Episode summary:
I took a Christmas walk in England and had the most uplifting experience of hearing a robin singing its heart out and bringing joy to the evening gloom. It was such a surprise to hear it singing at night and on its own that it felt like I was being treated to a Christmas miracle, courtesy of nature. If you are wondering ‘do robins stay in winter in England’ or ‘is Christmas a good time to visit England’, this podcast might be able to give you some hints.
Listen to a podcast about hearing a tuneful robin at Christmas in England.
Transcript – S1 E12: A natural Christmas miracle in England
This week, we’re witnessing a natural Christmas miracle. This episode is in memory of my mum, who taught me how to appreciate and love nature.
What I can hear must be a recording, surely. Maybe an Instagram post playing on someone’s phone somewhere. Or maybe I had one too many glasses of mulled wine at lunchtime and it’s actually all in my head. Either way, I can hear a robin singing its heart out, somewhere. Judging by the volume, it’s fairly close. But how can this be? It’s 7pm on a Tuesday night between Christmas and New Year in England, which means it’s been dark – not just dusk but fully dark – for several hours. It’s night, basically.
A night for staying in
The sun did not show its head all day, shielded from us by impenetrable layers of grey murk. The cold mist turned to drizzle around midday and by 4pm it was dark. No great surprise, as this is always the darkest, drabbest time of the year here. It’s too soon for the snow and sunny, crisp, high-pressure, clear-sky days of January. Instead, we’re enveloped in Dickensian gloom and what Shakespeare’s Titania called ‘contagious fogs’. This is perfect weather for staying in, lighting candles, pulling on your thickest socks and cosying up in front of a log fire. In other words, embracing the Scottish tradition of courie, or what the Danes call hygge, snuggling in away from the elements.
I’m a bit of a courie fan but I always feel I have to earn it. I have to be out there in the gloom or the wild wind and rain in order to feel the contrast of the cosy and truly appreciate the comfort of courie. So I’m out, walking the cold, damp streets of the old town, tucked into a couple of thermal layers and my Nordic overcoat. I pass windows of homes, their living rooms aglow with Christmas tree lights and warmth, and tables still groaning with food long after lunch. I seem to be the only one out here, just me and my new avian friend who I still can’t find, but whose melodies are echoing off the brick terraces of houses and across the wet tiled rooftops.
Finding the glorious singer
There are no other sounds out here to compete with it, all traffic has ceased, the sales shoppers are home, their boots drying in porches and hallways as they marvel at their purchases. A family, also out for a stroll, walks towards me up the street. They hear the robin too and as we meet we all stop to listen and search for this glorious singer. The youngest of the family’s two children sees it first and points. It’s in the top branches of an apple tree, which is skeletal and devoid of all foliage.
The small bird stands up straight and proud, backlit by the orange, mist-diffused glow of a streetlight. We can just make out tiny clouds of breath as it warbles and trills, practising its scales up and down. It must be going through its entire canon of tunes. The joy with which it sings is expected on fine May mornings when spring is all around and the world is full of love and promise. But now, in the dark, dank, dreek of mid-winter? I’ve never heard a robin do this at this time of the year. I’m not sure I’ve heard any bird do this at this time of the year. The family standing next to me are as mesmerised as I am. The children are speechless.
A flood of joy
I’m reminded of winter walks on days like this when I was a child and my mum would point out amazing things, reassuring me that nature never completely goes away, even in the depths of winter. We are being treated to a free, private concert by one of nature’s most amazing performers. When robins sing like this, there’s usually another in the distance. The call and response is a way of communicating, marking territories perhaps. More practical than artistic. But this robin does not appear to have any rival or friend out here tonight. This bird is singing, it would appear, for the very sake of singing. Maybe it too is earning its courie before flitting back to what I hope is a dry, safe nest ensconced deep in a hedge somewhere, out of harm’s way.
Whatever its reason, on this otherwise lifeless evening, with the prospect of many more lifeless evenings to come before we even get a hint of spring, this little bird is flooding the neighbourhood and our lives with joy. We no longer feel the cold, we no longer notice the claggy mist. Instead, we hear beauty and love, and we feel courage and hope. It is, I believe, a Christmas miracle.
© copyright Matthew Brace
