OPINION:The enchantment and life-and-death drama of birdlife provide a welcome contrast to economic doldrums, writes SARAH CAREY.
THESE ARE dark days indeed. But only metaphorically speaking, at least. The miserable sticks of whitethorn we planted five years ago are now bushy and bursting in flower. Best of all, there are the birds. In the face of economic Armageddon, climate disaster and global human misery, the building, breeding and feeding habits of birds are welcome relief.
Pausing to listen to bird song is a joyful thing. If only birdwatching was an unqualified joy. At a distance, all seems well. Like everything else, look too closely and tragedy reveals itself.
Birds and I have always had a bitter-sweet connection. On May 19th, 1971, just over 38 years ago, my father drove my labouring mother to the maternity hospital in Trim, Co. Meath. As was the custom in those days, he dropped her off and rather than waiting to hold her hand and shout “Push! Push!” he headed back home.
Arriving around 6am, it was too late to go back to bed but too early to milk the cows. So he wandered down the fields to check up on the thrushes that had hatched in recent days. There were the chicks – gone. Every last one.
Suspicion fell quickly on the resident cats. It’s probably best to say as little as possible about what happened next. Suffice to say that when baby Sarah crossed the threshold some days later, there wasn’t a cat to be seen about the place. The eerie silence of the cats that didn’t miaow still haunts me. Well, in my subconscious anyway, I’m sure.
My parents’ passion for birds has not waned and on Sunday night they made an annual trip over to the bog in the hope of hearing a cuckoo. Their romantic voyage was not in vain, and for the first time in 10 years they were rewarded. Delighted they returned home to find they had paid a price. My mother had neglected to turn off the stock pot before she left. Not only was the saucepan destroyed, but two days later the house still stinks of burned chicken bones. Bloody birds!
But still we allow our hearts to hope. Some weeks ago, my four-year-old made a great discovery. A wooden fence divides the recreational and productive areas of our back garden. Snuggled underneath the long grass that grows there, he found a nest with half a dozen little speckled eggs. What bird nests on the ground? My father and uncle declared that only pheasants and skylarks are known for this habit. The eggs were too small for a pheasant so we sent the aforementioned experts to inspect the nest. They ecstatically confirmed that a skylark was the culprit. Neither had seen a skylark’s nest for 50 years. They are secretive birds whose numbers have been plummeting.
Though we feared our occasional peeks would prompt her to forsake the nest, we gingerly confirmed her presence every now and then. I was particularly proud that although our one-off house is condemned as an environmental hazard, this rare bird selected our home as a safe refuge. One up for the one-off. Hurrah!
Sadly, please note I am speaking in the past tense. Just yesterday afternoon my uncle checked up on the nest and gave a report with a grim air of inevitability. It was empty. No skylark and no eggs.
Magpies were the early suspects. If my father’s extermination programmes extended to magpies, they’d probably be in serious trouble right now. But we don’t kill birds so they’re still out there swooping around the fields, looking for more eggs to steal. I was sickened. My four-year-old is more optimistic. He says the black cat, whom we’ve seen kill a rabbit, ate the eggs but the Mammy Bird will peck his tummy and get them out. I wish. Still, it did put the cat back on the suspect list. Do cats steal eggs?
For those without a back garden teeming with life and death, but do have broadband I urge them to visit the Mooney page on RTÉ Radio 1’s website. The address is http://www.rte.ie/radio/mooneygoeswild/ and click on Nestwatch 2009. A camera has been placed inside a blue-tit nesting box in the grounds of Áras an Uachtaráin. This is mesmerising reality TV. Ten days ago the eggs hatched. The sight will put a smile on the grumpiest face. The little bald bundles shift around and then you see the beaks opening wide as Mama Blue Tit feeds them. It’s really wonderful.
But the story is not all good. Daddy Blue Tit is nowhere to be seen. His visits started to become less frequent just before the eggs hatched and now they have stopped. Has he flown the coop or met with disaster? My money’s on a cat.
Right now the mother should be nesting full-time to keep the chicks warm while Dad brings home the bacon, or the insect. But she’s a single mother and her instincts are torn between staying home or going out to find food. The problems of working mothers are not confined to humanity.
Fortunately an avian welfare state exists in the form of birdwatcher Eric Dempsey who has ensured that extra supplies of food are within easy reach. But us Nestwatchers are fretful. We know too well the risks involved and the high mortality rate. I am driven to prayer. Please, let the little birds live and brighten our days.