Plucky Robin

And Winter Came...

Yes, as I type I'm listening to Enya, it seems appropriate.

In the deep mid-week

Saturday, pre-dawn

Yesterday, we were surprised to spot two Robins in the garden. Robins are a notoriously feisty species, at least to each other, as outside of the breeding season both males and females hold a territory and are extremely belligerent to interlopers of a ruddock-y disposition.

I surmised that the wintry weather had driven another Robin to try its luck under our bird feeder, but the resident one was having none of it, chasing away the intruder as soon as it approached too close.

This morning, we could only see one Robin, presumably the resident bird, so the matter seemed to have been resolved. That was until lunchtime when the situation escalated in an unexpected direction.

But I'm jumping ahead slightly, if only to justify the blog title.

Megan had gone out for a walk whilst I sorted out the contents of my van for the week ahead. On her departure, she instructed me to put on the homemade soup for lunch, but to keep stirring it so that it didn't burn. It is a very thick Curried Carrot and Lentil soup. Now, dear reader, you probably have a reasonable estimate of where I sit on the stupidity scale, likely somewhere between imbecile and twerp, I'm guessing. However, I was not going to make such a huge blunder as to switch on the hob before I was back indoors, thank you very much.

Once the van was suitably tidied and stocked, I returned to the warmth of home and whacked on the correct ring under the soup pan (you will not believe, or maybe you will, how often I switch on the wrong ring). I pottered about tidying up the remains of yesterday's present wrapping spree, pausing several times to stir the soup, before glancing out of the window and noticing several Blackbirds going absolutely ballistic. And I don't mean the usual Blackbird ballistics, those annoying false alarm calls which seem only to serve the purpose of making sure everything else hides whilst the alarming bird slyly carries on feeding. These Blackbirds were going thermo-nuclear. Hmmm, something's up, I thought.

Peering out of the kitchen window, I could see another bird feeding in the leaf litter under some trees at the bottom of the garden. It wasn't a Blackbird. It was a Sparrowhawk. Pausing only briefly to grab a camera and some bins, I dashed to the cleanest window with a decent view of the scene.

Now, you don't have to be Chris Packham to become all thigh-rubbingly excited at the prospect of a fearsome predator in your garden. Similarly, you don't have to be Michaela Strachan to feel a pang of sadness at the sight of a tiny bundle of orangey red feathers.

After spending about ten minutes taking umpteen photos and videos, I eventually remembered the soup. Retracing my headlong dash, I careened back to the kitchen to inspect the carnage. Frantic stirring and an illiberal sprinkle of tasty expletives just about saved the day, but to be on the safe side I texted Megan.

Miraculously, the Sparrowhawk sat around for another hour, so not only was Megan able to see it when she arrived home, we watched it all through lunch, before it finally flew off and I could go and recover a few scraps of feathery evidence of Who Killed Cock Robin.

This, as they say, is an ex Robin

And the soup was nom nom nom.

EDIT 19/12/2022: There's still a Robin, but as they all look alike, we don't know which one!