This is a picture of the little redstart that had taken to roosting at night on our thermometer in our porch, a couple of weeks ago. As it sheltered from the endless rain, on its precarious perch, I took pity on it, and decided we should build it a proper nesting ledge.
I found some appropriate bits of wood, and some wall brackets, and discussed with Simon the design of the new redstart abode. Having run out of time before heading off on our house-hunting excursion in the Cold Heart of France, we agreed that, if the little bird was still a-roosting in our porch when we returned, we would build the bird-home first thing the following day.
It wasn’t.
Perhaps the sudden arrival of my sister’s two cats in the house had frightened it away. Perhaps it had succumbed to the uncustomarily harsh winter weather that assailed Roquetaillade during our absence. Perhaps it had relocated in a sulk, disgusted at our failure to provide its upgraded home before we left on our travels.
I guess we will never know. But I do know that I will miss it.
A birdless porch is a bereft place.
