As soon as I’d said it, I knew I was probably asking for trouble.
Mrs H was on the phone, asking about nest boxes for her farm in Warwickshire. She’d agreed to put up 20 new boxes as part of her Higher Level Stewardship agreement and wondered where she could buy some. Unfortunately, being a lady of considerable years, she was no longer in a position to shin up a ladder and nail them up herself either, so did we know anyone who might be able to put them up as well?
I hesitated for a moment. ‘I’m sure we can sort that out,’ I heard myself saying. ‘Leave it with me.’ Fatal.
Most of the nest boxes were intended for tree sparrows. Tree sparrows are fairly widespread across much of southern Warwickshire, but take a bit of finding. Many farms have a handful of pairs, chirping unseen around half-forgotten ponds, hiding quietly in holes in elm or oak trees in the hedges.
They’re a bit of a boom-and-bust bird. Give them a regular supply of seed food over winter, and safe nesting places, and their numbers respond quickly. And yet sometimes they just seem to collapse, or whole colonies suddenly disperse to sites many miles away. Nationally, their population crashed spectacularly between the late 1970s and early 1990s. Though they’ve seen some improvements over the last decade, their recovery has a long way to go, so they’re still very much a priority for conservation work.
Mrs H ordered the nest boxes – fine, sturdy ones from the RSPB shop – and a week or so later I found myself pulling up on a farm track just outside the village with a car-full of nest boxes, as well as an assortment of DIY kit borrowed from my garage.
My colleague, Glenn, arrived a few minutes later. Based in Birmingham, Glenn works across the county with new RSPB members and supporters, helping raise the vital income that keeps conservation work going. He’s a natural people person, and a chatty, charming chap. A few weeks ago he’d made the mistake of telling me he wanted some more ‘hands on’ conservation experience. He wanted to understand what ‘giving nature a home’ in the countryside. Well, I thought, this was the perfect opportunity for him. Plus I’d have someone to hold the ladder.
Mrs H appeared from her small bungalow, accompanied by her small dog who seemed intent on finding out what we’d brought for lunch.
‘How soft is the ground?’ I asked. Even though we were on top of a hill, there’d been so much rain over recent weeks that everywhere was saturated. Sure enough, there was no way we’d be able to get a vehicle across the fields. We were just going to have to carry all the equipment we needed ourselves. Glenn and I loaded up with our tools, a small ladder and as many boxes as we could manage, and set off.
Glenn ran into trouble at the first gate – literally. There was no way of avoiding the mud in the gateway, and the poor chap quickly found himself up to his ankles in thick, dark, Warwickshire mud. It oozed a bit, sucking tightly to his previously clean, bright shoes. ‘Did you not bring wellies?’ I asked. ‘I did say you’d need them.’
‘I thought these would be alright.’ Glenn looked down at his soggy feet. ‘Oh well.’ Fortunately it didn’t seem to dampen his spirit, or more importantly, hamper his ability to lug the equipment over two more fields.
We crossed a large grass field, flushing a few red-legged partridge, and came to the far corner. A small pond was tucked in the corner behind the sheep fencing. To one side were a couple of large oak trees, and in the hedge on the other side were a few elms that had grown big enough to poke their heads above the top of the hedge before succumbing. It looked good for tree sparrow nest-boxes.
Getting to the base of the trees was tricky though. Climbing over the barbed wire-topped fence wasn’t too bad, nor was pushing through the brambles that scrambled out from the hedge towards the fence. Our bags of kit kept catching on the thorns. However, the oaks looked good, until we came to look for a flat section of trunk to attach the box to. The whole thing was covered in ivy. Thick, sinuous ivy stems twisted and knotted themselves across the tree trunk. We spotted the flattest bit we could, firmed the ladder against the trunk and just about secured the first nest-box in position.
Further up the same tree we managed to screw a second nest box, but the next two had to go on the dead elms a few metres away. Around the same field we put clusters of boxes up in two more spots.
Finally, we were on a roll. After our somewhat shaky start, and doubtful logistical arrangements, Glenn and I managed to put up all the nest-boxes we’d brought. There were some very promising-looking sites across the farm, and it felt good to be doing something constructive outdoors. And I can honestly report that no safety rules were broken, and nothing more serious than some blackthorn scratches endured.
Apart from learning the importance of wellies on farmland, there was one other life lesson that Glenn took away that day.
At one stage, he was chatting away happily with Mrs H. He’d asked about the history of the farm, and she told him about what she remembered of working on the farm during the Second World War, how it had changed from being a mixed farm supporting several families, to a contractor-managed beef cattle farm. She remembered the woodland next door being planted, and farm buildings that were now barely visible as grass-covered stone.
‘You be careful,’ she interjected, as Glenn stretched a little to fix the last nest-box.‘I’m fine,’ Glenn grinned from mid-way up the ladder. ‘Don’t you worry, love.’There was a sudden, somewhat stony silence, and I looked over at Mrs H. She frowned briefly, and, turning away, said in a serious voice, ‘Don’t call me ‘love’.’Glenn looked sheepish, apologised, and the cheerful chatter quickly resumed between them.
I don’t think he’ll be calling any more hard-working farm women ‘love’. But I know we both are looking forward to hearing how the nest-boxes are used this spring. Perhaps we’ll even manage to pop by for a quick visit.