Nature: Battling with the Bullfinch

Bullfinch woke me at first light. It was not his voice that stirred me from slumber, for the low and musical, fluting whistle by means of which he sings is among the least intrusive of any sound ever made. Nor had he crashed into the window or been caught by a hawk or made a rumpus fighting his friends for the right to nest in a bramble.
No, I had no more than begun to stir, then bullfinch tore me from sleep in a moment, had me waving and shouting and rushing to the step to see him off, for there he was stripping buds from the cherry, one after another. He is no cold-hearted bruiser of a bird, nor does he come just to pillage; he is only a little peckish, and cherry blossom just happens to be one of his favourite foods.
Perhaps if he ate the whole flower I could tolerate him more. But no, he craves just the sweet heart of each bud of promise, and drops the rest to the floor. He alone would strip an entire branch in one meal, and in the process deprive me of my crop of cherries yet one more year.
Perhaps a better tree would yield so much in the way of blossom that he couldn’t possibly keep up. Even then his friends would drop by, and between them such a bellowing of bullfinches would accomplish what he alone could not do and leave the tree barren and bare.
Why the cherry? There are apple buds galore, and each year more apples than I could ever eat. He could dine on flowers there to his hearts content, while I could feast on cherries in in the summer heat of late June or July.
Better still, Bully could revert to his natural diet. Blackthorn is in full flower, and there are more buds on those bushes than a full battalion of bullfinches could work their way through in a season.
On warm, calm evenings those creamy blackthorn flowers fill country lanes with their delicate, almond scent, working to belie the true nature of their parent bushes. Leaves will follow soon after blossom, and it is then, with poisonous sap flowing fast, that the thorns are filled with venom.
These have a mind of their own. They sit quiet as we brush past on our way to the stream, then snake out to pierce jackets and boots to leave fragments embedded in skin where they quietly ferment and spoil. Injuries inflicted thus become inflamed. In a matter of hours a small boil erupts. Within a day the infection spreads and a thin red line begins to appear, running up one's arm or, worse, one’s leg.
This red line points firmly in the direction of the nearest doctor. If it is ignored, septicaemia is a very real possibility. I have been there once, with my arm hideously swollen and resembling a small hippo.
Yes, it would be better if my bullfinch ate the blackthorn blossom and left me and mine alone. In the past, the propensity of this bird to strip buds from fruit trees brought it into conflict with commercial fruit growers, even to the point where persecution placed it on the Red List of Birds of Conservation Concern.
Happily, since the 1970s the population of so-called bud finches (or bud pickers, plum birds or even lum budders, depending on locality) has rebounded to the point they occupy a place on the less-threatened Amber List.
Many countries have a strong tradition of keeping colourful finches imprisoned as cage birds, and the bullfinch was once sought for this very reason. His bold markings of plum, black and white make him attractive, and his inclination to mimic the song of others often added to his undoing.
As the poet once said, ‘See how sweet they sing for freedom’.
Bully strikes a deal with me. He will, he vows, hang low notes in the still air each early morn, and perform acrobatic hoops in the branches of my tree, if I will but allow him to feed. Further, he will bring his new-fledged family to decorate the lawn when seeds appear on the wildflowers that grow there. And more! The loose, twiggy bowl of his nest will be left in the bramble, where I may find it and wonder at the shade of eggs within. I accept, of course.

Michael Kingdon, a naturalist and keen fisherman, lives on the shores of Lough Carra, Co Mayo.