Not just for Christmas
T’was the harsh winter of ‘82, and a bitterly cruel morning – a sharp reflection of her inner despair. Earlier on, the radio newsreader had spoken of birds falling from the sky.
Bundling herself in hasty layers of garments seemed to heighten her sense of isolated insulation. And all just to pop the few hundred yards to the local store for a bag of essentials.
Emerging from the shop she was confronted by a couple of local wags. Superficially mild and innocuous they were helplessly programmed to forage for gossip. For scandal and indiscretions to carry off, like social dung beetles, to forensically build their dossiers on all the local misfits and miscreants.
She was well practised in the art of safe and superficial banter as they stood briefly by the busy intersection but as she was fielding a casual enquiry about a particularly colourful neighbour, she was aghast to bear witness as a robin plunged to the tarmac just feet from where they stood. Her innate instinct to lunge, gather and cradle the poor mite to the warmth of her heart was fleetingly constrained by her deference to her beaming interrogators. She gestured feebly at the road – ‘excuse me’ – she faltered, just as a huge truck bore down out of nowhere on the hapless fluttering of feathers. She gasped aloud as it passed, until she saw that it had safely straddled her little protégé. The road was now clear as she promptly deposited her shopping, stepped off the curb, and reached out for the tiny creature.
However, as the fates would have it – those fates that were no doubt striving to reach her and teach her – there came a great white sign from above as a large gull swooped within inches of her outstretched hand and snatched up the god-given morsel in its beak.
Her already riveted pavement companions froze open-mouthed as she hurled rich and heartfelt abuse at both the disappearing highway robber and at her own futile dreams of redemption. Nature, once again, had delivered a lesson in destiny, perspective and acceptance.
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Robin Redbreast: Erithacus rubecula
… that familiar and audacious little emblem of the magic of winter and the glee of Christmas. They became our Yuletide posterbird in Victorian times, when postmen were called robin redbreasts on account of their red waistcoats. With the dawning of the commercialisation of Christmas, dear erithacus rubecula had acquired an enduring niche as a cheery deliverer of postal goodwill.
Contrary to our assumptions, both male and female adults flaunt the fancy red breast feathers. Fortunately, they can tell the difference. Indeed, every robin has a unique bib pattern, like a fingerprint. Their youngsters are brownish and punky with a speckly chest, making them classic contenders for the birders’ LBJ (little brown jobs) category. The robins’ other distinctive features are their spindly legs and thin pointy beaks.
Robins ( both male and female) sing all year round. Theirs is the first voice of the dawn chorus, and the last of the day, and where streetlights prevail, they often perform throughout the night.
Theirs is the sweetest of lyrics, but hidden within its melancholy and melody lurks the battle cry of a truly bloody warmonger. A territorial dispute will start with a sing-off between two or more males and escalate if no-one backs down. The next phase is confrontation, and if serious, can end in death by beak & claw, often by severance of the spinal cord. It is estimated that some 10% of male adult deaths are by such encounters.
One of the few birds to find time to sing in the winter, their December songs acquire a tone of seduction, and they usually secure a mate by mid January, to become the earliest of nest-builders in March. They may produce up to three broods, building a new nest for each clutch. Renowned for their creative and adaptive nesting skills, they will entrust their clutches of beautiful blue eggs to teapots, old boots, postboxes, under car bonnets, in old coat pockets, and once even found in the carcass of a long-dead cat.
When you’re out there being a bird, every moment of every day is fraught with high risk and multiple dangers - yet gilded with opportunity. And opportunity is fed by curiosity and observation and courage - something a robin has in (and on) spades.
Being ground feeders, with specifically big eyes, they are originally a woodland dweller, following the foraging and diggery of large mammals like boar and deer that unearth the precious creepy crawlies so central to their diet. But robins soon nudged ever closer to the marginal territories of the human diggers (and providers of spade handles for photo opportunities) and ultimately persuaded many of us to booster the multi billion garden birdfood industry. I have one who taps on the window every morning to taunt my cat and to remind me of my avian obligations. The suburban robin’s chance of survival is far greater than that of his woodland chums, especially in winter. Meanwhile, the shyer European robin prefers to remain in the woods throughout large swathes of Europe where they are still bravely hunted down for scrawny hors d’oeuvres.
Ironically, in spite of their Christmas card bravado, and general gnarliness, robins are especially vulnerable to cold. At -2C, they use up almost 10% of their bodyweight to stay warm overnight, so need to consume around a third of their bodyweight every day. They suffer a very high mortality rate, especially in a harsh winter - and they have to make it to spring in order to manufacture more robins. Most will die in their first year, few make it past two. The average maximum age is five or six, the oldest recorded being eleven.
So .. a white Christmas is deadly for our little chums. That fat robin is a very cold robin. When the earth is solid and unyielding to small beaks, or buried in snow and ice, there is little sustenance to be found. This is true for all species of ground feeding birds who have yet to evolve the right feet for bird feeders. Only the top predators will benefit when they fall from the skies .. so share some cake or biscuit crumbs, a bit of grated cheese, seeds, soft fruit, uncooked oats, leftover mealworms?, raisins, suet treats, fresh water .. and keep them flying and singing
And take note of December 21st, not only because it’s our winter solstice but also the seventh UK National Robin Day - established to raise awareness of all small garden birds who may be struggling to survive at this time of year. Who better to pose and sing on their behalf than Robin?
Check out www.songbird-survival.org.uk or SongBird Survival on Facebook to see how you can help them along