Monday, March 23, 2009
Whatever the old Celtic calendar said about spring starting on St Brigid’s Day, most country people know better.
They know that it doesn’t really get under way until St Patrick’s Day. That’s certainly true here, in the cold midlands.
It’s a little later than usual this year, after a long and cold winter. We had snow in November and snow in March. The soil temperature is low. As I write, there is an area of high pressure over the country, and, although the days are gloriously sunny, the nights are still very cold.
Temperature is not the only factor controlling the onset of spring. The effect of increasing day length on plants and animals is also important, and this, of course, never varies. What dies vary, though, is the amount of light available.
If the weather is cloudy or misty at this time of year, there are less photons available to stimulate both the glandular system of birds and animals and whatever mysterious mechanism prompts plants to start growing and flowering. This also delays things.
But every day now there are signs that the countryside is shaking off the burden of winter.
On a still evening you can actually hear the spring. There is the high-pitched bleating of young lambs trying to locate their mothers in the flock. And, for the first time this year, the sound of the neighbour’s ride-on lawn-mower.
Then there’s the bird song. On a good evening, which means late sunshine and no wind, the dusk chorus is as impressive as the more famous dawn chorus. The birds are also behaving differently. I was watching house sparrows at my bird table, and they were spending at least as much time in courtship display as in feeding.
This is a species in which it’s easy to tell males from females, and it was the females who seemed to be initiating things. I’ve noticed this feminist streak in a number of species of small bird. I was watching a pair of stonechats the other day, and, again, it was the female who was displaying to an uninterested-looking male.
Looking out of the window as I write this, the edge of the bog, a couple of hundred metres away, has turned to gold. There is a sea of furze in bloom. Of course, furze is, I think, the only wild Irish plant that will blossom in every month of the year. But it flowers more intensely in the spring.
This is probably because queen bumble bees have come out of hibernation and are now foraging actively. They particularly like the rosemary bush that’s flowering in my herb garden. In the hedgerows, I have not yet spotted any blackthorn blossom, which is another sign that spring is late this year.
But there are fat buds on the hawthorn and the elders have been in leaf for a couple of weeks. The wild primroses at the base of the hedge have also been flowering for a while, and the hart’s tongue ferns are beginning to uncoil fresh fronds.
There is a feeling of pent-up energy bursting for release. I feel it myself. I’m impatient for things to start happening again.
I go out into the vegetable garden and put the back of my hand on to the bare soil. It’s too cold. I have germinated seedlings in the greenhouse, which is heated.
Unless the soil warms up quickly, I won’t be able to plant them out. The same thing is true of the seed potatoes that are sprouting in a tray in the shed. I know it’s silly to be impatient like this, but I get the impression that the whole of nature shares my feelings this year.
dick.warner@examiner.ie
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