There’s a bit more enthusiasm in birdsong now. The strident see-saw of the great tit, the varied riffs of the song thrush and more substance to the song of the robin. At Brodsworth this morning we heard the laughing call of a green woodpecker – but didn’t spot the bird itself.
A wood pigeon poddles along, following a potential mate. She’s not impressed. She keeps looking over her shoulder then waddling on. I’d describe her attitude as embarrassed. He is apparently taking these backward glances as a come-on. He keeps following her along the railway sleeper edging of our 6 foot-square raised bed, round and round like the figures walking endlessly around the stepped ramparts of an Escher illusion.