I was born on a steep hill in Somerset a long time ago. Our back garden led out into the field, which was once mined for iron ore. There were deep ditches we called canyons and old underground passages and a lot of red mud. But mostly it was grown over with trees and brambles and primroses and bluebells in the woods. My older brother and a gang of boys would go birds nesting in spring. I followed them. We knew all the birds, Yellow Hammers, Willow warblers and Wrens were most prized. Blackbirds and Thrushes were too easy to find, they all collected eggs which they wouldn't do now and even then they would only take one egg from a nest. They said if they only took one egg the bird wouldn't desert the nest, they might even lay another. They kept the eggs in biscuit tins laid out on cotton wool with their names on. I could never find a nest except a Blackbirds or a Blue tit nesting in our garden wall. My brother said, "watch the birds not the trees" Once my father found a willow Warblers nest with a baby cuckoo in it. I still like to watch the birds that come to the garden feeders in my pear tree. Blackbirds who nest in the hedge and Robins and Blue tits fly in and the Sparrows come down from the roof in noisy crowds.