On Endurance, Comfort and Biblical Weather

2026 arrived, for me, without fanfare or partying. Just another cold day in Cornwall with slightly different numbers attached to it. New year, new you? Highly unlikely. I’m a bit set in my ways and perfectly happy with my flaws, my flab and my penchant for espresso strength coffee multiple times per day.

That said, I allowed myself to get dragged away from home for a few days over the Christmas/New Year period, to stay with my daughter who worries about me becoming a hermit, and her partner who loves her dearly despite her having inherited some odd personality quirks from me. Tom came with me of course. Free beers and no cooking? Count him in!

On our return, about half an hour before sundown, a solitary crow saw us pull up and started cawing like crazy, loudly and frantically.

Tom: “Seriously? They’ve missed you?”

Yeah, I like to think so too. Cue lots of leftover roast beef and walnuts in shells. Cue my little crow family happy to see service resume.

After the months of rain and winds late last year we were hoping 2026 would at least bring a change in the weather, if not our fortunes. The universe obliged by giving us a month of crazy storms and constant torrential rain. The roads are dissolving, more potholes than tarmac. The fields look like massive bowls of soup, limp greenery floating in thin muddy water. Trees down all over the county. Power out. Candles lit - which pleases me greatly. No internet for days - which pleases me considerably less. Many places, ironically, without water for days too. It’s been relentless. I survived (thrived?) by going nowhere other than work. By spending my evenings sipping tea beside a window that rattled with the force of the elements valiantly contained without.

From the comfort of my armchair, I watched the dark shapes of the trees whipping back and forth beyond the rain-splattered glass. Over the howling wind, I could occasionally hear them creaking and groaning as they were forced to bend at quite alarming angles.

Imagine being a crow right now! I wondered how they were coping and felt a pang of worry. I mean, how do you even stay in a tree during 123 mph winds? One wrong step and you’ll be off over the county like a little black carrier bag. Possibly only realising the next morning that you’d crossed the Tamar when someone put cream on a scone first.

“And where did you end up, Crow?”

Pause.

“Devon”.

Sharp intake of breath from the murder.

But I needn’t have worried. While we had cancelled trains, closed schools and shops stripped bare of food and drinks, the crows just emerged in the morning as if nothing had happened. Business as usual. As in ‘sorry about your roof tiles, but where’s our breakfast?’

I thought I’d avoided the Christmas colds and flus but I was struck down just before new year. It took three weeks to recover as I had to work through it. One week bug free and then our receptionist brought in a fresh one and spread it around. So here we are mid February and I’m just getting over round 2. Six weeks of snot in total. Between that and the weather it’s not been a great start to the year! But things are turning. I sense spring is coming. There’s a little more light at either end of the work day. The first signs of buds are showing on the trees. Snowdrops are out and daffodils are starting to poke through the wet soil. The crows are spending more time in the home tree instead of the communal roost.

It’s time for me to start thinking about nest-building season. At the time, this apparently involved pulling hair from my brush and chopping up undyed wool as add-ons to their orders.

Reader, I have since learned not to do this. Monday had apparently expanded from dubious ornithology into avian haberdashery.

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The gulls are back to being full-on pests again. Three of them, Karen Jr, Protein Splat, and a browny who managed to survive winter (so far). They’ve taken up residence on the nearby chimney — perhaps for warmth, but also as it is the best lookout post in the area. I cannot leave the building from any entrance without being spotted. Every food run results in a full-on squabble between crows and gulls. I refuse to get involved. I have, in the past, tried everything possible to create gull-proof feeding grounds, and I have failed miserably. The only thing I can do now is take advantage of the fact that the gulls go off to roost just a tad earlier than the crows. If I time it right I can throw the crows some supper just before dusk. If I time it wrong, the crows are gone too. But at least then I don’t have to worry about making breakfast! Always a silver lining.

The pigeons have started to recognise me too. They see me coming down the path from a mile away and they all take off from their roofs and fly around in ever decreasing circles until the seeds and suet pellets have been scattered. Then they mob-land as one while I try and duck out of the way. It’s really rather sweet. And a little bit spooky.

I do love our local birds. They’re increasingly expensive to feed, but also endlessly entertaining. Which is more than I can say for most humans by February.