I went for a brief power walk last evening, which involved me going just a few hundred metres north of the village and then back again. It was while I was standing very still, gazing at the huge sweeping valley below me, extending all the way around the mountain opposite to the Bramiana Lake just above Gra Ligia, and westwards to the foothills of the Lasithi Plateau and the high villages of Kalamafka and Anatoli, which are often lost in the mists of low cloud at this time of the year, and which are swathed in gloom from around mid afternoon, owing to the fact that they’re on the eastern slopes of snow-peaked mountains, behind which the sun sinks early in its westward track on those shorter winter days, that I heard my first blackbird song of 2026.

Now, I’m no ornithological scholar, but from a few decades ago, when we used to live in the beautiful Vale of Glamorgan in South Wales UK, both Yvonne and I did become keen birdwatchers, albeit amateur ones. We bought a selection of books to identify wild birds and took great delight in counting the number of species we’d spot during our country walks around the area of the village of St. Athan, where we lived during our final five years in the UK before relocating to Greece in August of 2005.

We’d often arrive back at our modest little bungalow having counted well over 20 different bird species. Out would come the books and – over a cup of hot chocolate – we’d thumb through the pages scanning colour illustrations checking on some of the ID’s and reading up on the habits and habitats of those birds that we’d seen through our pocket binoculars. Among the ones that we’d get especially excited about were the bullfinch and the gold crest and, as each spring approached, we’d scan the skies for the early arrivals of the summer swallow population, maybe swifts and martins too. On frosty winter days we’d thrill to see a flock of fieldfare on the frigid, white-coated grass in a meadow glimpsed through a farm gate near St. Mary Church, for example.

It was during those days that we learned something about the blackbird’s song. Firstly, it’s only the males that sing and, secondly, they only sing in the UK from around mid-February until some time in August. The rest of the year the most sound you’d get from a blackbird would be the brief chatter one would make as it took off from a bush in the hedgerow and flew further away when we’d come too close and disturbed it.

When we first arrived in Rhodes, we’d been excited to learn what bird species we’d be likely to see around us, since the house we were living in was on a rural hillside, far from most human habitation. What surprised us the most was just how many of the species that we’d lived amongst in the UK that were also present in the southern Aegean. Of course, there are some that we see both back on Rhodes and here in Lasithi on a regular basis that we’d never seen in the UK, although, in the far south of the British Isles, some of these species do occasionally venture when it’s a hot summer, which is, of course, becoming more often this past few years. 

Actually, in the valley where we lived for fourteen years on Rhodes, we’d usually hear blackbirds, but seldom see any. They were always present, but for some reason not often within a few hundred metres of our garden, even though we’d regularly hear their song. Here though, for whatever reason, we get them very close to the house, even though we’re on the furthest edge of a tiny village. It’s been my experience that blackbirds sing broadly in the same months here as they do in the UK but, what I heard last evening, suggests that, owing to the warmer climate maybe, they may begin singing a month or so earlier. 

I’m only going on about blackbird song because, if you’re familiar with it, you’ll know that seldom does a songbird sing more beautifully than a blackbird perched atop a large shrub or in a modest tree. The song of the blackbird is one of nature’s most evocative and beautiful gifts for your ears in my humble opinion. Plus, when I hear one sing, if I close my eyes, I can imagine myself back in the rolling green British countryside at the best time of the year. If you can hear the blackbird singing in the UK, then you know that the prospect of spring is either near, or that it’s indeed upon us, or that the early part of the summer has still not passed, leading to the inevitable decline in the weather patterns as the year moves deeper into its second half, meaning that the best of the weather for that year is behind you and the shorter days, falling leaves and eventual bare trees are what you now have to look forward to. As long and the blackbird is singing, you have hope.

Here, OK, so the weather’s a lot more reliable than it is in the UK and, even when the blackbird ceases to sing for another year during August, you still have months of cloudless skies and swim opportunities ahead of you. You still have warm evenings when you can sit beside the sea and enjoy a meal at a restaurant in good company and with a starry sky and vivid moon to keep you company. But every time I hear the blackbird, it gives me fond memories of our lives back in our country of origin. Don’t get me wrong, I have zero regrets about the path we’ve chosen to follow in life, but that doesn’t stop me thinking back to good times in rich, green meadows and pints on country pub lawns.

The blackbird is a good companion. Listen out for him. If you live in the UK, then you may yet have a few weeks to wait until he starts to sing, but, if you live anywhere near us, maybe you too have already heard your first blackbird song of 2026, and have found it a joy, as I did last evening, just as the sun was setting.

Above gallery: Taken at around midday yesterday (January 15th), on the road between our village and Meseleri, at the spot where you can gaze down upon the reservoir and out across the villages of Gra Ligia and Stomio to the sea beyond.

Above gallery: A few shots taken in Myrtos on a blustery and showery day last Sunday.

Above: One of a bougainvillea in the village just a few metres up the hill from our home and two of our terrace in the sunshine just after a shower.

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