Up until two weekends ago, the dawn chorus, was for me, synonymous with a night-out which had rumbled on into the early hours.
As a friend of mine once said in response to his father’s observtaion that he had stayed out far too late, “It’s that late Da, it’s early.”
I clearly remember thinking that the birds were singing songs of condemnation at the sorry sight of me trudging home like a vampire trying to escape the rising sun.
Fond memories indeed.
Anyway, I went along to dawn chorus in Moydamlaght Forest, just outside Moneyneena, with little more than mild curiosity. Trying something new.
The heavy drizzle was incessant, but the range of bird songs was not dimmed.
David, our excellent guide, put it brilliantly, as we strained our necks to catch a glimpse of the feathered singers.
“Sometimes it doesn’t matter if you actually see them or not, just standing and listening is enough,” he said.
“When you do that, you can block out all the other madness of the world.”