Encounters with… Starlings

First published in Bird Watching Magazine, August 2009.

A bump upstairs. Then a scrabble. Then a bump. I made a mental note to stop watching horror films, and slept with the cat cuddled up to me and a lamp on…until it clicked. The starlings who had, for weeks now, been whirring back and forth from my gutter with bits of twine and moss, had found their way in to the attic. From the front of the house it became clear there was a small, starling-sized opening in the brick-work, which was rimmed white with droppings.

‘Oh God,’ shuddered my mother, ‘I’ve stored half of my spring wardrobe up there!’ But the starlings saw spring in terms of nesting, not in terms of slinky dresses and short sleeves, and were undeterred by the cat’s failed attempts to climb the gutter. In fact, to rub salt in to the family wounds, they then took to having loud squabbles and frenzied flapping arguments on my window sill at 5am. There is nothing as strange as a dream formed in the interruption of sleep by a series of chirrups, whirrings and burblings. I took to wearing ear-plugs.

During a bout of flu, I decided to research these little noisy creatures, finding an ominous quote from the RSPB, Once juveniles become independent, they gather into noisy flocks that can number several hundred. Not feeling I could cope with several hundred chirpy alarm clocks, I read on, but to my relief found that their feeding flocks could be up to twenty miles from their roost site. Phew.

And then I got a shock. Starling numbers had dropped by 66% in Britain since the 1970s. That was a colossal change, caused apparently by a loss of nest-sites and available food. I looked up through my excrement-splattered window with new sympathy. Apparently the nation’s obsession with repairing roofs and demolishing old buildings had affected yet another native species. In a world unwelcoming to nesting starlings, the birds had seen my gutter as a sanctuary, a little space of peace.

The next morning I removed my earplugs, and let the sunlight and the babblings of the nest stream in through my open window, shutting the cat out of the room. Ever since I was little I have always been described as ‘chatty’ and ‘gregarious’, the same words that seemed to come up in passages on starlings. I began to wonder whether they were, in fact, my bird-counterpart. I also began to appreciate the subtle colourations of the hard-working parents, as they skimmed across the river back to the nest, their feathers as varied and swirled as an oil spill, flecked with delicate white dashes.

I decided to venture up into the attic, having waited until silence implied that the nestlings had fledged, and found myself surrounded by dust heaps, forgotten Sylvanian Families and other childhood companions. The starlings’ nest was surprisingly cosy, tucked behind some foam insulation and next to the small gutter hole, despite them having the run of the whole attic. I was impressed by the obvious care that had been heaped upon the young, as there were no remaining eggshells or droppings, and the nest was a perfect little sculpture of small twigs and straw.

In my quiet bedroom the next morning, I felt saddened that the babies had fledged without my proper attention: one morning they were there, the next not. I missed their bizarre cries, their bubbling pleas for tiny morsels of invertebrates. I pictured them, alone and vulnerable in a cat-filled area. I could only hope their parents had taught them enough to keep them out of the missing 66% of starlings. Looking wistfully up at the hollow gutter I realised: I was suffering Empty Nest Syndrome.