The robins have reappeared. In summer they skulk invisibly, presumably moulting, but the bird books say that they pair up and establish their territories earlier than many garden birds. Recently they have started singing in the small hours, and one peered at me beady eyed from beside the dustbins as I went down to shut the conservatory doors for the night. The Systems Administrator, who combines birdwatching with supervising chicken exercise time, says that there are at least three territories in the front garden. One robin sings from the hawthorn tree near the chicken run and the dustbins, which might be the one I saw. Another moves between the Eleagnus hedge and the Genista aetnensis in the turning circle, and a third hangs out in the the hedge behind the greenhouse. There seem likely to be a similar number in the back garden, but we haven't observed that so systematically. Last summer blackbirds nested in the Eleagnus hedge and in the field maple by my greenhouse, suggesting robin and blackbird territories might be similar in terms of size and demarcation.
We have noticed song thrushes around the hedge on the way in, frequently enough to suggest that they might be living in the garden. They have a preferred patch of lawn in the back garden, at the top of the slope, not too close to the house. When I was a child they seemed as common as blackbirds, but now it is a rare pleasure and something of a thrill to see one. The S.A. has seen blackcaps, but honestly I wouldn't recognise a blackcap if it came up and pecked me. Although a lot of my life is spent in the garden I am not a good birdwatcher, as I'm too often looking at the ground or the near distance. I am an ace toad spotter.
Tonight is the first time I've shut the glass since May. I'm not sure if we'll get much of a frost here, and it is forecast to warm up again over the next few days, but it feels as though winter were a step closer. I went to trim back the Erysimum 'Bowles Mauve', which have put up a valiant show all summer and still bear some purple flowers on the ends of their long, wispy stalks, then stayed my hand. A few late bumble bees are still flying and foraging, and it won't hurt to leave 'Bowles Mauve' for another week or two. I began cutting the ivy hedge instead, which led by degrees to tackling one end of the long flowerbed, which had got badly weedy and overgrown with ivy. A Callistemon which lost all of its top growth to last winter's cold is resprouting from below ground level, and I finally cut out the dead branches. The S.A. offered to cart away the prunings and trails of ivy, and I ended up getting more done than I was expecting. The soil is like dust, structureless, mere and bone dry. A pair of Photinia serratifolia, planted in the hope that they would grow up and mask the telegraph pole, are clinging to life. A book on dry gardening said that they were surprisingly drought tolerant once established, but I think the clue lies in the phrase 'once established'. A Berberis dictophylla, planted at the same time for its beautiful white stems and sea green leaves, is looking equally overwhelmed. I dug in lots of organic material when I planted them, but it has vanished without trace. Mulch, mulch and more mulch is called for.
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