NIGHTINGALE: sweet voice snuffed out by developers

FAMED for its sweet song and shy manner, the nightingale has enjoyed a special place in the nation's heart for centuries.

Looking like a large robin but with a buff underside instead of a reddish orange breast, the nightingale also moves around in the same hopping, tail-flicking manner.

Two centimetres bigger than the robin at 16cms, it is nevertheless much more difficult to spot.

Singing nightingales usually hole up in dense cover where the only thing betraying their presence is a distinctive stream of strong, fluty notes delivered in a variety of beguiling combinations.

They sing at night, too, especially on warm evenings between April and June when open windows mean householders are more likely to appreciate their efforts.

Nightingales are migrants and journey to the southern part of Britain from Africa each year when the heat there becomes too intense and the coldest weather here has departed.

Like robins, they feed mainly on insects which they hunt on the ground but will also take fruit and berries.

Nightingales have been among species worst hit by changes in farming practices which have seen Britain's overall bird population drop by 34 million over the last 20 years.

In a study conducted recently by the British Trust for Ornithology, nightingale numbers were found to be down almost 30 per cent.

I have a soft spot for nightingales as one sang each year from the depths of a small wood behind a house we used to rent.

I would often lie in bed listening, marvelling at the sound.

This ancient wood was the main reason we chose the house and our daughter spent her first three years there.

Besides a solitary nightingale, all kinds of birds, wild creatures and flowers flourished in the wood which, despite being only a few acres in size, formed a natural oasis in an otherwise urban wilderness.

Come rain or shine, a cheery old man we got to know would walk each day through the trees with his friendly Scottie terrier.

For 10 years before our arrival, he informed us, residents had fought a successful battle against property developers to hang onto 'their' wood. However, after we moved in, a thrusting new political party took over the council and the same developers reapplied to build over the wood for the umpteenth time.

This time they got the go-ahead.

One sad day, instead of the nightingale, I listened to the rumble of bulldozers and the buzz of chainsaws as workmen began laying waste to the wood.

Within weeks, every stately tree and delicate bloom had vanished to make way for a new red-brick sprawl of identikit homes - all apparently needed by one-parent families.

As the houses sprang up, that old man and his terrier still tentatively set out on their morning stroll.

But now when they retraced their favourite route, it ended at a spot where four wheelie bins were parked.

What became of that lonesome nightingale is anyone's guess.