Five Migrating Cuckoos

No one knows for sure yet, but it looks as if the five male cuckoos tagged in South-East England by the British Trust for Ornithology, are now in their winter quarters. Just after the December solstice all five were transmitting from West Central Africa in, or around, the Congo Basin.

Each cuckoo's journey was unique. Their departure dates were weeks apart as were arrival dates. Two birds chose westerly flight paths, through Spain and along the coast of North-West Africa, before continuing in a south-easterly direction on the final legs. The other three chose more direct routes, through Italy, across the Mediterranean into North Africa, then across the Sahara. Each journey was punctuated by stopovers of several weeks, at the end of flights which could well have been gruelling, covering up to 2200 Km over a two day period.

It is amazing that all five birds should reach their destination without mishap, and that five birds with breeding grounds around the same area should find themselves close together after having been separated by up to 3600 Km. I used to think that bird behaviour was governed entirely by instinct and that instinct was a property of the species followed blindly by each individual. Free will was not something I associated with birds.

It is hard to imagine such a journey being made without knowledge, at least knowledge, conscious or unconscious, of the destination. I suspect each bird also has knowledge of the hazardous regions to be crossed. It avoids very long flights over the sea, and rests and refuels before attempting a desert crossing. This knowledge cannot have been acquired through learning because the cuckoo's surrogate parents know nothing of migration to another continent. It is possible that this knowledge is resident in the bird brain having been put there through reactions initiated by cuckoo DNA. It is also possible that that the knowledge is resident elsewhere, and cuckoo DNA initiates reactions that result in the cuckoo being able to access it at the appropriate time.

Fascinating!

Saw Therapy

As Christmas approaches I protect myself from paralysis by cliche by - weather permitting - daily saw therapy. The smaller branches that were attached to the huge limb, torn off one of our beech trees in last May's storm, are gradually being reduced to firewood. Beech makes an excellent fuel. The fine twigs are ideal for kindling and the logs, laid on a single layer of coal, blaze brightly before being reduced to a soft, fine ash that fertilizes.

Saw therapy only works if you use a manual implement. Men, the main sawers in this area, prefer power saws. Their whining and groaning (the saws', not the men's) is to my mind devils' music that overpowers and replaces the comforting rhythm of old-fashioned sawing.

The therapeutic effects are not confined to rhythm. I have reprieved pieces of wood from being burned because of the subtle beauty of their bark. Among them were long digits whose skin gleamed with the pink of newly minted copper or the orange tint of copper alloy. They were adorned at intervals with finely-ridged metallic bands and marked with patches of silver grey containing dark microflecks and microstreaks. they had dark lenticel pores in the centre of tiny goosepimples, or small raised rhombuses, or between two tiny lips.

No two pieces of wood are the same. For me, humble beech wood rescues me from pre-Christmas boredom and is a symbol of the unlimited possibilities in Creation.