Stephen Moss - Skylarks with Rosie: A Somerset Spring

Our world is cribbed, confined and bound in as never before. Yet amidst all the fear and horror, there is one small but significant silver lining, as we reconnect with nature on our doorstep.

My Somerset garden is awash with birdsong: chiffchaffs, wrens, robins and a new arrival, the blackcap, all competing to see who can shout the loudest as spring gathers pace. Overhead, buzzards soar and ravens tumble, as delighted as I am to herald the new season.

But to hear a bird whose song is the definitive sound of the countryside, I must take my daily exercise: a walk with our fox-red labrador, Rosie, around Blackford Moor, the little patch of land behind our home.

Ive seen some memorable birds here over the years. But as with any local patch, its all about the commonplace; and here, and especially now, the ubiquitous bird is the skylark.

A plump, triangular-winged shape rises up from the lane in front of us, then rapidly gains height, while continuing to deliver an outpouring of song: a rapid jumble of notes that seems to go on forever, even when the bird vanishes into the ether. As the dog and I stand and watch, I feel a new book coming on: Skylarks with Rosie.

* * *

That is how this little book began: in the whirling heart of the greatest peacetime crisis of our or indeed any other lifetimes. At first, things didnt really seem very different from usual, especially here in the Somerset countryside. But as the days went on, and the world regressed into what began to feel like the seemingly endless Sunday afternoons of my 1960s childhood, something unexpected happened: the coming of spring.

I say unexpected, yet those of us who feel a deep affinity with nature had been waiting for spring ever since New Years Day. But two things were different this year. First, those of us already connected with the natural world were made to experience this seasonal rush right on our own doorsteps, rather than further afield; and second, the vast majority of Britons those who until then had hardly been aware of the changing of the seasons were connecting with nature, too.

Much in the manner of lifelong atheists experiencing a Damascene conversion to God and religion, the nation opened its eyes and ears to what had been going on every spring for their entire lifetimes, yet which until that moment they had been too busy, too preoccupied or simply too blinkered to notice. Birds were singing to defend their territories and win a mate as they always do at this time of year but now things had changed: they were not just being heard, but being listened to, in a collective human awakening to the joys of the natural world.

What I and my fellow naturalists have always loved about our lifelong passion is that engaging with wildlife, at any level, makes us feel better. A few years ago, scientists at the University of Surrey proved this link between nature and well-being, specifically with regard to birdsong. Those of us in the know had, of course, already appreciated that nature was good for us; nevertheless, it was nice to hear it given official approval.

And now, to our huge surprise, we were sharing this love and appreciation for birdsong with the entire nation. For whether you lived in the city, as I did for the first half of my life, or the countryside, as I do now, you could not help but notice the daily rise in the volume, intensity and variety of birdsong, as spring took hold across Britain in 2020.

So, I hope this is more than simply a diary; though it does indeed trace my day-to-day experiences of this unique and unrepeatable spring, for three intense and memorable months from the March equinox to the June solstice. It is, above all, a record of how the nation fell in love with nature at a time of existential crisis; and how nature, without ever realising it, helped us get through to the other side.

Sunday 22nd March, my wife Suzannes birthday, dawned bright, sunny and warm, so after I and my three teenage children had given her presents and sung the ritual song, she and I went for a walk. As always, we went round what we have come to call the loop: a three-mile route out and back from where we live, on the northern edge of the Somerset Levels. Shaped more or less like a letter Q, it begins with a stroll down the lane, followed by four sides of a rough square, then back up the lane to our home.

Our dog, Rosie, was with us, running gleefully ahead before stopping, turning and checking that we were still there. This is by far her favourite walk; and indeed ours, for although this flat, open moor is not conventionally scenic, it does provide a series of views away from our home towards the high points of the Mendips to the north, the Wells telecommunications mast to the east and Brent Knoll to the west. Finally, as we return, we glimpse the reassuring presence of our village church tower to the south, guiding us back home.

Soon after we took the first turning on the square, a low-flying raptor appeared, heading away from us. Immediately both Suzanne and I realised that this was not a buzzard: the dark plumage, long, raised wings and determined flight marked it out as a female marsh harrier. I presumed that this was not one of the birds that breed down on the Avalon Marshes a few miles to the south, but a migrant, heading north-east on what may be the final leg of its journey from north-west Africa, where some of our birds spend the winter.