Warbler Woe.

It’s turned cold again over here and this morning we had a snow shower, which is why I’m worried about the little warbler I saw at the back of the house a couple of days ago. It’s too early for warblers to be coming up from the heat of Central Africa; they usually arrive with the swallows and martins in late April or early May. For if April is said to be the cruellest month of the year, March is surely the most fickle.

Whenever I envisage March I see a picture of glorious golden daffodils shivering uncomfortably in a cold wind. She can never decide whether her allegiance lies with the dark crone of winter or the fresh virgin of spring. And that, unfortunately, makes her untrustworthy.

There’s been a bat flying at dusk the past few nights, too, but they have to come out of hibernation as early as they reasonably can to put weight on after the rigours of the winter sleep. But warblers have a choice. You’d think they’d be more sensible, wouldn’t you?