WHEN my grandfather was a boy, there was music in the woods at night. From April, all across southern England, nightingales sang; by the time I have grandchildren, if I ever do, the dwindling population will have likely sung its last. In the past 40 years, numbers have declined by more than 90%. One of the most significant factors has been the destruction of typical scrubby nightingale habitat, which has been browsed out by our ever-growing deer population. Yet we must try to save them and more research must be done.
On a cold spring morning, just before dawn, I joined three ornithologists who tag nightingales in order to gain a deeper understanding of the little birds’ lives. When I held one we had caught in the palm of my hand, I felt deeply that I was holding much more than feather and bone—I was holding one of our richest cultural symbols. To lose the nightingale in England would be to lose a part of ourselves.
‘No two nightingales are the same’
Crouched by his tent, in the dawn dew, James Booty is resting his notepad on his knee. ‘Wing length 86 was that?’ Rob Duncan glances down to where his thumbnail sits on the metal ruler. ‘Eighty-six,’ he confirms, ‘that’s big, quite big that.’ When he lifts the nightingale to his lip and blows on it, the feathers part to reveal a thin-skinned purple breast. ‘You can see he’s male because of that cloacal protuberance, that little bulge. Do you see, it’s swollen with sperm?’ He blows once more then runs the back of his index finger across the feathers.
Denne historien er fra May 18, 2022-utgaven av Country Life UK.
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Denne historien er fra May 18, 2022-utgaven av Country Life UK.
Start din 7-dagers gratis prøveperiode på Magzter GOLD for å få tilgang til tusenvis av utvalgte premiumhistorier og 9000+ magasiner og aviser.
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Kitchen garden cook - Apples
'Sweet and crisp, apples are the epitome of autumn flavour'
The original Mr Rochester
Three classic houses in North Yorkshire have come to the market; the owner of one inspired Charlotte Brontë to write Jane Eyre
Get it write
Desks, once akin to instruments of torture for scribes, have become cherished repositories of memories and secrets. Matthew Dennison charts their evolution
'Sloes hath ben my food'
A possible paint for the Picts and a definite culprit in tea fraud, the cheek-suckingly sour sloe's spiritual home is indisputably in gin, says John Wright
Souvenirs of greatness
FOR many years, some large boxes have been stored and forgotten in the dark recesses of the garage. Unpacked last week, the contents turned out to be pots: some, perhaps, nearing a century old—dense terracotta, of interesting provenance.
Plants for plants' sake
The garden at Hergest Croft, Herefordshire The home of Edward Banks The Banks family is synonymous with an extraordinary collection of trees and shrubs, many of which are presents from distinguished friends, garnered over two centuries. Be prepared to be amazed, says Charles Quest-Ritson
Capturing the castle
Seventy years after Christian Dior’s last fashion show in Scotland, the brand returned under creative director Maria Grazia Chiuri for a celebratory event honouring local craftsmanship, the beauty of the land and the Auld Alliance, explains Kim Parker
Nature's own cathedral
Our tallest native tree 'most lovely of all', the stately beech creates a shaded environment that few plants can survive. John Lewis-Stempel ventures into the enchanted woods
All that money could buy
A new book explores the lost riches of London's grand houses. Its author, Steven Brindle, looks at the residences of plutocrats built by the nouveaux riches of the late-Victorian and Edwardian ages
In with the old
Diamonds are meant to sparkle in candlelight, but many now gather dust in jewellery boxes. To wear them today, we may need to reimagine them, as Hetty Lintell discovers with her grandmother's jewellery
