European Robin

16 January 2015. Southampton, England. I’ve just returned from a long-weekend trip to the south of England to attend the funeral of a dear aunt; a long life well lived. England’s south is noticeably milder than most of the country and I half expected to see birds from colder parts of Europe holed up for the winter. I’m sure the flocks of Fieldfares were from Scandinavia and I suppose it’s quite probable that the many Blue Tits, Great Tits and Robins I saw had indeed moved from colder places; hard to know.

Robins, (technically European Robins to separate them from unrelated American Robins) hold an almost unassailable place in the hearts of Brits. I think the classic portrayal of the Robin is as a bold hanger-on, waiting to pounce on earthworms and spiders uncovered by a toiling gardener. I remember reading somewhere that this opportunistic tactic of seizing unlucky invertebrates originated with Robins following foraging pigs; Robins, apparently, see us as vertical swine.

Where I was, there were dozens of Robins and Blue Tits. But only the Blue Tits, among small birds, would linger long enough to allow a photograph and the flightiness of birds in general reinforced my opinion that European birds are more secretive and nervous than American birds. There were, I sensed, many more Robins than the area would support as a breeding population; or that they themselves could tolerate. They were not terribly easy to see, instead they generally only made themselves apparent by their oft-repeated song, a peevish scramble of high notes, delivered from a hidden perch. But as an icon (a word I use with extreme caution) of Englishness and as a sparkle of colour and song in the appropriately funereal light of January, Robins made the day.