The Robin That Thinks We Work Together | Marcus Bergin's Garden Notebook
NATURE & WILDLIFE
Marcus Bergin
5/8/20243 min read
The Robin That Thinks We Work Together
I've never officially employed a robin, but some mornings I'm fairly sure he believes we're business partners.
There are certain customers I can almost guarantee I'll see before I've even opened the back of the van.
They don't live in the house.
They usually arrive with a quick flutter of wings, land on a nearby fence and watch every move I make with remarkable confidence. Sometimes they're there before I've even picked up a fork. Other days, they seem to appear from nowhere the moment the first clump of soil is turned over, as though they've been quietly waiting for me all along.
It's almost always a robin.
I've worked in enough gardens over the years to know that every robin is different, but they all seem to share the same fearless curiosity. Unlike blackbirds, which tend to keep a respectful distance until they decide the coast is clear, robins often behave as though they've known you for years. They'll hop closer with every forkful of soil, tilting their heads as though inspecting the quality of your work before darting forward to claim an unsuspecting worm.
I like to imagine that, from the robin's point of view, I'm simply another rather clumsy member of the team.
The arrangement seems to suit us both.
While I'm concentrating on loosening the soil or clearing a border, the robin is never far away, taking full advantage of every insect and worm that suddenly finds itself out in the open. Neither of us gets in the other's way. In fact, after a while, you almost stop noticing that you're working together. It simply becomes part of the rhythm of the morning.
What I've always found fascinating is how quickly trust develops. I would never pretend that robins recognise me personally, but they certainly learn to recognise behaviour. A gardener with a fork is worth investigating. A gardener carrying a hedge trimmer is considerably less interesting. Experience has taught them where breakfast is most likely to appear, and they're remarkably good at arriving at exactly the right moment.
Those quiet encounters have become some of my favourite memories of working outdoors. They're never planned, and they never last very long, but they remind me that every garden is shared. We might think we're the ones tending it, but we're only one small part of a much larger community. The birds, the insects, the hedgehogs beneath the hedge and the bees moving patiently from flower to flower all have their own lives unfolding around us.
It's easy to forget that when we're busy.
Gardening often comes with a list of jobs. The hedge needs cutting. The lawn needs mowing. The borders need weeding before the rain arrives. It's surprisingly easy to become so focused on finishing the work that you overlook the life quietly carrying on beside you.
The robin has a habit of changing that.
For a few moments, work slows down. You pause, watch him disappear into the border with a beak full of food, and remember that the garden isn't just somewhere we improve. It's somewhere countless other creatures make their home every single day.
Perhaps that's one of the reasons I've never grown tired of this job.
Every garden has its own regular visitors. Some announce themselves with birdsong. Others appear only if you're patient enough to notice. Every now and then, one decides that a gardener with a fork isn't something to fear after all.
I always take that as a compliment.
The robin may not know my name.
But I like to think he knows I'll be back.
Marcus
