Rattlers, cronkers and super songsters bring sound to this semi-silent spring . .

Aldersley/Oxley

Thursday 2nd May, bright, warm, calm, 09.30 to 10.15.

Back to the rough grass fields at the northern end of the valley, a site that by now should be full of birds and birdsong.  Yet despite the calm, warm conditions bringing song from Goldfinch, Greenfinch, Mistle Thrush, Wrens, Robins, Dunnocks and other resident species, the sounds I'm hoping for just aren't there.  Three Common Whitethroat appear briefly along the field margins, three singing Blackcaps and at least three singing Chiffchaffs (their contact calls show that pairs are already on station) suggest that warbler numbers are increasing, but at least three members of this bird family normally seen and heard in the last week in April and in early May seem not to have arrived.  Then, at last, from a hedge line near lock 19 of the Birmingham Canal, comes a rattling call, identified immediately as one of the valley's most unobtrusive migrant breeders, a Lesser Whitethroat, which flies up to feed among the emerging blossoms high in nearby trees.  Always difficult to pin down, eventually it's located, grey-headed and compact, a smaller and longer-tailed version of a Common Whitethroat, lacking the eye ring and reddish brown wing feathers of its more in-your-face relative.  Breeding numbers in the valley have never been high, and seem to have decreased in recent years.  Let's hope this one finds a mate.

Tettenhall Upper Green

Saturday 4th May, bright, warm, westerly breeze, 10.30am.

Pop to the shops to get a key cut, and as I unlock the car to leave, the sharp, clear notes of the Northern Nightingale cut the air from trees on the green's western corner.  There are cars moving, but the Blackcap's liquid song lifts and flows above the noise of traffic.  There's a seat nearby, so I move towards it to sit and listen to this superb performer.  Yet some of the notes don't seem quite to fit, they're slower, more deliberate, there are gaps between them, and after a few seconds I realise there are two songs involved, two species are singing against each other, the rival bird just as striking and memorable,  a lone Song Thrush high in a tree close by.  Neither of these top-flight songsters will fall silent, neither will gave way to its neighbour, their notes combining in a joyous chorus to tell us that spring is well and truly here.

Smestow Valley

Saturday 4th May,  11.15am.             

Wind down the car window and wait.  A brief shower passes, and high above the tops of the trees sway gently as the squall quietens.  People have told me they're here again, but I need to hear and see for myself.  The valley's only breeding pair, a species that until 2007 was a rare visitor, a bird that, like the Buzzard, seemed to call to us from the west, conjuring the sea cliffs of Wales and the jagged hillsides of the Stiperstones.  Ten minutes pass, silence, then a large black shape sweeps in low behind the treetops, the bird lost to view as it lifts to land at its now traditonal breeding site.  Still silence, then the sound I want, the deep unmistakable "cronk, cronk" of the Common Raven.  If they're breeding they're late, and it's hard to tell if there are young at the nest, but no matter.  They're back.