When winter has settled into the bones, not a sound carrying over the stones, into the silence of earth and frost – a tiny, tinkling goldcrest drops. Along with the firecrest, it is the UK’s smallest bird, flickering through bark in busy bursts. Weighing about the same as a 20p piece, it can be hard to spot high in fir and pine trees. Yet, when you catch sight of the gold-striped head, it is not the kind of light you forget. The yellow or orange crown gleams, flooding the bark with its golden stream.
Where I stand in the field by a border of pines, the ground encrusted with a rust of ice, a pair dash in and out of sight – bright sparks flying as the trees ignite. With counts slightly lower this winter, it is especially reassuring to see them. I catch one’s eye – gleaming, wild – then watch the small run of its beak and feel the tingling release. Notes so high-pitched that they’re inaudible to some strum like sunbeams across the leaves. If sunlight could be heard, perhaps it would be this – I tilt my head back to its golden pitch. Ears shift into higher frequencies for its contact call of “zree-zree-zree”.
With their small size, lighter, on average, even than the firecrest, goldcrests can use up a lot of their energy to keep warm – on cold nights, up to 20% of their body weight. But as the notes flow between us, the coldness goes. The gold seems to find its way into the bones. There is, everywhere, a warming current. Waves of sound splash upon us. The colour begins to return to my cheeks as I stand in the glow. Yellow drips down from branch to branch as the birds continue their glistening advance.
Despite their small size, their impact is huge. I am held by the spectacle and cannot move. Through lit peals, their chime resounds, tolling the days through to warmer ground. Their presence, even now, delivers an ease, a heat that pours steadily down through the trees. The earth, the leaves and treetops thaw, and winter, for just a moment, withdraws.
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