My Christmas Robin
The Big Day has arrived, the one we’ve all been waiting for – National Robin Day!
Robins are everywhere at this time of the year, on Christmas cards, telly adverts, festive decorations and, especially, in the garden. And in my garden, me and its robin are mates.
He’s there every time. Or maybe it should be she’s there, I don’t know, as the difference between the sexes is next to nothing. But I’m pretty sure it’s the same robin though. These lovely little birds have slightly different breast markings, so I think I recognise him. And me and my robin, or the robin and his human, have a routine: I dig or disturb the earth, move off a little, and Mr Robin, Erithacus rubecula, looks into the hole for something robin tasty.
I compost, and I’m harvesting my heap and spreading it on veg beds to feed the soil over the winter. I’m a little late this year as one thing or another has taken up my time. Well, one thing more than any other.
So I shovel some compost into a barrow and move a short distance, spread it and look to see what Mr Robin is doing, though I’m pretty certain he’ll be on the heap looking for beetles, worms or his great joy, mealworms, for which I’m sure he’d sell his little soul. He’s peck and look, peck and look. I wait till he’s finished and hops up onto the pallet wall, and I approach the heap again, slowly. He looks at me intently, ready for anything, but he does not move away.
I’ve been very close to him, maybe two feet, so long as I don’t make a sudden move. And I’m always very polite, saying good day Mr Robin, how are you – a very satisfying little ritual. I really like the little blighter. He’s clever, brave, cheeky and a great opportunist, and though the years in a ship’s engine have seen off my high frequency hearing and I can’t hear him, he’s a great singer, if my memory serves me right. They use their song to mark their territory, though winter and spring songs are quite different. You can hear their song here. You can hear why, I hope, Shakespeare in Two Gentlemen of Verona said that lovers 'relish a love song like a robin redbreast'.
And we all love robins, right? And so we should. They are bringers of luck and are beloved of God. When it comes to Britain's favourite bird, the myths and folklore surrounding them are as colourful as their breasts. This tiny bird is symbol of good luck, happiness, rebirth - and a messenger for lost loved ones.
Back in the mists of time, the robin was the protector from storms and lightning, and in other folklore known as the Oak King of Summer.
Did you know that the robin used to be known only as the redbreast. It was only in early Victorian times, when giving animals names was all the rage, that the redbreast was christened Robin, and his mate the wren named Jenny. And not forgetting that troublesome chimney dweller Jack Daw.
It was then that the redbreast appeared on Christmas cards, possibly because of the bright red uniforms worn by Royal Mail posties who, in those days when the mail was cheap, efficient and royal, were nicknamed 'robins'. In no time, the robin redbreast was seen on cards holding envelopes in their beaks or sitting on post boxes. Maybe, there is also a link to earlier folklore with the robin being a messenger of good wishes and joy.
And do you know how the brave-hearted soul got his red breast? It depends on who you ask. Some tell of how the flames from a fire keeping the baby Jesus warm were dying out, when a flock of little brown birds fanned the flames with their tiny wings and a gust of fire scorched their breasts. Others say that the red came from the blood of Christ, a splash when he plucked a thorn from the Son of God’s head as he was dying on the cross where, to ease his pain and suffering, Mr Robin sang a beautiful song to Jesus, and then waited outside his tomb and sang with the angels when Jesus ascended into heaven.
In Welsh the robin is known as brou-rhuddyn or 'scorched breast' from when the robin scorched its breast in the fires of purgatory delivering water to tormented souls!
Robins are often mentioned in literature too, like the C.S. Lewis story Chronicles of Narnia, where a robin leads the Pevensies forward to safety; "...a robin, you know. They’re good birds in all the stories I’ve ever read. I’m sure a robin wouldn’t be on the wrong side.” And they are not forgotten in poetry. William Blake’s famous 'Auguries of Innocence' discusses how 'A robin red breast in a cage, puts all heaven in a rage', echoing the feeling that birds are a true symbol of freedom.
Thomas Hardy also took a liking to the robin, and dedicated a poem to them:
When up aloft
I fly and fly,
I see in pools
The shining sky,
And a happy bird
Am I, am I!
When I descend
Toward the brink
I stand and look
And stop and drink
And bathe my wings,
And chink, and prink.
When winter frost
Makes earth as steel,
I search and search
But find no meal,
And most unhappy
Then I feel.
But when it lasts,
And snows still fall,
I get to feel
No grief at all
For I turn to a cold, stiff
Feathery ball!
The well-known phrase, 'When robins appear, loved ones are near', was proven to me this morning, a morning made special by an exchange of gifts between my and Mr Robin. As I say, I was digging out some compost for my veggie beds when my robin turned up, as he always does, looking for a treat.
As soon as he settled, made sure it was me, his mate, down he went into the compost bin. I thought I’d leave him in peace for a while, as the bin is not too busy with robin food at this time of the year, so I went into the greenhouse to start tidying for sterilisation and disturbed a pot. Underneath it was a mess of grubby robin grubs. What kind of grubs they were I do not know, but I scooped them up and put them in the compost bin, and retreated a few yards. In no time at all Mr Robin was having a feast fit for a robin king. He scoffed the lot and then hopped up onto a branch of a nearby tree to defecate mightily into my leaf mould patch.
Feeling all warm and virtuous, I sat down to look out over my domain, still green and satisfyingly free of leaves, a broad brimmed hat shading my eyes from the low sun. Just then I felt something light on my head and ZYY appeared at the other side of the garden (she won’t come to this part, as here be snakes. Big ones. Grass snakes.) and she started to laugh. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Mr Robin sitting on my head in the greenhouse refection. I stayed still. He stayed still. I’m sure he was singing a Robin thank you. And then after a minute, he went.
And I know his visit was friendly, as unlike my leaf mould patch, he left no robin souvenir.
So, the next time you see a robin in your garden, be sure to give him, or maybe her, the time of day. You just never know what message they may have for you.