a limping warrior

Dunnock's nest

On our Cedar shingle roof, theres' clog dancing. I watch as a courting pair of wood pigeons flirt and then spring forward, two-footed with a thump on the shingles. They repeat this nifty footwork for fun before moving onto the new garden arch/ pigeon toilet for a spot of pair-bonding and pooing.

The Warrior limps. A war wound. Now slightly shabby but still proud and protecting his domain from intruders. The Young Pretender - furtive, a preening poppinjay. Not a feather out-of-place, he creeps about until seen by The Warrior who gives chase loudly. Pheasant wars. On the lawn a single pheasant hen - then suddenly The Warrior and The Young Pretender on her. An ugly gang bang in full view. She eventually escapes into the sycamore followed by the Young Pretender. Meanwhile The Warrior has been affronted but not bested. He storms after the Young Pretender when he next appears.

In George's Pond toads were calling like creaking shoes in a corridor. Whirligig beetles skating crazy on the surface of the water. The first common darters emerge. One lands, confidingly, on Jills' outstretched hand.

Spinach

The Muntjac deer, nervously, on camera again, this time on one of the Cedar Walk paths before dawn.

Rich reports that one of our ringed little owl babies has been found dead in Papplewick. Sad to hear, but perhaps evidence that our nest box making is having an effect beyond our immediate area.

An afternoon in the sunny Vegetable Garden. Transplanting leeks and dill. Harvesting the last of the purple sprouting broccoli, removing the plants, then chopping them to include in the mix as I turned a cubic metre of compost into the next bay. Thick fingers of asparagus collected. The green shoots of first early Colleen and Lady Chrystl potatoes  in a race-to-the-plate with second early Kestrel. The sweet scent of broad bean flowers. 
In the polytunnel, the spinach is giving generously.

Orange tip, speckled wood, peacock and green-veined white butterflies on the wing. Probably record numbers of orange tips. Lots of garlic mustard for them to lay their eggs on in the hedgerows.

Spicy spinach and potato with flatbread (Hugh FW)

The scratchy song of whitethroat joins the stropping chiffchaff and the varied, rich melody of blackcaps.

But the morning hen house is silent. There's usually some conversation going on but not today. I open up and two hens gingerly descend to the coop. Then a third. But the fourth, Eigg, remains on her perch. Later she has emerged. Her right eye is gunky and she is affronted when I catch her up to bathe it, and as any caring mother would do, dab a little Savlon on. Hens have a way of looking at you as though they're being violated when you hold them. I put her in quarantine. Her sisters reman silent and when I open the coop to let the healthy three into the springtime orchard, rich with fresh grass and full of flowering cowslips, they stay behind with their sister. Only hen keepers know the bond that exists within a flock.

High-rise bees

For the first time since we seeded the lawn in 2012, a song thrush. It takes a worm. The lawn is huge and we’re leaving most of it uncut with paths mown through.

Me old dad would not have approved of an uncut ‘lawn’ so long, so full of moss, dead grass, creeping buttercup, meadow buttercup, ragwort, daisy, clover, hawkweed, self-heal, dandelion, plantain, vetch and cowslip. The less-starry-eyed of us asks 'What will we do about all the dandelion clocks?'

But the song thrush approved. And so will the insects and invertebrates that will make it their home. Gardening in the ethical left field.

Our first cuckoo of the year. Through triple-glazed windows I hear its' distant call. It awakes me today, just after dawn, initially distant then moving again to the garden. A wonder of the world, possibly seeking dunnock nests into which they may donate an egg.

Solitary bees excavate holes in the soil or buzz the bee hotel village. The beekeepers report bumper hive activity and add extra supers to accommodate brood, pollen and honey.

But no swallows or martins. No house sparrows or starlings. No hedgehogs. It is in the steady, drip-drip loss of these once-common species that our generation will be measured.