Robins and Spider webs

I love misty and frosty mornings in Autumn. For a brief period, everything looks, feels and even smells different. Senses are more focused on immediate surroundings; berries and hips seem brighter, birds seem louder and spiders webs are suddenly visible everywhere, whether as intricate creations made by talented Orb spiders or delicate tight ropes between adjacent plant stems. In contrast, the outside world seems further away and the garden becomes particularly peaceful, even ethereal.

As the weather is getting colder, I have been more than a little concerned about the little duck family that still visits us daily. It is currently down to eight ducklings, though they are growing fast. I hope the remaining youngsters make it through the winter.

Other visitors to the garden have included a group of coal tits (the collective noun for which is a "banditry", presumably because of their little black eye masks!) and the ever-present robin. It is easy to see why robins are one of our favourite garden birds; they sing all year round, are instantly recognisable and seem fond of human company as they follow us round the garden and sit patiently in the gardener's shadow waiting for a grub or worm to be uncovered. I am anthropomorphising of course as the robin is merely being resourceful, but it is hard not to feel delighted when a wild animal ventures so close. It is one of those brief moments when you really feel a connection with nature, more so than watching wildlife on television could ever achieve.

The bird with "the red stomacher" (as John Donne termed the robin), is frequently seen as the kindly benefactor in poems and literature, from the robins which covered the Babes in the Wood with leaves and showed Mary Lennox the way into The Secret Garden, to the gallant robin who lost his heart to the little wren in The Marriage of Cock Robin and Jenny Wren. However, this image of a friend and protector does belie a darker side as robins are highly territorial and will aggressively ward off any interlopers, sometimes even fighting to the death. My Great Nan used to believe that the sight of a robin foretold illness, whilst others have interpreted its presence as symbolic of a visit from a loved one who has died.

The resident robin in our garden sang from across the brook this week as Andy and I did some more tidying in the garden. I also took some final cuttings from my penstemon and sedum plants after discovering that some sedum stalks I had placed in water had rooted and started to send out new shoots. I do realise that I am very late to be attempting this and therefore the cuttings were taken as somewhat of an experiment.

Colour in the garden is currently being provided by the yellowing leaves of the lilac and birches as well as a relatively small number of flowers. The autumn/winter flowering cosmos and Daphne odora are looking particularly lovely at the moment, whilst the long flowering geraniums, hebe and lavatera still have enough flowers to attract the occasional hungry bee.

Thinking ahead to possible craft activities with the children, I attempted to preserve some autumn leaves this week by immersing them in a bath of 1 part Glycerin to 2 parts water for 48 hours. This method allows the leaves to maintain some of their suppleness, though the colour of the leaves will change slightly (e.g. in my limited experience, yellow leaves often turn a brown/green).

NB Some other methods for preserving autumn leaves are described here:

https://www.thespruce.com/pressing-fall-leaves-1402119 (as well as on a multitude of other websites).

"The robin flew from his swinging spray of ivy on to the top of the wall and he opened his beak and sang a loud, lovely trill, merely to show off. Nothing in the world is quite as adorably lovely as a robin when he shows off - and they are nearly always doing it."

Frances Hodgson Burnett

If I can stop one heart from breaking,

I shall not live in vain;

If I can ease one life the aching,

Or cool one pain,

Or help one fainting robin

Unto his nest again,

I shall not live in vain.

Emily Dickinson