Knossington Bird Survey

The morning promised sunshine, pale golden light was glowing through a cloud draped sky. By the time I was on my way at 7:30 there were more signs that the cloud was going to win. By 7:48 I was in my allotted tetrad beginning my late winter count. Counting was made harder by the deep, soft mud, trying to pull my feet from under me. I tried to look up to the trees and bushes around me, but my eyes kept being dragged down to my feet, all of my concentration focussed on remaining upright.

But today, this late February morning, spring was with me, although a wind was rising. Robins that have kept up their song all through the winter are now being joined by the chaffinch, tits and dunnocks. Walking past Windmill Lodge, I see what look like thrushes on a farm building. Fieldfare I suspect, but against the light, skulking in shadows I can’t be sure. I am sure of the small cloud of around fifteen yellow hammers that rise from the thick bare-twigged hedges. Joining the spring song, the males now with their canary yellow heads seemed to be dripping from the trees and bushes today.

I hear so many people disbelieving research into bird numbers and trends, basing their beliefs on their own experience and anecdotal evidence. If I were to follow suit, and I’m not, I would be satisfied from today’s walk that the yellow hammer is flourishing. I know this is not the case.

On a timed visit, trying to cover as much of the map square as possible in one hour, trying to record as many of the birds as possible, an identification of a call has to suffice. A green woodpecker continues to taunt me, calling, close by, I look up each time, but I haven’t time to stop and search for the bird I know is there.

A flock of around seventy fieldfare fly from tree to tree, at this early hour the countryside seems thronged with birds. Corvids, tits, finches – including a pair of bull finches. I’m delayed by an identification crisis. After about 5 minutes of listening to song and looking form minute differences I am satisfied that the bird is a willow, not a marsh, tit.

With just around a minute of my hour left the welcome song of the skylark reaches my ears and, unusually, my eyes find it easily as it climbs into the sky.

The small rolling fields, wooded coverts, brooks and streams of the Leicestershire countryside are becoming familiar to me now. A pure joy to be in, if only for an hour.