It is four in the morning and, to paraphrase the old country song, a new day is dawning. On cue, I’m woken by a blackbird perched on our bedroom roof, sounding as if he is singing through a megaphone.
Many people would be delighted to hear this bird belting out his mellow baritone. Not me, though. No matter how hard I try, all I hear is a monotonous series of brief, rather hesitant phrases – as if he is tuning up, but never quite getting to the actual performance.
Yes, I know I’m in a tiny minority. The blackbird is reportedly Britain’s third favourite bird (after the robin and barn owl), and has inspired composers from Messiaen to McCartney.
So which birdsongs do I prefer to the blackbird? Quite a lot, actually. The melodic blackcap, the madcap sedge warbler, and the wistful willow warbler. The melancholy autumnal song of the robin, and the sheer exuberance of the skylark. And, of course, the incomparable nightingale: the Johann Sebastian Bach of birdsong.
Yet for me, the real star of the dawn chorus is another, less showy songster. A bird whose sound is so wonderful, that is how he got his name. One that I’ve loved since I listened to his suburban ancestors, as I walked home from school. And who still cheers me up each morning from January to June. The blackbird’s cousin: the song thrush.
