NATURE: The loneliest greenfinch in the world

WE saw him often, either at the feeder or perched in the holly nearby. Compared (perhaps unfairly so) to the other finches his winter plumage has been rather dull. We describe his colours in euphemistic tones – deep sage, shades of autumn pine, aubergine – all the while secretly acknowledging those hints of mildewed compost and the dour, grey-brown mask about the eyes that clearly mark this, the most lonely greenfinch in the world.
While other finches fight in effervescent, brightly coloured combat, gold-barred wings on rosy breast, blood-red cheek and rump of purest white, our single greenfinch sits apart, stocky, thickset, sometimes slightly hunched, patiently waiting his turn at the seeds and nuts.
When siskins came to join the fray we saw our greenfinch pushed further to one side. Despite his bulk and heavy bill he was no match for these, his garrulous, smaller cousins.
The slender and agile siskin is worth a remark. From any sort of distance the female appears brown. Seen through field glasses or close to hand she is finely marked, with elongated teardrop streaks along her front and flank. She is feisty, too, keeping others at bay with an arrow of beak and a threat of feathered elbow.
Her mate must rank among the brightest of all garden birds, dressed as he is in canary yellow, replete with a cap of boldest black.
Both he and she are as much at home upside down as they are the right way up. They swing as on the trapeze, using every given inch of each appendage to maintain clever balance.
We don’t see a great deal of the siskin, and so might be forgiven for thinking they must be uncommon, if not rather rare. Yet if we travel north to find coniferous woodland, especially where this is edged with birch and alder, we find them among the more common species.
We are glad of the colour they add to these late winter days, even as the most lonely greenfinch in the world maintains his dull and rather stoic stand nearby.
The birds have been coming and going lately. While a pinch of cold draws the flocks together more tightly, so a warmer day or two sees them spread over a wider area.
Some, such as the robin, are beginning to find their voice in earnest. Others remain quiet, apart from the squabbling over food. Only the tree creeper has nothing to say. I watched him scale an apple bough, starting close to the base of the tree and working his way upward, probing every crevice for caterpillars and other grubby things.
His tail is stout. Spread wide below his back end it serves as a kind of support to give freedom of movement on even a vertical surface. There is little competition for this brown and cream specialist, whose long and narrow sickle-bill reaches far into fissures where even the tit family cannot reach. We are glad to see him at the apple; he will clear the tree of pests that might otherwise damage flowers or fruit.
While we watch our small mouse-bird at work, that solitary greenfinch is suddenly stirred. Three more of his kind have arrived and, while he cannot possibly compare these to himself, he instinctively knows he is back among family.
The incoming birds are interested only in food. To claim it they must dodge those thrusting darts of siskin bills. They snack lightly before stepping back, returning when they safely can.
Of the three, two are female. One pair, then, and a spare. The most lonely greenfinch in the world perks up, lifting his head from between his shoulders. His wings, new-square, reveal the band of gold that had lay hid. His dark mask becomes handsome, his over-large beak suddenly set, the perfect shape for his size and stature.
Will we have more than the one pair of greenfinch this year? They have been known to nest in small groups, or colonies, with up to half a dozen nests in one short stretch of hedgerow.
Greenfinch numbers have fallen in recent years, in part due to the prevalence of Trichonomosis, a parasitic disease primarily spread through infected saliva.
While most small birds feed their young on insect prey, the greenfinch family will be raised on a diet of seeds, which require partial digestion before little tums can cope with them. Such regurgitated food encourages the spread of the Trichonomad parasite, against which baby birds have no protection.
For now, that most lonely bird is on his own no more. One sunny dawn he will start to sing and tell us all about it.