We're at that peculiar time of year in the garden: I know things are going on out there but I have scant evidence for it. The bird feeders are being visited because I can see the whittling down of the last of the sunflower seeds and suet cones. The blackcap spends most of the day singing, the robin and wren sing intermittently, the blackbird at sunrise and sunset, and the collared dove and woodpigeons have no particular schedule and some days don't even bother.
The titmice have gone dead quiet, even the male great tit isn't announcing his arrival as usual. Unlike the oldest cock sparrow who makes a particular fanfare of his arrival. He then parades himself between the boysenberries in the corner, each feeder in turn then surveys the garden from the top of the roses before disappearing into next door's ivy. If I haven't been noticed watching the performance the others come in for a quick scoff, arriving in twos and threes and never stopping more than a couple of minutes. I've never seen this behaviour before, I don't know if it's a novelty or I just haven't been noticing it until now.
I suspect there are young blackbirds coming into the garden. I know there are young dunnocks because I saw one of them today, fresh and downy and accompanied by an adult which left it deep in the gooseberry bushes while a cat needed to be chased out of the garden. Job done, the youngster was brought out into the open to be fed greenfly. And so life goes on.
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