Blogger: Aggie Rothon, Communications Officer
Photo Credit: Dunnock by John Bridges (rspb-images.com)
I don't know what it was that reminded me. Perhaps it was visiting Gunton park, my childhood home, or the eerie sight of a field of ewes stopping to stare at me mid-chew as I ambled past their field; they were absolutely resolute and motionless. Or it could have been catching a programme about the cuckoos at Wicken Fen on my beloved Radio 4 the other day. But whatever it was, the memory of the nest full of blue tits came back to me as if it were only yesterday that I was bowling along in the sun revelling in the golden glory of being seven years old and spending my Easter holidays at home in an ancient copse-filled woodland.
I would spend my days outdoors from morning until early evening, riding my imaginary horses over homemade jumps put together from anything I could find; wheelbarrows, laurel prunings, bamboo canes and buckets. Or I'd explore the woods making new dens or in quieter moments, lying in the long grass with my guinea pigs. It was in one of these moments that I heard the dunnock chicks. No more than a chorus of squeaks, but loud enough to fill the musky evening air with a collective enthusiasm. The sound took me to a bank of brambles and, guinea pig nestling plump in one arm, I curiously parted the looping branches to find a delicate nest filled with tiny, naked dunnock chicks, jaws gaping to be fed. They were the joyous epitome of new life and Easter-time. And what a privilege to find them I thought! I would revisit, if only to hear their voices and imagine them thriving and existing in the nest.
It was the following day that I returned, dragging my mother by the hand to listen to the choir of chicks. But as we arrived we could hear only the leaves in the breeze and the distant cluck of broody hens. Craning to see the nest through the thicket of thorns I was dismayed to see no crowd of twinkling dunnock mouths but instead the lumpen matte grey form of a cuckoo chick staring blankly back at me. I didn't dislike this intruder but it didn't fit the gracefully woven nest or my expectation of nature in miniature.
But is that what is so wonderful about nature? It constantly betrays our human moral expectations and lives exactly in its own way. I may not admire the poise or delicacy of the cuckoo chick but my goodness, I more than admire their performance in the game called, 'Survival of the Fittest.'
Want to Step Up for Nature? There's lots you can do from volunteering on our nature reserves to local campaigning or becoming a scientist in your own garden. Go to www.rspb.org.uk for more details.
Photo Credit: Cuckoo chick in dunnock nest by Mike Richards (rspb-images.com)
Article in Eastern Daily Press on Sunday 17th April 2011