A Country Diary: The Blackbirds Begin

by Badgertails - Friday, April 25, 2014

I began writing dairy entries last month, and after some deliberation, have decided to share them on here. I hope you enjoy them...

Spring

5.30am, Wednesday 19th March

A pastel blue light creeps through the curtains, the day has nearly arrived, but not quite...

This morning I was awoken by the blackbird singing outside my window. I’d been in that haze of somewhere between sleep and consciousness, I’d been sure I was dreaming his song. But he sung and sung and sung, until you’d think he had no song left.

I was aware of the mist of other birds - robins, wrens and pigeons - singing further away, but this was nothing compared to the tune of Mr. Black. He must have been sat only a foot or two from the window, it sounded as though he was perched upon our bedstead.

Paul was sound asleep beside me, he’s never been into the birds, or anything country, for that matter. Roma wasn’t fussed by the sound either, she stretched out her paws when I woke then settled back to her slumber. I didn’t mind their lack of excitement; I had the dawn chorus all to myself.

I cannot describe the joy, the sheer happiness that a blackbird’s song brings to my heart. He was singing to tell of the arrival of spring, and oh, how welcome it was.

This is my favourite moment, the height of the year to come. After long, cold winters, the sight of delicate buds and tissue petals is so warming for the soul. Hearing the chorus of the birds, the church bells dancing on the wind and people beginning to venture outside once again, is a pleasure like no other. The warmth of the sun on your face and being able to head out without a coat for the first time in months, brings a smile every time. The snowdrop carpets taking over the earth, followed by daffodils popping up in every corner guides us gently into the height of spring, marked by the arrival of tulips and bluebells. The days get longer, the drinks get colder and the world gets happier. Colour is everywhere in next to no time, and you begin to wonder how you ever managed without it.

In my dreamy blur, I pulled my mind away from the balmy memory of springtimes past and laid still to enjoy this harmonious tune. After half an hour or so, Mr Black’s song eventually quietened. I assumed he’d flown across the street to serenade the houses there, as the gentle echo of his voice glided back to me, and I drifted back to sleep once more...

<< Click here to read chapter 2: Spring on Summerhill Road >>