A 'typical' Sunday at Hazel Cottage

I was walking through the house earlier and took pictures of some of the interesting and random things that are currently happening at Hazel Cottage... 

Soil warming on a radiator ready for seeds

Rye bread proving in the washing basket

Parsnip wine fermenting under the desk in the study

Old books rescued from a jumble sale

My still unfinished patchwork picture in the sewing area

Daffodils on the hearth

Rye bread just out of the oven

In the garden, the crocuses are basking in whatever sunshine they can find, the snowdrops are nodding in the wind and I spotted two robins on the bird table this morning - almost time for nesting to start perhaps?

Wan February with weeping cheer,
Whose cold hand guides the youngling year
Down misty roads of mire and rime,
Before thy pale and fitful face
The shrill wind shifts the clouds apace
Through skies the morning scarce may climb.
Thine eyes are thick with heavy tears,
But lit with hopes that light the year's."
 Algernon Charles Swinburne, A Year's Carols: February

 

St Luke's little summer

Today the 18th of October is the feast day of St Luke, the writer of the Gospel that bears his name and patron saint of artists and doctors.  According to ancient writings Luke was not only a writer, but a Doctor.  St Paul referred to him as 'the beloved physician'.  Tradition also suggests that Luke was also an artist who painted a portrait of Jesus' mother Mary.  

St Luke's day was traditionally a day when girls could foresee who they might marry.  They should put a mixture of spices, honey and vinegar on their faces before going to bed and say the rhyme 'St Luke, St Luke, be kind to me, In dreams let me my true love see'.  I've also read that this day was also known as Dog Whipping Day when all the stray dogs were whipped out of the town.  Not quite as pleasant an idea!

Trees changing colour in the park

I thought of the old saint this morning when realising just how warm the weather has been the last couple of days.  This last flourish of warm calm weather was often called St Luke's little summer, the calm spell before the autumn frosts and winds start to blow.  Last night we left the back door open until later in the evening and listened to a robin singing in the dark.  He sang so sweetly to no one in particular but I like to think he sang for me.

As it was dark I couldn't get a picture, so here is our robin singing earlier in the year

The pious bird with the scarlet breast

I came home early from work the other day on a beautifully sunny, warm, almost spring like day.  Opening the back door I could hear the melodious sound of a robin singing.  The song was so loud I assumed the robin was nearby however I found him sat at the very top of a tall fir tree two gardens away.  I should have known, the robin can never be said to be shy or quiet!

“The robin flew from his swinging spray of ivy on to the top of the wall and he opened his beak and sang a loud, lovely trill, merely to show off. Nothing in the world is quite as adorably lovely as a robin when he shows off - and they are nearly always doing it.”
Frances Hodgson Burnett, The Secret Garden 

The song of the robin went on for some time, so long in fact that I had time to go back into the house and fetch Mr C's camera with a decent zoom.  Without knowing much about what setting I should use, I just zoomed madly, and tried not to shake too much.

The robin is a highly territorial bird, who will fight any other robin it assumes is taking over its territory.  This means you will only see the one male bird (and one female during fledging season) within a garden or three. They will sing all year round, even on the darkest winter's day - holding their territory by warning intruders with their song and their red breast.

Eventually the robin was replaced in his singing spot by a magpie, who was probably asserting his authority. 

I did find the robin in a nearby tree still singing away....

 'Art thou the bird whom Man loves best, The pious bird with the scarlet breast, Our little English Robin'. 

William Wordsworth