The other morning, in a fit of lockdown boredom, I began cleaning the windows. Well, not the glass, that's just too humdrum. No, I launched into cleaning the frames and hinges of the opening ones. A word to the wise, I now know that there's lots of sufficiently sharp edges involved in this endeavour, if one is not paying enough attention to where one whizzes a damp cloth. My fingers and knuckles were covered in a myriad of small cuts, and I had to be careful not to leak all over the white window frames.
During the task, I kept hearing finches, yup, definitely finches, maybe even Linnets? My record on drab-looking finches isn't great, I admit. But by the time I had stepped off the ladder, or dried my hands, or most infuriatingly, managed to grab my camera, the birds had vanished from sight and sound. Gah!
Eventually, however (so dogged persistence, rather than excellent fieldcraft), I managed to spot the little loves as they flitted to and fro, sometimes perched on a fence, other times hidden in the long grass of the neighbouring pasture.
It was a male Linnet, looking about as resplendent as a brown bird with a rosy wash can, and three of a brood of fledglings. Hungry fledglings, at that. Crivens, the guy was run ragged, collecting food and sharing it out between his offspring.
After a while, even I began to feel sorry for him!
Eventually, I let out a little supportive cheer of shared parenthood when he managed to have a few seconds' peace. He had earned it.