View From The Shed by Shaun Finnie - WHAT LARKS!

WHAT LARKS!

Regular readers will know that I like owls of all kinds. I've written about them several times in these blogs, mostly about their hunting patterns and their symbolism in folklore. They're fascinating, deadly and beautiful, all at the same time, and they're famous (even if the reputation isn't 100% accurate) for being birds of the night.

Personally though I'm much more of a Lark myself. I'm much more likely to be up and about at the crack of dawn than with the rising of the moon. I'm an early to bed, early to rise kind of guy. The definitive human Lark.

I understand how Owls are associated with staying up late and doing much of your best living in the hours of darkness; that's what they do. But Larks don't only sing at dawn, they sing all day. I've seen and heard them at their very best during the brightest and warmest hours of the early afternoon. In fact I've never particularly noticed them as part of a dawn chorus. Blackbirds and Robins always seem to be the first birds that I hear when the sun finally rises to greet me. Surely I'm more like one of those than a Lark?

But whether it's link to early morning is deserved or not, the Skylark remains probably the favourite bird of Britain's artistic types. Shakespeare, William Blake and Percy Shelley (among many other lesser writers) have written of them with associations to the rising of the sun. Many of you will know Vaughan Williams' glorious 'The Lark Ascending', a celebration of the bird's magnificent song, pouring out breathless jewels of notes as it rises to 100 meters or more and then, still singing, parachutes back to earth, spent. It's why I and many others love them. Physically they aren't very spectacular but their song has made them a folklore staple reference point for when the storyteller needs an image of exuberance, fun and sheer delight at being alive on a sunny day.

The weirdest folk story about the Skylark that I know comes from 'Aesop's Fables'. It's the fable of 'The Lark Burying Her Father'. I'll paraphrase because it rambles a bit but basically the story is that the Larks were made before the Earth and flew non-stop because there was nowhere to land. When one of them died his daughter was naturally sad because of his death but also unhappy because she had nowhere to bury him, what with the Earth not being invented yet. I know, it sounds strange but bear with me, it's going to take an even more bizarre turn in a minute. What would you do if you wanted to bury a body but there was no soil around to sink a spade in? That's right, she did what any self-respecting Lark would do. She dug a hole in her own skull and buried him there. And that's why Skylarks have that lovely crest on the top of their heads – that represents the flap of skin and feathers that she lifted to pop poor dead Poppa bird in there.

What?!?!? I'm not sure what Aesop was drinking but if that's the way it makes you think then I'll stick to Barnsley bitter, thank you very much. The morale of the story is supposed to be that when our loved ones leave us, we shouldn't be too sad because we always carry them with us in our minds as memories. That's a lovely thought but maybe I've seen too many films... All I can think about is this little flap in her head where Zombie Dad-lark can burst out after eating her brains! Thanks for that image, Aesop. Sleep well, kiddies.

Even this picture in my mind can't displace the fact that Skylarks are beautiful birds. There are Shorelarks and Woodlarks in the same family as well but for me they have always come under the same category of 'Invisible Birds' alongside the Phoenix and the Bearded Tits in Old Moor's reedbeds. They hide whenever I start looking for them. Either that or they don't exist. If it weren't for the photos that delighted customers bring to show me at the Welcome Shed I could almost believe it.

So imagine my surprise when, on a recent trip to Norfolk, I broke my proverbial duck with one of these Lark species. On a visit to the beach I saw, skittering along the high tide mark near a group of Sanderling and Knot, a pair of smallish brown birds, unremarkable apart from their heads. If you've never even seen a picture of a Shorelark then prepare to be delighted. They're one of those birds that people can't believe we have here in England, the kind that should be filed under 'Exotic'. I'll wait here a moment while you pop off for a little Google search...

Welcome back. Aren't they special? Not your typical seaside water-edge bird at all, with their yellow head reminiscent of a Yellowhammer, their black bandit mask stretching down the side of their beak that resembles that of a Bearded Tit and those demonic little horns that bring to mind Old Nick himself... and suddenly we're back to the horror movie images. Sorry about that. They really are lovely little birds though and I was really pleased to see them. It was a life tick, for those who care about such things. But I've still never seen a Woodlark. Or perhaps I have? Many's the time that an indistinguishable streaky brown chap has flittered through my field of vision and left me totally stumped as to its identity. Maybe one of those was an incognito Woodlark? Maybe, but I doubt it. With only around 3,000 of them breeding here, it's unlikely, especially as the majority of these are to be found between London and the South Coast. That's an area I could do with visiting on my next bird-watching holiday.

Which brings me neatly on to next week's blog. Come back next time for 'GET UP AND GO'.