This morning, I am aroused from my slumbers by a sweet sound. It is not yet dawn and through the heavy drapes of the room it is not possible to detect an increase in light level, only a lessening of the darkness.
I lie there trying to resolve what my ears are telling me, wondering if I'm still asleep and dreaming.
The dawn chorus is well underway, in fact, as I regain consciousness, I realise that it is predominantly every male blackbird in the area. But behind their joyful song is the peeling of church bells. Ah, yes, Easter Sunday. This is most surreal. A combination of sounds that is as familiar as it is strange. Then understanding slowly rises over the horizon of my mind. Pink Floyd.
High Hopes from Floyd's The Division Bell album is framed by a Song Thrush and a tolling church bell, (as well as a piano, but that would be too strange at 05.54 on a Sunday morning). Intro and outro. It's simplicity belies the emotive power it stirs.
Other rock tracks spring to mind, Mike Oldfield's Tubular Bells 3 that ends with a Robin and a Wren; Faerie Stories by PBF, with its Swifts and a Robin; and more humbly but increasingly rarer, House Sparrows on the intro to Xanadu by Rush. "Increasingly rarer"? That must be a contradiction, surely?
Bird song, bells and rock music, a heady combination. I think we know who are the real Priests of the Temples of Syrinx. I am sorry Geddy, Neil and Alex, but that little piece of anatomy that allows birds to flute and warble to such beautiful effect deserves a better press.
All is quiet now, except for the occasional Robin, a Wren here, a Song Thrush there, the bells are silent once more. Man and Nature have both welcomed the new day in a manner they see fit.
At least I know why the birds were singing, their devotion to their faith is bound to the seasons and the wheel of life.
Showing posts with label Wren. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Wren. Show all posts
Sunday, 4 April 2010
Sunday, 7 February 2010
Winter Windowland
The Tense team have been on a winter break in deepest darkest Shropshire.
More by good luck than good management, for our post-Christmas chill, we often experience a week of sub-zero temperatures for snowy walks and picturesque frosty vistas. But we weren’t too hopeful this year, what with all the arctic conditions over the festive period, and therefore reluctantly assumed that we’d had our cold spell for the winter.
Not so. For to arrive at the rented cottage, we had to drive up an icy tarmac’d lane, across a pot-holed farm yard and then down an even narrower, snow-covered track. Game on!
This particular cottage is a converted barn, nestled near the top of a valley close to Wenlock Edge. The bedrooms/bathroom are downstairs and the kitchen/diner and lounge are upstairs, with a large window looking out down the valley.
No phone signal, no street lights, no traffic. Just peace and quiet, if you don’t mind birdsong, and we certainly don’t.
Sally soon settled herself on the sofa, staring out of the window at the owners’ chickens and piglets, scratching and snuffling their way through the snow, looking for tasty morsels. And so began PigWatch! Not quite so unpredictable as the BBC’s [insert name of season]Watch, but with a variety of birds drawn towards whatever the livestock unearthed.
As the light began to fade, a male Bullfinch perched on the Buddleia bush beside the window, which afforded rather pleasing, close up views of this shy bird.
Then, as the sun set, wrens began to appear and gather in a communal roost under the eaves of the cottage. As this was effectively the corner of the lounge, we could hear them settling down for the night, chuntering to each other about various topical troglodytical issues and, presumably, how things used to be better in the old days. “ Cave? Call this a cave? In my day…etc.” In the decreasing light but with the snow giving a white background, we were able to pick out the little feathered missiles arriving, and counted at least 18 individuals approaching from the 180ยบ arc visible to us.
Flitting from the surrounding shrubs onto the window ledges and the lapped pine walls of the cottage, it was like a scene from The Birds but as filmed by Beatrix Potter, not Alfred Hitchcock. Inspection of the eaves from ground level the following morning, revealed several old House Martin nests and a few small gaps, certainly sufficient for a tiny bird to squeeze through.
As Sal pointed out, with her genetically-inflicted punning ability, “This is a wren-ted cottage, after all.”
More by good luck than good management, for our post-Christmas chill, we often experience a week of sub-zero temperatures for snowy walks and picturesque frosty vistas. But we weren’t too hopeful this year, what with all the arctic conditions over the festive period, and therefore reluctantly assumed that we’d had our cold spell for the winter.
Not so. For to arrive at the rented cottage, we had to drive up an icy tarmac’d lane, across a pot-holed farm yard and then down an even narrower, snow-covered track. Game on!
This particular cottage is a converted barn, nestled near the top of a valley close to Wenlock Edge. The bedrooms/bathroom are downstairs and the kitchen/diner and lounge are upstairs, with a large window looking out down the valley.
No phone signal, no street lights, no traffic. Just peace and quiet, if you don’t mind birdsong, and we certainly don’t.
Sally soon settled herself on the sofa, staring out of the window at the owners’ chickens and piglets, scratching and snuffling their way through the snow, looking for tasty morsels. And so began PigWatch! Not quite so unpredictable as the BBC’s [insert name of season]Watch, but with a variety of birds drawn towards whatever the livestock unearthed.
As the light began to fade, a male Bullfinch perched on the Buddleia bush beside the window, which afforded rather pleasing, close up views of this shy bird.
Then, as the sun set, wrens began to appear and gather in a communal roost under the eaves of the cottage. As this was effectively the corner of the lounge, we could hear them settling down for the night, chuntering to each other about various topical troglodytical issues and, presumably, how things used to be better in the old days. “ Cave? Call this a cave? In my day…etc.” In the decreasing light but with the snow giving a white background, we were able to pick out the little feathered missiles arriving, and counted at least 18 individuals approaching from the 180ยบ arc visible to us.
Flitting from the surrounding shrubs onto the window ledges and the lapped pine walls of the cottage, it was like a scene from The Birds but as filmed by Beatrix Potter, not Alfred Hitchcock. Inspection of the eaves from ground level the following morning, revealed several old House Martin nests and a few small gaps, certainly sufficient for a tiny bird to squeeze through.
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