Up With The

 Yes, of course it's the lark.  As I opened the door, still dark, barely a rumour of the dawn, he sang and he sang and he sang some more.  Out of sight, as usual, though this time due to the morning darkness.  Somewhere above the field, on the far side of the garden.

Auspicious it was, for I was setting off specifically to hear birdsong.  International Dawn Chorus Day.  Not many years ago we used to be able to listen to the dawn chorus rising across the globe.  On the radio, through the night.  Euan McIlwraith hosted the Scottish end, and by the time his birds were singing, the headphones had been twittering me in and out of sleep for hours, chatting to his colleagues in far flung parts, revelling in their own dawns, their own songs.

This time I was heading out for a guided walk.  Baron's Haugh was the location, that splendid reserve on the east bank of the Clyde, accessed from Motherwell.  Our host was Sam, RSPB Community Engagement Officer, assisted by John who had ears to pick up and identify calls way beyond my range.

Brilliantly they had arranged for a few bats to fly round as a dozen and a half, sleep deprived but curious, gathered in the car park.

To the woods we went, still deep in the gloaming, but the air bursting with birdsong.  Stopping occasionally to tune in, Sam giving clues to allow us to know what unseen birds  were entertaining us.  The wren.  The loudest of them all, such power from such tiny lungs.  As Simon Barnes says it's the trill at the end of the verse.  And having Sam point it out live might well be what it takes to sink in, to never leave you.  

By then of the walk the wren and the blackbird, and the robin too, were sounding different to the slightly less untrained ear; and it was more than educated guess that could tell one from t'other.

The song thrush was out and proud too, he repeats and repeats in your ear, a bit like Ella's nightingale in that sense.  It's the repeat, probably not the same phrase, as he chooses  different ones, but tune in to the repetition, and you have your thrush.

 On we wandered, Marsh Hide for the wetlands, along the river bank - sadly no otter out to play - with Sam and John holding the attention of the group; raptured when the whitethroat made an appearance.  It was the flight, then the song.  And once we had him so we found him again and again, dancing round the hawthorn, that unmistakeable scent rising in the morning air.  A hint of Rod Stewart suggests Barnes, though he and Sam both have it as scratchy.  The flight is more fun than the song.

And on we went, a few deer to enthrall the children.  Blackbirds and blackcaps, we might be able to tell them apart.  And the willow warbler, wood pigeon on the percussion.

In all of this Merlin proved a good chum to have with you.

Such a fine way to start the day, then home for a hot shower and hot drink, refreshed before the daily grind begins.  There had been drinks and morning snacks with Sam and John too, a little hideaway in the woods, but those intolerances meant I had to pass.  And they do a bat walk later in the year, which might be fun, and won't disrupt the sleep.