Goldfinch

I met Michael Longley in Dublin yesterday in the National Gallery. The setting prompted me to ask him why there often was a goldfinch in Renaissance pictures of the Annunciation. Michael didn't disappoint, and told me that because the goldfinch feeds on thistles and spiny plants, it was associated with the crown of thorns of the crucifixion; the bird was included to remind people of Christ's death at the moment of his conception.

There is a much more secular goldfinch in the Delft exhibition currently at Merrion Square.

Chickadee by Jack Coughlin

Birthday

This blog is celebrating its third birthday today. When it started, people at the lower end of the middle incomes were being encouraged to buy property in the Cape Verde islands, and red brick in Dublin 4 was rivalling gold as a commodity. How times have changed! 

Greenshank

   Yesterday felt like a good day to search for an otter on a body of fresh water: cold, clear and calm. On bird surveys in winter otters are regularly spotted around Clew Bay, so why not go out deliberately to look for them? I chose two lakes north of Newport, Furnace and Feagh. Furnace is the smaller lake among the drumlins; a narrow channel connects it with the larger, more open expanse of Feagh.

   The calm conditions of late morning meant that any movement in the water should be apparent. I searched the water and the rocky shore of Lough Furnace with the telescope but could only see a pair of tufted duck and one or two dabchick. When we got to Feagh the wind from the Nephins had picked up, making the lake surface a crinkly emptiness. It is remarkable that the waters of these mountain lakes are virtually untenanted in winter whereas the lowland limestone lakes are packed with duck. A careful search of the far shore yielded nothing.

   Driving on towards Letterkeen and the upper end of the lake, we crossed bare country strewn with glacial debris, as if the Ice Age had ended just a few decades, and not ten thousand years ago. Mistle thrushes, fieldfares and redwing flew off as the car approached. The tops of the mountains to the west were white with snow, but you would need to slog up to about two thousand feet to find the right ground for your cross country skis. Mayo's skiing industry is hardly viable.

   I thought the top of the lake was worth one last scan for a diver, perhaps, or a golden eagle from the Donegal reintroduction programme. 'There's a bird!' said my wife, whose eye is now alert to the nuances of these places. A grey wader, maybe a curlew? The bird was at the water's edge, and when it turned to show the contrast between its grey back and pure white underparts the word 'greenshank' suddenly transformed the scene. A solitary bird, as is usually the case with the species here in the west. What could it possibly find to nourish it in these freezing waters? Aware of our presence, it bobbed its head several times and then walked out of the water onto the grass at the edge. I examined the gift of its scaly, slate-coloured back, with lighter feather margins. The underparts of the winter plumage are a brilliant white, in a way more splendid than the grubbier dress of the breeding season.

   Greenshanks are the quintessential bird of lonely lochs and moors. They have not been known to breed in Ireland since the 1970s despite the availability of much suitable habitat. This one will be returning north in April, possibly to a tract of flow country in Scotland. As it took off, calling across the bleak waters of Lough Feagh it was the spirit of the place itself on a cold February day. 

Song Thrush

Singing in the small hours last year:

Chop suey. Chop suey.

Why don't they listen to me? Why don't they listen to me?

And Louis. And Louis.

Chop suey. Chop suey.

What is it with Willie? What is it with Willie?

Jeddah. Jeddah.

Scattering farthings. Scattering farthings.

Slithering things.

And Louis. And Louis.

Why don't they listen to me? Why don't they listen to me?

And Louis. And Louis.

Chop suey. Chop suey.

Jeddah. Jeddah. Jeddah.

Tourett's. Tourett's. Tourett's.

And Louis. And Louis.

Chop suey. Chop. suey.

Redpolls

In a recent blog I was looking forward to the first skylark and the parade of grebes on a local lake. At the same time, an area of high pressure was brewing in eastern Europe which was determined to frustrate my naive hopes. The wind is now swinging to the east and the forecast is for low temperatures, wind chill and the chance of snow. The splendours of winter are reserved for the period in the year when time and light are against them.

   Yesterday afternoon it was dusk between half past five and six; still some glimmers from the west at six, enough to spot a woodcock in silhouette. This morning the sun rose at 8.30, a calm disk of vivid apricot suspended beside my neighbour's house on the far side of the valley.

   On yesterday's walk I trained the binoculars on a small flock of finches in a hawthorn: redpolls, with that intense dab of scarlet on their foreheads; the low winter light also warmed the colours of their flanks and underparts, subtle, rich tones of yellow and buff below the stronger emphasis of the dark primaries. Evolution has somehow given these birds a flash of extravagant red, enough to equip them for the Venice Carnival. They were preening as I watched them backstage during a break in some elaborate costume drama.