inspired by the excitement and passion of my father-in-law Mark, a profoundly kind person and delighted twitcher who very sadly died last year. He is much missed by our whole family, but I feel a strong sense of connection with him as I discover our wealth of wild garden birds – and, of course, feed them too.
Do you ask what the birds say? The Sparrow, the Dove,
The Linnet and Thrush say, “I love and I love!”
In the winter they’re silent -the wind is so strong;
What it says, I don’t know, but it sings a loud song.
But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny warm weather,
And singing, and loving – all come back together.
But the Lark is so brimful of gladness and love,
The green fields below him, the blue sky above,
That he sings, and he sings, and for ever sings he –
“I love my Love, and my Love loves me!” — Samuel Taylor Coleridge ‘Answer to a Child’s Question’
Sophie cooks 