
Bird song carries furthest in still air. From the hour before sunrise to about two hours after, the woodland is at its quietest and the birds at their most vocal, which is why serious listeners set the alarm for 4.30am in May. Traffic is minimal, the wind has usually dropped, and a blackbird singing from a chimney pot three gardens away will sound as though it is perched on your shoulder.
Weather matters more than most people expect. A cold, clear, windless morning is ideal. Wind shreds the high frequencies first, so a breeze will rob you of wrens, goldcrests and the thin high notes of tits while leaving the blackbird audible. Light drizzle is surprisingly good, as long as there is no wind with it. Heavy rain and gusty days are best spent with a notebook and a recording from a previous outing.
Most people try to learn twenty songs at once and remember none. Learn five properly instead, and learn them by eye as well as ear.
These are the two songs that confuse people most, and the difference is simple once you hear it side by side.
The blackbird sings low, rich and mellow — a lazy, fluty, improvised wander. Each phrase is different from the last, and the whole thing often tails off into a quiet, tuneless twittering before starting again. It sounds relaxed, almost melancholic, and it is usually delivered from a high, open perch: a rooftop, a television aerial, the topmost twig of a bare ash. Peak delivery is early, often before full light.
The song thrush is louder, higher and much more deliberate. Its signature is repetition: it takes one clear phrase and repeats it two, three or four times before moving to the next. "Cherry, cherry, cherry." "Did-he-do-it, did-he-do-it." Listen for that insistence, and for a hard, ringing quality that cuts through the wood. Its alarm call is a sharp, hollow "tchook", and if you find a stone surrounded by broken snail shells, you have found its anvil.
The shorthand worth carrying in your head: the thrush repeats, the blackbird improvises.
The soft five-note coo of a woodpigeon will underpin all of it, and a stock dove's hollow, rolling "ooo-oo" is a good sign of old, mature woodland.
The dawn chorus has a rough running order. Robins, blackbirds and song thrushes lead, often in near-darkness. Wrens, tits and warblers join as the light strengthens. Finches and pigeons come last, once the sun is properly up. If a song reaches you very early, rich and fluty, you are almost certainly listening to a blackbird.
Season changes everything. Great tits and robins start testing their voices in January. Chiffchaffs arrive in late March. April and May are the full orchestra. By late June the wood has gone quiet as adults feed young, and July and August bring the moult, when birds are vulnerable and silent. Song returns in autumn, and a mild December morning can give you a robin, a mistle thrush and even a blackbird in fine voice.
Habitat tells you what to expect. Oak and ash woodland with a scrubby edge holds song thrush, blackcap and garden warbler. Conifer plantations are far quieter, home to coal tit, goldcrest and, in the north, crossbill. Wet alder carr may give you siskin or redpoll. In the western oakwoods, listen for the spinning-coin trill of a wood warbler, or the sharp tick of a pied flycatcher.
Ten minutes, three times a week, will teach you more than one heroic three-hour outing a season. Choose a single species a week and hunt it deliberately. Return to the same stretch of path so you learn the regulars and notice the newcomers. Write down the date, the weather, the time and what you heard, however roughly. Within a year you will have a small, personal map of your local wood in sound.
Be patient with yourself. Everyone spends their first spring guessing, and uncertainty is simply part of learning to listen. Then one morning a phrase will come out of the canopy, and before you have time to think about it, you will know exactly who is singing.
A layer of organic mulch conserves moisture and suppresses weeds. Keep it clear of the trunk to prevent rot and pest problems.
Comments
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Roboto Alex
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