Way back before 1150, in both France and Spain, it was the 'Malvis'.

By 1400, in mediaeval England, it had changed to 'Mavis' - a straight pinch from the French title but corrupted as only the English can.

By 1664 it was the 'song thrush', but in much more recent time my father and his compatriots called it by the more northerly title, the 'throstle', which came straight from the Old English - Anglo Saxon - of pre-Norman occupation time.

Today, this once-common but always very welcome bird is much reduced in number, indeed, some have said by as much as 70 or more per cent.

So one can imagine the joy we have in our new Turdus musicus feeding young in the garden hedge not ten feet from the kitchen window!

Regularly, it arrives on top of the uncut hawthorns carrying worm or grub in the sturdy beak, but whether it is the same bird every time, or male or female, is impossible to tell.

Quite likely, both partners are here, each feeding the hidden young.

No longer does the male throw his sweet but repetitive phrases from our old Japanese cherry to the wind - both he, and probably his mate (for we still cannot distinguish them), are silent, with movement swift and furtive.

There are other things of these speckled beauties which bring delight after so many thrushless years.

Chief of these pleasures (and a delight to most gardeners?) is the sight of broken shards and scattered remains of snail armour, the failed protection of so many individuals of the plump garden snail, Helix aspersa.

Already many have been slain, the slimy flesh extracted carefully from protecting shell - the remains of which now speckle the path concrete.

All lie about a small stone - the 'anvil' used by the eager snail-hunter.

The first found in the garden in years, it reminded me of one found deep in the local sand dunes.

This was a glass bottle, the one hard object in many square yards of bare, windblown sand.

It was surrounded by a host of snail shells, half the size of the garden species' armour, almost all originally bearing five coloured stripes of emerald, or chocolate, or warmer red-brown.

These were the remnants of Cepea nemoralis, the pretty, brown-lipped snail of sand dune, chalk and limestone areas.

A less common companion species, the white-lipped snail Cepea hortensis, survives here not far from the sea; I found it in one tiny patch of hedgerow perhaps 400 feet above sea level, less than a mile from the sea but overlooking every tide.

There are several nests in the garden with one perhaps used for the third time.

The garden has rarely been free of young blackbirds for several weeks - all of them betrayed for a short while by a fading white beak edge.

A mix of the half-tame and highly nervous, they explode into flight frequently almost under foot.

Often enough, one will move no more than a couple of yards away, perch, and stare straight at any human, the bird unable to decide what to do next.

Successive 'waves' of such young have stripped the redcurrant bushes completely.

Even the unripe green berries have been taken but it is a small price to pay for such nesting success.

Sadly, though the patrolling domestic cats are now few, inevitably any flustered fledgling may yet fall victim to one or other of these primitively savage pets.

Of the blue and great tits, green and goldfinches we have seen or heard little.

Sparrows have bred in at least three parts of the house roof (and driven us frantic by the persistent proud 'singing' of each possessive male proclaiming fatherhood, for hours at a time above the living room window).

But the best sighting of all took place on several evenings.

We have at least one bat patrolling our two remaining sycamores

in the dusk.

It remains a silent animal to me.

No longer can I hear the sound prior to the capture of fat fly or unlucky moth.

Sadly, very few of these insects remain.

One is the yellow underwing, flushed occasionally from the hedge in broad daylight.