A varnished wing and a burnished beak, a herald of the dawn singing from on high, above rocks, leaves and snaking creek. Whether it be during the crisp cold of winter or a lethargic summer’s dawn, the sound of blackbirds is always in the distance. In spring, when the aptly named snowdrops are carpeting the ground in a false frost, the dipping and bobbing of furious feathered rehearsals are in beautiful contrast, a glossy black above a soft white. And then, song.

In the Welsh tale, The Birds of Rhiannon, there are three magical birds who can rouse the dead and grant rest to the weary with their song, untethering the mind from the bounds of the earth. Whilst not explicitly stated, many people attribute blackbirds as being these magical servants of Rhiannon – and who can blame them?

Often seen as an otherworldly, transformative bird, it is easy to see how blackbirds acquired their connotations with mythology through song. From March to July especially, their song is unmistakeable. It is a melodious, fluting song in verses lasting a couple of seconds before a pause, then it bursts out again. It has a mellow, almost mournful quality that is often amended, although not always, by a cheerful twitter at the end – nearly always followed by a pause, and if you can see them, a smug ringed eye and proud beak looking out for prospective mates. 

But their song is distinctive due to its sheer range. It is not a disorganised tune, but it is not repetitive. It changes and sweeps throughout the performance, punctuated by brief rests before another stir of music. And this song carries through the transformative hours – from dusk, blackbirds can be seen on rooftops and branches, studding the skyline, until the sun sinks completely. In the fragile hours of the morning, it is a hauntingly beautiful sound that burns away the blackness until it is bright and blue with sunlight on brassed beaks. Theirs is the music of the hours, ushering in the dark and the light.

They are also, to me, especially beautiful and characterful birds. The glossy black of the males puts them somewhere between an undertaker and a maestro, a pristine gleam that suits a performance either sombre or indulgent. As for their beak it is a bright, golden colour that they use to dig up worms or filch berries from gardens and bushes. Interestingly, in Celtic mythology, the blackbird was once white, but, having been tempted to steal from a dragon’s horde, the intrepid thief was scorched black, and the gold in its beak melted and gilded it to the bright colour we associate with them today. It would seem that the males have better luck with berries and worms instead of gold these days! As for the female, they are resplendent in browns, with the brightest freckles of colour peppering their chest, enabling them to forage in peace. 

As for their mannerisms, you can see them strutting along rooftops in a stop-start fashion, head cocked, tail wagging up and down … and then, a sudden burst of song that can stop as quickly as it starts. The male is especially fond of pontificating from the highest vantage point available, indignant if he is interrupted, whilst the female has a business-like prowl through foliage. Females have a very pleasant, softer version of the male song, but their soothing “chook-chook” call to a partner is a distinctive noise both in woodlands and parks. 

I think blackbirds, despite being so prolific in our gardens and forests, are simple creatures for us to overlook. After going down a delightfully folkloric rabbit hole, I have found them to be quietly mythic birds. The Tees Valley and the Trust that is responsible for it is host to a vast range of beautiful wildlife – be it puffins on the coast, or buzzards and barn owls swooping over the fields, you can find natural spectacles in so many spaces. 

But amongst all the regal pomp surrounding birds of prey or rare species, it is the blackbird I appreciate most. From their characterful nature and their varied song, it is a simple, common kind of pleasure to see and hear them. In a world of rising heat and increasing activity, where getting out on walks or into wild spaces is more difficult, to hear the blackbird sing in the garden feels like home, and a taste of the natural world beyond – even if they are nicking all the berries you’ve been growing!