Sh*t and Twigs

When we first introduced doves to the dovecote on the end of our house, they amused us with their amateurish nest-building.

Doves are poor at estimating the width of an opening.  Again and again, the twigs they picked up failed to fit through the little doorways.  A mound of twigs gathered on the ground beneath.

And then, when they did get the twigs into the nest holes, our doves failed to display any artistry.

Nigel was having one of his period clean-outs of the dovecote when I saw what he was doing and berated him –

‘You’ve just pulled a whole nest out!’

He brandished what was in his hand: ‘But it’s nothing but sh*t and twigs!’

‘That’s exactly it!  Doves make a loose nest of twigs.’  And then sh*t on it, apparently.

 

Earlier this year, the dove situation was looking a bleak.

Each night, fewer doves were roosting in the dovecote. 

A well-fed sparrowhawk had been picking them off, leaving only a swirl of white downy feathers.

Those who remained preferred to roost further down the street, under the solar panels of our friends, Claire and Bruce.

 

However, to our surprise, new doves have found their way to us this spring – including one with a ring that shows it is from elsewhere and another which looks as if it has a fantail parent.

 

We look at the ground beneath our dovecote and vow we have never been so pleased to see a heap of sh*t and twigs.

Frog chorus

 

We have just enjoyed a weekend of what I can only call audio tourism.  

Work took Nigel to the old university city of Leuven, and I joined him there. After the regular hum of several hours of train travel, arriving was a treat for the ears.  

 

In little leafy parks we heard spring birdsong. I noted how familiar favourites like blackbirds and robins had a slightly different call, like a different accent. 

 

Leuven was also hosting a festival of sound installations called Hear Here. The most memorable was in a glasshouse in the botanic gardens -  a set of 250 tiny speakers suspended from the ceiling emitted the sound of bees coming and going and one could immerse oneself in the buzz of the hive. On listeners’ faces were looks of wonder. 

 

But the best sounds of all were at the Abbey Park on the outskirts of the city. Standing by a reed bed on the edge of a lake we were startled by the bright sudden burst of notes which heralded the Cetti's warbler.  A bird which I had never seen before, and, as it remained hidden, still haven't! 

Also in the reeds were a bunch of very enthusiastic frogs. Unlike the chaps in my pond at home who sound merely as if they are suffering from dyspepsia, these frogs were loud and ebullient, like the party one hears in the distance and longs to be invited to.

 Coming home now, my ears feel as if they have had a work-out – they are all nice and ready to pick up the calls of the swifts, newly arrived in St Albans. 

NB The frog in the top photo is not the one making all that noise, but i couldn't get a pic of the noisy ones! 

Photo by Erzsébet Vehofsics on Unsplash

Litter-picking Lout

 

A week or so ago, I joined a small litter-picking team from our church.

Litter-picking is such a simple and rewarding way to do good in the community – or so we thought.

Near the busy local shops, we began to collect up discarded food wrappers and cigarette butts.

On a bench sat a tall woman, restraining two dogs on leashes while talking loudly into her phone.  Beside her was her can of beer.  As we scooped up crisp packets, her conversation continued at full volume, until finally it seemed that the other person was approaching and the woman stood to go and meet them.

She left her beer can on the bench.

I tutted and went to put it in Gavin’s collecting bag. 

‘Wait.  Hasn’t that still got beer in it?  She might come back.’

But I was impatient.  ‘She’s gone.  I’ll just empty it into the flower bed.’

There was actually rather a lot of beer in there.  Perhaps Gavin had a point.  Too late now.

It was only seconds after I had put the can in Gavin’s bag that we heard the now-familiar loud voice. ‘Hey – who’s had my beer?’

We looked guiltily at the collection bag, only to note that it was, in fact, transparent.  If the woman with the dogs wanted to take umbrage, it was very clear who had stolen her beer.

Rapidly, we shifted our litter picking activities round the corner.

So as a direct result of our do-gooding, it’s possible that members of our church are now known in the community as a bunch of thieves who would do anything for a can of beer.

Photo by Rasa Kasparaviciene on Unsplash

 

Green Church

Covid hit our church hard. Several much loved older people died, afflicted by the isolation and delayed medical treatment of Lockdown rather than the Covid virus itself. Some of the members who had been most creative and most generous with their time moved away. One or two developed long-term illnesses. And then our vicar retired.

So coming out of Covid has felt like the aftermath of a nasty fall. Gingerly we have picked ourselves up and tested each limb for strains and bruises.

However, there is now a very tangible sign of new life – the creation of a green space in front of our church. A team, led with great energy by Celia, has packed the modest plot with flowers to attract bees and a wet area for amphibians. Above, there are swift boxes and a swift call playing to attract the birds to nest, (my own contribution). On either side are benches for people to sit and appreciate it all.

The fact that we have accomplished this long-awaited project now in the spring, and that it will blossom and flourish through the summer must be a good sign.

So by the time winter chill creeps in once more, the plants will have become established and our new vicar will have taken up his post.

For more about our environmentally-aware church http://www.saint-lukes.co.uk/