Spring is finally here. It’s my most favourite time of year, it sweeps across the countryside in a great wave of blossom and fresh green growth. On the wings of newly arriving summer birds comes warmth and relief from winters dark grip.
Birdsong fills the air as our feathered friends establish territories and attract partners. One song is rare these days1, and carries an almost mythical quality, the sort of sound that makes you stop, open mouthed with delight at it’s sheer beauty. I’m talking of course about the Nightingale. I haven’t heard one in years, so I set off to Suffolk Wildlife Trust’s Lackford Lakes in the hopes of finding this shy songster. They are famed for singing throughout the night, although in reality they also sing at dawn and dusk and even during the day when the mood takes them. On arrival, at what felt like a rather late 9am, a few sips of coffee were hastily gulped before stepping out of the car. I needn’t have worried however as I was greeted by a wonderful spring soundscape, Blackcap, Chiffchaff, Song Thrush, Blackbird and more, and yes, there it was! A rich fluting melody spilled from the surrounding scrub. A low warbling trill and complex combination of golden notes wafted through the cool morning air. The little russet brown bird is an expert composer, incorporating a pregnant pause for effect, to make you strain your ears and whisper ‘encore!’ Listening, perhaps to make sure the audience is paying attention, before launching into the next sweet phrase of music. In all, the Merlin app recorded 12 species singing in the short space of two minutes, just from the carpark. As more cars arrived, tyres scrunching on gravel rather drowning out the glorious concert, I moved on, but could still hear little snippets of Nightingale song.
Down in the woodland, a cute little masked bandit defied gravity in the trees, flitting here and there and often upside down, the Nuthatch. These attractive woodland specialists, powder blue and strawberry blonde, are a delight to watch. Interestingly, this one hopped down to a patch of moss at the base of the tree and rubbed his face on the soft green carpet in the sunshine, a grooming behaviour perhaps, although I couldn’t help wondering if maybe it just felt nice!
Another songster, less shy than the secretive Nightingale, with a volume disproportionate to it’s diminutive size, bursts into song from the undergrowth. A power ballad to the Nightingale’s classical symphony. I have always admired the Wren, small but mighty, and my childhood alarm clock - one used to sing every morning in the hedge next to my bedroom window.
I didn’t lay eyes on the Nightingale, and wasn’t expecting to, but it was wonderful to hear. It was the sort of spring day with warm bright sunshine that makes you breathe a sigh of relief, and was just what I needed. Although Spring is my favourite season, this year it has been marred with deep sadness.
This next part is extremely difficult to write, for my dear companion of 17 and a half years has reached the final moments of her life.
She was a foundling. A tiny starving feral kitten, who turned up on Boxing Day in my Mum’s rural garden. Fearful but hungry, it took a week or so of tempting her out of her hiding place in the yew bush with daily kitten food offerings before she accepted me. From that morning, when I first carefully lifted her scruffy little form into my fluffy dressing gown, and she began to purr and purr and purr, we have rarely been apart.
She grew into a wise and devoted cat, legendary in our family for being quite the character, vocal, intelligent, feisty and playful. Together we learned an array of tricks, including our favourite, the ‘your feet on mine’ trick, and I would carry her around perched on my arm or around my shoulders. She was amazingly clever, able to open doors, casually and without hardly breaking her sassy stride, with a single paw, somehow just knowing whether to push or pull. I will miss her trust, the privilege of her warm weight resting against me, purring directly into my ear to wake me in the mornings or lovingly snuggling close every evening.
The vet is confident that she is not in any pain, which is a blessing, but her old body is tired and worn out. Like the Velveteen Rabbit, she is adored, a little shabby, and so very real. By the time this letter goes live, we will probably have said our final goodnight, but as I write at my desk, she is sat in her customary position, on my lap, with her front paws on my arm, leaning close and reaching up now and then for forehead kisses. I’ve written thousands of words like this, processed countless photos, she’s been with me every step of the way, through bad times and good. I’m fighting back the tears because I don’t want to drop my salty sadness into her soft coat.
She is one in a billion, my heart and soul cat, thank you my love for all these wonderful years, you will be missed terribly and remembered forever. Now the whole world knows just how special you are, my best girl. Our wonderful, unique, Christmas cat.
If I am absent here for a time I apologise in advance, I will return when I’ve taken some time to process this end of an era. Hug your pets a little closer tonight, for time is always shorter than you imagine.
Thanks so much for reading, I’ll be back with more wildlife and nature very soon.
All the best,
Dawn.
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