The Great Tit Returns
“Teacher, teacher, teacher, teacher.”
No – that’s not the cry of an overly keen student, arm shot high and bursting with answers. Not one bit. This is the noise that distracted me from my desk this morning, it’s persistent nature, and catchy cadence called to me from the garden. Forced me to stop whatever it was I was doing (probably admin, so I wasn’t looking too hard for a break) and cast my eyes to the source of the sound.
The great tit has returned.
There on the fence was a sparrow sized bird, with a black cap and belly strip. A plump little thing, with a lot to say for itself (I have quite the affinity with these creatures), was hopping along the thin stretch of wood that separates us from next door. It flit back and forth like it was charged with an electrical current; fizzing from the fence, to the swing, then back again, before landing on the washing line – unable to stay still for more than a moment.
Of course, it wasn’t charged with an electrical current, it was in fact, just eyeing up next doors bird feeders. I don’t blame it, the weather has been pretty naff over the last few days and from what I can tell from my sort of lofty lookout, they seem to be the only bird feeders in the neighbourhood, and are turning into a right little social hubbub for the numerous sparrows that gather in the last remaining hedge – clearly causing trouble.
“What’s so great about the great tit in the garden?” you ask.
After all with approximately 2,500,000 breeding territories and a green conservation listing according to the RSPB’s website, they seem pretty common. Plus, with their adaptable nature which allows them to transcend from birds of the woodland to regular urban visitors (especially if there’s a bird table involved) then one great tit in the garden might not seem like the most exciting occurrence.
But, this great tit, this bolshy black headed bird, with its yellow belly feathers and dusky grey wings all lined with white, hasn’t visited this garden in years. Years and years, I tell you.
When I was younger, they were a frequent site, giving all the blue tits a hard time on the bird feeder or nipping into the holes between the gutter and brick of our shed in search of spiders. They mesmerised my tiny eyes with acrobatic antics as they hung, effortlessly upside down, one legged and spinning from the feed station. They were also the first bird song I learnt to identify, all be it not a difficult one, but one that I can now pick out anywhere. I guess you could say that they were my introduction to birding.
Their absence saddened me over the years, visits to mums house became almost bird-less – aside from the gaggle of sparrows that eye you up every time you walk down the garden path, the carrion crows that watch from the rooftops and the odd blackbird and robin skulking in the remaining undergrowth. It was sincerely lacking in birding colour, as well as song.
So, this morning I was pleased that it announced its arrival. That it sat on the fence and shouted to anyone that was listening, demanding for attention to be paid to it (the more I’m writing, the more I’m realising I think I’ve found my spirit animal). That it flitted about in the garden long enough for me to catch a glimpse of it, before it dive-bombed whatever birds were on the feeders, scattering them like water droplets, as it tucked into whatever was on offer.
I hope that it’s not its last visit.
I hope that tomorrow morning, when I’m drowning in admin and hypnotised by the constant click of keys, that it will come and save me. That it might just sit under my window and shout and shout and shout until someone pays it attention.
I hope the great tits will come back.
