I found a pack of wild bird seed in the cupboard, round the
back of where the firelighters live, and I took it out in the back yard and I
spread a little bit of it about on the paving like I occasionally used to do
when I first brought it back from Tesco.
There it is. That’s as long a sentence as you’re ever going
to get out of me. Treasure it.
I was initially a bit worried about this ‘bird seed on the paving’ thing because, as regular readers will know (Hi Jim) we have a bunch of cats who regularly patrol the area.
I was initially a bit worried about this ‘bird seed on the paving’ thing because, as regular readers will know (Hi Jim) we have a bunch of cats who regularly patrol the area.
The last thing I needed was a bloodbath out
there.
I needn’t have worried so much. The pussies are too well fed
by the entire neighbourhood to bother with anything as meagre as the little
thrushes that flicker through and the birds keep a constant nervy eye on the
periphery, just in case the cats should ever deign to change their mind.
That small scattering of seed out the back has become a key
focal point of my lockdown experience. Three times a day, I tote my sorely
depleted seed bag outside and spread a little around. The birds that come are
not rare or outlandish. In fact, they could be seen as rather ordinary folk.
But they are still spectacular in their own way. This is far easier to
appreciate when you find you have a little time on your hands. The genius
engineering of even the humblest bird shines through. You only have to look.
I found an old saucepan while rooting down the
back of the gas storage tank. Two handled, symmetrical, iron, rusting. I hauled
it out and let it air and dry out a bit, then I filled it with water and put it
beside the place where the scattered bird seed goes. I thought the birds might
like to have a drink with their seeds. From my vantage point at the kitchen
window, this water pot reflected the blue sky and created the closest thing to
an infinity pool I will ever have in my back garden. The effect is only good
when the water is topped right up to the brim (I let a little overflow to achieve
the perfect level) so I do that three times a day too, when I’m doing the seed.
I had hoped that the birds might have a drink and they do. They
took to the old pot almost immediately, sitting on the rusty rim, claws dipped
in the water. They plunge their heads through the surface tension then raise their beaks to the sky to let the water slip down their throats.
My next hope was that the birds might take a bath in the
saucepan. This didn’t materialise. Perhaps the water was too deep for comfort,
particularly with those cats potentially lurking about somewhere. This was a
bit of a disappointment but I found a way around it. Some of the larger flowerpots around
the place have terracotta plate-like bases to hold a little water. I imagine
they have a name all of their own but I’m damned if I know what it is. I
borrowed one of these shallow dishes and set it on the other side of the seed-scattering-site.
Then I filled it with water to just beyond overflowing – a second infinity
pool.
The first bird who took a bath in it was like the best movie
premiere ever.
I had been chatting with Patricia at the kitchen sink when
the flurry assailed my own peripheral vision. A tiny bird was in the water in
the flowerpot plate, fluttering and dunking away. Then, quite-amazingly, perhaps unsatisfied
with the quality of the wash, he flitted over to the deeper saucepan, dunked in there
and had a ruddy good rinse.
I have my regulars now. They peck at the seeds maniacally,
always with the weather eye to the bushes and to the skies. Scattering into the air when
they feel they need to, coming back soon after.
I got a new bag of wild bird seed as part of my big shop this week.
I didn’t go specially to get it because it’s not essential.
Except, in some silly little way, it now is.