It seemed that time was standing still. The Witch had had her way: from now on it would be always winter and never Christmas. We get more than our fair share of sky in East Anglia: it’s like living in an upturned white bowl, one that could do with a good clean. It’s been like this for days: a damp sullen cold that eats into your bones. I’m forced to take the continued existence of the sun on trust.
But spring is still doing its stuff in ways too subtle for human apprehension. The earth is still tilting on its axis; it just wasn’t telling me. I stepped out in the morning on my long commute to the place where I walk –a good 50 paces – and then stopped.
For there was more din around than there was yesterday. A great tit was trying a new phrase, more complex than yesterday. There was a hint of song thrush: not exactly committed, but some subtle shift in day-length had caused him to try out a few hesitant ideas.
And then I heard it. Very faint, very distant, very certain. It lasted about two seconds – and in that time a great spotted woodpecker can strike a resonant branch 80 times: a great rip of hammered sound. They drum for the same reason that a great tit and a song thrush sing: to establish a territory and find a partner.
Guitarists joke that a person who likes to hang out with musicians is usually called a drummer. But percussion is essential to a million pieces of music and the drum-music of woodpeckers is part of the spring symphony that has already begun and will last us at least until June. They are optimists, these woodpeckers: driving winter away with a series of drum solos. The greatspots are leading the way: others will follow.
Spot on, as ever…. Glad I’m not the only one feeling the cold in their bones. And yes, the birds know spring is under way, even if the weatherman can’t deliver better news.