Country diary: As I cycle along, it feels as if each yellowhammer is handing me on to the next | Ed Douglas

Kelso, Roxburghshire: It's rare I hear this delightful bunting at home, but here in the Borders their numbers suggest farmers are doing the right thingsStaying still and attentive are thought to be essential to appreciate nature. Whereas I, cycling west on quiet lanes outside Kelso, was neither. Somewhere to my left was the Tweed. Somewhere further left lay the Cheviot Hills. Far to my right were the Lammermuirs. Between these ranges lies some of the best arable land in the Borders, land worth fighting for, and with castles to prove it. None of this was on my mind. I was too blissed out on the cool air of early morning meeting my face at just the right speed.Then something began to percolate. A sound chipping away at my inattention. I knew that sound, that insistent one-tone crescendo, the "little bit of bread" of a yellowhammer, with its final cheesy payoff. It's a song that, unlike many others, extends deep into summer. Yet there was something unusual about it, something I couldn't immediately place. Then the penny dropped. I was covering a kilometre every four or five minutes, but at no stage for a considerable time had I stopped hearing a yellowhammer. Continue reading...