March

It’s chilly and damp but there are signs everywhere that spring is jostling to take over from winter. Swollen leaf buds adorn bare branches, full of the promise of verdancy just around the corner. Snowdrops are tired and withered after their early exertions while delicate crocuses are enjoying their time in the sun and fresh shoots, bold with the confidence of youth, are emerging everywhere. The hedgerows are already full of birdsong, the melancholy fluting of song thrushes providing a backdrop for the robin’s soprano, while a wren loudly demands to be heard.

Over at the sett, the badgers have been indulging in some spring cleaning. Bundles of discarded bedding have been dragged out and abandoned in jumbled piles. It’s likely that somewhere underneath my feet the sows are tenderly nursing their newly born cubs who will stay safely tucked away in their subterranean cocoon until April.

Kestrels, defying gravity above the farm, are a common sight. When vole numbers are abundant, a kestrel’s territory is relatively small, so it’s a promising sign that the farm is able to support several pairs. Apparently untroubled by our presence, a young male kestrel has settled around the house and roosts on a convenient waste pipe that runs above our sitting room window. The result is an impressive, chalky white abstract masterpiece on the window below and a collection of small furry pellets studded with tiny bones. During the day, his favourite perch is at the top of a high wall that marks the boundary between the garden and The Park, an old established grassland. Years of enrichment had resulted in lush grass that could support higher numbers of beef cattle but the loss of a myriad of delicate and diverse meadow flowers that were unable to compete with the vigorous grass or excessive grazing. Over the last few years, we have taken the cattle off the land and harvested a cut of hay late each summer to help remove some fertility from the soil. It is clear that the land still holds the memories of its past life, and in the first spring that the grazing pressures were lifted we were rewarded with an explosion of pignut flowers covering the entire field, lacy little umbellifers that had been waiting patiently for a chance to bloom. Each year, increasing numbers of flowers are tentatively emerging, and we are seeing the return of cowslips, great burnet, ragged robin, viper’s bugloss, buttercups and even the occasional orchid. The area is still dominated by grass and there is a long way to go but we’re slowly coaxing the old meadow to reawaken. It is the kestrel’s preferred hunting ground and this is where he likes to sit and survey his kingdom. Today, it appears that something unusual has caught his eye.

Before I see them, I hear the starlings. Hundreds of individual voices chattering away create a monotone clamour quite unlike any other sound on the farm. Like some kind of biblical swarm, the air is suddenly filled with little torpedos that land with a swift motion on the grass, and the entire garden is eclipsed by the noisy mob. With frenzied haste, the starlings furiously raid the lawn for any unsuspecting grubs, all the while maintaining their chaotic conversations. Iridescent hues shimmer on the ground – purples, blues, greens and blacks glinting and glimmering in the sunlight. An unexpected movement by the kestrel on the wall sets into motion a perfectly coordinated chain reaction, accompanied by a whooshing sound like a wave breaking on the shore, as hundreds of wings beat the air in unison. The cloud of birds lifts, waxing and waning like a shimmering shoal of fish, moving to the rhythm of an unseen conductor. I hold my breath as I watch the swirling, swooping shape.

As quickly as th