Looking over the allotment gate
It’s noisy on the allotment: there’s a charm of goldfinch tinkling away, some from my plot and some from next door’s. I’m having a siesta at the back of the plot, and I’m surrounded by liquid runs of notes; the birds have forgotten about my presence enough to go about their usual business.
The crow family in the trees to the left near the border with the activity centre have been exceedingly chatty today, making rough, deep, raven-like ‘krr’ sounds. They’ve also been flying around a lot and something made them quite angry earlier, way down on another plot, although I couldn’t make out what it was. They’ve provided a great raptor-warning system, too: when they give a surprised/indignant ‘ack’ call, it’s usually a peregrine flying between church nesting place and the shore, although yesterday it was a sparrowhawk that had upset them.
There’s a very attractive juvenile great spotted woodpecker about, too – the contrast between white and black markings is very obvious and striking – and it announces its presence with a continuous ‘chip-chip-chip’, nervously alighting on a tree trunk, then flying onto the cherry tree peanut feeder for a second, then off again, with that familiar flap-soar-dip-flap-soar-dip motion.
A monotonous ‘dweeb’ tells me there’s a greenfinch next door – although for monotony it’s beaten into second place by the woodpigeons’ ‘I don’t want to go’, also emanating from next door. They’re nesting in the massive, ivy-clad tree in the middle of that plot, where the ring-necked parakeets also like to hang out, scoping out my plot’s peanut feeder. Their lime-green, long-tailed shapes have flown over a few times today, drawn-out squawks echoing across the allotments – a sight and sound from another continent, bringing a touch of the exotic to this small patch of green in the urban jungle.
Blue tits and great tits bring lemon-yellow fledglings to the peanut feeder, no doubt relieved that these hungry chicks can now fly to the food source and (just about) feed themselves; there’s a lone coal tit juvenile, too, which always gives way to its fiercer cousins. The juvenile chaffinch is also here, young of two adults with scaly foot. There’s even a fledgling dunnock high among the cherry tree branches – a strange place to see a ground-feeder, but it soon joins its parent foraging in the courgette bed. A wren bursts into song from the other neighbour’s woodpile; then the blackbird’s flutey tones join it; one, a staccato burst of sound, the other, a continuous fall of notes.
A football rattle tells me that the shy mistle thrush is about, and it lands briefly in the cherry tree, but ignores the feeders. Its smaller relative is repeating a few phrases from the woodland behind the site. Perhaps it’s the same song thrush that has incorporated the ‘peep, peep’ of the overflying oystercatchers into its repertoire – fooling me every time until the penny finally dropped a few days ago! A chiffchaff and a blackcap are also singing again from this woodland – did they fail to breed earlier in the season or are they going for a second brood?
In contrast to all this birdsong, the robins, the commonest birds on this plot, have stopped singing for the moment, too busy and exhausted with their family duties. But they have been fed, of course – that’s the first job: they demand their suet crumbs the moment I open the gate, and sometimes they fly to meet me on the path up to the plot. They bicker amongst themselves, even though I make sure to spread out the food, and follow me around when I’m digging – the gardener’s friend, beady black eye cocked for a choice morsel.
So much sound and so much peace, as I relax on the sun lounger, it’s almost overwhelming. I wish I could stay here forever, but six hours is probably enough for today. I pack up, close the purple gate, glance back – as always – and tell the birds to look after themselves and that I’ll be back soon.