Living in bird-land

 

When you live surrounded by birds, you start thinking of creative ways to make them happy. Would this dollhouse, photographed in the back yard of our Saltspring place, make a good bird condo? Photo by John Denniston.

One of our existing contributions to the neighbourhood bird population is a birdbath. It's a well-used stopping-off point for a drink or a swift splash of the tail-feathers. Photo by John Denniston.

We live amongst the birds here on Saltspring Island, which is a beautiful thing.

They soar past our windows, singly, doubly, or in flocks, zipping up to settle in the tall trees around us, or plummeting down to check out the birdbath or goodies on the ground. They settle by the dozens on the hill behind us, pecking and scratching, turning part of the hillside black. Herds of quail with their head-plumes like ridiculous hats motor past our doorway, swiftly diverting if we dare to open the door. And the song! Sometimes it’s almost a wall of noise, one set of birds laying down their warbling and chirping overtop the next and the next, with a few high-pitched trills belling out over top. When I left the house for a walk this morning, I could hear the song from our place two houses down and around the corner.

Like many people on this island, we are charmed and delighted by this abundance of feathered life, which seems like a cheerful, hopeful thing, especially in a world turned dour. And like many others, we do what we can to encourage it.

Our neighbour Kathy, who loved wildlife so much that she suffered the deer to eat her precious roses, attracted flocks of birds with seed- and sugar-water feeders on her balcony, and distributed peanuts to favoured regulars every morning. There was an emptiness in the air when she died six years ago, but now a new neighbour one house down has taken over. Six or more feeders and plenty of places to perch have turned his front garden into a Grand Central Station of busy birds and their chatter.

We haven’t put out birdfeeders ourselves, as we are here so sporadically (plus, rats!), but we do our little bit. Our birdbath is a local hit, a lively focal point for splashing, drinking and territorial disputes throughout the day. The birdhouses John built 20 years ago, painted to mimic our own house, have been so well used that when he opened one this summer, it was packed front to back with straw and feathers.

Soon, we hope to up the ante. This summer, John spotted a two-storey Victorian-style dollhouse in a pile of free stuff just down the street. “A birdhouse!” he exclaimed. If renovations go well this winter, we hope to be offering the birds of Vesuvius some choice condo units this spring.

Me at the door where quail often roam underfoot, and a birdhouse overhead attracts occupants every spring. Photo by John Denniston.

A close-up of the birdhouse, painted to mimic the colours of our house. Photo by John Denniston. 

Another  birdhouse sits high atop an unused chimney. Photo by John Denniston.

Another look at birds on the bath; such photos are rare because the birds are so skittish that they vanish at the sight of a camera. They seem to tolerate the cherub, though. Photo by John Denniston.