Encounters Part I

The Humble Robin

I don’t yet have a clear idea of how this Substack will evolve. I’m currently allowing myself the flexibility to just enjoy the process of writing about whatever piques my interest. While writing this I had the idea of an ‘Encounters’ series where I write about specific moments with defined subjects (in this case the robin). Next week I’ve already formed a piece that revolves around the idea of failure. So, I guess, sometimes these will have a structure and sometimes it will be more conceptual. Hopefully whatever the subject matter, you’ll find something each week that you can enjoy, even if it is just the images.

The start of the encounter. Robin and I regarding each other.

Whenever I see a robin the “The North Wind” (1805) pops into my head and the lines of the first verse, long remembered from childhood roll off my tongue:

“The north wind doth blow, 
And we shall have snow, 
And what will poor Robin do then, Poor thing?
He’ll sit in a barn, 
And keep himself warm, 
And hide his head under his wing, Poor thing!”

Upon researching this little literary ditty, I was rather surprised to discover this poem is in fact more of a nursery rhyme, which is probably why it’s so embedded into my synapses, because it settled there at such a young age! However, the humble robin has been the subject matter of many lines of verse over the centuries, particularly from the pen of Emily Dickinson (“Hope” mentions a fainting robin which seems to go against the whole aesthetic of the robins I’ve met along the way). This poem, by Walter de la Mare, does the energetic creatures more justice;

A Robin

Ghost-grey the fall of night,

Ice-bound the lane,

Lone in the dying light

Flits he again;

Lurking where shadows steal,

Perched in his coat of blood,

Man's homestead at his heel,

Death-still the wood.

Odd restless child; it's dark;

All wings are flown

But this one wizard's -- hark!

Stone clapped on stone!

Changeling and solitary,

Secret and sharp and small,

Flits he from tree to tree,

Calling on all.

Walter de la Mare, The Fleeting and Other Poems (1933).

The robin is linked to winter, partly due to the Victorians who really kicked off the whole Christmas shtick and put them on a lot of festive cards, but also because they are a fixture, even in the darkest days of winter. When the days still seem precariously short and the sun barely carries a scintilla of warmth, the robin makes its voice heard. Some in the scientific community believe that robins singing in the deep dimness of winter is a good thing, it means there has been abundant food supplies in autumn and the robin has built up enough fat, therefore having sufficient energy to get a jump on all the other robins nearby by belting out it’s beautiful song in the hope of attracting a mate. For me, the song of the robin on a suburban street in January brings a tiny slither of joy on a slightly begrudging dog walk.

Their song is unmistakable, which I learned to identify early on in childhood. The BTO describes it as ‘wistful and dreamy’, which is probably my favourite description. I suppose, being a tad wistful and dreamy myself, I rather relate. They also have a powerful relationship to humans. For many there is an associate with loved ones who have passed, and as prevalent as that symbolism is in popular culture, for me their friendlessness is more likely down to their innate ability to associate us with food. A particularly shrewd example might follow a keen gardener around, patiently waiting for the ground to be dug up in anticipation of its next meal. It’s not uncommon to see them take up position on the handle of a spade or fork as if they very much understand the assignment when it comes to appearing photogenic. Heck, there have been quite a few people I know who have built up trust with one of the little darlings and eventually had them quite literally eating out the palm of their hands.

Morning light frames the robin with beautiful warm bokeh

One website I stumbled across suggests the affable robin’s bond with humankind renders it ‘easy’ to photograph, which frankly is a relative term depending on the circumstances. It is still, after all, a sentient creature with it’s own agenda. Admittedly I’m an amateur when it comes to wildlife photography and I have utmost respect for anyone who can sit in a hide for days on end for an encounter with nature that might last just a few seconds. Perhaps those people aren’t neurodiverse like I am, or potentially they are extremely neurodiverse, I cannot decide. Either way, it’s not for me. This ‘far from normal’ brain of mine is much more of a chaser. I chase light, I go for walks and I see what happens to jump in front of my camera. The trick is knowing what to do once it’s there! One cold, bright February morning it just happened to be the friendliest, more curious little robin I’ve ever had the joy of meeting.

I live in a suburban part of Birmingham, in an ex-council house that backs onto a park. Despite the prevalence of quad bikes, burned out cars and teenagers up to no good, in the morning at sunrise, the park is pretty much all mine. It’s a haven for wildlife flourishing in the middle of a city, from the Little Egret that occasionally pops up, sticking out like a sore thumb to the abundance of foxes, emitting their ethereal ‘screams’ in the middle of the night. I once found the nest of a dormouse. A perfect circle hidden in a bush in midwinter, no way in, no way out. It is imperfect, but it is a place I have grown to love. 

One February morning I was walking the dog. It was cold, with a ground frost and I felt inclined to take out my ‘big camera’, which is not something I do often on dog walks because I have a high-maintenance sighthound who believes herself to be more cat than dog and frankly will not tolerate even two minutes of standing still for me to compose a shot. I have to hand it to her, she has the skill of strategic whining down to a fine art, and somehow always manages to find just the right button to push to get what she wants. It’s impressive. However, I figured if we went to the park she could roam and I could explore. This only works because at some point she decided that the park was merely an extension of our garden and she must literally pee 50 times to make sure any other interlopers are fully aware of her absolute authority. 

I had only one lens with me, a 180mm macro lens. It’s a specialised lens that if I’m honest, doesn’t come out the cabinet often. I bought it more on a whim after seeing the beautiful macro images of Ross Hoddinott and Jay Birmingham before realising, inevitably, that the lens was only 5% of the discipline and the rest would again require my most finite of resources — patience. This lens, it’s great for still life, macro imagery, but utterly useless for much else because of its focal length. It is, however, pin sharp.

Growing in confidence, the robin comes a little closer

There is pond situated in the middle of the park. Sometimes it freezes over, sometimes there is mist, sometimes all the fish mysterious die and float to the surface. It is an integral part of the walk, as is acknowledging all the local fishermen (the only other people daft enough to be up this early). As I meandered close to the entrance, I noticed a robin was paying keen attention to me. At this point I had my dog on the lead as she is a sighthound and very much prey driven, occasionally chasing after ducks and crows, despite the futility (the poor thing hasn’t even managed to catch a squirrel, although several of the local rats have met their demise in her jaws), but the robin was entirely nonplussed. 

We regarded each other across the cold morning air. I realised that the ‘wrong’ lens was in fact the perfect lens for this situation. It allowed me to capture imagery with such sharpness and at such a high aperture that the bokeh in the background was rendered dreamy, especially as the sun began to rise and break through the trees, backlighting the robin. We engaged in a dance. I would step forward and it would flit off, only to reappear, somehow closer and find an impeccable spot to perch. This went on like this for a good hour. The light shifted and changed and I was absolutely elated to have had the experience and the images that emerged.

For me, photography isn’t just about capturing what you see in front of you (although that is a very valid endeavour), it’s about connecting with whatever is in the frame. Over the hour we spent in each other’s company, we found a mutual understanding, perhaps a mutual appreciation. It was also a reminder that I never know when I’m going to encounter something beautiful. If I hadn’t decided to take my camera with me that morning, I likely would have captured a couple of sub-par iPhone shots but the fact that I had my camera meant this became an indelible memory, and I was able to share a little of the experience with others. 

Robin stands on a metal fence, backlit by the rising winter sun

Robins may be one of the easiest birds to photograph but that doesn’t mean they should be overlooked. Because of one little individual robin I had an unexpectedly emotional experience. Now I always look for the robin on cold winter mornings and I like to think, optimistically, that the robin is looking for me too. I guess we both really are a little wistful.

Till next Sunday…