Zugunruhe. That’s how 18th-century German animal behaviourists referred to the seasonal restlessness of caged birds. It literally means “journey anxiety” and is strongest in migratory species, which flutter and fret in the direction they would fly if they could. I’ve recently learned that sedentary species exhibit these jitters too – prompted perhaps by a form of collective memory. I can relate to this: as the days lengthen, I wake early, dream more, fidget incessantly.
While most of our spring migrants travel north and west, I find myself pulled south, for a nocturnal assignation with one in particular.
I’ve never seen this place so soggy. I can’t move quietly or stretch out on the ground as I have before, but it doesn’t matter – for there it is, in all its glory. At 90 decibels, nightingale song can be appreciated at a distance. Its myriad qualities have been described as anything from melancholy to mad, mellifluous to mechanical; this one is all those things and more. It is as hot and bright as molten gold, simultaneously scorching and soothing, and I think I’m never more messy or plural than during these strange private encounters. It feels like having all the windows and doors in my mind flung wide open.
I visit again the next night with my son and his two friends. It’s hours after their bedtime. Mud tries to steal their boots. They are stoic, but it’s been stormy all day and I can tell from half a mile away that last night’s bird is not singing. We visit his thicket anyway, spirits fortified by the occasional shooting star, and I decide to try to conjure them something.
I’m a poor whistler, and the blowy peeee-peeee-peeee I send out sounds hopelessly feeble. But the reply is immediate and miraculous. A single short phrase, cutting the night like a lighthouse beam, prompting three little gasps, three pairs of wide, incredulous eyes. I whistle again. Again the bird replies and, for a moment, magic is tinglingly real. But there are limits. The third time, he’s sussed me as an unworthy partner and an unlikely rival. The children don’t seem to mind that this is all. They’ve heard the enchanted bird, after all.
• Country diary is on Twitter at @gdncountrydiary
• This article was updated on Wednesday 26 April to correct an editing error in paragraph three
