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that Fingringhoe is now so honoured and that areas near
Hartswood, Brentwood and near the Viper at Hill Green are
now avoided. The scrub of a few years ago is fast turning
to woodland. This may also explain why the nightingale has
reduced its numbers so much in the last 25-50 years. Scrub
has either become woodland or been cleared.
It became apparent that nightingales were frequently found
close to streams and ponds (as at Fingringhoe). This may
simply reflect the sad fact that farmers have left scrub
untended only where it lies alongside unworkable land.
But it seems more likely that these damp areas are richest
in insects and provide a plentiful food supply.
That nightingales are so retiring and favour the most
impenetrable of thickets in Britain is a pity. The trim
brown plumage with rufous tail and brilliant eye are
attractive. But the passion which the bird creates comes,
of course, from its song. It is difficult to describe it
without either repeating other writers or becoming banal.
Surely though we treasure the song because the bird sings
by night with such energy while most other birds rest
silently until dawn. It demands our attention, and,even
in the dawn chorus, the power of the song is arresting.
Is this not why the wren endears itself, with so much
energy from so small a bird? The combination of powerful,
nocturnal singing with the short phrases of the song itself
help to make a nightingale census relatively straight-
forward. Under favourable conditions birds can be heard up
to a mile away and when listening to a group of birds
singing at least six individuals can be separated.
Many find the nightingale's song faultless. Others find it
too full of sadness and pathos to be 'best' or 'held dearest'.
It comes between those two extremes to my mind - never
would I exchange it for the song of a blackbird. But
how well, how beautifully, did an anonymous poet sum up in
1751 his feelings in 'The Happy Nightingale';
The nightingale, in dead of night,
On some green hawthorn hid from sight,
Her wondrous art displays;
While all the feathered choir's at rest,
Nor fowler's snares her joys molest,
She sings melodious lays.