Thomas Bewick called them “wind thrushes”. The 18th-century engraver grew up not far from here, in the village of Eltringham. He felt “an extreme pleasure in seeing … the redwings make their appearance” each autumn. They’re still here on the brink of spring, two dozen or so, assembled in a bare treetop at Beamish, near Stanley, all of them pointing west, facing down the wind.
Beamish is a living museum of northern life. Scenes and settings from 70, 80, 100-odd years ago are immaculately reconstructed. Trams and old diesel buses trundle you around. Here, in the rebuilt 1900s pit village, there are miners’ cottages, a Wesleyan chapel, a band hall, a school. And jackdaws – hundreds of jackdaws.
