In other gardening news: dandelions, daisies and groundsel still doing fine. Ho hum…

Mallard ducks spend lots of time in our area in spring and summer. This one on a nearby roof looks puzzled. Now, I know there’s a river around here somewhere. Darned if I can find it, though…

And then we just had to get the camera out, didn’t we?

Gee, now they’re taking pictures of me. Damn quackarazzi photographers!

This year we have, therefore, opted for a more laissez faire approach to gardening. Some weeds, such as red dead nettles, groundsel, dandelions (which are actually a benefit to your soil) and possibly some spurge, will be tolerated, but nasties like chickweed and goose grass will be removed. I see it as a form of artificial selection, exactly the same as what keen orchid growers would do, but without the need to prepare for flower shows at the end of the season. Our dead nettles have already had lots of interest from bees, and we hope also to provide lots to see and do for butterflies and any other insects who fancy paying us a visit. (Please please please let a buddleia self seed out there. Pretty please?)

To anyone who asks, I always stress the educational value of a weed garden; botany, I believe, really should be on the national curriculum. As I’ve already hinted, it’s not a free-for-all out there: we are actively practising proper ‘crop management’. And, if nothing else, at least we’re preventing soil erosion; without our efforts, the whole town could soon become a desert.

Secretly, though, part of me hopes that some of the thick tussocks that have sprouted near the edges of the weed patch might eventually join up and provide permanent ground cover. What could be better than that — a free lawn!

Ever since the blazing hot summer of ‘76, I’ve been wary of ladybirds; that year saw an absolute plague of them. This minuscules vid makes them all seem all right again, though, and — dare I say it — even kind of cutesy. (Well, as cutesy as an arthropod can be, anyway.)

Our living room uPVC picture window, however, looks out over the lush verdure of the Park View Home for the Bewildered and, if I set my binoculars to ‘happy medium’ I can, without leaving my seat, look right inside the browny-yellow trumpets of their wilting daffodil patch. Which was right where the action was earlier this evening.

As tough-guy actor Ray Winstone might have put it, things were starting to get a bit ‘tasty’: two blackbirds were arguing over territorial rights. Beautiful whistlers they might be, but they can be quite fierce when riled.

Blackbird number one (we’ll call him HomeBoy) was merely defending his home patch against intruders. We think he’s nesting under a yellow privet bush, so there could be a few little blackbirds around soon.

Blackbird number two had a shifty look about him and was obviously trying to muscle in on HomeBoy’s turf. HomeBoy was having none of it, though, and, after a brief stand-off, flew at Shifty, who promptly dived for cover into the middle of the daffodils. The gloves were off: serious fisticuffs (fistibeaks?) were about to begin.

HomeBoy watched as Shifty hopped nonchalantly round the far side of the daffs. Shifty stopped, cast a furtive glance behind him, turned and hopped round in the (h)opposite direction. The combatants hopped round the daffodil patch a couple of times before Shifty decided to seize the advantage by launching himself at HomeBoy. HomeBoy flew right back at Shifty and they rose about five or six feet in the air together, a blurred flurry of wings, before crashing back to the ground. HomeBoy dealt Shifty a rapid succession of jabs with his beak and, not surprisingly, Shifty slunk off again.

By now, a small crowd had gathered: two starlings, pretending to forage in the long grass; a wood pigeon perched on the fence, presumably reminiscing of his own glory days before too many fights left him punch drunk and unable to do more than head-bobbing and uttering a monotonous five-note coo; and Mrs HomeBoy, who had emerged from under the privet to nibble a few dandelions and cheer on her hero.

Shifty was back, but HomeBoy was ready. Another airborne tussle ensued. Shifty was soon looking bedraggled. HomeBoy waited on the pergola, like all good tacticians, determined to hold the higher ground. One feeble comeback later and it was all over. But Shifty couldn’t resist having the last word. “I’ll be back,” he mouthed (or so it seemed), “and next time I’m bringing some crows with me!”

It’s funny though: this must be the only magpie in the country who, barely five minutes after settling down for the evening, has had his pic splashed — thanks to Shana — all over Facebook. What will he say to his fellow magpies tomorrow? ‘Hey guys. Guess what: I’ve been poked!’

Although we never reveal in our blog posts exact details of where we live, you can find out easily by strolling round the outskirts of Lincoln in the wee small hours and listening carefully. First you’ll hear the distinctive too-whit-too-woo call of the one and only Strix aluco. Seconds later will come a blood-curdling shriek of Shut up!!

Just follow your ears. And, if you can, please bring a spare set of ear-muffs — Shana will be most grateful.

Why do they circle each other? Probably some sort of courtship dance, I thought. That, or perhaps a battle over airspace.

Then I heard a thud as the birds crashed into the side window of a parked car.

One of the birds fell straight to the ground. The other, a sparrow, hopped up to it, saw it wasn’t moving, and flew off.

I rushed to grab the binoculars; the bird was still not moving. Stunned, most likely. We took a small cardboard box and went to see if we could help. Lying by the edge of the pavement, the bird would have been easy prey for cats; there are several cats in our area and some definitely have the stalking instinct.

The bird was still conscious, looking around but still immobile, so Shana put it in the box for safety and we brought it upstairs and indoors.

Usually, if you find a bird on the ground, say the RSPB and RSPCA, its parents will not be far away. The best thing to do, according to their advice, is to leave it where it is. As keen — well, occasional — BBC Springwatch viewers, both Shana and I had heard all this before. After phoning the RSPCA helpline and following the long-winded instructions to press a series of automatic switchboard option numbers, Shana now heard it all again, only from a robot voice this time instead of  TV birdman, Bill Oddie.

“Well that was a lot of help!” said Shana.

The RSPCA hotline turned out to be irrelevant in any case, because at that moment the bird, no doubt doubly grateful at being able to enjoy the warmth and comfort of our kitchen, as well as having been rescued from likely annihilation by cat, sprang back to life and burst forth from the cardboard box, heading straight for the top of the kitchen cupboard. I opened the front door to give the bird an easy way out, Shana stood at the foot of the stairs to discourage it from flying up to look for a nesting site in the bedroom, and I reached up to the top of the cupboard and moved the box of cereal next to the one the bird was standing on. Faced with a six-foot giant intent on reaching for a box of weeti-flakes, you’d probably take flight too, and that’s just what the bird did. See? Avian psychology isn’t so hard really, is it?

Here’s a strange thing. This year, we’ve managed to learn a few of the more common bird songs, so we know who’s around even if they’re hiding under hedges or in trees. One of the songs that amused us was that of the great tit — Parus major — whose two note call sounds a lot like a bicycle pump. Between ourselves, we even refer to the great tit as ‘the bike pump bird’, and just a few days ago we agreed that we hadn’t heard this bird for a while. And what was the little bird we helped out this morning?

You guessed right. None other than the bike pump bird.

I wonder if he now has a special name for us?