Every evening, when the traffic dies down, blackbirds perch in all the high trees in my neighbourhood and fill the air with an uplifting, life-affirming symphony.
And then, an abrupt change of note – chink-chink-chink – as repetitious as a car alarm, as parents desperately protect their nests from the magpies, jays and cats that snatch their young at dusk.
Spring is a time of burgeoning new life, yet death is more visible than ever. Our instinct is to thwart it. A recent jog was interrupted by a ker-fuffle of blue tits in a bush. I peered in and spied a jay, newly fledged blue tit in its beak. I joined the blue tit family in frantically trying to save their child, shouting and clapping my hands, but the jay nonchalantly flapped away, blue tit tightly in beak. Good on it: the jay must feed its young too.
Blue tits are nesting at the forest school nursery attended by my son. When I checked the nestbox last week, I saw one of the chicks had died (the poor parents must find 100 caterpillars per chick per day, so no wonder some perish) and pulled it out. The nursery decided to show it to the children, as part of their philosophy lessons. “It’s a good chance to talk about death,” said one teacher.
Not every school is so mature. When I found a dead starling in my garden, I had it taxidermied and gave it to a friend’s five-year-old. As you do. The girl took it to her primary school where teachers decided that her class would be scared of it, and might start asking about death. She wasn’t allowed to show it.
So we’re in a muddle: failing to cherish the lives of other animals or look squarely upon their deaths.
That said, it’s not futile to stop avoidable deaths, such as the annual sacrifices to our domestic god, the cat. I’m with the Essex animal charity which recently asked people to keep their cats indoors during the nesting season. That’s far kinder to wildlife than shouting at jays and magpies.
Leap from the deep
After a mass sperm whale stranding 18 months ago, more dead whales – three minke – have washed up on Britain’s east coast. It’s difficult to prove cause of death, but local people wonder about all the offshore windfarms. As we develop seascapes – filling them with installations, vibrations and boats – we will inevitably displace more animals.
There’s plenty of life on our coasts at the moment though. I swam at Overstrand beach in Norfolk on Sunday, and admired tatty painted lady butterflies fluttering in over the sea – annual pilgrims from France, Spain, even Morocco. Friends a few miles away watched a stranger sight emerge from the waves. Was it a man? A seal? A dog? No, it was a muntjac deer, very much alive after an unexpected encounter with the limpid North Sea.
Hut stuff
During a winter visit to Finland, a hunter showed me his adorable Hansel and Gretel-style hut with peaked roof and chimney – a barbecue cabin, an excellent enabler of outdoor eating when it is -25C. Now upmarket versions (costing £7,645) are on display at the Chelsea flower show. Think hygge for summer. Or the perfect accompaniment to your shepherd’s hut. David Cameron is probably grilling pork bangers in his right now.
Somehow, though, things that are eminently sensible in Scandinavia seem grossly objectionable in Britain. Don’t blame media sneering. I fantasised about acquiring a wood-fired hot-tub until I read readers’ comments beneath a Guardian story about them. A wooden tower from which to shoot neighbours’ cats would be more socially acceptable.
