Dear Readers, after a day of continual pouring rain yesterday it was such a relief to have some dry weather today for my visit to St Andrew’s Church in Milborne St Andrew, Dorset, to tidy up Mum and Dad’s grave. Actually, I’m rather loving the way that the lesser celandines are combining with the cowslips and saxifrage that I’ve bought.

And here’s a little bit of a soundscape. See how many birds you can identify! Or just enjoy…

And it’s interesting how the pollinators turn up straight away. It’s easy to forget that flies, too, can act as pollinators.

A bumblebee drones over, but there are a couple of honeybees, so someone around here must have a hive…

Here’s a little bit of film showing the busy honeybee, already collecting pollen. It’s so great to see all the lesser celandines providing some protein.

And just look at the primroses here. Around these three graves, and across the lower part of the graveyard, they’ve spread and bred into a carpet of cream, with a few pink ones.

And here’s a final soundscape, looking down between the yew trees to the church door. This is such a peaceful place, and I really wanted to share it with you all. We could all do with a bit of peace at the moment.

Dear Readers, here I am in Dorchester for a visit to Mum and Dad’s grave tomorrow, and I’m starting the day with breakfast at my hotel, the King’s Arms. I’ve written about it before, but today I looked up from tappity-tapping away in my phone and noticed these amazing columns. They’re sturdy, topped with a capitol, and girded with metal bands, all of which made me think that maybe where I’m sitting was actually once a courtyard. Checking out the history of the building, I found out that the current King’s Arms building dates back to 1720, but its heyday was probably 1850 , when it was an important coaching inn. Forty coaches changed their horses at the King’s Arms every week, and there was stabling for 120 horses where the restaurant and kitchen is now. The coaches would leave at 11 a.m. every day, and arrive in London at the Swan with Two Necks pub (which was located where Gresham Street is now). I can almost hear the sound of horses hooves clopping.

And look at these flagstones…

There is another point here, though – if I hadn’t looked up from my phone, I would never have noticed the pillars. It’s easy, especially if you’re on your own, to just stick your nose in a phone, or a book, but I wonder what else I’ve missed? More on this shortly, but first, a few more photos of the King’s Arms.

It’s a tricky building to ‘read’, having been changed so much in its history, and being on so many different levels, but here are a few highlights.

This is the Casterbridge Room, where Thomas Hardy wrote ‘The Mayor of Casterbridge’. Casterbridge is really Dorchester, and you can’t spend much time around here without coming across Hardy-esque paraphernalia. This is a beautiful room, with a gorgeous round Georgian bay window.

And this gives you some idea of the different levels of the hotel. I would say that if you have mobility issues you might want to have a chat in advance. Nice chandelier though!

And look at this absolutely gorgeous encaustic floor.

Anyhow, after buying way too many shoes in Hotter, and buying plants for Mum and Dad’s grave visit tomorrow, and doing some work on my OU course, I head off to the Dorset County Museum cafe for some lunch. And sitting next to me are a lovely couple who live in Dorchester, in Brewery Square.  The man is a big Byzantium buff, and as it happens, we’re watching a series about the Crusades at the moment, and are planning a trip to Ravenna later this year. It’s not until the end, when the man stands up and puts on a portable oxygen supply. I think of Dad and his COPD, and my heart lurches a bit. Time was I would probably have stuck my nose into my Kindle and not looked up, but I seem to have more energy for social interaction since I gave up work, and it occurs to me that people, and their lives, can be every bit as interesting as a book. Plus, a woman of 64 with grey hair is much less likely to be harassed by a random chap than someone younger and more amiable, so there’s a lot to be said for being ‘of a certain age’ so it’s easier to be more open, while still having a handy ‘look of death’ if there’s any old nonsense.

Oh, and look at these two. I have a nice view over the rooftops from my (very quiet) room. I think that love might be in the air…

Dear Readers, I am in a pensive mood today – I’m off to Dorset for a few days to visit Mum and Dad’s grave, and to reconnect with some friends in the area. Before I go, I look out of the window to see that the birds really have learned how the squirrel-proof feeder works, and seem to enjoy being relatively protected within the ‘cage’. I can also report that no squirrels have managed to break in since I’ve learned to put the top on properly.

But today, I watched as a siskin approached the feeder, and tried to work out whether she could risk going past those bars to the tasty food behind. In the past I have remarked that siskins only ever seem to visit the feeder when the weather is terrible, usually when it’s snowing, so this was a big surprise.

Siskins in the snow

She stuck her head through the bars and withdrew several times, and then, gaining her courage, she bounced in, took a seed and retreated to the safety of the lilac bush. Then a male siskin hopped down and did the same. Male and female siskins often travel together, and there was something moving about these two. You could almost hear them conferring over whether it was safe to feed.

Of course, by the time I’d got my camera they’d both disappeared, to be replaced by the bolshie little blue tit in the photo above.

While siskins will eat sunflower seeds, they are said to prefer nyjer, and the seeds of birch and alder. Dominic Couzens, in his lovely book ‘The Secret Life of Garden Birds’, mentions that back in the 1960s, people largely offered food to birds in little red plastic net bags (you might remember them if you’re as old as I am). In the brutal winter of 1963 many people started to feed birds, and this is the first time that siskins were spotted in gardens. Couzens has a theory that maybe those red bags looked like enormous supersized alder ‘cones’, and so the siskins couldn’t believe their luck. Impossible to prove, but a great idea.

A male siskin during a very cold snap.

The siskins favourite food, however, is the seed of the cones of the Sitka spruce, so they are most commonly seen in conifer plantations. The British Trust for Ornithology’s research seems to indicate that birds turn up in the garden when seed supplies are low, or when the birds are migrating – they seem to turn up in gardens in the south of England during the late spring. Interestingly, they also visit more often when it’s rainy, and the pine cones are closed. If you’re ever lucky enough to see a family of siskins, they’re likely to be residents who are breeding locally.

The garden always throws up surprises – just when I think I know what to expect, someone new turns up. These little birds have thoroughly cheered me up, and I am most grateful to them.

If you’d like to read a bit more about the siskin, have a read of my post ‘The Chizhik-Pyzhik’. 

From left to right – male siskin, female siskin and male chaffinch.

Magicicada laying eggs (Photo by By Resqgal – Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=106029586)

Dear Readers, I subscribe to a Substack by Lev Parikian, who wrote a book called ‘Taking Flight‘ which I love. For those who don’t know, a lot of authors are moving over to Substack – usually you get some free content, and if you like it you can sign up to get additional material, which is a way of supporting writers who, apart from the few who earn megabucks, are mostly living a pretty hand-to-mouth existence. Anyhow, this week I was very taken by Parikian’s piece on the periodical cicadas of the USA, particularly because this year is a bumper year for anyone who loves these intriguing insects.

For those who don’t know, cicadas spend 99 per cent of their lives underground, and then all emerge at once, so that they overwhelm all the many, many predators who feed on them. They then mate, the females cut little slits into twigs to lay their eggs, the larvae feed up and then burrow underground, where they stay for the next 13 or 17 years.

Hmm. Why 13 or 17 years, though? I’d never thought about this, but Parikian has an explanation. Both 13 and 17 are prime numbers (i.e. only divisible by themselves and one). Predators also have life-cycles, so just imagine if the cicadas emerged after, say 12 years – they would encounter all the animals with lifespans of 6, 4, 3 and 2 years, these all being factors of 12. Presumably, over time, evolution has favoured those cicadas who are less predated, and so nature has sorted out this extraordinary pattern. I love it when mathematics and biology converge, as they so often do.

Another hypothesis is that the unusual brood-length is a way of preventing different broods from hybridising with one another. Normally this wouldn’t be such a good thing, as genetic diversity is normally a great way of ensuring resilience, but scientists have hypothesised that keeping the brood length to 13 or 17 years long is so valuable to the species that they don’t want to risk losing it by crossbreeding. My mind is a little blown as to how this would work out in practice, but there are models which support the idea. As with all things in nature, it’s probably a combination of both ideas.

What makes 2024 so special is that, for the first time since 2015, a 13 year brood and a 17 year brood will emerge at the same time. Furthermore, the range of the different ‘broods’ will be extraordinary this year (a ‘brood’ is a group of cicadas that went underground in a particular location at a particular time). And finally, there are seven different species of periodical cicadas (Magicicadas) and this year any cicada-lovers out there should be able to see all seven species as adults, which won’t happen again until 2037. I’m almost sorry that I’m not planning to visit the US this year, though I imagine it’s going to be both noisy and a bit scary with all these critters singing and flying about.

Have a look at this film from the BBC with David Attenborough. Enough of the ‘zombies’ though. These creatures are not undead, but full of vim and vigour.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EWr8fzUz-Yw

Incidentally, here in the UK we have only one species of cicada, which lives quietly in the New Forest. Sadly, it hasn’t been seen for ten years, but as we know, it could be biding its time underground. The charity Buglife has set up the New Forest Cicada project, which includes an app developed to pick up the song of the insect which, unlike the ones in the USA, sings a very high-pitched song which is above the range of normal human hearing. Fingers crossed that this insect (one of the largest in the UK, if it’s still here) will put in an appearance at some point soon. Fortunately the New Forest Cicada isn’t confined to the UK but also lives in other places in Europe and Asia. Sadly, though, it’s considered endangered across its range.

New Forest Cicada (Cicadetta montana) seen in Croatia (Photo by By Fritz Geller-Grimm, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=50838311)

Male Hairy-Footed Flower Bee (Anthrophora plumipes) in my garden last year

Dear Readers, as I was wandering up Huntingdon Road in East Finchley earlier this week, I spotted another first sign of spring. Someone has a very nice viburnum in a pot in their front garden, and there were no less than four male hairy-footed flower bees divebombing one another around it. Regular readers might remember that I did some research on this species last year for my OU degree, and learned quite a bit about their life cycles.

Every year, the eggs that have been laid in tunnels in walls or chimney stacks during the previous year hatch, and the male bees emerge first. In the hairy-footed flower bee, this can be as early as February, though this year I suspect that the near-constant rain kept them ‘indoors’ until now. They are amongst the first bees to emerge every year. They are a very, very fast and flighty species, and difficult to photograph, though you maybe get the idea from the photo below.

Yes, the males are ginger with white markings on their faces, and often fly with their tongue out, which endears them to me no end.

The males tend to hang around the flowers where they hope the females will arrive to feed, but they can sometimes have a long wait (anything up to 2 to 3 weeks). When the females do arrive, they are even ‘zoomier’ than the males, and are pretty easily identified if they stay still long enough – they are jet-black, but with a ginger pollen brush on the hind legs (these bees don’t have complex pollen baskets like social bees such as bumbles and honeybees).

Female Hairy-Footed Flower Bee

Female Hairy-Footed Flower Bee

But why, I hear you ask, is the bee described as ‘hairy-footed’? Well, have a look at the excellent photo below and it might give you a clue…

Photo by Gilles San Martin at https://www.flickr.com/photos/sanmartin/52849456034/

Once the females emerge, the males will attempt to mate with the female, who won’t put up with any of that old nonsense if she isn’t in the mood, raising a leg to indicate that the male should get with the programme, because once mated the female will spend the rest of her short life feeding, digging a nest tunnel, laying her eggs, sealing the tunnel up and then coming to the end of her short life. No wonder these bees like to get started early! 

If you watch closely, there is wave after wave of bee species visiting the garden, from this species at the start of the spring right through to the ivy bees at the close of the season. I’m intending to keep a very close eye this year, to see who is about and when. Let me know what you’re seeing in your garden!

Ivy bee from 22nd September last year.

Dear Readers, I know that you’re not supposed to have favourites, but this characterful cherry tree on Leicester Road in East Finchley’s County Roads is definitely mine. Clearly it’s been pruned over the years to make sure that it doesn’t collide with any windows or collapse onto the garage (a most unusual feature here) but it manages to look both awkward and elegant, a most unusual mixture.

I would love to know its history, and I’m very pleased that none of the people who’ve owned the house have decided to cut it down – if the weather was a little warmer, I’d be expecting it to be thrumming with bees. Instead, in the past hour we’ve had torrential rain, hailstones, sunshine, wind and a few moments of calm. I saw my first hairy-footed flower bees of the year, which is always a happy sign. And while we wait for things to settle down a bit, here’s some of the blossom – let’s hope it stays on the tree for a little bit longer.

In other news, I recently found that green alkanet (of which I have a superabundance in both the front and back garden, ahem) is the foodplant of the caterpillars of two of my favourite moths, the Jersey Tiger and the Scarlet Tiger. There have been lots of Jersey Tigers about in the past few years, and I wonder if this common London weed is part of the reason? Anyhow, keep your eyes open for these little dudes if you have any of this stuff about. When the flowers emerge, it’s great for pollinators too, though the taproot goes down to the centre of the earth so I understand some gardeners being less than  tolerant of the stuff.

Any caterpillars that you see at this time of year are likely to be the Jersey Tigers – the larvae feed at night from September to May (presumably going into a torpid state when it’s very cold) before pupating on the ground in a silken cocoon and emerging as the adult moth in late spring/early summer. Scarlet Tigers can also be seen in the spring, and there may be a group of caterpillars feeding together. How exciting! I shall certainly be keeping my eyes open, as something has clearly been eating my green alkanet. It’s probably slugs, but you never know!

Green alkanet (Pentaglottis sempervirens)

Jersey Tiger caterpillar (Euplagia quadripunctaria) (Photo by This image is created by user Tom Deroover at Waarnemingen.be, a source of nature observations in Belgium., CC BY 3.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0&gt;, via Wikimedia Commons)

Jersey Tiger Moth (Photo by AJC1 from UK, CC BY-SA 2.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0&gt;, via Wikimedia Commons)

Scarlet Tiger caterpillar (Callimorpha diminula) Photo by Ilia Ustyantsev from Russia, CC BY-SA 2.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0&gt;, via Wikimedia Commons

Scarlet Tiger Moth (Photo gailhampshire from Cradley, Malvern, U.K, CC BY 2.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0&gt;, via Wikimedia Commons)

Chiffchaff ((Phylloscopus collybita) Photo by Andreas Trepte. Licensed under CC BY-SA 2.5 via Wikimedia Commons

A series following the 72 British mini-seasons of Nature’s Calendar by Kiera Chapman, Lulah Ellender, Rowan Jaines and Rebecca Warren. 

Dear Readers, have you heard one yet? The song of the chiffchaff is one of those brainfever calls, the very sound of spring (along with the frogs in the pond). Here’s one that I recorded a few years ago in Cherry Tree Wood here in East Finchley – these ‘little brown jobs’ seem very fond of the scrubby area alongside the tube track. I love the way that the bird cherry blossom is blowing down in the wind.

I haven’t heard a chiffchaff just yet, and that’s perhaps a little surprising, though the rain has been relentless and I have been mostly cowering indoors. In ‘Nature’s Calendar’, Rebecca Warren suggests that some chiffchaffs are now spending the winter in the UK, as the winters become milder and a few insects survive through the year. There would certainly be precedent – the number of blackcaps, a small, usually migratory warbler, who stay throughout the year seems to be rising. Plus, Warren points out that some chiffchaffs, who normally migrate all the way to Africa from Scandinavia and other parts of Northern Europe, are now ‘short-stopping’ in the UK.

It can be tricky to identify a chiffchaff if it isn’t calling, however: have a look at the willow warbler (Psylloscopus trochilus) below. Migratory birds arrive in the UK in ‘late March’ (as opposed to ‘early March’ according to my Crossley guide), but as we’ve seen, that isn’t exactly diagnostic. Apparently, the willow warbler is a) yellower, b) larger and slimmer, c) more ‘open-faced’ and d) has a longer bill with an ‘almost orange’ base. Well, good luck with that, birdwatching peeps. Both chiffchaff and willow warbler are usually shy and retiring, and frequent similar scrubby habitat, so the best you’ll get is a glimpse.

Willow warbler (Phylloscopus trochilus). Photo by Andreas Trepte.

But then, maybe all we have to do is listen? Here’s the song of the willow warbler, to compare to the chiffchaff’s song in the video above. This was recorded by David Pennington in South Yorkshire.

And because I can’t resist it, here’s a chiffchaff from Belgium, recorded by Bernar Collet

If you pay attention, you can see the changeover going on – the migrants who appeared in autumn, such as the redwings, are restless and will be heading north to their breeding grounds, while many birds will be heading north from their wintering grounds in southern Europe or even further afield. They seem to be adaptable, these birds, with some of them staying put, some of them ‘short-stopping’ and some of them coming to the UK in ever decreasing numbers, as is the case with many of the birds that I’ve been looking at in my ‘Into the Red’ season. But the chiffchaffs come in huge numbers, up to 2 million every year, and let’s hope that it continues. They build their nests close to the ground, in brambles or nettles, and this reminds me of what an important, protective habitat a bramble patch can be.

Like the wren, the chiffchaff seems such a bundle of energy. This small bird has (probably) travelled to the UK all the way from Africa, crossing the Mediterranean, avoiding being shot in various places, to set up home in a piece of scrubby woodland. And how he sings! Like the wren, he expends so much energy in song, punching into the soundscape like a tiny sewing machine. They make me think that, however creakily, the wheel of life is still turning.

Chiffchaff (Photo by By Munish Jauhar – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=32538487)

Dear Readers, if you should ever be lucky enough to go to the Sunshine Garden Centre in Bounds Green on the 102 bus. you might notice a tiny area of green, with a few hawthorn and cherry trees just coming into bloom.

And if, while you’re waiting for the bus on the way back you happen to take a walk along the path through the little green area (which is sandwiched between Albert Road and Durnsford Road, you might notice that, amongst the lesser celandine and daisies, there are patches of violets, as you can see in the top photo. And furthermore, these are not any old violets, but sweet violets. If you bend close enough, you’ll notice a heady scent, which reminds me of parma violet sweets, and that perfume that all the gift shops in Devon sell (called, imaginatively, ‘Devon Violet’.

What an unexpected pleasure it is to find these flowers in such an urban area! And as I only had my phone with me to take the (less than perfect) photos, here are some better ones so you can see exactly what sweet violet looks like (though the smell should definitely give it away if you get close enough).

Sweet Violet (Viola odorata)

My Plantlife magazine this month has a useful guide to identifying our commonest violets. With sweet violet, the sweet smell is diagnostic, but you can’t always get close enough to tell unless you’re a bit more limber than I am these days (in spite of my pilates). One way is to get technical, and to look at the sepals – these are the green coverings of the bud before it comes into flower, and in sweet violet they are blunt with short, downy hairs, as you can see clearly in the photo below.

Sweet violet (Viola odorata) showing blunt, hairy sepals (Photo By Frank Vincentz – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=1855012)

The other violets that you might see at this time of the year are early dog-violet (Viola reichenbachiana) and common dog-violet (Viola riviniana). When a plant has ‘dog’ as part of its name, it tends to mean that it’s an inferior version of a plant, hence ‘dog’ violets have no scent.

This is early dog-violet – note that the sepals are pointed.

Early dog-violet (Photo by Tico Bassie at https://www.flickr.com/photos/tico_bassie/3391334455)

Now, unfortunately for any one keen to identify to species level, the sepals on common dog-violet are also pointed, but to tell the difference, we need to look at the spur, which is the backward pointed part of the flower. In early dog-violet, it’s darker than the flower, whereas in common dog-violet it’s lighter than the flower (as you can see in the botanical illustration below). Simples! Except that I suspect that where the plants grow together they might hybridise, and there are probably other garden varieties of violet that crop up from time to time.

Common dog-violet

I find that it’s lovely to be able to put a name to a plant – for me, it opens a door to understanding more about it, and how it fits in with the other plants and animals that interact with it. For example, I had no idea that violets (in particular dog violets) are the food plant of so many of our fritillary butterflies, and it reminds me how vulnerable a little soft-bodied caterpillar would be if it was feeding on violets in a public place, where it could be trampled.

Pearl-bordered fritillary (Photo by By Iain Lawrie – Own work, CC BY 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=33507212)

Silver-washed fritillary (Photo by By Uoaei1 – Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=99733829)

Interestingly, I was with my friend S, and although I could smell the sweet violets, she couldn’t. There is a legend that you can only smell sweet violets once, which I find rather intriguing, as the scent of the plant contains chemicals called beta-ionones, which temporarily shut off the scent receptors. However, there is also a genetic component – some people can smell beta-ionone very clearly as a floral scent, whereas others are one hundred times less sensitive, and when they do smell the chemical it seems to have a vinegary edge. Fascinating! And of course, the sense of smell of some people who were infected with Covid has still not returned, or has been somehow changed.

Let me know if you’ve had strange experiences with regard to flower scents, Readers! I had one friend who insisted that freesias smelled of sausages, and I am ready for anything.

Dog Violet

Acidanthera – Photo from Suesviews https://www.flickr.com/photos/suzieq/242252223/

Dear Readers, many moons ago I had a very flat garden with very heavy clay soil, and not a lot of sunlight. So, I went to my ancient RHS Encyclopaedia to see what I could grow, and one of the suggestions was Acidanthera, so I duly popped some in. When they emerged I was stunned at their elegance and sweet smell but then, when I moved, I promptly forgot about them again. Until earlier this week, when my friend J was looking for a summer plant for clay soil that was white in colour, and here we are.

The corms only come in supersized bags of 60, so we’ve split a packet and the Race For Acidanthera is now on, with prizes for first flower and largest flower. What the prizes will be remains to be seen, but I’m sure it will involve cake.

Anyway, what on earth is this flower? It used to be known as Acidanthera bicolor,  but these days it’s been firmly plonked in the Gladioli family, and is known as Gladiolus murielae. Its English names include Abyssinian gladiolus, and fragrant gladiolus, and indeed the plant comes originally from East Africa, with a range from Ethiopia to Malawi. The shape of the flowers is very unusual, and they seem to dangle from the stems like so many butterflies, but the Sarah Raven website calls the plant the peacock lily, though it isn’t a lily.

Incidentally, the name ‘Gladiolus‘ means ‘small sword’, which refers to the spikey green foliage when it first emerges from the ground. ‘Acidanthera’ means ‘pointed object’ or ‘needle’. So now we know.

Photo by Stefano at https://www.flickr.com/photos/81918877@N00/48903783198

In theory, Acidanthera should be hardy if you give it a thick mulch, but the Gardener’s World website suggests that it should be treated as an annual, which seems like a bit of a waste. It also suggests that the plant needs well-drained soil, which makes me wonder about my ageing encyclopaedia. Oh well, we can only try. Interestingly, it also suggests soaking the bulb in warm water before planting, and also says that the bulbs shouldn’t be planted until late spring. Have any of you had a go with this plant, Readers? Give me a shout if you have any experience/advice.

Photo by Yercaud-elango, CC BY-SA 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0&gt;, via Wikimedia Commons

Acidanthera is thought to be pollinated by moths in its native countries, and this makes a kind of sense – the scent is stronger at night, and many moth-pollinated flowers are white.

It appears that the flowers (described as ‘lettuce-like’ in flavour) are edible for humans : the Van Meuwen website suggests including them in ‘sweet and savoury spreads’, while the individual petals can be used in salads.

The corms have been used as antimicrobials and anti-inflammatory agents in African traditional medicine, for both humans and animals.

Most of all though, for the gardener, this is a plant that promises to fill that awkward gap in late summer, when most plants have already ‘gone over’ and the autumn specialists (such as asters and sedums) aren’t yet ready to pop. I will be interested to see how my friend J and I get on.

Photo by Wylie at https://www.flickr.com/photos/wylieyoung/5041151175

And finally, a poem. As you might expect, poems celebrating the Acidanthera are few and far between, probably because what would you rhyme with it? But here is a poem by South African poet Mbuyiseni Oswald Mtshali that mentions gladioli in general, and although it’s set in a Johannesburg park, it also reminds me of Parisian parks that I’ve visited, where people sit with their bare feet on the low fence around the lawn, occasionally touching a toe to the green if they don’t think the park keeper is watching….see what you think.

KEEP OFF THE GRASS by Mbuyiseni Oswald Mtshali

The grass is the green mat
trimmed with gladioli
red like flames in the furnace.
The park bench, hallowed,
holds the loiterer listening
to the chant of the fountain
showering holy water in the congregation
of pigeons.

“Keep off the grass,
Dogs not under leash forbidden.”

Then Madam walks her Pekinese,
bathed and powdered and perfumed.
He sniffs at the face of the “Keep Off” sign
with a nose as cold as frozen fish
and salutes it with a hind paw
leaving it weeping in anger and shame.

Dear Readers, it has been a dank and miserable couple of days here in East Finchley, but when I popped out to the shed last night I could hear the frogs singing (finally) – the males have been around for a month now, but the females have finally taken the hint, to much excitement.

And today, finally, there’s frog spawn. And all sorts of frog-related goings on.

Honestly, just look at them. Where do they go to after the breeding season? I have absolutely no idea. A few hang around in the pond, but most of them just seem to disappear. They could be in the woodpile beside the shed, they might have wriggled into the dark, damp space under the wooden stairs, but wherever they are they’re not very obvious. The tadpoles are, though, and if I don’t get ahead of that duckweed this week it will soon be full of little wriggly amphibians so clearing it will be something of a challenge.

The one in the photo below was actually calling, though he froze mid-croak when he spotted me. Who knew that they were so shy?

Just look at them all! They will all initially spawn in the shallow bit at the end of the pond, next to the ‘beach’, which is a bit foolish because as the water level goes down, the tadpoles end up stranded, unless some kind person (i.e. me) notices and washes them into the water with a bucket of water.

And in other news, I looked out of the window yesterday to see a squirrel getting tucked into the squirrel-proof feeder, having somehow removed the lid from the top. Did I not put it on properly, or have they learned how to twist it off? Only time will tell.

The squirrel-proof feeder with lid intact.

And finally a lone parakeet continues to visit the seed feeder, and a very tough bird she is too, though not as tough as Rambo the feral pigeon. Here she is seeing off a collared dove, and she’s seen off a woodpigeon too.

So even on a drizzly, murky day there’s always something to see, and who could resist those little frog faces? They seem somehow so defenceless and so single-minded, but if you ever pick one up to move them to safety (they don’t like being handled and so I only do it in an emergency) you’d be amazed how strong those back legs are. The sound of frogs singing is the official start of spring for me. Now all I need to hear is a chiff-chaff, and I’ll be in business.