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An early start

Blackbird c. Neil Aldridge

Adam Linnet, offers us his take on a dawn chorus walk.

It’s International Dawn Chorus Day and the morning starts with silence. Well, it started with my alarm going off at 3:30am, followed by a few groans as I stretch; I’m no longer a spring chicken it would appear. But now, out on Mirrlees Fields, silence blankets the site. It folds into the woodland glades, tucks in amongst the leaves and clings in the canopy. The air is thick with the lack of sound mixed with a tangible anticipation. You can almost taste both.

Then from out of the noiseless space, a blackbird breaks into song, bravely opening the performance with a solo. Full-bodied, cheery, distinct and familiar, it might just be my favourite bird song. But it doesn’t have the stage to itself for long. A robin, spurred into song by the increasing light levels, joins in, adding more of a jazz-tone to the start of the dawn chorus. The two duet for several minutes, bringing in their second chairs and the rest of their peers as they go - all competing for that top spot.

Song thrush c. Dave Appleton

Song thrush c. Dave Appleton

Another popular species adds to the show, a song thrush bursts into its loud, repetitive calls. A master of mimicry, it will call like an oystercatcher, copy phone ringtones, even lorry reversing alarms. It has a wide repertoire! But, like all catchy songs, its core theme is repetition. Singing different phrases, but repeating each one a number of times (often three), is the best way of picking a song thrush out of the concerto of bird song.

The symphony continues to build as the sun creeps slowly higher, flowing warmth across the open spaces of the species-rich grasslands, the shadows holding on in areas of scrub. Some performers sing from those shadows, skulking away and shunning the spotlight. Garden warblers, blackcaps and whitethroats, hiding in the wings, bring a difficult to decipher warble of notes.

Goldcrest c. Amy Lewis

Goldcrest c. Amy Lewis

I explain to the attendees of our Dawn Chorus event that telling warbler species apart comes with time and practice. I still try to give them a good start to that journey, grasping at onomatopoeic adjectives as I attempt to turn intricate song into whistles, ticks and words. Some get it, others nod politely. I reassure them “time and practice”, before I stop talking over the show we have all come to hear.

All parts of the orchestra are now in full flow. The high-pitched song of goldcrest, the deep coos of woodpigeon, and everything in between. The silence now a hard to remember memory. The mix of song feels physical. It waxes and wanes slightly, at the whim of some invisible conductor, bringing in different birds and momentarily silencing others, mixing and matching them to see what sounds best. They needn’t bother. It all sounds incredible. We stand and enjoy the performance for a while, unaware of the passing of time.

It happens slowly, but one by one, each individual bird, each species, stops singing and goes about its other business; possibly distracted by the need for breakfast - something I am starting to relate to. The symphony deconstructs, fading to one or two birds singing at any given time. The performers don’t bow out, there is no standing ovation (well, not from us, but the females of each species seem impressed). Like the birds, we all go our different ways and about our other business.

It’s still early, but it feels late. The majority of the day still lies ahead of us. Luckily, the energy of witnessing such an amazing natural phenomena buzzes through us, pushing us on with a song in our hearts.

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