Springtime, Springtime
And so I am back on this blog after a long absence, working on a novel and editing and translating.
What do I have to offer? No more than thousands of other before me, I'm afraid – I offer a paean to Spring - and why not? If you wish to remain miserable and grumpy switch off and go and read the news for light entertainment.
Here the air is light, the weather is warmer, the clouds are feathery and frivolously frolicsome. Suddenly, it is time for the year to make up for all the cold weather we’ve been having, to make up for that early promise only to renege on that promise and deliver another spell of cold, ice, snow and rain.
But it is now April and rain for Chaucer came in 'shoures soote' and 'every veyn’ was bathed in 'swich licour of which vertu engendred is the flour'. (Now I did warn that there was nothing orginal in this blog post). There is now a release from a deep, dark dungeon of winter and everyone and every beast knows it. Heifers are springing on the new grass, and suddenly tiny lambs are jumping. In the dune forest nearby the young leaves are lime-green - on the beeches, on the birches and even on the new shoots of the sombre pines.
The defining sound around me is that of birds, birds and more birds - common birds such as the sparrows in the hawthorn next to the kitchen window are indulging in a frenzy of nest-building, bickering, squabbling, fighting. Magpies and jackdaws loom like Mafiosi over the nest of the little birds. Blackbirds are pecking the seeds and roots, thrushes are doing what they are supposed to do, tapping the shells of snails. Blue tits and great tits are nibbling at crumbs and peanuts, while Herring gulls are screeching overhead as I sit under the apple tree.
And over there - the brackish lakes, the water laden polder causing reflections of light to bounce like bullets over land and sea. On the lakes and ponds near the great sea dike I see that the avocets are back, always a sign of Spring. And that great crested grebe looks prouder than usual, as well he might.
I go up to the island of Texel and cycle right up to the North of the island. Near the top in a shallow lake a spoonbill pierces the water frenetically then just as busily cleans his feathers. It is up here I see a yellow wagtail swooping over the dike. The yellow is not very common. It is the white wagtail that is the usual. Up here a number of fierce greater black-backed gulls swoop and swirl over herons, loud, raucous but not as overtly menacing as the kestrel and the buzzard.
And only now do I see what we have all been hoping for – two swallows. I suppose that, traditionally there is only one thing to wait for now and that is the sound of the cuckoo. Yet it always saddens me somewhat – the idea of a great fat parasite being fed while the smaller birds are tipped out of the nest.
And of course Spring time is a situation of eating or being eaten, of territorial squabbles, making a nest and avoiding predators. As humans we are not immune to nest building and being as frenetically busy as any bird. Many years ago, my daughter, then eight years old lifted up her finger and said,’ Listen – an electric drill – the sound of Spring.’
What do I have to offer? No more than thousands of other before me, I'm afraid – I offer a paean to Spring - and why not? If you wish to remain miserable and grumpy switch off and go and read the news for light entertainment.
Here the air is light, the weather is warmer, the clouds are feathery and frivolously frolicsome. Suddenly, it is time for the year to make up for all the cold weather we’ve been having, to make up for that early promise only to renege on that promise and deliver another spell of cold, ice, snow and rain.
But it is now April and rain for Chaucer came in 'shoures soote' and 'every veyn’ was bathed in 'swich licour of which vertu engendred is the flour'. (Now I did warn that there was nothing orginal in this blog post). There is now a release from a deep, dark dungeon of winter and everyone and every beast knows it. Heifers are springing on the new grass, and suddenly tiny lambs are jumping. In the dune forest nearby the young leaves are lime-green - on the beeches, on the birches and even on the new shoots of the sombre pines.
The defining sound around me is that of birds, birds and more birds - common birds such as the sparrows in the hawthorn next to the kitchen window are indulging in a frenzy of nest-building, bickering, squabbling, fighting. Magpies and jackdaws loom like Mafiosi over the nest of the little birds. Blackbirds are pecking the seeds and roots, thrushes are doing what they are supposed to do, tapping the shells of snails. Blue tits and great tits are nibbling at crumbs and peanuts, while Herring gulls are screeching overhead as I sit under the apple tree.
And over there - the brackish lakes, the water laden polder causing reflections of light to bounce like bullets over land and sea. On the lakes and ponds near the great sea dike I see that the avocets are back, always a sign of Spring. And that great crested grebe looks prouder than usual, as well he might.
I go up to the island of Texel and cycle right up to the North of the island. Near the top in a shallow lake a spoonbill pierces the water frenetically then just as busily cleans his feathers. It is up here I see a yellow wagtail swooping over the dike. The yellow is not very common. It is the white wagtail that is the usual. Up here a number of fierce greater black-backed gulls swoop and swirl over herons, loud, raucous but not as overtly menacing as the kestrel and the buzzard.
And only now do I see what we have all been hoping for – two swallows. I suppose that, traditionally there is only one thing to wait for now and that is the sound of the cuckoo. Yet it always saddens me somewhat – the idea of a great fat parasite being fed while the smaller birds are tipped out of the nest.
And of course Spring time is a situation of eating or being eaten, of territorial squabbles, making a nest and avoiding predators. As humans we are not immune to nest building and being as frenetically busy as any bird. Many years ago, my daughter, then eight years old lifted up her finger and said,’ Listen – an electric drill – the sound of Spring.’
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