Highland Insider

Last weekend we took part in the RSPB’s Big Garden Birdwatch. We’ve been doing it for a few years now, and the evidence all points to the birds knowing exactly what’s going on. This year was typical. We set the clock for an hour at the start of our survey, and immediately all our usual garden residents went into hiding. There were two or three of the most common species: chaffinches, blackbirds, bluetits. A couple of robins, a dunnock. No wrens or siskins, although we know they’re there. Coaltits came out on top, narrowly beating last year’s winners, the bluetits; but still there were fewer than there should have been.

This weekend I’ve already had 6 coaltits on one feeder, a whole gang of chaffies, a pair of greenfinches, a tree-creeper, a goldfinch and a great spotted woodpecker. (Not all at once; the wee ones clear off when Woody appears.)

I shouldn’t moan. It’s a joy to see them at any time. But I swear they know exactly when to keep their heads down.

Outside my bedroom window is a little mud nest stuffed full of baby swallows. It’s tucked under the corrugated roof that forms a covered walkway between the cottage and the outbuildings, and it’s just low enough to be able to see five fluffy punk heads poking out of the rim. The white lipstick markings round their gaping mouths show up easily against the dark background of the nest when they’re awake and looking for a snack.

They seem to associate any nearby movement with the parents returning with food, as whenever we go out of the front door they start up a noise like a chorus of squeaky toys, loud enough to wake the dead. Well, at least loud enough to wake the sleeping; I’m now roused around four o’clock every morning when their breakfast arrives. It’s such an endearing racket though, I just smile and go back to sleep. I’ll probably miss it when they fledge.