One thing I’ve noticed about birdwatching is how it’s the rarities that get all of the attention, which leads the birds you see every day to be overlooked. I’m guilty of this myself; going through my notes of what I’ve seen this year, the stand-out ones are a Lesser Scaup that was pointed out to me at Minsmere (I regret not asking the volunteer how he knew it was that and not a regular Scaup), the Puffins on St Margaret’s Island on the boat trip out from Tenby (a first-time sighting of these wonderful birds for me) and the various birds that you don’t get in Britain which I saw in Barcelona and Canada. All some way from East Finchley! So I thought I should turn my attention to the everyday birds, one at a time.
By everyday birds, I mean the ones on my ‘home’ patch, East Finchley. Since I’ve logged over thirty different species in East Finchley during the last couple of years, that ought to keep me occupied for a while.
Since it is nearly Christmas, I shall begin with a bird I see more often than not on my wanderings around my local neighbourhood — the Robin (Erithacus rubecula). I’ve even got pretty good at identifying them by sound (which has long been my birdwatching weak spot although what with that Simon Barnes book, hopefully that will improve). That said, it’s pretty much a given that if a songbird is making a noise really early in the morning, chances are it’s a Robin. I saw one this morning, singing in a tree near our front garden.
The same goes for birdsong in the winter months. Songbirds tend to sing mostly in spring, when they’re trying to attract a mate; by contrast, Robins sing in the winter too; since the bathroom window is permanently slightly open in our house, I usually hear them while I’m shaving in the morning, even when it’s still dark outside. As it happens, they only go (comparatively) quiet at the height of summer, when they’re moulting, but come autumn they’ve started up again and are in full voice when winter kicks in.
Perhaps that’s a reason for why the Robin has become the bird we Britons associate with Christmas. Look at the cards; sooner rather than later, you’ll get to one with a Robin on it.
Robins often feature on British Christmas cards (and tea-towels and various seasonal decorations). There are some interesting explanations for this that go beyond the fact that Robins are vocally active in the winter months. Perhaps appropriately for Christmas, Jesus is involved.
Legend has it that a Robin sang to Jesus to comfort him as he was dying on the cross, and it got marked with his blood as a result (funnily enough, it’s not the only bird that was supposedly there at the Crucifixion, as we shall see when we get to the Goldfinch). I also recall being told a story about how Robins were present at the Nativity, where they also sang to Jesus; in this version, they got their red breasts by being scorched from a fire that Joseph (being a practical sort of bloke) lit in the stable to keep everyone warm. From an ornithological perspective, these stories are justified as the Robin’s range does extend to the Middle East (although both stories seem to be uniquely British in origin).
Moving away from Christianity, Robins are also associated with Thor, the Norse god of thunder. We also get Robins in the traditional folk-story Babes in the Wood. In the realm of myth and legend, the Robin certainly does get around!
There could be a more mundane explanation for the association with Christmas cards, though. Christmas cards first became popular in the mid-nineteenth century and Robins appear to have been depicted early on. In Victorian times, postmen wore red jackets and were nicknamed “Robins” as a result, so the Robin on the Christmas card could (also?) symbolise the postie who delivered it.
Culturally, the Robin also pops up on the badges of three English football teams that I can think of (all of which play in red, naturally). Although Britain does not officially have a national bird, the Robin has been unofficially recognised as such not once but twice — once when The Times did a vote on this subject in the 1960s, and again in 2015 when David Lindo, a.k.a. the Urban Birder, organised a nationwide poll.
Internationally, our Robin (Latin name: Erithacus rubecula) is known as the European Robin, presumably to distinguish it from the American Robin; both birds have red breasts but the similarities end there. In terms of classification, our Robin is an Old World chat, while theirs is a New World thrush (and isn’t associated with Christmas; over there, the bird you’ll most likely see on the cards is the Northern Cardinal).
Which again indicates the cultural significance of the (European) Robin, as the early settlers doubtless named the American bird in honour of the one they remembered from back home.
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