Brampton, Norfolk

  • Brampton: arrival of Spring 2018

    The churchyard is filling with Snowdrops. Aconites and a few Daffodils. All flowering under a bright, clear sky. The easterly breeze reminds me that we have probably not seen the last of Winter, but Spring cannot be far off.

    On a stag-headed Oak at Brampton Hall a male Great Spotted Woodpecker drums against a hollow branch, each salvo declaring his territorial rights in preparation for the breeding season. Further south, perched high on a favourite Railway embankment Ash tree, a Song Thrush is singing for much of the day. Each short phrase repeated four or five times carries through the cold air. Although in the garden a Scandinavian Brambling forages amongst the Chaffinches to build up reserves for the northern Spring. At night Muntjac Deer wander, hardly noticed, around the village houses and gardens.

     

  • Dawn in Mid-February

    Dawn on a Sunday in mid-February arrived in a grey pall. A frost has etched its way through the garden and the air was still. But the sound of birdsong has gathered new strength; the Sing Thrush which has claimed an Ash tree to the west of the cottage was trading vocal blows with his rival neighbour at the Old Smithy. The dual followed strict rules. An opening five phrase repeat from one bird was followed by a pause and a response from the other. Their notes filled with the vigour and meaning as the serious business of territorial claims were reinforced. In the background Robins and Wrens added their own vocals. On the ground Snowdrops continue to flower and the early Daffodils venture forth with the yellow heralds trumpet.

  • Birdsong returns to the village, briefly

    This morning, for seemingly the first time in weeks, bird song returned to the garden. Firstly, a hardy and optimistic Song Thrush took up a favourite perch high in a Maple and practiced his lines. Then Robins duetted. All was noise and song for about half an hour until the rains returned.

    Every field is beyond saturation point. We watch the River Bure wondering how much more run-off water it can take. Puddles are too large to step around and the rain has an edge of cold which makes us scurry the dogs around before seeking sanctuary in the house.

  • Repetition

    The Song Thrush is the master of the dawn chorus at this time of the year. The Blackbird tends to favour the evening chorus, presumably because of child-rearing duties.

    This Thrush uses repetition as the main theme of its song. A verse consists of short passages of repeated notes, perhaps three of five of them at a time. Each verse itself appears in a repeated cycle and it is very challenging to try and spot the pattern of cycling phrases. At dawn this morning I had a go, but soon lost the trail. So I have decided that careful sound recording is the only way to do it. Mobile phones have a very basic facility for recording, so this is my next challenge – hopefully more analysis in future blog entries.

  • Broken silences

    At a certain point the balance tips. Early this morning, in spite of the dark and the persistent drizzly rain, a Song Thrush was singing in full voice. It is as if the bird’s determination to express itself would overcome any obstacle even the absence of light itself. To me this seems to show that that the territorial urge has become so strong that nothing will discourage it.

    Last night, as I was deep in a book, the dark and silence was broken by the unmistakeable whistling hum which comes from the wings of a Mute Swan in flight. Presumably disorientated by the lack of visibility, I can only hope that it found its way back to the river. Wildfowl do fly by night but in my experience this usually occurs on moonlit nights and not on nights of poor visibility such as last night. Perhaps this one was disturbed from it’s roost by a fox.

  • Caution Mermaid crossing

    After some dull February days it came as a relief this morning to feel that Spring is really happening. The intensity of bird song has increased – the Skylarks of the Town field were in full song and a bolshie Yellowhammer was re-establishing his ground on the railway line. The full throated calls of the Song Thrush, with it’s characteristic regular five repeats, rang out over the Common. There was even a sense that the sun may appear.

    Down at the Mermaid, river bank repairs are continuing. The sleeper wall which holds the river in place as it passes under the railway line has finally had to be replaced. There is some doubt as to how long the originals had been in place- the uprights had been pointed by hand and hammered in. I suppose it is possible that these could have been put in by the Victorians during the construction of the railway, but it would be interesting if anybody knows? It was with some relief that I learnt that the timbers which form the narrow crossing over this section are going back on.

  • Dawn on a rainy saturday

    In the subdued pre-dawn light, the variety of bird song is gradually increasing. The robins, now well established, defend their bubbles of territory. In the rain a Song Thrush adds to the mix, perhaps for the first time this year, but then stops.

    The Blackbirds seem even less sure of themselves. Contact and alarm calls are the norm, as males seek to carve out an area of garden as their own. Any song, if it ever gets going, is fleeting and unsure. In the undergrowth the Dunnocks shout briefly and move on; their song does not really develop any further and reminds me of the sounds from a toddler’s game of hide and seek.

    One notable addition is the song of the Great Tit, only really two notes, but strident, clear and as much a sign of spring as a Song Thrush. It is of limited musical quality and is known to us as “the squeaky wheel-barrow bird”, which just about sums it up.

  • Waiting for Spring in February

    Strong warm westerly winds bring about changes. Although a few stragglers may remain, it seems that the majority of the winter thrushes (Redwings and Fieldfares) have move back towards their summer quarters. I assume that they are in transit to Scandinavia assisted by a strong tail wind.

    The resident thrushes which remain have yet to settle into their breeding territories. I listen out for the first sign – usually a Mistle Thrush adopts the height of dead Elm near Street Farm as the venue for the early spring song. So far it has not arrived, but it cannot be long. The Mistle Thrush has a strong fluting song for which seems to select the windiest days – perhaps is a week or twos time.

    The large flocks of finches appear to have broken up. So much of the anticipation of Spring is derived from what is no longer happening. As I always remember, at migration time it is much easier to spot the first arrival than it is to record the last time you saw one.

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