The joys of Spring (and very large pigeons)

They're huge. They're just so big. How are they so big?

Spring has well and truly sprung in this permanently green part of Lancashire. The daffodils have near enough worn themselves out after dancing cheerily by so many roadsides; the hawthorn’s first green foliage competes with blackthorn’s frothy white blossom in the hedgerow; and the giant pigeons are cruising through my garden once more. Watching the Earth warm up and come to life is always thrilling, but as far as I’m concerned, nothing tops the sight of four woodpigeons, each the size of a Jack Russell, strutting through the unmown grass and leaving trails of flattened green behind them. They are my aliens; my lawn, their crop circles.

Pigeons are granivores. This means that if they become large enough, they will be able to kill and eat a whole Grandmother by themselves. Fortunately, they are generally too feckless and uncoordinated to achieve this aim, and quickly become disinterested while pursuing their prey. They therefore prefer to eat grains, as these provide them with ample nutrition and are less able to fight back. This is why we se so many hideous and disfigured pigeons hobbling their miserable way through city centres, pecking despondently at cigarette butts. In urban areas the grains are few and the grandmothers wily.

I presume that this is why I see so many particularly robust woodpigeons in my garden. We are lucky to be surrounded by agricultural land, a mix of arable and pasture. There is also a healthy mix of woodland and wild grass areas. The plucky pigeon does not have far to travel to find suitable bed and board. The lazy pigeon, however, does well to wander through the gardens of the village, taking its pick from the bird tables. No sparrow will argue with a creature that causes a minor earthquake when it lands suddenly, so these barrel-chested dogs of the sky have their pick of the offerings.

I possibly should resent their greedy hoarding of the food I leave out, but the sparrows, blackbirds, tits, and starlings all find their way to the leftovers; besides which, I rather enjoy watching a bird that looks frankly incapable of flight desperately flapping its way to the top of the fence before clutching its scaly knees and mopping a sweaty brow with its wing. If I listen very carefully, I can hear them wheezing and muttering about joining a gym. Perhaps it is their fulsome rotundity that I find so pleasingly representative of spring. Here they come, merrily plodding their way out of winter, shaking the cold from their hollow bones and launching themselves with gusto onto the pleasures of the warmer season. They fill themselves up, enrich themselves with the sunshine, the seeds, and of course, the romance of the season.

I often say that winter is the most romantic of the seasons. We celebrate the birth of the baby Christ, the son of God, but the son also of loving mortal parents, hunkered down in the relative warmth of a stable and adoring their infant the way anybody would. We build fires, light candles, hang jolly fairy lights on our houses for every passing neighbour to see. In short, we create light where before there was none. All of this seems desperately romantic to me. But there is something about the simple fecundity of spring, with all its growth and promise that is wonderfully exciting. Again, Christian celebrations, yes, overlapping and mingling with pagan traditions, give us a focal point for the season. The crucifixion of Christ, a horrible cruelty, but one suffered by a man willing to sacrifice himself for his love of others. The story of his rebirth three days later is one of hope and renewal, those same joyful feelings aroused in so many of us when we first spot green shoots poking from barren soil.  

Ewes give birth and suckle to freshly popped lambs staggering drunkenly through lumpy fields. Starlings once again invade my roof space, and if the sounds they make are anything to go by, enthusiastically crack on with putting together a whole suite of self-assembly furniture each morning at dawn. But it is the lumbering great brutes performing their pigeon courtship dances atop the wobbly fence, or abandoning themselves to their seed lust with glee that makes me feel like spring has finally sprung, and for this I am truly grateful.