British people have a profound attraction to this particular bird. One writer describes how he formed a special relationship with a robin in his garden, one crumb of cheese at a time.
[You must be registered and logged in to see this image.]Hugh Warwick with his trained robin. Photograph: Zoe Broughton
The first time I tried to lure a robin to feed from my hand I failed. My experience with wildlife is almost entirely mammal-based and I was not convinced that one's heart could be easily captured by a bird. Perhaps my lack of commitment shone through as I stood near the specks of organic mature cheddar I had placed on the garden table, waiting for the robin, which seemed to glower at me from the nearby dogwood, to swoop down and accept my offering.
As I watched the robin watch me I was also drawn to the conclusion that this little bird is a fraud. Redbreast? The stems of the dogwood were red; the robin, perched, preening and posing, clearly has an orange breast.
The reason I tried was thanks to Andrew Lack, whom I met while writing my latest book, The Beauty in the Beast. I had challenged an number of wildlife gurus to convince me that their chosen species was equal to my totem, the hedgehog. And it was life-changingly serious – I had rather rashly declared that I would get my second, and this time, definitely last, tattoo of the more persuasive species.
The hedgehog, I have argued, is the most important creature on the planet. Give me a soapbox and I will start to preach hedgehog to whoever will listen. Between its muddy little paws are held the keys to the salvation of humanity. I think part of my problem with birds is that they have got such good PR. The Mammal Society looks on in seeping envy at the capacity of the RSPB to dominate the wildlife and conservation agenda. But it is important to realise, as Lack explains, that this has not always been the case. Our overt love of wildlife is relatively new; though our love of the robin is not.
There was a time when it was really only the robin that received much attention. And this is specific to the UK. Elsewhere in its range the bird is hunted and killed. But here, thanks to the way we garden, the robin has struck up a peculiar relationship with people. Why? Because to the robin, we are little more than tall pigs. In their natural habitat, the woodland edge, they follow wild boar, watching as they turn over the soil and expose invertebrate food. And what do we do in the garden?
But it is not just down to our pig-like behaviour. The robin does itself a lot of favours by being bold, bright and musical in the bleakest months of the year. Feeding the birds, bringing them closer to your home, benefits both parties. And soon people found that you could tame robins to feed from your hand. Which is what Lack had told me about. He learned the technique from his mother, who always had a robin on the go.
[You must be registered and logged in to see this image.]'We have struck up an understanding'. Photograph: Hugh Warwick
Last year, a recently fledged robin was tolerating my presence in the garden. And though I tried to lure it to feed from my hand – I failed. Then this summer a bold redbreast, which I like to think is the same one, (though they have such short lives that might not be the case) appeared just outside the conservatory door. Not expecting much, I took a few crumbs of cheese and put them on the table outside. And waited, standing nearby.
The robin swooped, took a piece of cheese, and was off again. My heart was racing and I was grinning. I had just completed the first hurdle.
A few minutes later the robin was back so I set up the next step – cheese on the table, but this time I stood closer, with my hand out. A little more hesitantly, the robin came closer, bounced around the far side of the table, before flitting across, pinching the cheese and disappearing down the garden with a thrumming of wings.
I waited a while longer for it to return, but then had to get back to work. The next day, it was back, and this time I placed the cheese on the table but placed my hand nearby. Again, more hesitation, but it came and scored another crumb of mature cheddar. And was gone.
Later in the day, I heard the rapid flutter of wings and a little cheep. I decided to be as bold as the robin – and went for broke, placing the cheese on the tips of my fingers, and my hand on the table. Hopping around, apparently plucking up courage, the robin came very close, before flying away without the treat. I realised I had been holding my breath.
The next day I repeated the exercise, though this time with my little camera in the other hand – at least, I thought, I would get a nice close-up of the bird. Hop, hop it came, closer and closer, then, a dart forward. It took the cheese and buzzed off, and I had completely forgotten to take a photograph. Elated, I went back to the fridge for more cheese and over the past three weeks we have struck up an understanding – the robin will pose for a photograph on my hand for around 1/500th of a second in return for a piece of cheese the size of a grain or rice. And, apart from the neighbour's cat, my only worry is the cholesterol levels in the bird.
I might not be able to pet my robin – but there is something very special about the impossibly light bundle of energy that will sometimes spend a few seconds on my hand. I have been lucky enough to be able to share the delight – my wife, children and friends have all had grin-inducing moment of wildlife connection. For me this is so much more fulfilling than watching the celebrities of the charismatic mega-fauna prancing around in HD on my TV.
One morning I was having a snooze in the conservatory when I was woken by a "cheep, cheep …" I looked down and the robin was hopping around my feet. I went to the fridge, took the grain of cheese and as I stood there, feeding the bird, feeling a little bleary, it dawned on me that perhaps I had not trained the robin, it had trained me. Perhaps I should consider a third, and really, definitely, final tattoo after all?
Thu Aug 08, 2013 11:28 am