If the blackcap fits

Small, shy and chubby with a neat black cap, this effervescent bird sings its heart out in spring. Jack Watkins meets the blackcap, also known as the March nightingale

- Jack Watkins

THE ears need a moment to retune on a woodland stroll in early spring. The sun is out and the birds are busy. After the silence of winter, hearing them again is invigorating. At first, the brightness of their voices is almost overwhelming. Like an orchestra going full pelt, the song variations of individual species are lost in the mass of sound. Only once the dial is reset do you really start to listen.

Of course, most of the players turn out to be the old regulars: blackbirds, wrens, great tits, the inevitable crows and the distant, disappearing laugh of a green woodpecker. Yet, there’s one sound, not completely unfamiliar, but refreshing all the same, coming from about halfway up a tree just ahead. The leaves are out by now, initially concealing the shy songster. Its urge to sing, however, is irrepressible and, edging stealthily forward to peer up through the branches, it soon reveals itself to be a small, chubby, grey bird with the neat black cap to which it owes its popular name.

The song of the blackcap (Sylvia atricapilla) has an effervescent quality, vaguely akin to that of the blackbird, although briefer and faster. Sweet, but loud, especially when delivered from an exposed perch, it is undoubtedly melodic. Delivered with apparent spontaneity, the blackcap is the Hoagy Carmichael of the bird kingdom, sitting in its tree, casually knocking out a few phrases and then pausing, as if to ask: ‘Is that good enough for you?’