No larking about

 

“No larkin’ about,” said the notice. Not that I am of the age to lark about, but it was reminding us to be on best behaviour, because although the sign seemed funny it had a serious note. We were being asked to steer clear of a mound where our rapidly declining larks nest. They nest on the ground here and one was in the sky hovering and singing its high note song. I have never seen a skylark’s nest. I often heard its song especially in my childhood.

We were in Ifton Meadows going for a walk. It used to be colliery land but now there is no coal to be seen and the grass and shrubs have taken over. Of course, the wildlife has moved in as we are hoping it will do in our new garden. So far, the common small birds have ventured in along with the crow family. We see house martins overhead and hope that one day they will spot our eaves which are just the place for a nest.

I spotted a house martins’ nest yesterday. I was sitting down at the entrance to a nearby park. It was a hot sunny day and there were families with barking dogs and laughing, running, shouting children. People had picnic hampers and push chairs, some had surf boards for the lake and others had running gear.  To add to the noise the gate banged loudly every time it snapped shut. Just above the entrance shelter I saw the house martins. I heard them first with their sharp shriek before they arrowed to their nest. It was facing east so the already fierce south sun could not find its way into the mud entrance. The birds darted in and out with an almost invisible flight path. No one seemed to notice.

I remember when I was a little girl we had rows of mud nests under our eaves. All our daylight hours were studded with the little darting birds. Even when we opened the window and tried to catch them (how could we?) they ignored us in their determined battle to feed their young.

At the weekend I also had another reminder of my younger days. I went to see my cousin who once lived with us in an extended family, including grandma, in a rambling farmhouse. They had been clearing out and found two trays of rosettes. They were prizes for our Friesian cattle. I can remember my uncle and my dad at the local shows wearing long brown overalls proudly displaying our beasts. They did very well judging by the red first prize silks. Now fading and hardly legible but never-the-less still a serious trophy.