Bog Myrtle & Peat

Skylarks have returned.

The first songs are usually heard on Valentine’s day, but it’s hard to hold the little birds to a specific date. Valentine’s day was slashed with sleet and snow this year, and perhaps it’s no surprise that they should have kept their heads down. But the following morning, a single bird rose high up into the sky and poured a torrent of song over the house and the hill behind. We cowered in predawn shade as he rose up and up until the rising sun struck his breast and he exploded like a pink firework. Long, complex phrases filled every corner of this place, and the joy was dizzying.

Others have come since then. There were five birds singing at the weekend, and seven this morning when I went out to feed the bull. Larks become a constant theme in midsummer, and their songs blend in to a chorus of other sounds. But the land is still quiet and bare in February, and they have our undivided attention.