Will’s World: The early farmer catches the birdsong
© Richard Stanton I am emphatically not a morning person. Which, when you think about it, is quite odd for an ex-dairy farmer (or perhaps that’s why I’m an ex-dairy farmer).
I can get up early when I must, of course – and do most days – though I tend to emerge blinking into the sunlight like a vampire rudely disturbed in his coffin.
Or, as the present Mrs Evans would attest, more like a grizzly bear who’s just woken up from hibernation with a particularly splitting headache.
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But as long as no one talks to me, and I get my required three cups of strong coffee, I can generally become a vaguely functioning adult human by about 9am.
I think it’s probably because I don’t tend to sleep well.
And with the bedroom window wide open throughout the night during the recent hot weather, that’s partly caused by the local bird population, which reaches a crescendo as the sun starts to appear.
Honestly, you’d think they’d have a bit more consideration for their neighbours, wouldn’t you?
But given the choice of going full Basil Fawlty on them and furiously yelling out of the window that they should pipe down, or taking the more mature route and deciding, “if you can’t beat them, join them”, I chose the latter.
Yes, I set my alarm for 4.30am. That’s half past four. Who knew there were two of them in a day? Mad dogs and dairy farmers, that’s who.
But I determined that I’d get up. I’d grab one of those strong coffees, the binoculars, my phone with a newly discovered birdsong identification app on it, and my youngest daughter, who gamely volunteered to come with me (she takes after her mother: sickeningly cheerful and energetic of a morning).
Together we’d head off to do a bit of birdwatching and make a memory or two.
The big day came, and predictably, I’d slept terribly. Who the hell’s idea was this anyway? Oh yes, mine.
Grumbles aside, and with the tiny dancer’s hand firmly in mine, we set off towards the two-acre poplar plantation just behind the farm.
I’d estimate they’re about 50m high, and it’s where most of the local birds hang out to try to impress members of the opposite sex. Sort of the avian equivalent of Tinder, or a McDonald’s car park.
As we crept slowly closer, the noise got louder and louder, and we excitedly smiled at each other.
The rich and vibrant melodies rolled over us like a warm wave, and we sat on the ground in the hesitant early morning sunshine to listen and record what we could hear.
Larks were first (so that’s where the saying comes from), closely followed by lyrical robins, blackbirds and thrushes.
Languid woodpigeons and urgent wrens joined in, along with the warbling chiffchaffs and blackcaps.
Then, unexpectedly, a barn swallow and a spotted flycatcher. And finally, the violinists of the avian orchestra – great tits, blue tits, chaffinch and sparrows – before they all, gently and gradually, quietened down.
Altogether, it was a performance for the ages.
Except, it wasn’t. It happens every morning at this time of year, just one of nature’s many miracles, and I’m so glad that we got to share this immensely spiritual experience at home on the farm together.
There can’t be many more aptly named phenomenon than the dawn chorus (or “hymn to the dawn”), and we’ll be back again very soon.
Just let me catch up on some sleep first.