At the top of my garden is a wall - half of it is a typical Yorkshire Dry stone wall. The other half is a neat stone wall with a parapet on the top and above that a hedge. And in the hedge, as there is most years, is a blackbird's nest. When Mrs Blackbird was sitting on their eggs Mr Blackbird would spend a large part of each day serenading her from the rooftops. Now the chicks are hatched and hiding in amongst the plants in my garden waiting to be fed by Mum and Dad, life is a bit more hazardous for them. When I go out to do my five laps of the patio Mr and Mrs B give their warning signal to tell the chicks to stay hidden. As soon as I come in the feeding begins again in earnest. Except that this morning it didn't - danger signals continued and both Mum and Dad fluttered up and down, tails in the air. Why? I couldn't work it out until suddenly, what I had taken to be a root in the hedge moved. It wasn't the hedge at all. It was a tabby Tom Cat, curled up at the base of the hedge. They knew he was there and by golly he knew they were around and he was going nowhere(he fancied a meal of nice fat blackbird chick rather than tinned cat food wherever he lived).
That was yesterday - today is a wet morning and so far no sign of him so Mum and Dad are presumably making up for lost time and stuffing grubs, flies, worms and anything else that appears on the menu down little cheeping throats as fast as possible. Strike while the iron's hot as they say.
Now my gardeners have arrived to mow the lawns and dead head the daffodils and tulips - oh dear poor old blackbirds - what a tough time they are having.