The Robin and Me.

I’ve mentioned before that the robin is my favourite garden bird, and today I realised why: it’s because they’re so like me. They’re solitary birds, only joining with a mate during the breeding season. And not only do they avoid the company of other robins, they generally avoid the company of all birds.

I’ve watched them hanging around the bird table when the sparrows and blackbirds and tits and the rest of the feathered breed are engaged in a feeding melee, only taking their place when there is a gap big enough to keep themselves apart from the hoi polloi. I watched one this morning feeding alone until a flock of common-or-garden sparrows – busy little gluttons that they are – descended en masse, and then the robin legged it (well, winged it I suppose.)

And so they give the appearance of being the snobs of the bird world. They give the appearance of feeling superior. Or maybe they’re just naturally cautious, or maybe they feel like alien beings trapped on the wrong planet. It’s how I feel sometimes and I wonder whether the robins’ behaviour tells me something about myself.

I spend a disproportionate amount of my time watching robins and being fascinated by their aloofness. I’m also fascinated by the fact that the robin is the only bird which spends a lot of its time on the bird table not feeding, but looking back at me. I remember the one which followed me around for three years before disappearing for good. I remember how it used to be standing on my doorstep looking up at me in the morning. I remember how it once flew up and hovered before my face, staring me in the eye for several long seconds. Maybe it knew something about our connection which I don’t.