I was out in the garden reading (Bernardine Evaristo’s Girl Woman, Other since you ask). Absorbed, I hadn’t noticed, but suddenly I did… A bird’s call – loud, imperious, by turns chiding, whistling, chirruping or tuneful. And incessant. A mistle thrush was responsible, and he wasn’t hard to find. He had found a high perch, as he’s supposed to do, in the top branches of a copper beech.
Once noticed, he was impossible to ignore. He called and he sang until after half past nine that night. The next day he began at ten past four, as the sun was rising. Since then, during daylight hours, he’s barely stopped. Not for him a tea break or a spot of down-time. He’s claimed his territory, and he’s not letting it go.
Today it’s raining for the first time in ages. He’s still at it … and the video gives no idea at all of the volume of sound produced.
From Pyrenees to Pennines 
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