The wings of winter

Crisis relocation. A term from the Cold War. It means being somewhere else when it happens. When the threat of the Soviet Empire was as much a part of daily life as tea and toast, there were fixed plans to shift our leaders out of harm’s way at the whiff of the first missile.

Birds operate the same strategy. When the Cold War of winter strikes, many birds cope with the emergency by being somewhere else. So you’d think that this would leave the country a little depleted at this time of year: after all, the swifts and swallows are long gone and with them most of the warblers.

But that’s not the case at all. The same strategy of crisis relocation brings thousands of birds flocking into Britain to savour the balmy weather of our winters. Our bleak wind-scoured estuaries are Caribbean beaches for some birds, while our back gardens and parks are a second home in Tuscany for many more.

And if you want to give yourself a real birding treat, then spend the next few weeks haunting the supermarket car-park. For some reason these places are often planted with cotoneasters and other berry-laden bushes. When there’s an ultra-cold snap on the continent, a particularly dashing bird will come in gangs to feast on the berries.

These are waxwings, an irruptive species that loves to take birders by surprise. Suburban streets are another favourite habitat: anywhere there’s berries, but with a special taste for the mundane. They like the contrast, I suppose: they’re raffishly handsome things with tendency to overdo the eye make-up and the millinery.

This country is death to swallows in the cold weather, because there’s nothing to eat: the aerial plankton they feed on, the invertebrate life of the skies, simply doesn’t exist in winter.