My ability to summon a robin now does not even need to involve any digging. Just go and sit down in the garden for five minutes and he turns up anyway, just to check things out. With largely frozen soil at the moment, though, I guess he’s probably hungry. This may well be the same bird as depicted here or here: the photos are all taken in the same place (our allotment) and robins are territorial beasts.
There is a reason why robins have been depicted on here so often, and certainly more than any other species of small bird (ducks and pigeons will rival them in the overall rankings). This is their complete lack of fear of humanity. Basically, they have established that they can make us work on their behalf. Dig or (as I did today) strim the garden and one is almost certain to appear to check the work is done and then pick out the insects left behind. There’s a bit of zoom used on this shot, but not much.
I have developed some druidic powers. I can, fairly reliably, summon a robin. It’s quite easy actually — simply go up to the garden, dig over part of it, and wait five minutes. One will usually appear to check over the bounty that has been revealed. This one was quite unperturbed by the presence of both myself and Clare, and has a look on his face that suggests he thinks we should be doing more digging — I reckon robins are evolving to use humans as manual labour, in fact. Perhaps they will be our overlords in a few dozen millennia,
What is it with robins as a species — why are they, more than any other type of wild bird, so completely unfazed by being a few feet away from a human? Not only that, but a human who has stopped walking, and is pointing a camera at them? This one even hopped from side to side for a minute, offering me a selection of poses. This one won. I hope he approves.
Three minutes after I had dug over the garden a little and this robin perches not six feet from me and virtually demands that I capture its close-ups. Seeing as this is taken in pretty much the same spot as the picture of the last robin to grace this blog, only 22 days ago, it might be the same one — either way, it is the latest example of how this particular species really has learned to not be in the least bit bothered about us humans. Perhaps it, too, is slightly annoyed by the presence of the white plastic tie, but what the hell.
Robins succeed because they’ve commandeered the ecological niche entitled ‘we really don’t give a shit about those human creatures’. We turned over a pile of compost on the allotment and this fearless chap was picking it over before we’d moved five feet back. He got the best pickings — woodlice, centipedes, worms — everything else was just in his wake. Birds! Ignore the humans! Be the robin! You’ll not regret it.
This little chap becomes the latest robin to prove that members of his species really don’t see the humans as things to be worried about. He kept a close eye on us as we (Clare, Joe and I) had our sandwiches, while undertaking another County Top walk. This took place nowhere near Hebden Bridge, nor do we intend to be there for a while. Draw your own conclusions.
This is also the latest in a notable run of pictures taken at 1:nn pm: six of the last seven. Times of pictures are never chosen, they just happen; it’s a kind of random number generator, though admittedly some times (daylight, namely) are more likely to appear than others. But a run of this consistency is unusual.
“You can’t see me. You only think you see me. Look, I’m camouflaged, and then there’s this strategically placed twig.”
Well, he’s feeling happy, at least. Or maybe belligerent, as robins are quite territorial. He may well have a larger territory than many people, at the moment.
Welcome to 2020. As with 1/1/19, the weather on the first day of this new year was glorious, and may the rest be the same (it won’t happen). I can’t imagine that life as a small bird is easy in the winter but this robin (like others of its species) seems to have humanity sussed: I was digging over part of the garden when he turned up, clearly waiting for me to finish so it could get at the worms with that dagger-like beak and fill its belly before the frosts come (if they ever do).
Being 42 