Fatball and Robin

Prompted by two days of heavy frost, I popped out to the store and bought a packet of five suet fat-balls.  The bird feeder, currently acting as a temporary washing line post, was reinstated, the holder hung in place and I waited.  

Its proximity to the greenhouse seemed to be a deterrent so my kind husband moved the pole closer to the hedge.  Still the only visitor at first was the robin, and later the long-tailed tits came down from the birch trees, to feed and fly away.

I looked out of the front window and there was one of our blackbirds turning over the leaves on the bed next to the privet.  Two years ago this narrow area was paved, but my husband's patching of our front drive and stouthearted removal of broken pavers to the back compost bin area has resulted in a bed that holds pelargoniums in the summer and daffodils in the spring.  It has been enriched with lots of home-made compost and buried kitchen waste.  This helps us and the wildlife.  Water soaks into the soil on days of heavy inundation and an assortment of worms and invertebrates feed on the mix, and in turn feed our songbird.  

What is more satisfying I ask myself, to purchase a tub of fat-balls and watch the birds come to the feeder or to make a small change to the environment, close to the hedge, where the blackbirds, woodland creatures would find themselves at home?  No plastic tubs or nets, no factory, no expenditure save what we have produced and consumed ourselves.  The virtuous circle is simple and the untidiness that vigorous pecking has produced is quickly resolved with a garden broom.

Green Wellies

We demonstrated our eco-credentials by setting out yesterday in our matching green wellies leaving the car on the drive.  Though it is tempting at this time of year to head for the hills or to make for the sea, we chose to follow the green corridors of conserved woodland valleys that intersect the former farmlands. 

In these wildlife sanctuaries we saw wrens and robins, magpies and blackbirds singing from the scrubland.  We mentally congratulated the friends of the local park for fundraising, balsam-bashing and path laying.  We looked out over the poplar-fringed vistas of the golf course, possibly threatened by development and speculated on the identity of the large private estate ringed by high fences and security apparatus.  We saw a handful of others, younger than ourselves, and dodged cars using the old lane as a cut through.  We went along a small brook by a previously unexplored 'snicket' - my dialect - locally 'ginnel' to find ourselves at the back of a secondary school; the unfortunate trail of plastic bottles and wrappers had already alerted us to this.

This is where we live.  Green wellies make this exploration possible and like some magical footwear also take me step by step into a happy place where logs bridge streams, birds sing and the midwinter sun sets in a cloudless crimson sky.

 

Leaf Fall

Leaves come and fall in our garden from all kinds of places.  The wind blows oak leaves from the venerable tree at our corner into the nooks of our driveway and patio; the birch trees in the park shed their light burden on to our back lawn; the hazels in the hedge come down and even the trembling yellow poplars at the farthest edge of the playing field, by the old farm bungalow, are shaken by the winds and deposited here.  My husband is diligently collecting all of this potential leaf-mould for our compost bins.

Closer to our kitchen window the raspberries that survived into November have been finally caught by the frost, as have the blackcurrants.  It is hard to resist poking at a bush. Detaching the last leaf from the base of next year's bud releases a strong scent, a foretaste of summer fruit.  I think I never really noticed before how the top leading bud grows above the curved scar of the old.

The leaves that fell from the hazels, with no need of human hand, now reveal the coming year's dangling catkins, tight against the cold.  The evergreen holly that I culled for Advent decoration, is decking our hall, but upon close inspection the buds of next year's tiny white flowers were also apparent and wait to blossom on the bushes for the red berries of a Christmas to come.