It was 11am, so we sat on the ride edge and opened our thermos flasks — a ritual we undertake every working day. Richard Gould perched on an upturned bucket, I settled on a stump. Within minutes, the birds in the wood recommenced their chatter, having been silenced in the roar of chainsaws as we coppiced hazel stakes and binders.
In December, birdsong is not the raucous affair of spring, it is less competitive. Blue and great tits have conversations, goldcrests gossip, even the habitually hysterical blackbirds settle, uttering only half-hearted “chit, chit, chits”. A buzzard wheeled overhead, mewing like someone else’s annoying child. The herring gulls that circled alongside the raptor kept quiet. A covey of greys out on the plough kerred. Linnets and yellowhammers, wrens and dunnocks cheeped,…
