OUR bird feeders are well patronised, especially by blue tits, but in the last few days, a pair of yellowhammers have visited us. This is by no means common, although we have welcomed yellowhammers in the past. I found this quite unusual because I have always associated yellowhammers with open moorland or wide areas of quiet countryside.

To see them among houses in an enclosed garden is quite unusual.

Yellowhammers are members of the bunting family and very like finches in appearance.

They are gregarious in winter, mingling with finches and other small birds. Yellowhammers are around the same size as, say a chaffinch or greenfinch, and they also have brightly coloured plumage. The yellow feathers are outstanding, the head and breast being particularly prominent, while the streaked chestnut brown of the back and wings is enhanced by a plain chestnut rump. The male’s colouring is rather brighter than the female’s.

Our visitors have joined chaffinches, greenfinches, tree sparrows and members of the tit family in enjoying the nuts and seeds we provide but I have never heard their distinctive song during their visits. Some interpret this as sounding like “a little bit of bread and no cheese”

but that interpretation requires more than a little imagination.

In watching yellowhammers at such close quarters, it is difficult to believe that, in days gone by, the yellowhammer had a rather evil and unsavoury reputation among country folk. It was supposed to suck blood from the veins of vampires, and its appearance was said to herald the arrival of the devil.

In the North of England and Scotland, it was regarded as the devil’s bird and so the lads of the time would go out and destroy all yellowhammer nests including their eggs and even chicks.

In Wales, the Welsh name for yellowhammer means “the servant of the snake”

and it was believed to warn snakes of the arrival of enemies.

Even so, the Welsh believed that a cure for yellow jaundice was to hold a yellowhammer close to the face of a sufferer. In Denmark, the same cure was induced by the sick person eating a yellowhammer, feathers and all.

There was a widespread belief that the jerky flight of a yellowhammer was due to drinking the devil’s blood on the morning of May Day and so the lads of the neighbourhood would go out on May Day to catch and kill this harmless little bird.

However, I once had a memorable experience that involved a yellowhammer.

While driving my car along a rural lane on the edge of the North York Moors, I noticed a pair of yellowhammers on the carriageway just ahead. I expected them to fly off at my approach.

One did so and settled on a nearby hedge but the other remained. I halted and went to look at it. Sadly, it was dead, having apparently been struck by a vehicle.

The carcase was rigid, indicating it had been dead for some time.

Doing my best to be practical in the circumstances, I lifted the tiny carcase off the road and placed it on the neat grass verge where I knew nature would eventually take care of it. But as I drove off, the other returned and stood guard near what I guessed had been its mate.

The deceased bird was a female.

As I prepared to leave the scene of that little tragedy, with the male standing guard over his dead companion, I wondered whether wild creatures experience emotions of the kind usually associated with humans.

Was that small bird mourning the loss of a dear one?

As he resumed his vigil over the remains of his mate, I saw his head was tilted to one side. He appeared to be willing his friend to respond.

I drove away sadly unaware of the end of this drama.

This is not the only time I have witnessed such behaviour in wild birds. Oddly enough it was upon the same stretch of road, which is near Byland Abbey.

On that occasion it was a pair of pheasants. The hen had been killed by a vehicle and was lying in the road as I approached. She was guarded by a splendid and handsome cock pheasant which seemed disinclined to move away. As with the yellowhammers, I halted the car and the pheasant then took off with a clatter of wings and a cackle, landing in a nearby field.

Sadly, the remains of the hen were too damaged to remove from the road surface and so I left them and prepared to drive on. As I was moving away the cock pheasant returned to stand beside his dead companion in the middle of the carriageway.

As I left the scene, I could see them in my rear view mirror with the cock pheasant apparently mourning the loss of his mate. I hoped he would not get run over.

These incidents reminded me of Greyfriars Bobby, the terrier who for 20 years maintained a vigil at the grave of his master in Edinburgh, and it ignites the question of whether birds can experience emotion at the loss of a partner or friend.

WITH the blustery month of March arriving tomorrow, and bearing in mind the awful weather of this recent winter, I recall an elderly countryman from the North York Moors telling me: “Thoo can allus reckon on a bit of ivverything in March. Wind and watter, dust and muck, blow and snaw and all capped wi’ a bit o’sunshine if God’s in yan of his better frames o’ mind.”

This is summed up in many rural sayings, one of which goes: “March is the month of many weathers.” It often brings a reminder of winter mingled with a foretaste of summer and a bit of everything else from gales to pouring rain. This keeps us on our toes – the fact that one day is sunny and warm is no guarantee we shall enjoy the same tomorrow or the day following that. Not in March anyway.

This uncertainty is recognised by many country people whose livelihoods depend upon the climate and their fascination with March weather arises because everything is so unexpected.

Even modern forecasters allow surprises because they think long-term – and here, long-term might mean something as soon as the day after tomorrow. Nowadays, short-term might mean weather during the next hour or two as shown on our iPads or mobile phones.

In the past, when England was a religious country, many weather forecasts were associated with saints’ days, for example, “St David and St Chad, sow peas, good or bad”. St Chad’s Day is March 1 and St David’s March 2. However, whatever the weather, peas had to be sown by the feast of St Benedict, otherwise they would fail.

The saying was: “St Benedict, sow thy peas or keep them in thy rick”. A rick was a stack so perhaps this suggested the seeds be either thrown away or safely stored. St Benedict’s Day used to be March 21 but is now July 11 – and that alters things