Last spring, a family of blackbirds took over the garden.
The canny so-and-sos had set up nest in the carport – up high, where the local army of cats couldn’t reach them.
I waited with anticipation for the chicks to arrive. MY carport, MY garden – what a privilege!
When they did arrive – 4 of them – chaos ensued.
After flinging themselves from the nest with reckless abandon (I was terrified), they spent the next week or so hopping around the borders, popping up in pots, on windowsills.
Gardening became guerrilla warfare. I couldn’t weed a border without one of the little blighters bursting through the undergrowth, scaring me half to death.
And all of the time, from up above – eek eek eek eek eek eek! – the protective parents, shouting at me, and, occasionally, dive-bombing my head.
In time, with some guidance from their mother, each of the chicks learnt to fly, and left the garden.
I mourned their departure (until the parents roosted again, and then again). They made such a mess of the carport – THEIR carport.
I wonder whether they’ll be back this spring?