Thank God for longer, if not warmer, days at this time of year. I was in danger of turning into a mole, with near redundant eyes, a heightened sense of smell – especially for sweet potato gratin – and a warm pelt removed only for sleeping and known as, for not awfully clever reasons really, the Bulawayo Celebration Shrug. These days, however, when it is time to go home in the late afternoon, it is pleasing to look outside and feel mild surprise upon seeing the remaining daylight.
The birds are getting busier, too. I know it is a matter of life and death for them but the chorus I woke to and then came home to yesterday was beautiful. I am not yet terribly good at identifying particular species (I’ll raise you a South African piet-my-vrou for every English tree-creeper) but I do know a blackbird when I hear one. Especially when it sounds like this:
If you are interested in the subject, you might look at the RSPB online bird identifier, which helpfully has robin, black bird, feral pigeon and mallard as a starting point. Poor old feral pigeons. They have such a bad press.