Has the dawn chorus been silenced?

Normally every spring the morning air, even before sunrise, is filled with birdsong, each bird apparently competing with the others.

At times, the noise can be deafening, certainly sufficient to rouse a few sleepy human heads. Some birds such as blackbirds, thrushes, robins and chaffinches can he heard above all the others, although it is an interesting exercise to try and identify all the singers.

This year, however, the chorus seems to have been conspicuous by its absence .

In similar vein, the sudden heavy showers of mid-May were more like April showers in both their ferocity and frequency.

There was even sleet and hailstones among the raindrops.

Trees and flowers were late in producing their foliage or blooms and even wild flowers appeared confused.

But now, as I write these notes, things appear to have suddenly caught up.

One day our beech hedge seemed lifeless – then within a couple of days it was smothered with new leaves.

Our cherry tree suddenly produced blossom and birds began to sing lustily, with blackbirds leading the chorus.

Even the garden flowers seem to be catching up after a delayed start even if, as I write, the temperature is not spring-like.

Many of us will be familiar with this noisy but pleasing demonstration by our wild birds but has it really failed to materialise this year or is this a figment of our imagination?

Is the lack of united birdsong really something to do with the increasing practice of installing double glazing? Perhaps we are no longer hearing their morning music?

The dawn chorus can begin very early in spring and continue into early summer when a wide range of birds sing together as the sun rises. It is said that more birds sing in the half-hour or so around dawn than at any other time of the day.

Why they do so is something of a mystery. It is sometimes said their dawn singing dwindles in intensity as the chores of courtship, nesting and rearing chicks begin to demand their attention.

The reason why so many birds should all choose to sing at the same time remains a puzzle.

One explanation is that each bird is establishing its own identity and territory for the day ahead, although another suggestion is that they are monitoring events in the bird world around them.

The truth is no one is really sure why they all decide to sing together in this delightful cacophony of noise.

The blackbird, probably the most easily identifiable, will even begin to sing before sunrise – as much as 40 minutes before dawn in some cases – but he does tend to lead the chorus with his powerful and very musical voice.

Not far behind will be the song thrush, another of our finest songsters, and then the other early risers will include the wood pigeon, robin, mistle thrush, turtle dove, pheasant, willow warbler, chaffinch and wren.

A few years ago, we had a very persistent chaffinch who joined the dawn chorus just outside our bedroom window, sometimes striking up around 5am.

Much as I love birdsong and birds, the ever-repetitive short bursts of the chaffinch’s song can become rather annoying if it continues for hours on end!

There is no doubt that a fine bright morning will result in more birds joining the chorus than would happen if the day is dull and wet.

A dark start to the day will often result in the dawn chorus beginning later than usual and it is worthy of note that few birds continue to sing right through the day.

They tend to reduce their music as the day progresses, the low point being around midday. But as evening arrives, many will resume their singing with all the vigour of the morning ritual.

The very early start enjoyed by the blackbird in particular will often raise the question of whether our songbirds sing during the night-time hours. I’ve heard reports of robins singing at night and once heard a thrush singing from a tree-top in the darkness. But I believe that is unusual.

Certain birds do call at night – owls are a typical example – although starlings will gather as darkness arrives and chatter incessantly as they prepare to roost.

The most obvious example of a night-time songster is the nightingale, a bird rarely heard or seen in the north.

A few years ago, while holidaying in France with our children and grandchildren, we were privileged to hear and see a nightingale at close quarters every evening.

He came into a tree in the grounds of our villa, arriving almost exactly at eight each evening as we were settling down to our evening meal in the late summer darkness, and he serenaded us with his beautiful music.

We called him our eight-o’- clock nightingale. And finally on the topic of birdsong, I have received one or two reports of cuckoos this year.

Not long ago, the unmistakable sound of the cuckoo was a feature of the English springtime but in recent years that famous call has become a rarity.

Each year, I receive reports of cuckoos, often towards the end of April or in early May, but I wonder if several calls close together in one locality could be from the same bird?

The female cuckoo does quarter a large territory in her search for suitable nests in which to lay her eggs, but it is the male that produces that famous call.

Nonetheless, that familiar sound now heard on so few occasions is a reminder that the number of cuckoos is dwindling.

WHILE we have grumbled about the appalling weather over the past few month, almost to the obliteration of this year’s spring, June, which begins tomorrow, promises warmth and sunshine.

However, a lot of farmers welcome rain in June and there is a well-known piece of weather lore that says “A dripping June puts all in tune”. This is supported by another saying which goes “June damp and warm does the farmer no harm”.

A week on Saturday, June 8, is the feast day of St Medard, a little-known saint who is patron of brewers, peasants and prisoners. He used to be invoked for fruitfulness of crops at harvest time. A verse went: Should St Medard’s Day be wet, It will rain for forty yet; At least until St Barnabas, The summer sun won’t favour us.

The feast of St Barnabas is June 11, the traditional day to begin the hay harvest and, before calendar changes, the longest day of the year. As countryfolk said, it was time to put the scythe to the grass.