Names
The ground has attained peak slipperiness. That, or my boots are severely lacking in lateral grip, because I find myself figure skating down the path, legs crossing and arms windmilling. Respite comes in the form of long grass that firms my footing and crickle-crackles around my boots, half-hardened by thin frost. The sky is a thickly painted-on lead house paint that drips through the winter trees. Vees of geese cut through the matt emulsion. My phone tells me it feels like -1℃ but I get a more accurate reading directly through my “insulated” gloves. The holes in my face are streaming.
In the climbing bramble to the right hangs a bright pink ball. Up go the binoculars. It's a perfectly spherical male bullfinch. This side of December he looks like a forgotten coral-coloured Christmas bauble. He shuffles about, turns, and heads back into the shelter of leaves, an old man retreating into to his house after collecting the morning paper from the lawn.
Wrens again. Everywhere. After warning the rest of her species of my presence, one bursts into an astonishing variety of song whilst perching nervously on a branch close by. Eventually she adjourns to the safety of a tree and continues her tuneful musings at height. She falls into a call and response with another wren a few trees down. Each call, each response is almost identical. Perfect echos.
At the top of Pond Field the vista opens up, probably as Thomas Wright intended when he laid it out in the 18th century. It’s a distinctly classical English view. A sweep of tidy fields criss-crossed with paths, hedgerows, woodland and ornamental ponds. Add a two lane motorway to this heady pastoral mix and this perfectly ruined English view is complete. For a few days a couple years back they closed the M32 for repairs. The morning dog walk was quiet then. Almost eery in contrast to the usual concrete, stoney thrum.
Pond Field slopes abruptly down, before levelling our lazily into Duchess Pond. It is home to two stand-out gnarled oaks that on a misty winter's day imbue the scene with all the dark atmosphere of a folk tale. The oak closest to the pond is a regular hang for local buzzards, but this morning the familiar, brooding sight of a buzzard has been replaced with the daintier vignette of a luminous russet and grey kestrel. I watch him through the binoculars for a while before wondering what I'm waiting for.
Observing nature and enjoying the feeling of nature are two sides of the same coin. Since childhood I have loved the natural world for the uncomplicated way it makes me feel. But increasingly, observation – knowing names – has also been important. I wouldn't describe myself as a bird watcher, although all these writings might provide evidence to the contrary. I look at birds through binoculars, but I'm not especially interested in generating analytics about my findings. Or maybe I’m just not especially thorough? I do keep a notebook.
I like what birds tell us about the season, about where we are. They’re often amusing, and I laugh easily. Spending time observing birds through binoculars means I have watched them shit quite a lot. And of course we’re fellow travellers. Living, shitting, making nests, rummaging around for our daily bread. I am tremendously fond of a number of species I am lucky to see regularly. They fill me up, and it matters to me that I know what they are, why they like it here, when and why they might begin to disappear. Knowing adds a layer of meaning and puts me in closer contact with human history (and naming) too.
For me, birds are one of many conduits into the folk energies of the countryside, part of its complex narrative of cycles; its social and natural history. Birds, more than many other animals, exist at the intersection of humankind and nature because they are so entwined and present in our lives. They accept field or city, sea or land. They’re in our gardens, our guttering, on our tallest buildings, in farm and fields, on isolated Atlantic rocks. As such they have always played an oversized role in our folklore and more latterly our understanding of science. So knowing the birds, at least a little, feels natural given the amount of time I spend hanging around them. Same goes for wildflowers and trees. That having been said, knowledge attracts further knowledge, and in turn this seems to deepen emotional bonds.
Today I saw my first ever goldcrest. A pair in fact. I knew what they were straight off because of my familiarity with the RSPB bird book. Joy! The knowledge of it, that it is our smallest bird, that it weighs the same as a 10p piece... all these things enlivened the experience. Two sides of the same coin. It doesn’t really matter which you call: When the coin falls – either way – you’ll find treasure in your hands.
“My name, and yours, and the true name of the sun, or a spring of water, or an unborn child, all are syllables of the great word that is very slowly spoken by the shining of the stars. There is no other power.”
From A Wizard of Earthsea by Ursula Le Guin
PS. The enthusiasm for birds is, of course, very widely shared. I’m a relative newbie, and I largely have my in-laws to thank for the introduction. After my goldcrest sighting, my wife texted her mum to let her know. She sent a typically minimal and poetic response back: “Somehow they always make you smile. Delicate, but jaunty, and not often seen.” Spot on.
PPS. Landscape of Shame shows a variety of dead or dying birds, Morris’s response to the devastating impact of pesticides and crop-sprays on the bird population around this home in Suffolk. Of course, this was happening everywhere. In the mid 1950s the damaging effects of pesticides on animal life was just becoming known. Whilst the painting is an exaggeration, large numbers of birds in this period were often found dead in the fields.