From birdsong to flowers and trees, signs of spring are everywhere

AS I stand outside on a sunny, warm, spring morning, I see and hear a host of greenfinches (Chloris chloris).

I’m not sure where they’ve arrived from all of a sudden as they’ve been absent for such a long time and there are so many.

They are such beautiful birds with their stout, conical beaks, yellow wing bars and tail stripes and seem healthy and chipper as they twitter away.

There must be a meaning to their never-ending chatter that we can’t understand.

Goldfinches (Carduelis carduelis) are also colourful stunners but smaller.

They seem to have formed a flock around north Caversham to replace our winter visitors, the fieldfares and redwings.

The last that I saw and heard of the latter two species must have been a few weeks ago.

They will return around November to feast on our burgeoning wild fruits and berries.

Before I think of making any plans for my next foray, I dash (well, sort of, what with my dodgy hip) down the road to the supermarket and encounter a gang of long-tailed tits (Aegithalos caudatus).

They amaze me with their ability to cling effortlessly to masonry and tree trunks in their search for spiders.

They are quite charming and, of course, weigh next to nothing — all striped tail and tiny body. Rosemary used to call them “flying teaspoons”, which is about right, but they are more colourful, grey, white and dusky-pink.

I’m sure that, just like goldcrests, these tiny birds’ sight isn’t that good as they never seem to notice me as I stand to watch them close up and listen to their incessant tweets.

We don’t seem to have many domestic cats roaming around here despite all the avian warning calls that I hear from wrens to blackbirds.

I look around but see no threat. Is it me that frightens them, the local troupe of incessantly clattering magpies or the decidedly sly and predatory jays?

As I descend the concrete steps to the side of the Last Crumb pub (formally the Prince of Wales) in Caversham, I spot a wild garlic or ramsons (Allium ursinum) with two leaves emerging.

Some years ago there was a healthy, pungent colony growing here but then Reading Borough Council broadened the path towards the steps from my mother’s house with cinders and proceeded to dump all the spoil over the plants. Very sad.

By contrast, garlic mustard, green alkanet, cow parsley, lords-and-ladies and Shepherd’s purse are now appearing with the earth drying out, thankfully.

As my usual three walking companions are unavailable, I decide to take a stroll nearby but then nature shows its presence almost anywhere. Walking around is somewhat dispiriting as I see far too many invasive species, such as the scentless Spanish bluebells with their thick, fleshy leaves, and cultivated, gaudy primulas, obviously planted with good intent but totally out of context.

A red-tailed bumblebee drifts about drowsily after waking from its winter slumber and going in search of nectar.

I am delighted to see my first butterflies of the year. An acid-yellow coloured brimstone (Gonepteryx rhamni) flutters past erratically, then a red admiral (Vanessa atalanta) flashes its unmistakeable colours on a patch of gravel just feet away. A perfect beauty.

Blackthorn is in full bloom so maybe I can look forward to creating sloe gin from the fruit in the autumn. For now, the flowers are an absolute delight, showy and fragrant.

English elms (Ulmus procera) seem to be fighting back against the beetles that arrived from imported wood many years ago and nearly wiped out the species.

These trees were once such a common sight around here, forming outstanding roadside avenues that were a vivid part of our landscape.

Dutch elm disease and more recently ash dieback. Whatever next? At this rate there will be no deciduous trees left.

Still thinking of trees, I stop to admire some aged, stout-trunked sycamores gripping the earth with firm roots. One in particular in a close group of three has quite a girth.

My mother, who never divulges her own age and claims to have been a child bride, tells me that this tree was a tall, stout specimen when she was a child back in the war years and American troops were camped in Balmore Park.

Alongside the sycamores is an evergreen Corsican pine standing firm in solidarity with its neighbours.

Underfoot, daisies are flowering with a clamour. I was once told that if you could tread on five or more with either foot, then spring had arrived.

A couple of days later, I hear a deep-toned birdsong with five notes repeated that I don’t recognise.

I am flummoxed as usually I am able to identify most birds that I see or hear. After six iterations it goes quiet and as I did not record the sound I am left frustrated.

Then I hear my first garden warbler (Syvia borin) of the year. A close relative of the blackcap, this small brownish bird is similar in size and has a fluting, aimless song, gentler than its cousin’s.

Later on, I hobble around the park and settle on a sun-warmed bench to take in the view.

All of a sudden the sky darkens and empties as a hailstorm arrives.

The pellets of frozen water bounce off the ground like bullets and sting my exposed cheeks.

I look upwards at clouds that look like giant, white footballs. I’ve never seen anything like it.

Later, I discover these are mammatus clouds from the Latin word “mamma”, meaning udder or breast.

I have been back to the house I shared with Rosemary to retrieve my belongings and place them in storage.

My one hope is that whoever moves into our former abode will look after the gardens, where there are seven tree preservation orders in place.

I could not help but admire all the wild primroses and stinking hellebores in the front garden under a Monterey pine, a holly and a huge Arbutus, or strawberry tree.

I’ll miss our old patch.

vincent.ruane@hotmail.com