I thought he had knocked the old nests down but he assured me he hadn’t, instead he had carefully painted round each of them.
The little birds were here within two weeks of his finishing the job and promptly added a fifth to their terrace. Four of these high desres are now occupied as is one at the front.
Although they make an awful mess over the window sills and roses, I’m quite willing to put up with that for the pleasure they bring.
I watch them several times a day swooping after high flying insects, then getting slightly confused about which nests they take them to.
I’m sure that sometimes the wrong resident receives a meal from an unexpected quarter, but there is more often a cross ‘get out’ type screech that greets them.
We have had House Martins sharing our house almost ever since we arrived here and feel very honoured to receive them.
Nearby daughter has also been similarly honoured, but this year none have arrived and she is both sorrowful and indignant at her loss.
Apart from anything else, she misses their chatter which always means summer (hopefully).
It does make you wonder whether something has happened to that particular family and their offspring that have been returning to her house for years.
My wild flower species count has reached 35, which includes a false oxslip but no orchids.
I know this total would be far greater if I could train Genevieve to safely cross fields and woods but verge sides are better than nothing.
My count this year includes wild garlic (ransoms) which I hadn’t found anywhere near a verge before.
There is a section of hedge at the top of Drove Lane that seems to divide into two, and there they were, a small profusion of them filling the air with the familiar garlicy scent. The false oxslip I was pleased with.
False oxslips
Half way along Rowden Mill Lane, where the cowslips are pleasingly spreading year on year, there is something which I had been puzzling over for a few years.
Just one plant in the middle of the thickest growth of cowslips, there is a single plant which looks like a cowslip gone wrong or perhaps a bit like cultivated polyanthus.
This, I have found, is a false oxslip.
It is a hybrid between a primrose and cowslip where the two grow together.
I wonder whether it will ever multiply because I first began to notice this one about three or four years ago and there is still only the one plant.
At the first gateway down this lane, I saw a sight which took my breath away.
It was a field of golden buttercups and white dandelion heads.
The land rises slightly, and along the ridge against the skyline, there seemed to be a line of young trees.
They weren’t trees of course, but grasses, perhaps cocksfoot though I can‘t be sure as they were too far away.
The sun shone and there was a slight breeze over the field and the sight was one that will be imprinted in my mind for weeks or months to come.
Has it really stopped raining?
We have just had the warmest sunny days for months with the resultant luxuriant growth of everything, both in the garden and out of it.
Now, a week after starting this article, a lot of my roses are out and they really are early.
The oak was out before the ash this year, so if you follow folklore, you’ll be heartened by the thought that we’ll get only a splash.
The other way round of course, and we could be in for a soak. I can’t remember what it was last year to prove or disprove this theory.
Several people tell me they have heard a cuckoo round here this year.
I haven’t.
I haven’t heard a song thrush either, although I am assured that there is one just along the road from me.
We always had one that sang from the copper beech in one of the opposite gardens. Two or three years ago it was silent, although a small stone area beneath the seat in the front garden was obviously being used as an anvil judging by the wealth of snail shells on it.
To make up for all this, I’m sure there have been more blackbirds around this year.
Even on dull days when I open a door or window their song greets me like a massed choir in full voice.
They are frantically busy just now, cramming their beaks with everything they can find to feed their growing families.
From late July on they will be silent, and almost invisible, as they recover from the hectic period of raising several demanding fledglings,
When they have eventually finished with all this they will lurk in the depths of a hedge or bush as though they are ashamed of their feathers, once so glossy and luxuriant and now bedraggled and worn, but sometimes, if you are very quiet, you will hear the merest whisper of their song from the leafy depths.
By late winter they will suddenly come back as they begin to claim their territories, fully clothed and in full voice and ready to chase off all comers. But there’s a lot more of this year before that happens.