I have to admit I knew nothing about the ladybird life cycle until a few weeks ago. As a child I saw them regularly, but they seem so much rarer these days, that I find even just spotting an adult is exciting. So getting to watch and photograph the full process, from adult to larva, to pupa, to newly emerged young ladybird has been such a joy and a privilege.

For context – I have a small front garden in a suburb of Glasgow. The lawn is left unmown, originally because we discovered there were orchids growing in it, and then because of all the wonderful wild flowers that benefit pollinators - lesser trefoil, hawkweed (foxes and cubs), self-heal, to name just a few. One of the plants that grows well is vetch, which also attracts aphids, which the ladybirds then feed on. Now I can add ladybirds to the list of creatures that have made this place their home.

Early in July I found a 7-spot ladybird, our most common type. I also found two 14 spots, one of the three yellow ladybirds that we get in the UK. This pair are mating which is great to see!

Then I spotted my first larva – I actually didn’t know what it was at first and had to use ObsIdentify (great app, highly recommend) which told me it was a 7-spot larva. I hadn’t realised that different larva have different markings, so it’s possible to tell them apart.

The larva moult 4 times over a few weeks – here is one that I captured mid-moult.

After the final moult they form a pupa – the stage where the metamorphosis into the adult form takes place. First the larva sits head down on a leaf or stalk. Then it glues itself at the tail end, leaving the head end free. Then the yellow body emerges and bends over slightly to form a hump. Again I was delighted to capture it as it happened.

Over the next few hours the colours change from yellow to orange and black with some areas turning red. Then it sits mostly immobile while the metamorphosis takes place. It can move a little though, as one time I watched as another ladybird crawled over a pupa and it flapped the free end up and down, presumably to try to get rid of the intruder.

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After around 7-10 days the newly formed lady bird is ready. I began checking on the pupae every couple of hours while I was awake, so I didn’t miss anything, and eventually I saw one that had just emerged. Amazingly they are bright yellow without any spots for the first few hours which I thought would attract attention but is apparently actually to deter predators while their shell hardens.

They also stick out their wing as it needs to fill with fluid. At first there are no spots visible at all, but these start appearing within the first half hour or so, then the colour begins to change, first to orange, then after a few days to the red of an adult.

The process of a ladybird emerging from its pupa takes only about 4 minutes so even though I was checking regularly I didn’t think I would see that stage – but one day luck was on my side and just as I sat down one began to appear. Here are two images, one from each side. First the casing splits open, then the ladybird wiggles downward and frees itself.

There are other ladybirds in this garden too, but I’ve not seen so much of them. One day there was a 22 spot ladybird – they are so tiny!

And I have twice seen 14 spot larvae, (the ones I saw mating), but so far no sign of any emerging.

Oddly, on the other side of the driveway there are harlequin ladybirds- these are an invasive non-native to the UK species that can out compete our native ones, and may also eat the larvae of native ladybirds if food is short. Luckily they seem to stay on the rosebay willow herb which has plenty of blackfly and aphids and as far as I can tell are not disrupting the ladybirds in my lawn.

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It used to be a patch of barren grass, sandwiched between blocks of flats in a suburb of Glasgow, mown once a week to within an inch of its life. Some might have described it as civilised, organised, well maintained. To me it seemed monotone, featureless, controlled. But this year it hasn’t been cut. I haven’t asked why, or who made that decision, I just bathe in its beauty, the long flowing grass waving in the wind, the yellow clusters of ragwort, miniature suns, almost too bright to look at, the thistles, sharp, spiky leaves giving way to delicate lavender coloured flower heads.

As I start to wander along the narrow path cut through to provide access, all seems still and quiet, but then I start to notice movement and sound and I realise that the meadow is buzzing with life. A meadow brown butterfly flutters down onto the path beside me, its chestnut brown ‘eye’ winking at me as it opens and closes its wings. As I draw closer it circles around me, coming to land a little further down the track, as if anticipating my footsteps, urging me on. A large white butterfly blows past, always on the move, seemingly never landing. The flowers are buzzing with insects; large fluffy bumble bees collecting pollen on their legs, smaller striped bees, with their long proboscis tongues drinking deeply of the sweet nectar that lures them in, hoverflies stationary mid-air before darting away. I veer off the main path then, to a less well trodden track, giving in to my desire for an even deeper immersion into nature.

My ears are assaulted by the sound of grasshoppers churring all around me as they rub their legs on their forewings and then I see that my feet are surrounded by clouds of tiny white moths, disturbed from their resting place with every footstep that I take. I try to follow where they go, but as soon as they land they are invisible again, blending into the heads of the rye grass, to the stalks of the Yorkshire fog grass, to the stems of cocks-foot. I follow them hoping to take a photo, but they fly off just as I’m about to press the shutter, fluttering off to a new hiding place, taunting me. But then one catches my eye. It’s a little larger than the others and I am able to follow its path. I am sure I see it land on the stalk of a thistle but when I look again there is nothing there, just a piece of broken twig caught on the stem.

Nevertheless, I creep closer, not daring to look away, because if I do I will not be able to locate this thistle amongst the sea of thistles in this wild meadow. I wonder if I am making a fool of myself, inching towards an inanimate object, but I do so anyway, willing it to fly away, to prove me right, willing it not to fly away, so that I can capture it with my camera. It doesn’t move and as I get closer I see the tiny antennae, the legs grasping the plant, the intricate markings down its curled up wings, making it look exactly like a small brown stick. It has the perfect camouflage. This is Agriphila tristella or common Grass-veneer, a moth regularly seen in grass lands. Normally a night flying moth, it has chosen today to be active, and I’m grateful for this chance encounter. I’m grateful too for this little patch of nature, this haven for wildlife, which gives me so much joy.

I’m grateful that what was once so bare is now so full of life.

In Heidi, the main character is an orphan who goes to live high up in the mountains with her grandfather. Later she is sent to the city to be a companion to Clara who has a mystery illness so severe that she can’t walk and uses a wheelchair. Eventually Heidi returns to the mountains and Clara comes to visit her there. The wheelchair gets pushed off the side of the mountain and this event triggers Clara to start regaining her strength and eventually learning how to walk again. The message of the book is that fresh mountain air and encouragement from friends helped Clara to heal.

In The Secret Garden, Mary, another orphan is sent to live with her uncle in a large manor house. She discovers two things - a hidden, neglected garden, and a boy, Colin, who is confined to his bed in another part of the house, again with a mystery illness. Mary helps to bring both back to life. She tends the garden, and develops a friendship with Colin, encouraging him into the garden where he gradually becomes stronger. Once again, the story aims to show the healing power of friendship and of being in nature.

Why are both of these stories so compelling? It is partly the narrative arc - we like stories that start off with someone in difficulty and end with that difficulty being resolved and everyone living happily ever after. But I think there is more to it than that. I think these stories tap into one of our deepest fears - the fear of being ill and of not getting better.

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We live under the illusion that it is our fortitude, our resilience, our strong will that is keeping us well. It is only when we become ill that we realise that we are not in fact in control of our health. Illness can happen to anyone at any time, and it is rarely our fault. We are drawn to stories like Heidi and The Secret Garden because we like to think that if illness happened to us we would be able to stop it in its tracks, to resist it and return ourselves to health. We want to believe that a cure is just within our grasp because the alternative, that we would have to live for the rest of our life with a chronic illness is too frightening to contemplate.

The problem with these stories is that they do not reflect reality. They perpetuate the myth that being in nature can cure chronic illness. That if we were simply to do some forest bathing, some cold water swimming or go for a brisk walk in the hills this would bring about renewed health and vitality. But nature is not a cure for chronic illness. If it were then the hundreds of thousands of us who suffer from them would have returned to health by now.

As Patrick Barkham in a 2020 Guardian article argues, even books that have been hailed as proving that nature cures chronic illnesses, such as Nature Cure by Richard Mabey and Bird Therapy by Joe Harkness, actually show that the path to better health is uncertain, complex and difficult, indeed Mabey himself commented that his book, rather than being about nature curing him was actually about ‘encountering and adapting to a quite new landscape, which you could say was a post-cure experience.”

That’s not to say that nature isn’t good for us. There are many benefits of being in nature. Research shows that it can lead to lower blood pressure, reduce anxiety, help us feel more connected to others and to ourselves. (Though as an aside I would argue that this view is upside down - it’s not that there are benefits to nature, it’s that there are many negative effects of our modern world and of living in a man-made environment, but that’s a topic for another blog post).

But how nature and how chronic illness are portrayed in literature matters. It matters because if people believe that nature is a cure then they treat those of us with chronic illnesses differently. They expect us to be able to heal ourselves. They accuse us, silently, or even loudly, of not trying hard enough. They struggle to understand our suffering because they believe it wouldn’t happen to them, or if it did that they wouldn’t stay ill for long because they would get out into nature, they would try every treatment or therapy that existed. They would get themselves better. Books that centre the nature cure are implicitly saying that those of us who have not got better, those of us who are still ill, have failed.

And this is why books like Heidi and The Secret Garden, and all the others that position nature at the centre of a narrative arc which begins with illness and ends with cure, are so problematic. It is also one of the reasons why I am writing ‘The Call of the Dunnock’. Because I believe that representation matters. I believe that we need books that accurately portray chronic illnesses in both fiction and non-fiction. I believe it’s important for our stories to be told, for us to be heard, for the world to know that sometimes illnesses are not cured, that sometimes people don’t get better, that there often isn’t that happy ending. These stories need to be told not as an inspiration, not as a sob story, not to elicit sympathy, but simply to share our experience, to show that even with a chronic illness our lives are still worthwhile, that we still have a place in this world, that we still have valuable lessons to impart.

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However, although there have been some recent examples which depict the reality of chronic illness, the publishing industry is still resisting moves in this direction. , one of the few authors whose work breaks free from these industry-imposed norms (check out Some of Us Just Fall and The Company of Owls) was initially told that her work ‘was deemed pointless, unsaleable’. She writes that ‘to not get better, it was clear, was both uncommercial, and uninteresting to readers’. Yet this ignores the fact that a large proportion of the population live with chronic illness, and many others are interested in our stories. There is a bigger missed opportunity here -writing about chronic illness results in a more truthful approach to nature writing. By showing the reality of chronic illness we are better able to fully grasp the reality of nature - that nature is messy and wild and complex. It has contradictions - it is both fragile and robust, it involves both life and death, both thriving and suffering, both growth and decay. As Anna Vaught argues, we need ‘ a storytelling ethic that values persistence over triumph, honesty over tidiness’

A central character in my writing is the dunnock, a small brown bird, that is regularly dismissed, overlooked and underappreciated. I believe that just like the dunnock, people with chronic illnesses deserve to be seen, to be acknowledged and to be understood with all the joy and suffering that that brings.

Here are some photos of my bookshelves along with my answers to Anna’s Sunday Shelfie questions

How would you describe your collection of books? Any favourite genres?

I have realised that my books are a microcosm of the fifty years of my life, reflecting the array of passions that I’ve had, and still have.

I have books on church bellringing, my obsession as a teenager (I was an unusual child!), I have books on German and some in German from my (fairly successful) attempts to learn the language. I have books on Physics from my degree and PhD. I have a related to Judaism - a Hebrew Bible, prayer books, books about Jewish thinking. I have general interest book about maths and science and books on photography. I have books about learning, and social science research from my MSc in e-learning and subsequent career change, brought about by becoming housebound and needing a new direction for my life. I have a few fiction books, but mostly I either borrow them, or listen to the audio version, or read them on my kindle. And if I do have a hardcopy I give it away, I’ve rarely re-read a fiction book.

I have travel books from when I was well enough to travel.

And finally I have books about nature, books about chronic illness, and, my favourite, books that combine the two.

How many books do you estimate you have and how are they organised, if at all?

I have roughly 400 books. I know that’s a lot less than many people here - but one of the realities of living most of my adult life with chronic illness is that my house is small and space is at a premium. We have a one-in-one-out policy, in theory, though it tends to get overlooked at birthdays. Resources available for buying books are also limited. Let’s normalise being interested in book and reading and writing without needing to create our own libraries. (Also I recognise the privilege I have in being able to own and store the books I do have).

The books are organised roughly by subject, though height restrictions of the shelves mean some are mixed up - it makes finding them more fun!

In percentage terms, how many of the total books on your shelves have you read?

Probably 50% of the books, though many are my husbands and while our interested overlap and I would love to read them, they never quite make it to the top of my TBR

Which three books are top of your TBR (To Be Read) pile at the moment?

Drystone, Kristie De Garis

Postal Paths, Alan Cleaver

The Cuckoo’s Lee - The forgotten history of birds and place, Michael J. Warren

Which book on your bookshelf is the most well-thumbed/do you return to the most, and why?

Probably the book about Real World Research, which isn’t very exciting, but has been really useful as I work for the University of Edinburgh doing qualitative research into how students learn science.

Which book on your bookshelf do you most often buy as a gift for others, and why?

Possibly the Re-wilding of Molly McFlynn, by Sue Reed, but it’s not currently on my shelf as I gave it to my niece!

If you have a collection of writing craft books, which is your favourite and why?

Agh,, I don’t have any and probably should- recommendations welcome!

If you write within a particular genre, can you tell us your three favourite books within that genre (classic or contemporary) and why?

I am writing my debut narrative non-fiction book about discovering nature in my garden as a person housebound with chronic illness (so nature/memoir). I have so many favourites that it’s hard to decide, but the top three are probably

The Company of Owls by Polly Atkin

Sea Bean by Sally Huband

The Sound of a Wild Snail Eating by Elizabeth Tova Bailey

Which book is on your wishlist currently to join all the others on your bookshelf?

I am looking forward to My Body is a Meadow by Bethany Handley which is out in May

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Which book would we be most surprised to find on your bookshelf?

My 1994 European Rail Time-table. I’m sure it will come in useful one day

Or Automate the Boring Stuff with Python - a book about learning the programming language python. Another thing I would spend more time doing if I could!

Which book on your bookshelf do you feel most guilty for not having read yet, and why?

Jerusalem by Simon Sebag Montefiore

I really should read this.

Which book on your bookshelf is your guilty pleasure

I have a variety of cook books that I will probably never cook anything from but which I love to flick through and imagine the dishes. I recommend Arabica - small plates, big connections -especially as there is a shop in London which sells some of the dishes for delivery nationwide.

Thanks again to for opening this up to her readers, and thank you for reading. I’d love to hear from you with any book chat so please feel free to leave a comment below.

(ps, I think I may have used the prompts aimed at authors, in my defence I lost the original post which I think is now behind a paywall)

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It’s a while since I’ve done a blog post, so I thought I’d do something a bit special. As many of you know, I’m writing a book. I won a place on the Curtis Brown Breakthrough Mentoring Scheme for disabled writers, which is such an honour, and over the last few months I’ve been working with my fabulous mentor Polly Atkin (seriously, do check out her books, Some of Us Just Fall, and The Company of Owls, and her new book Swimming the Seasons).

My book, entitled The Call of the Dunnock, is about discovering the wild world in my small, suburban, Glasgow garden, while coming to terms with a chronic illness. It weaves stories of common but often overlooked creatures, such as the dunnock and its complicated sex life, the fox burying a chicken leg in my herb bed, the ravens nesting on a disused water tower, with my own story of becoming housebound, of the cycle of grief and acceptance, of time slipping through my fingers, and of my growing connection to nature.

It’s been taking all my energy, and it’s been a huge learning curve, and I’ll be honest, at the start I had zero confidence and felt like an imposter. But gradually I feel like I’m getting comfortable with what I’m doing and am almost ready to say that I’m a writer! Though I still get days when I doubt myself. Anyway, I have now written 5 chapters (around 30 000 words), which is, unbelievably, half a book! I’m not sure how that happened, and it’s often been a struggle with so little energy, so to celebrate I’m offering you a sneak peak at some of chapter 1 - Nature-gazing. Enjoy!

It happened on a clear bright day in early March. The sort of day where you feel the potential of spring just around the corner after a long winter, but there is still a chill in the air, still a need to wrap up against the wind. A bird was pecking rhythmically in the earth under the hydrangea bush, navigating the maze of twigs and intertwined branches with ease. A bird that was about to change my life though I did not know it at the time. Peck, peck, shuffle, look up, peck, peck. Always half hidden, occasionally moving out of the safety of the undergrowth, then realising with a start that it was in the open, scurrying back to the bushes. This was a dunnock and in the past, I probably wouldn’t have even seen it, as this is a shy bird, which will often stay hidden in hedges or trees. But on that day, for some reason, I noticed it and took a closer look.

The name dunnock is made of two parts – dun which is an old English phrase for dingy brown and ock, which is a diminutive. Together they mean ‘small dingy brown bird’, but there was nothing dingy about this bird and the term brown does not do the delicate shades justice. The dunnock’s feathers are a mix of cinnamon and chocolate, with light caramel on the underparts combined with soft silver-grey. It reminds me of a turkish carpet, the combined patterns and hues expertly chosen to be pleasing to the eye. This delicate beauty sparked my curiosity – why are they so unappreciated? Why are they so unloved?

The dunnock became my gateway bird. The bird that led me onto other birds, and then to butterflies and to bees and so much more. The dunnock was the first bird that I really noticed, the one that drew my attention outward, away from the confines of my indoor life. The dunnock invited me into its world and to that of its fellow creatures and by doing so my own world opened up, a whole new vista appeared without me even leaving the house. New sights and sounds and thoughts. It’s through the dunnock that my journey to watching nature really began.

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I am amazed at the variety of wild creatures that I have seen while nature-gazing in this small suburban garden. But for all the joy that nature-gazing gives, it is not a cure and my symptoms do not go away. It still uses my precious and limited supply of energy, and there are many days when it is not possible at all. It is not a free activity. With ME there is always a price to pay. This devastating disease rips holes through every aspect of life, from working to socialising, from hobbies to self-care, from relationships to family life. ME results in a lack of the very essence of life itself – energy. Just like the dunnock, ME is often disregarded, ignored and dismissed. Just like the dunnock, ME is often mistaken for other things - for more common but equally valid illnesses such as depression, anxiety or even peri-menopause. Just as a dunnock is often still called by the outdated and incorrect name, hedge sparrow, so ME is still sometimes referred to as ‘chronic fatigue syndrome’ or worse, ‘chronic fatigue’. But just as it is important to distinguish a dunnock from a sparrow if we want to properly understand the behaviour of the dunnock, so it is also important to distinguish ME from other conditions, if we want to give appropriate care and support to those affected.

Yet my joy is tempered by despair.

The tree arrived in a van along with its owner, on the way to being relocated from their previous rooting on the East coast of Scotland. He (the owner) began living in my house while the tree made its home in the middle of the small front lawn. Once it had settled in over the first few years, it started to produce bright purple medium sized oval plums with the flavour profile of an expensive red wine; deep, fruity, sweet but also sharp. Hints of lemon with a nutty undertone. The flesh is firm yet yielding. No two plums are the same - varying by juiciness, softness, ripeness, sweetness, and a hundred and one other subtle qualities, which only heighten the anticipation of that first delicious bite.

But the taste of the plums is tarnished by tears

This year is a bumper year - the tree is smothered in fruit, more than I have ever seen before. We are eating plums for breakfast, dinner and lunch, and for as many snacks as we can fit in in-between. It should be a huge joy, to just eat with no restriction. But the joy is juxtaposed by the knowledge that others are starving. A man-made starvation that I cannot look away from.

How can I enjoy an abundance when we are all complicit?

I feel a responsibility to make the best use of each plum, to not waste a single one. I have frozen as much as I can fit into the freezer. I will preserve them, make jam and chutney, stews and compote. I have given them away to my neighbours - the Nigerian family with three children, the Iraqis who escaped persecution to find safety in Scotland, the young Chinese couple, here to study at our great universities. The American man struggling to find work, the elderly couple with multiple health problems, the man selling fish from his van, working long days to make ends meet, and the french guy over the road, living with cancer.

Are we not all human beings?

Yet I’m painfully aware that I cannot give them to those who need them most. So while I rejoice in this overabundance, I shed crimson tears for those who are calling out for food, but getting none. For those who are being shot trying and for those who cannot even try. For those dying who didn't need to die. For those held captive and those who are never coming home. For the bombing of buildings and the maiming of civilians. For the parents who have lost children and the children who have lost parents. For the silence of the world.

And for the destruction of fruit trees

A row of perfect hemispheres on the edge of a leaf catches my eye, their watery forms reflecting and refracting a dazzling array of miniature rainbows. I assume these are drops of dew, collected overnight when the surface temperature dropped, but I am wrong.

These tiny beads are actually expelled by the plant, through a process called guttation, from the latin ‘gutta’ meaning ‘a drop of fluid’’. It is a way for the plant, in this case Lady’s Mantle, to rebalance itself when the roots draw up more moisture overnight than can be lost through evaporation. Such a simple idea, yet so central to how the natural world works - take only what you need, give back if you have too much.

Using a macro lens reveals that the leaves of Lady's Mantle are covered by microscopic hairs and it is these hairs which make the surface hydrophobic, repelling water and encouraging droplets to form, rather than to run off. Lady’s Mathel is a species in the rose family steeped in symbolism. Alchemists prized the drops formed on the leaves, believing that their purity made them an essential ingredient in the creation of gold, which gave the plant its latin name Alchemila Mollis. The drops form when the soil is damp and the air is humid - something which is particularly common in my Glasgow garden. But the climate must suit it as the plant has made itself at home in my lawn, cloaking the ground with its velvet soft leaves and miniature yellow flowers. I imagine knitting them together to form the mantle that tradition tells us was worn by Our Lady.

As I bend down to see them in more detail I marvel at the varying forms this life-giving molecule can take. From the tiniest of droplets to the crushing power of a river in spate. From the gentle calming eddies of waves on a shore to the torrents of rain hurled from the sky. I think about how our attitudes to water have gone awry - we celebrate when there is a long hot dry spell, and curse the rain, we seek out lakes and rivers for our souls, or for cold water swimming, but fail to notice their unnatural warming.

We may not, as the alchemists believed, be able to turn water into gold, but maybe, if we learn to see it as even more precious than any metal, then we will work to protect this essential substance, not just for ourselves but for everything that is a part of this amazing world.

It has been such a joy and a huge privilege to watch them over the last few months and to witness their behaviour. I’ve seen the male bringing in food to feed the female while she was incubating chicks, both birds ‘kissing’ beaks high up on the tower, tiny chicks stretching up, beaks agape, parents collecting and eating faecal sacs, larger chicks fluffing their wings out, spraying guano over the edge of the nest, and now finally the first tentative steps away from the nest and along the ledge.

I’ve been keeping a blog of all the events. What follows is the edited highlights with pictures (if you’d like the detailed un-edited diary it is in this blog post Raven Diary)

6th February - One raven seen on a pylon near Ruchill water tower.

8th February 2 ravens seen, first on a pylon and then on Ruchill water tower. The tower is a grade A listed building and was a central feature of Ruchill hospital which specialised in infectious diseases and which closed in 1998. The site is currently being converted into houses.

Tuesday 11th A raven was seen bringing a stick to the ledge on the tower.

Thursday 13th The ravens continue to build the nest. The male brings in the twigs and branches and the female uses them to construct the nest. The nest is big enough to almost hide the female, with only the very top of her head visible at times. Raven nests can be large - up to 1.5m wide and 60 cm deep though this one looks quite a bit smaller, it’s likely to be that deep.

Fri 14th Feb Less activity today, but the ravens need to spend time away feeding, especially as the female needs protein for egg production. They also line their nests and often using wool, and as there are few sheep in Ruchill (ie none) they need to fly further afield to find wool.

Saturday 15th Feb

One raven was seen doing an acrobatic display - flying then suddenly swooping and diving, dropping behind the trees, then coming up again. Possibly a courting ritual?

Tuesday 25th February (First day of incubation!)

After a few days with very few sightings today the female spent most of the day on the nest! It seems reasonable to assume she is now incubating eggs. Ravens lay on average 5 eggs per clutch and they lay them about 1 day apart. There is some evidence that they start incubating once the penultimate egg has been laid and incubation is all done by the female. The nest is so large that when she sits low down over the eggs it’s often impossible to see her.

Wednesday 26th February

The female has been on the nest all day, while the male has been around keeping a lookout either high up on the tower or on the pylon next to the tower (see photo).

Thursday 27th February

Today the male flew down to on the ledge near the nest, then waddled up to the nest and very quickly fed the female by putting his beak into hers.

The male provides both food and water for the female while she is on the nest. He can store both temporarily in his crop or sublingual pouch, though he will also bring food in his beak. The crop is an expanded, muscular pouch near the gullet or throat. It is a part of the digestive tract, essentially an enlarged part of the oesophagus.

Monday 3rd March

Today both ravens were out on one of the turrets together for a while and then seemed to ‘kiss’, with the male opening his beak and the female putting hers inside his briefly. This is a way for them to show affection for each other and to strengthen their pair bond.

Wednesday 5th March

Interesting behaviour today. When the female had left the nest a male raven flew in directly to the nest, first stood on it, then sat down, though not as low as the female does. Male ravens don’t strictly incubate as they do not have brood patches - featherless areas of skin which are rich in blood vessels which raise the temperature of the skin, and so keep eggs warm. But they do help to keep the eggs warm while the female has a break. In other species (like peregrines) both males and females brood the eggs.

A few minutes later the female returned, settled right down into the nest as normal and stayed there, and the male raven flew away.

Saturday 8th March

The female continues to sit on the nest with occasional feeds from the male. Sometimes she leaves the nest when the male arrives and they fly up to one of the turrets of the tower. One in particular looks like there is a rim where water or maybe insects collect as they both spend time with their beaks in it eating or drinking.

Saturday 15th March

Today the male flew on to the top of the tower, then flew down to the ledge soon after - normally a sign he is about to deliver food, but instead he decided to mate with her while she was on the nest. She didn't seem overly keen, perhaps more worried about the safety of the eggs! He then flew off and returned soon after.

Monday 17th March - day 20 of incubation

Incubation of the eggs is from 20-25 days, so we are watching for any change in behaviour. So far, nothing different, though both the male and the female poke their beak into the nest, perhaps turning the eggs every now and again.

Friday 21st March, Day 24 of incubation/ hatching day!

Exciting day today - it looks like hatching has happened! At 2:15 the male arrived, quickly fed the female, then both birds bent over into the nest. This is the first time this has happened so it looks like they are feeding chicks!! The light is making it hard to see much today.

Saturday 22nd March, 1 day since hatching

Multiple feeds have happened today, though not as many as I thought would be needed for newly hatched chicks, so I’m worried!

Tuesday 25th March

Male is regularly brining in food - often feeding the female first, then they both feed the chicks.

Wednesday 26th March

There has been regular feeding all day today with often the male bringing food, then sitting on or near the nest while the female flies off for a few minutes. This is an improvement on previous days where feeding has seemed sparse and inconsistent (at least compared to the literature, which was worrying).

Friday 28th March

The weather today and yesterday has been particularly wet and windy. During a dry patch the male left the nest unattended for about 10 minutes, but otherwise the female has been keeping the chicks warm and dry. The male sheltered under the ledge that has the nest for a while when it was particularly wet!

Monday 31st March (day 9 since hatching)

Exciting day today - for the first time the chicks were visible reaching up for food when the parents were near. There are definitely 2 and possibly 3 chicks. This is such a step change from yesterday (they were stretching easily a few cm above the nest) that it must be due to their necks getting stronger, not just them growing a bit bigger.

Both parents are now regularly off the nest, though one often keeps a look out from the ledge above or from the nearby pylon.

Late evening - a bird was seen carrying a fecal sack away for the first time. (Earlier there were possible sightings of a bird on the nest eating them). This was then captured in the photo above a few days later.

Saturday 5th April (2 weeks and 1 days since hatching)

The ravens continue to feed the chicks regularly, with frequent feeds especially in the evening. Often two feeds happen in quick succession - sometimes a raven will go to where water has collected, so possibly they are using that to soften some food or to deliver water directly.

First photo of a chick was captured on 2nd April (beak and tail just visible). The parents are both leaving the nest for longer periods of time and are brooding less.

Wednesday 9th April 2 weeks and 5 days from hatching

The ravens continue to grow which is making them easier to see. The biggest ones have darker plumage starting to show. We can now definitely see 3 chicks and are fairly sure there is a fourth one! The best time to spot the chicks is actually when the adult flies off, which for some reason causes all the chicks to stretch up, begging for food.

Thursday 10th April (2 weeks 6 days from hatching)

Interesting behaviour today - one parent flew away with a stick from the nest, and later threw another stick from the nest out of the side! Maybe making more space for the growing chicks.

Monday 14th April (3 weeks and 3 days from hatching)

The chicks seem to have really grown in the last few days - when they fluff themselves up and move around the nest we can see fully formed birds with sleek black feathers. The edge of the nest is getting increasingly white as they spray their guano over the side. Regular feeding is still happening, but the chicks are left for long periods in between.

Thursday 17th April (3 weeks and 6 days from hatching)

The chicks are really big now and sometimes sit at the top of the nest. In the afternoon the adult fetched water that had collected on one of the turrets and brought some to each chick, making 4 trips back and forth in total.

Sunday 20th April (4 weeks and 2 days from hatching)

The chicks are spending a lot of time stretching their wings to build up their muscles, often sitting right on the edge of the nest. Interestingly the adults have both been around much more over the last few days - whether that is because they don't need to be away or because the chicks are now more vulnerable I don't know.

The adults also spend time cleaning out the nest - one removed a huge stick that had a fecal sack attached to it - it took quite a lot of wrestling to get it free before it managed to fly away with it

Wednesday 23rd April (4 weeks and 5 days from hatching)

A visit to the tower this evening and sadly only 3 chicks were seen (but keep reading!) But they are doing well and are almost adult sized. Still on the nest, but flapping their wings a lot and are getting very good at manoeuvring around the nest. After feeding they turn round, walk backwards a few steps before leaning forward so that guano sprays over the edge of the nest. Sometimes they almost slip and I worry they will fall off the ledge.

Friday 25th April (5 weeks since hatching)

Exciting event this evening- the first raven chick left the nest! I’m not entirely sure it did so on purpose- they often look like they are about to slip and fall when they are flapping their wings and jumping around the nest. When I saw it, the chick had already left and was next to the nest on the ledge and an adult was close by looking concerned, touching beaks with it to reassure it. The adult then left and the chick managed to gingerly turn round, then sat still for a bit against the tower. It eventually got back on to the nest, and was greeted by the other chicks who started preening it. It’s going to be a worry watching them from now on!

Saturday 26th April (5 weeks and 1 days since hatching)

More excitement today with 1 chick leaving the nest this morning, and 3 chicks leaving the nest this evening! Another chick stayed in the nest, so there are definitely 4, which is a fabulous brood, and unusual, at least compared to birds which breed in the countryside which often manage only 1 or 2. This is likely indicative of a good food supply for these ravens in the city. The adult fed the chick on the ledge and as happened yesterday an adult was keeping a close eye and touching beaks with the chicks this evening to reassure them. One was so comfortable it lay down on the ledge and seemed to fall asleep!

Wednesday 30th April (5 weeks and 4 days since hatching)

The chicks have suddenly become much more active, spending much of the day walking up and down the ledge - or just lying down on it. Two chicks particularly like one corner and another chick likes being in the middle of a different side. There has been no sign of a 4th chick for the last couple of days, but this could be because it has fledged. Parents are still feeding regularly and spending time on the tower keeping an eye on the chicks

Saturday 3rd May

For the last few days only two chicks have been seen on the tower, and today there is only 1. Adults are still around at times, and the chick sometimes is in the nest and sometimes walking on the ledge. It seems that the others have now fledged.

Monday 5th May

This morning two ravens were performing sudden swoops and dives, each time climbing back up to the same ledge of the pylon before diving off again. I assume to impress the female

This afternoon 2 chicks were around on the ledge, and then later one of the chicks was on the little ledge below along with an adult - the first proof we’ve had that the chicks have fledged. The one on the ledge possibly still hasn’t though

Sunday 12th May

Chicks doing well, and regularly return to the tower to rest. They are still being fed by the adults.

It’s an autumn day, the sun bright, but low in the sky and I’m on the bank of the River Kelvin, seeking an adventure. I’ve travelled just over a mile, a gargantuan expedition for a body as poorly as mine. And yet I have decided to do it anyway. I have decided to ignore the inevitable consequences, to pretend that things are different. Oh how I wish they were different. But I’m lucky. I can pretend, for a few minutes at least, or sometimes an hour or two. And in that precious time I grasp at the fleeting freedom, try to breath in great lungfuls of it, as if that were enough to hold on to it forever, forgetting that soon I will have to exhale, that freedom can not be captured or contained.

The river flows freely, laughing and jumping as it makes its way eastwards towards the heart of Glasgow. Gentle light plays on the surface of the water. The reflections artfully distort the ornate metal trellising of the ha’penny footbridge. The sunlight catches the leaves at the top of the trees producing a kaleidoscope of fiery oranges, yellows and reds, the colours matching the burning desire in my heart. A desire to experience life, a desire to be a part of the world, a desire to be in nature and today, a desire to catch a glimpse of the river’s most elusive, most famous resident - the kingfisher. The enormity of this trip dawns on me and I smile, allow the joy of the scene to seep into my bones.

People walk past, arms swinging, carefree, or so it seems. Some accompanied by a dog, some a small child. Some looking purposeful, others dawdling. It is a joy and a privilege to be a part of this world, yet part of me feels invisible, as if I am watching from afar. I wonder if this is because my suffering, the effort I am making, just to be here, sets me apart.

Occasionally someone stops just before the path takes them under Queen Margaret Drive bridge, a huge Victorian structure which carries traffic into and out of the West-end. The shadow of the bridge blocks the sunlight making it dark and chilly down by the river, yet they stop and look and I wonder if they, like me, are here to see this magnificent bird. I sit and wait, glad of my woolly hat and thermal leggings; without the ability to stand up and walk around, I get cold quickly.

A woman sees my binoculars and guesses my purpose – she is here for the same reason and together we begin our freezing vigil. We talk about her previous sightings, about other birds and butterflies and nature, and the world. And suddenly I no longer feel invisible, no longer feel defined by my mobility scooter, by my poorly body, by my illness. I’m a person with knowledge and interests and passions.

And then, mid-sentence, from nowhere, a sharp piercing screech, quickly followed by a bolt of metallic blue flying low over the water. And then it’s gone. I’m awestruck, my skin feels alive with sensations, the world suddenly brighter and louder. My new friend is ecstatic with a joy often felt but rarely seen. Together we celebrate. I have seen and I have been seen. I have connected and been present in the world, and I am grateful for it. Has today been worth it? Only time will tell, but I know the desire, even if temporarily diminished by exhaustion, will be rekindled once again.